“I don't expect that,” I said, knowing I was telling a big fib.
“Are you sure? Even I don't pal around with him. I work for him.”
“Yeah, you keep a smile on his ladies' faces,” I laughed.
Nick was starring at me. “These woman are actresses, poets, … and “
“Hangers on, and dopers. Nick, I wasn't born yesterday.”
Nick was squirming now, shifting his bottom, leaning to one side and then the other, in a way that surprised me. He was taking my request seriously. My gosh Nick has a heart. He even might be a closeted romantic.
After another moment he shook his head, pulled me over, and planted a big wet kiss on my lips. We held that kiss in place longer than usual. He moved back, then leaned forward, pecked at my lips and said, “Well, heck, why not? That’s what you want, Anna, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Nick. That's what I truly want, and you are a beautiful human being for taking me along with you.”
“Let's get something to eat,” Nick blurted, and we quickly dressed and went out to the all night diner, once again, for coffee and pie, where we sat tasting each other's choice, his a sweet blueberry, mine a tart ruby red cherry pie.
Early the next morning Nick drove me to my apartment where I gathered up most of my things in a few suitcases, and a couple of boxes, which Nick placed in the trunk of his rented Ford. I called my boss, saying I quit, and told the building manager that I’m leaving and she can do what she wants with the rest of my stuff. We drove away and eventually boarded a TWA flight to Idlewild Airport, in New York.
I filled my sense of self with feelings of hope and exuberance for a new chapter in my life: once more with Andy Warhol; I pictured how Andy and I might play together now as adults; going to art exhibits, cocktail parties and Andy would once again draw little pictures for me. I missed my playmate, Andy Warhol, I told myself; or was it the hot hot Nick Boxer whom I didn't want to lose?
Chapter Three
We landed at Idlewild Airport in NYC, proceeded to retrieve our baggage and my boxes, got into a taxicab and headed for Manhattan. If you arrive from the east side of Manhattan as we did, the Gothic twelve-story, red brick Chelsea Hotel sits about one-quarter up the street on the south side of West Twenty-Third. As we approached, Nick pointed to the building with the ornamental black iron balconies on the building’s façade.
We stepped out of the cab at the hotel's entrance, on a hot New York afternoon. No door attendant greeted us; the taxicab driver drove off and we carried the two valises and two large boxes up the grand staircase, to Nick’s second floor room. I felt a thrill, which I don’t believe I had ever before felt. Here I am, Anna Karena, with a hot man with whom I was falling in love, cautiously; at least I was smart enough to keep some protective skin over my feelings; and here I am embarking on an adventure in NYC, after having spent three, no four days with Nick in passionate bliss. I almost yelled out, Whoopee, but held back realizing I would sound silly.
When we got upstairs, I found a hot stuffy large square room, painted a very pale blue with a slight odor of sour milk wafting through, seemingly coming from somewhere down the hall. Nick opened the large window, and we both plopped down on the black wrought iron bed, exhausted from our flight. Nick rolled a tight fat joint. The air was hot, and muggy, even as dusk began to spread over the city.
After a few tokes, I curled up and began zoning out. For a moment or so, I watched as Nick walked over to the window, pushing it up further, as high as it would go, pulled over a wooden chair, sat down, looked outside at the summertime traffic and at passersby, I suppose, and smoked pot. At once, he popped up and walked over to the dresser on the wall between the windows, a simple pine wood piece of furniture, opened the second from the bottom drawer, reached into a pair of fresh sweat socks and, twirling his fingers a bit grabbed a tablet and swallowed quickly.
Nick returned to his spot at the window. He became fidgety within minutes of taking his pill and reached for the phone to call down to the desk. I heard Nick ask, “Are there any messages for me. Yeah? Bring it up here and shove it under the door.”
I noticed a complete change in Nick to a more vapid glazed over look. He waited at the door for the desk clerk to slip the pink message notes though the bottom opening. Nick retrieved his slips and went back to the window, staring now I imagined like a cat patiently planning an attack on unsuspecting mice, nested under a kitchen stove.
As I began to drift off to sleep, he began to giggle, and I suspected he dropped acid. That was a pill I had never taken, nor ever wanted to try. Moments later, Nick shook himself out of his semi-trance walked to the desk phone and called someone from the number written on one of the messages. After a short conversation, he left a note back of the pink message slip, and placed it on the table with the phone. Yes, I wanted Nick, wished for him to hold me in his arms . I want you Nick, so very much, I repeated as my mantra, and finally fell asleep.
•••
When I awoke late in the day, I glanced at Nick’s note by the telephone, and read it aloud. “Gone for the night. Brad at the desk knows you are here as my guest. Well, I’ll tell him on my way out. Don’t wait for me. Just do your thing. I will be back. Not sure when. Brad will answer any questions you have and where you can get good clean food.
See ya,
N
P.S. Loved all the humping, bumping and smoking we did in L.A. It was a great time.
“Pure Nick,” I giggled. It was already eight o’clock this evening and I could only think of drinking a morning coffee. So, after showering and laying out my toiletries, after hanging clothes in the closet, pushing Nick’s belongings to one side, and after dressing and primping a bit in the bathroom mirror, I left the room, descending the wide staircase, to the lobby. I told the desk clerk, Brad, who I was, asked which way to the nearest Coffee Shop and directions to Greenwich Village. By now, I realized it was Saturday evening, and by gosh I would seek some fun in New York City.
Brad, a skinny, slightly balding man with long bony fingers pointed towards Seventh Avenue and said I could get on a Subway, get in a cab, or walk to the Village. I asked him how I would get back into the room if someone else were at the desk. He told me that was an easy question, and gave me a key. Nick informed the desk that he had a visitor, and “We like Nick,” Brad said. “We like him because he is a truly good guy, who you can count on. You'll see, once you hang out with him and get to know him.”
“Nick has a fan club, Brad? And are you its leader?” Brad smiled warmly, showing slightly browned teeth, probably from smoking. I remember that look from my father's last days. But Pop's teeth were browner, almost black. “I'll count on you and Brad. Thanks for the tip.”
“A pleasure, Anna. You be god now and safe, and a enjoy a great New York evening.
I winked, turned and left the Chelsea, feeling even more cheery now, possibly because of Brad's little lecture. How right and proper it feels good when people reach out to to you, I was thinking.
When I reached Seventh Avenue, I picked up a copy of the Village Voice at the corner newsstand, and walked into a diner. I ate a drippy cheeseburger, and sipped from a mug of piping hot coffee, while I skimmed though the pages of the Voice. Prominently displayed, advertisements for the downtown music scene stood out on the rough textured black and white pages. I also flipped to the help wanted ads, and apartment sharing section. There were an abundance of listings, and I began to feel relieved that I made the right decision to fly cross-country with Nick. And yes, I must admit, he sure gives good loving.
By now, it was nine-thirty and a feeling of nighttime energy filled the sticky New York air. I thought it best to call the hotel before I began a trek downtown, just to see if I could catch Nick. Brad answered, recognized my voice, told me that he would be sure to let Nick know, but that I should just go and enjoy; the chances of Nick returning on a Saturday night were a big fat zero.
So, I walked down Seventh Avenue, absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of a hot J
uly night. I asked a group of people hanging on a corner, where I could find the music scene, and they pointed in the direction of MacDougal Street. “Café Wha? is the place. You might catch Richie Havens, or maybe Bob Dylan.” I was struck by the friendly attitude these people showed. I'm not sure where I might have got the idea about a standoffish native New Yorker. The music place seemed the right medicine. I wanted to absorb much and maybe reinvent myself, in NYC. As I walked in the direction they pointed to, I felt more and more animated, like the free spirit I yearned to be. Yes, that's what Nick opened up in me.
Well, here I was in Greenwich Village. I soon learned the Village with its triangular corners and dead end streets was an easy place to get lost. I felt lucky that I got here easily enough. I held on to a lamp post outside the Café Wha? catching my breath from the runaway excitement I began to feel. I watched as pigeons flew down, and walked around seemingly oblivious to tourists.
At ten o’clock I bounced down the short steps to the Café Wha?. People were taking seats in groups and hugging their Budweiser beer bottles. Although most had paired up, I managed to stand near a well dressed, that is blue button down shirt, tie, blazer, chino slacks kind of guy, with a mop of curly brown hair, and a bright smile.
Thank goodness he didn't smoke. So many guys hung around with cigarettes dangling from their lips, or a pack of Marlboro Reds tucked into their rolled up tee shirt sleeves, an unconcerned looks on their faces. Some girls were like that too. I supposed that you could categorize them as stuck-up.
Often I've found with guys, that if you played the right chords, they opened up a lot. I didn't want to miss this chance, with this curly haired guy. So I finally asked, “Are you a tourist? You look different from the people I’ve seen so far.”
The guy turned toward me with the broadest of smiles and introduced himself as Ethan Saks, and explained he was an art critic for a major magazine. “I am waiting for a friend,” he told me.
“Anna Karena,” I said. “Just arrived here. I’m hoping to find a job in New York.” It didn’t take much chitchat for us to grab a table, and order beers. At a little round table up front facing the center of the stage, Ethan tipped over a third chair, indicating his friend would be arriving shortly. We stood by the table; Ethan often placed his hand on the table top, letting people know as they passed us that this space was taken.
We exchanged birthplaces, and small bits of biography. “I’m from Pittsburgh, grew up there. My best friend was Andy Warhola, I mean Warhol, you know the artist. Campbell Soup Cans? I’m sure he’s well-known here in New York. A few months ago I moved to Hollywood, after my mother passed away.”
“Sorry about your mom’s passing.” Ethan’s big brown eyes were inviting, and his manners, polite. He was of medium height, sort of squarely built, with ruddy cheeks. ”Well, I’m from Mamaroneck, it’s a suburb of New York, a little north of the city, and I have lived here for the last three years. I went to Horace Mann … high school, then off to Brown University. I’m an art critic for Esquire Magazine, but very much into music.
“I see,” I interrupted and nodded, tilting my head a bit.
“My dad was a psychiatrist; mom is an assistant curator at the Guggenheim Museum.” This guy is a talker, I began thinking.
Ethan told me about the architecture of the Guggenheim, … “It's so mind blowing, a work of art itself,” and went on to speak about Frank Lloyd Wright, the architect and how he dispensed with the usual in museum design, going through interconnected room and established a top down design. “Have you been there?” Ethan asked. I shook my head, no. “You have to see this.” Every so often he raised his voice and leaned closer to me, as the place erupted in louder sounds. Crowds began squeezing their way past us.
“At the Guggenheim, Ethan went on, his rosy adorable cheeks ablaze, “you go from the top slowly down a continuous ramp. The galleries with the art are like membranes, interconnected but self-contained. You amble down this ramp all under an open rotunda. Anna, it's magical.”
Smiling at Ethan, to show I was listening, I noticed an odd movement with his foot, which I quickly analyzed as a sign of nervousness. He turned his right foot perpendicular to his left, forming a side ways, “T”. Ethan then straightened his feet, and every so often as he spoke went back to that twisted position.
“The Guggenhein sounds lovely, and I am sure to all the museums.” I told him I attended Schenley High, with Andy Warhol. We were in the same grades at school. We're the same age. I took art classes with Andy, and the one thing I remember,“ … I started to giggle now.
“What's so funny?” Ethan tapped my elbow.
“Our teacher, a skinny old lady, Miss Barta, with good posture, her hair swept back in a grayish bun, and standing like a board, yelled at Andy to sit up straight like God intended him to do. Andy often slouched in his chair,” I went on. “I think her yelling at Andy almost knocked her down. She was that thin.”
Ethan arched his back, and pulled at his shirt collar. “He was probably drawing dirty pictures. That's what teenage boys do,” he said with a grin.
I interrupted and asked Ethan, ”Do you feel uncomfortable talking to me?”
“What? No. I'm glad to meet you,” Ethan said again with a big smile; his ruddy cheeks grew a brighter red. “Why would you say that?”
“Just watching your right foot.”
“Watching my foot? What's that supposed to mean?”
“That you might be feeling shy, or nervous. I don't know for sure.”
“Oh,” he laughed and scratched the top of his head, and made a quirky look with his lips. “I know I do that. I suppose it's like ... girl's sometimes twirling their hair around a finger. Would you say that, Anna?”
I was happy that both Ethan and Nick pronounced my name with a broad A, and not the flat, nasal sound. I pushed my hands around to my neck, straightening my spine. “I do that often, twirling my hair with these fingers,” showing my index and middle finger, I said, more to assure him that we all have our little habits. I then went on, “Well, as an art critic, you know Andy.”
“Very Well.”
“You're not twisting your foot,” I said and laughed.
“And you're not twirling your hair,” Ethan countered, purposely bumping into my side.
I told Ethan how disappointed I was when Andy didn’t show up at his own art show several days ago in L.A.
Ethan shook his head up and down.“Tell me some tales about the young Andy Warhola in Pittsburgh.”
“Well we hung out, as kids and teenagers do. Then I had to stop, when I was sixteen.”
“Why was that?” Ethan was almost shouting as the clamor in the room rose.
“That’s a long story,” I said in a lowered voice, my face directed at Ethan.
Ethan’s stared ahead, away from me, fixated at a group of scruffy looking people, a couple of tables from where we were standing. He knitted his eyebrows, as writers would say; he didn't seem satisfied and was about to probe more, when suddenly my face froze in place at what I saw coming towards us. “I just don't believe this,” I was screaming. Literally, I was jumping up and down. “You found me?” Nick approached, bopping his head, as if saying to me, “I don’t believe this. either” Nick had that so sure of himself, walk.
“Found you? What do you mean?“ Ethan asked.
”Hey, Anna, babe what are you doing here? I'm as surprised as you,” Nick added with the biggest and broadest of smiles, and a great big hug lifting me off the floor.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you two know each other?” a puzzled Ethan asked.
“Well mostly in the Biblical sense,” I answered with a laugh. “We traveled here from the west coast and Nick put me up in his room.”
“Let's sit down, buddy. Now it seems like we’re going to be one big happy family,” Ethan shouted above the din.
It was an extraordinary encounter. The two guys were close friends, both hot, and involved with Andy. We sat and both guys reached for my hands, making sure t
o touch warmly, and smile. And you know my brain began to work overtime. How lucky can I be? I was sure these two and soon Andy would remain in my life, and as Ethan said we could become one big happy family.
I noted how different in a way the guys were from one another. Nick was tall, with a smoldering sensuality; Ethan was a curly haired cutie, medium height, and a bit reticent, when he seemed to compete with Nick for my attention.
Nick soon made a bathroom run probably to pop one pill or another. When he left, Ethan pulled me aside. “Anna, we don't know each other much, as yet. I have a good feeling, about you, about all of us. But, be cautious with Nick.”
I pulled back surprised a friend would talk like that. “Nick's a good guy,” I protested.
“Believe me he's truly good, but he has a habit, that can get out of hand, and let's face it, he's a player.”
Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG Page 3