I took a deep breath and went on, “But can we be honest with our feelings for each other? Nick. I hope you are careful with your ladies. And you Ethan.” I realized I sounded pedantic, and took another breath.
“Me? What about me? ”
“You’re more comfortable with yourself these days, but guarded, still guarded. Let go, Ethan,” I lectured.
Nick couldn't hold back. “That's because he doesn’t have a girl friend, at least that he tells me.”
“Hey you don’t know anything about me. And frankly your tone sucks. And how can you say, I don't have a girl friend. Anna is my girlfriend.” Ethan began to push Nick away.
“Hold it, Ethan. You’re flying off the handle.” Nick lunged for Ethan, but suddenly caught his breath placing his arm strongly around Ethan’s shoulders. You’re my buddy.”
“Yeah, your buddy,” Ethan frowned.
We sat at a small round table; it took a few shots of whiskey and beer chasers, for the guys to calm down, and we were once more in a happy bubble “Here's to us,” Nick said. “To love, to friendship and to happiness,” I added. “And to good times. I'll drink to that,” Ethan said as we clinked our beer bottles.
Later on, though, another flare up occurred when I told the guys I signed up for a class in Art History at City College. “Isn’t that great? I plan to enroll full time and get a degree. I've already had two sessions.” I was thrilled to be in college. Just talking about it pinched my skin as it were, and evoked a tingling sensation over my whole body.
“I’m proud of you,” Ethan said. He seemed genuine and gave me another big hug.
“Well, you needn’t be proud. You’re not her parent,” Nick shot back.
“I can still be proud, when my girlfriend does something, super,” Ethan shouted.
Nick finally nodded.“Art history is good. Anna, you’ll tell us if Andy’s Marilyn painting can compare with the Mona Lisa.”
“Mona Lisa, Nick?” Ethan said.
“What the hell is bugging you, man?” Nick called out.
“Bugging me? You’re the one who needs to come down, pal.”
“All that I meant, is that the Mona Lisa is an iconic figure and so is Marilyn. Is that too tough a concept for you to understand? Ethan, sometimes, I wonder … about you.” Nick explained.
I listened and watched and shook my head at male rivalry as it exploded before my eyes. Yet, I wasn't concerned, thinking it a natural course at this stage. I was feeling good that I started on a path toward a college degree; thinking how proud my parents would have been, if they were alive. I would be, not only the first female, but also the first person in my family to travel on that road.
Marilyn Monroe flashed through my brain, again. I remembered she had a miscarriage vacationing with playwright Arthur Miller, her then husband, on Fire Island. Or was it the Hamptons? I remembered newspaper headlines as they rushed her by plane to a New York hospital.
I felt terribly shaken and my face and body must have shown it. The guys reached over to hold me, as soon as they saw my tears. “I don’t know,” I said. “I bore a child and I don’t know anything about it.”
“Hey. Hey,” Nick said.
What I heard, and what I saw on their faces was compassion. I smiled, automatically, I supposed, confusing them. It seemed everything was in stereo, coming from the left and the right.
“You know, babe?” Nick said calmly. “We will always be here for you.”
“Always,” Ethan echoed. “We will always be here for you, Anna.”
The guys were comforting giants. I got hold of myself and finally said, “Robert Rauschenberg is scheduled to lecture the class. Maybe Andy could too?”
“I don’t know if Warhol is in Rauschenberg’s league, yet,“ Ethan said. Pop-art?” he continued as he tossed his upper body to and fro..
“Are you nuts?” Nick shot back and pushed the table with the glassware shaking, into Ethan’s gut.”
“You’re doing it again. What‘s wrong with you guys,” I shouted. “Where are the fun guys I’m used to being with?“
“Nick’s got a hot temper these days. He’s off his acid,” Ethan shouted..
“Don’t say that. Encourage him to quit,” I admonished.
“He’s like a fish out of water when he’s not with the Warhol gang, and the drugs, and the women,” Ethan went on, wanting to get one more jab in.
“That was hateful, Ethan. What’s with you?” I yelled.
Ethan turned away, and then buried his head in his hands “I’m filling myself with too much shit. I need a break. My job … art critic, I don’t know. Maybe I’m taking everything too seriously. Maybe I’m not serious enough. I don’t know.”
“Hey, let out steam. That’s good,” Nick said.
“Shut up Nick,” Ethan called out.
We sat silently for the next few moments. I reflected on what Ethan told me the other week that he read lots on the subject of art, and that he attended lots of symposiums and forums, and art gallery openings. He got to know curators, and befriend them. He hung with artists, like Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg.
I also thought about Nick’s reputation; clearly he was a player with the Warhol women and they adored him. That’s what Ethan also told me, at work the other day. Nick could be counted on to get pills, if needed, according to Ethan, and that too made him indispensable. One of the Warhol starlets confided in Ethan that she loved being fucked by Nick, because he's like an erotically stirred, Neanderthal, .
“I’ve got a little puzzle for you guys,” I said breaking the cloud of silence.
“Yeah, what is it?” Nick asked.
“What color are my eyes?” I cocked my head, smiling whimsically as I covered my face, but peeking out between my fingers.
“Hazel. Green,” a chorus of two responded.
“Wrong.” I removed my hands from my eyes. “Brown. I’m a brown eyed girl. Guys are so inattentive.”
Ethan and Nick broke out with laughter, which I was happy to see. We all stood, and hugged each other. Ethan and Nick were such opposites, and I was so happy these rivals were chasing after me, Anna Karena, the little girl from Dawson Street in Pittsburgh, PA.
Chapter Six
I called Ethan first thing to tell him advance copies of the new Esquire arrived with his article on Robert Raschenberg, and with a red stamp prominently displayed on the front cover, Advance, for Office Personnel Only.
“Start reading my piece, it's okay,” Ethan said. “I'll be there soon.” The second Wednesday morning of every month were exciting times as advance copies of the next issue arrived. During the previous weeks it seemed like a never ending task of piecing together a magazine of this and that article and this and art work, and placing ads and color; and all of a sudden it's over and shipped off to the printer, only to return as a bound copy with a gleaming cover.
In the article Ethan wrote about the artist Robert Rauschenberg, he noted that Rauschenberg would walk the downtown streets of New York City, pick up trash and debris of one sort or another. He brought the items back to his studio, and combined these into his art. "I wanted something other than what I could make myself and I wanted to use the surprise and the collectiveness and the generosity of finding surprises,” Ethan quoted Rauschenberg. He referred to the Port Arthur Texas born artist as a dashing, lanky, funny at times, figure who renamed himself Bob and got rid of his given name of Milton.
When Ethan arrived later that morning, he grabbed the advance copy and began leafing thought, pacing the floor with a big grin. This was an important piece for him, and lengthy to say the least. Ethan turned to me as he spoke now.“Hey Anna.“I got hold of Rauschenberg, this morning. Andy wanted to meet him. I'm bringing Bob up to meet Andy. I want you to be there with me. It should be fun,”
I was literally shaking, and smiling, and swooning all at once. “At long last, I'll be face to face with Andy.” Talk about new beginnings.
“Yes, you will be.”
A couple of days pas
t and I hadn't been told yet, which day Ethan set for the planned Rauschenberg – Warhol meet up. Finally Ethan sent an interoffice message. Tomorrow, late afternoon. At five o'clock. Meet me downstairs.
That next day, Ethan waited for me in the lobby. We hailed a cab on Madison Avenue heading uptown. I hugged Ethan and told him how thankful I was that finally I'll be reunited with my old playmate, Andy.
“You know Anna. This meeting is for Andy to meet Rauschenberg.”
“I won't rain on Andy Warhol's parade. I promise. You can believe me.” I was taken by surprise be Ethan's remark, and it stung, a little like a mosquito bite. I was hoping my voice didn't sound strident.
“It took a lot of arm twisting, but I finally got Bob to agree to this visit.” Ethan sounded proud.
“And you are terrific. I'm sure Andy owes you one, now,” I added regaining my composure.
“It doesn’t work that way, Anna, and that's not why I'm bringing them together. Both are my friends. Andy is a good friend. And I want to help Andy out. That's what friends do.”
“You're so sweet.” I gave Ethan a big kiss. We locked lips for several moments and hugged again.
We zipped up Madison in the cab and drove east to Lexington Avenue. My heart pounded furiously, once we got out to walk the half block to Andy's house. I felt both eager anticipation and fear in meeting up with my old friend.
“Are you nervous? Don't be. You look great,” Ethan said. He smiled so deliciously at me, and pushed my hair away from my face.
I pulled out my little compact mirror and moistened my lips.
“That's fine,” Ethan went on. “You know Andy's going to love seeing you. He never gets overly excited, I mean physically excited. At least I've never seen him that way. Somehow, I believe he 's going to love connecting again with you. But remember Anna, the first priority is it is Andy's opportunity to meet Bob.”
When my mamma's memory was lucid, she talked about a romantic relationship with the Warhola boy. This goes back some five years. “He's a nice young man,” mamma had said. “He lives in New York, and makes money from drawings for department stores. Mrs. Warhola told me everything. The boy wants to be a great artist. Maybe someday he will be one. He is very good to his mother. Anna you could help him become an artist; be with him, like you used to be. Remember, darling. Remember how you played together, and you watched him draw. You were his inspiration. I told that to Mrs. Warhola. She said she was the inspiration. Oh, the woman gave me a nasty look. I'll never forget her face. I don't want to argue, I said, but my Anna, my little Anna is his inspiration, and you should thank me that we let him play with your boy, I told Mrs. Warhola.
“You know, your Pops, when he was alive didn't think it was the right thing to play with the boy. You had grown into a beautiful young woman. Warhola was a young man. Your Pops said, no good can come when a teenage boy and a teenage girlplay like children. But he didn't stop your friendship. Maybe he thought you would see him as old fashioned. I don't know. He was your Pops. And you should be thankful. Do you remember you always called him Pops. He liked that very much, because he loved his Anna.”
“But Andy doesn't need me now. I'm sure he's met wonderful people in New York. Nice girls and boys, whom he could be friends with.”
In retrospect, I realized mamma was worried that I was a single women. I had just turned twenty-eight at the time. Strange how parents believed what they imagined about you, though not knowing how sexually engaged I had become. But while she was alive I wanted her to believe I would do only the right things, because I didn't want her worrying.
As we walked, holding hands, down Lexington Avenue, those old discussions exploded in my brain; I now feared meeting up with Andy Warhol. I was so torn, and nervous; what had been delightful anticipation turned to dread. But as mixed up as my emotions were now, I still wanted very much to see Andy, and hug him, and give him a great big kiss. I tried thinking of opening lines with Andy. Fifteen years, it has been fifteen years that we've been together. At last, we can be together, again, like old times.
And Andy, looking into my eyes, holding my hands as he had used to do, pulling back and moving closer to me. Andy the great artist now. Anna you haven't changed. And his smile, forcing slight parting of his lips. Andy looking at me, as if he were examining a piece of jewelry. Anna, I want to paint a portrait of you. I always wanted to do that. Now I can. Euphoria wrapped its arms around my shoulders, and I burst into the broadest smile.
“You look like a little kid about to enter a candy shop,” Ethan said.
“Yes, I know that,” I answered gleefully.
We arrived at the house and stood outside waiting for Rauschenburg. Suddenly, my mood shifted and I suddenly felt cramps in my stomach and my body was shaking. I leaned against the building, bracing myself and trying to calm down. Darn, I wish we can get this meeting thing going. I had little patience. My emotions were bouncing up and down like a rubber ball.
Ethan spotted Rauschenberg walking up the street, and waved. Rauschenberg waved back and quickened his pace. Thank goodness, I was thinking. Soon we will be all together, Bob, Andy Ethan.
Bob was quite a looker, I must say, wearing a dark suit, gray shirt and black corduroy tie. As he walked his pants rose up a bit above his ankles and I noticed his white socks. He cut a dashing figure, as he came up to us, but the socks got me smiling inwardly, and I calmed down it seemed. Ethan introduced us. The artist and I smiled warmly as we climbed the stairs of the town house.
Ethan knocked on the door, which Andy opened quickly, as if he was standing there and waiting. Andy was all smiles as he greeted the lanky artist and pointed to a stairway leading to an upstairs parlor. He held Ethan back for a moment and Ethan later confided to me, that Andy whispered Rauschenberg was … “handsome.” Ethan whispered back that Rauschenberg was in a relationship with another artist, Jasper Johns.
Once upstairs Ethan introduced me to Andy.”You remember, this is Anna Karena from Dawson Street. Your neighbor. From Pittsburgh. Andy you remember. She's quite a looker these days, isn't she?”
I reached my hand up to my cheek, striking a pose of some kind, when I was really deciding whether to go for a hug or a handshake. All momentary fears gave way to a feeling of glee. I stood back a moment and decided on the handshake, giggled some and waited for what amounted to a beat or two.
Andy stood silently. I expected he would burst out any moment in a wild and delightful embrace. But Andy cocked his head, looked at me with the faintest of smiles or smirks, I'm not sure how to express his look. I was so ready for the big hug, and the how the hell are you kind of greeting. Andy merely extended his hand and I received the coldest, most loose grip I had ever encountered. I almost stumbled on the spot, and remembered what Ethan told me, that the meeting is for Warhol and Rauschenberg. I … well … kept a smile on my lips and retreated.
My friend said nothing to me, not a thing, not a word and this attitude sort of left me hanging. Andy gave me a faint smile or smirk again and walked towards Raschenberg. My body heated up, I trembled …. literally shook with aggravated feelings of anger, humiliation, shame, all rolled into one tight ball, like a tightly wound ball of rubber bands. And I was frightened of my self, that this clenched ball of bands might snap. Goddamn The son-of-a-bitch, I began telling myself. How many days, and nights, and months and years were we together. How many movies had we seen together, how many photos of the stars, and movie magazines, and giggles, and conversations had we shared. And now, nothing? And all of a sudden, it seemed, Andy's demeanor changed as color drained vanished and his face appeared to me for an instant like an eight by ten black and white glossy publicity photo – still, lifeless, unreal.
I reminded myself quickly that this get-together was not about me. Oh, but I felt as if Andy dumped a bucket of warm crap on my head.
Things got down to business quickly, and I was not even a footnote, even if I may say I appeared sumptuous and pretty. Throughout the meeting Andy looked away from me. Though one
time I believe, I caught his eyes starring in a quizzical sort of way.
Andy pulled out the Marilyn canvases he’d been working on, laying them out on a long wooden table. Rauschenberg leaned a bit and looked hard at the art works, his pose, and his lean body seemed like an image in a painting.
This was a quiet moment. My eyes were on Rauschenberg. When he finally spoke, he asked Andy, "Where do you send out to have those done?"
Andy rubbed two fingers on his chin. “Ohhh, … yeah, uhhmm … “. Typical response from Andy when he didn’t want to answer. Knowing Andy he probably was afraid Rauschenberg would steal the technique.
Andy did tell him how simple the process was. “Quick and chancy. I was thrilled with it, Robert.”
Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG Page 6