Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG

by J. G. Rothberg

  Ethan reminded Andy of what Rauschenberg told him the first time they met. “Don’t call me Robert. Please call me Bob." Andy responded with an inpatient smile and picked up other silk screened paintings laying them on the table for Bob to see. The Coca Cola canvases, and more Marilyns.

  That was about the gist that evening. Little more was said. I decided not to engage Andy in conversation, realizing I was there at Ethan's invitation, while Andy was eager to meet Bob, understandably.

  We all left the house together with Andy holding the door. I turned and waved back, but the front door was already closed. I was fuming, my cheeks burned. Oh, well.I was thankful I met both Nick and Ethan, and now Robert Rauschenberg.

  After saying good-bye to Bob, Ethan and I walked down Lexington Avenue and stopped at a little bistro cafe. “We should get something to eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well I'll call Nick and tell him to join us here.”

  “I watched Ethan walk over toward the men's room, where there were a couple of public telephones. Ethan had a hunky, and adorable quality to his walk, while Nick's movements were …. more sensuous, I would say. Thinking about those two made me feel good, and being with them, talking, loving, teasing, made me feel as if I were on top of the world.

  Ethan returned and told me me Nick can't make it tonight. “He has obligations, you know what I mean,” Ethan said quoting Nick. “Those were his words.”

  “Did he mean he promised to fuck one of the girls in Andy's entourage?” I said softly as Ethan sat down beside me.

  “Don't get bitchy. We know who Nick is. He's an open book about that subject. You know,” Ethan went on. “Maybe he has some fancy pill popping to do. You never know. Maybe. This drug stuff isn't something to admire.”

  “Now you're judging,” I said, “and we agreed never to do that.”

  “You're right Anna.”

  I nodded, smiled, began twirling a strand of my hair into a curl and fell into a pensive mood.

  Ethan tapped my shoulder. “Where are you, Anna. I thought today was a good day. You met Rauschenberg and Andy.”

  “I know. True.”

  A waiter wearing usual attire for these cafes, black slacks, white shirt, black tie and white half apron, bent over the table with a little pad and a little pencil in hand. Ethan ordered a carafe of house wine, which was a French import, that he liked. We both ordered large salads, as the busboy brought over a basket of French rolls.

  “You're hurt because of Andy. That's only natural.” Ethan looked at me squarely. If I were in a better mood I would have been warmed by his rosy cheeks. “Look, I got to do what I wanted. Brought Andy and Bob together,” he cocked his head to the right, paused, thinking of something, that made him nod and smile as he turned to look at me. “And brought you face to face with your old friend. Anna you're being there was important too. And as happy I feel about the meeting of the two artists, I have to admit, seeing you hurt this way, hurts me a whole lot.

  Just saying what he said made me feel better. But all I could say at this time, was, “Thanks, Ethan. I know you meant well. It is not your fault.”

  “I know you're not blaming me. Life goes on. There will be other times and other places.”

  I couldn't hold it in any longer. My whole body, was heating up. “The damn son-of-a-bitch,” I said slowly, almost emphasizing each word and in a loud whisper. I suppose you'd call it a stage whisper. I began to feel tears well up in my eyes. “Where does he get off ignoring me. Our parents came from the same towns, we lived in Pittsburgh, two doors away from each other, we played, went to school together, and now he …

  “Whoa, whoa whoa. Calm down. “

  “Why?” I could feel rage beginning to build up. “I happy with what I'm feeling. Especially because this measly manipulative mamma's boy burned a hole in me.”

  “Boy he really hurt you, Anna. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I said as the waiter poured a glass of wine that I practically scooped up, drank a large swig and almost choked.”

  Ethan reach across the table for my hand. “Don't focus on Andy. Maybe seeing you after all these years, frightened him.”

  “Frightened him?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Sometimes we don't want to revisit our past.”

  “But this past was fun and playful.”

  “Was it, always? Weren't there times, moments that may not have been so? We're grown now and we have different perspectives. I didn't say it, but Anna, you can't go home again.”

  what banged on my brain as Ethan spoke was the distress I felt recently, in front of the guys, when I broke down in tears, about my pregnancy and my son. Looking away, I began circling one thumb with my other thumb, in nervous bursts of energy. Then looked up at Ethan's patient face, and just stared blankly.

  That period of my life, pregnancy and birth of my baby, the shame and humiliation, and not getting any emotional support or empathy from Andy, my good friend was hurtful. Yes, Ethan was right. All is never a bowl of cherries. Andy and I used to share our dreams. When I feel more secure with myself I realized I would have unload these feelings with Nick and Ethan.

  Our salads arrived. I placed my fingers on my cheek and admitted to Ethan that he's right. “I'm over this, now we can enjoy, I suppose.”

  “Anna, it isn't over. It will take lots more time to get over Andy's rejection. I know what it's like to build yourself up for something you've dreamed of these many years, and … and get dumped on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, look. I want so very much to be an art critic, a respected one, an indispensable one. You could say, I'm lucky with this job at Esquire, but I'm mainly seen as a peg above a freelancer for the mag. Sure I make the most of it, but it burns a whole in my heart, that I don't have a chair, or well that's not the right word … but tenure, as Esquire's resident art critic, and editor. And promoted as such. I've pushed for such a position, but my pleas only fell on deaf ears. And you know why. Because everyone at the magazine is looking out for themselves. Their jobs seems so precarious.”

  Ethan crushed the napkin, that lay beside his plate, and then spread it out, placing it on his lap. It was an act of defiance, that I had never seen him display or suspected he would be capable of. Ethan emptied his glass of red wine, in one swift gulp and poured another. I ate quickly.

  The remainder of the evening was awkward. I asked Ethan to drop me off at my apartment. “I'll see you at the office tomorrow,” I said as the taxicab pulled up to my building.

  The apartment was quiet; nobody was there, which was a surprise, not even Caroline. Though her pink robe, and pink bunny slippers topped the heap of clothes on the sofa; you might think a tornado passed through earlier, with clothing and curlers and things, strewn about. I was happy in a way to be alone, though surprised that Caroline wasn't home. Then I remembered she finally got her chance to visit the Bellevue Hospital Morgue, at the invitation of a cop, she dated every so often. What a weird girl.

  When I got to bed, I began thinking: was it Andy’s coolness, or Nick's absence that troubled me more? What an odd thought, yet I wanted Nick so much and believed he would have offered good guidance. Ethan thought Nick was stuck on himself. He told me so, when we were alone. But I had a different view, and I felt my take on Nick was more accurate. Nick is a free soul, yes. Wanting no strings attached, yes. Could he truly exist as a man in Paradise of his own making? He most likely thought so, or wished to be that sort of person. In a way, I wanted my Paradise of free love, yes, love and sex and friendship, with no strings attached.

  As I turned on my stomach trying to fall asleep, I thought of Marilyn Monroe, whom I imagined, yearned to be a free spirit, and used her passions, to implement that wish. The result for her was the opposite, I supposed, opening old wounds; her need to be loved, always. My mind wandered from image to image of Monroe, her beautiful face framed with blonde hair and curls; Marilyn, no makeup, casual looking as if she just
threw the look together; Marilyn in all the raiment of the sexy blonde in tight clothing. I desired to take on her personae, looks, demeanor. To be her doppelganger. I will understand Marilyn Monroe's thoughts and dreams. I will imitate her speech patterns and movements, much like Andy Warhol as a child liked to imitate Shirley Temple's looks and poses.

  I giggled, thinking back to Andy's Hollywood exhibit at the Ferus Gallery, earlier this year, where the local Super Market displayed the real Campbell Soup cans for only twenty-nine cents a piece. Twenty-nine cents for tin cans of soup. That was great.

  Yes, Mr. Warhol, I, Anna Karena will become Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe is me, from now on. So there. I am the real thing. Let's see you put that in your soup can. Do I yearn to get even for being disappointed yet again by Andy?

  My head swirled with thought pictures of childhood, solitude, teenage tendencies to tease stuck-up guys, and again my pregnancy; my eyelids felt heavier and heavier and I heard a bluebird warble an imploring melody. Sing, sing my bluebird. Sing for me a melancholy tune.

  Chapter Eight

  Ethan and I met up that next morning at the counter in Schrafts for our coffee break. I asked as soon as he sat down at the chair next me,“Do you think Andy is still your friend?”

  Ethan pulled away, giving me an askew look.“Of course. Why would you ask that?”

  “You brought me to his house and he didn't look too thrilled to see me.”

  Ethan pondered for a moment, those beautiful big brown eyes starring upward. “Andy doesn’t look back. I think that's it in a nutshell. Someday you'll have something to offer him other than childhood memories, and believe me, he’ll be all over you.”

  I was shaking my head. “It's hard for me to believe that. I’m surprised. Really I am.” I began running my hands through my hair. This was a new affectation I acquired. I was beginning to imitate Monroe's actions, slowly but surely.

  “Anna, you're simply beautiful,” Ethan said. “You’re hurt by Andy's coolness. That's how he is. That's his protective bubble. So what? Tomorrow a different wind will blow, and who knows what he’ll be thinking.”

  “Andy said nothing to me,” I replied. “Nothing. He could have whispered, Anna is it really you? Then we would hug and giggle. No, he said nothing.”

  Ethan pursed his lips, looking scornful, and began shaking his head. “I know.”

  ”I'm hurt. He shunned me. Like, he didn't want me to exist.” When I looked at Ethan, he seemed eager to tell me something, as if first waiting to let me pour my heart out. “You must understand how painful this is to me. To be ignored by your best friend, as if you're a pariah of some sort.”

  Ethan pushed my head down to lean on his shoulder, gently, soothing my forehead. “You have every right to be angry and hurt, Anna. That is how you feel.”

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  But then in an abrupt change of tone, he said, “I hope this will cheer you. You want to hear something else? I told Warhol that Bob Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns were lovers. So, he called me last night and wanted me to contact Johns and bring him to the studio.” The waitress, with appropriate hair net firmly in place, brought our coffees and muffins. I spread strawberry jam on my muffin, while Ethan quickly spread butter on his.

  “Yes, and I hope you'll come along with me and Jasper.”

  I smiled at Ethan. “Are you asking for more trouble?”

  “No. I want you to there with me.”

  I nodded yes, though I wasn’t sure if accompanying Ethan would be getting even, or giving Andy another chance to say hello. Ethan began rushing, seemingly eager to get back to the office. We often used this time as gab time, but apparently not this morning. “We should go,” he said.

  We left the coffee shoppe to return to the office. In the elevator, Ethan pressed the fifth floor button, though our offices were on the second floor. We got out and Ethan tugged my hand leading me to the staircase, where we sat.

  “Let's talk for a moment,” he said. I was startled, having no clue why he was so secretive. I watched as he began breathing heavily. I was confused. “Why couldn't you say what you ware going to say, downstairs.”

  Ethan looked at me, smiling, his big brown eyes as wide as ever I had seen. “This is why,” Ethan pulled me close to him, and kissed me hard.

  With his other hand he reached beneath my skirt and I pushed his thumb and fingers over my panties.“On a staircase, Ethan?” I said.

  “No one will come and we'll do it quickly.”

  And before I could say anything more, Ethan moved his left hand back and forth across my breasts and with his right unzipped his fly, pulling out his erect penis, and with both hands clumsily ripped open a Trojan, slid one step down, poked and finally pushed in.

  After a few thrusts he quickly pulled out, ripping the condom off his manhood. He removed a wad of tissues from his pocket wiping everything up around us, sat down next to me with his arm around my shoulder as we both laughed uncontrollably. “Oh my. That was a great taste of something to look forward to. What if somebody saw us. I mean and started rumors that we're dating,” I went on.

  “That's good gossip,” Ethan said as we got up and walked a couple flights down to the Esquire offices.

  I was sure a milestone was reached with Ethan; maybe a learning curve jutted out before us, filled with remarkable possibilities. I was feeling cheerful. I was happy for Ethan. He made a breakthrough. Still I realized we had a long road ahead. I touched his cheek and ran my hand over his lips and then kissed my open palm and smoothed it over his lips again. “That was nice, Ethan. That was very nice.”

  A couple of days later Ethan phoned asking me to go with him again to Andy’s place. “You've met Rauschenberg, now you'll meet Jasper Johns.”

  Ethan’s standing in art circles was getting stronger, I realized. That was a triumph of sorts. Both Rauschenberg and Johns. Ethan's serious but pleasant personality had lots to do with this. But I told him that I would rather not go this time. “Andy needs a break from the old me.”

  Ethan wasn't convinced. “Just ignore what happened last time, Anna. And if Andy ignores you again, ignore him. It will be good for you to meet these artists, and it will be fun. Please go with me to Andy's house.”

  I remained steadfast, telling Ethan to do his thing. “I'll be fine, but be sure to let me know everything that occurs. Now is not the time for me to visit with Andy.” I was resolved. Revenge wasn't the right thing, though in truth I wanted to join Ethan and meet up with Jasper Johns.

  Meanwhile I had enrolled for two college courses at City College, determined to go forward and to earn a degree in Art history. In a way Ethan's pep-talk about wanting to be a respected art critic and appreciated as such urged me on. On some level I always knew a formal education was important for me to be me, though I would die before I admitted that knowing both Ethan and Nick and their connections to the art world, hastened my decision.

  Days later, while once again at coffee break, Ethan told me everything about Andy's meeting with Jasper Johns that took place the night before.

  “Oh, Andy was all smiles, at first,” Ethan said. “Well, with that slight parting of his lips. Andy immediately showed his Marilyns and Coca-Cola canvases to Jasper Johns – on that long table in the upstairs room. You remember. Johns, eyed the canvases, studied them for a while, seemed to be pondering, with a sullen face, but didn’t say a word.

  “I can imagine Andy was in a tither,” I said, remembering Warhol as a boy always getting what he wanted.

  “His face didn’t show a hint of emotion, none; no expression. Would you believe?” Ethan went on.

  “My gosh. Now I wish I were there to see this,” I said. “Andy must have been panicky – not hearing immediate praise.”

  “Wait, Anna. During Jasper Johns pause, which I will tell you seemed an eternity, I began fidgeting, started counting in my head, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Andy must have noticed this, so I took him aside with an excuse that I needed to make a phone c
all. “Andy I must make a call.” Jasper smiled, and continued starring down at the art on the table. Andy and I walked into the other room and I told Andy that I was hoping to be helpful, but that Jasper Johns didn’t seem thrilled with what Andy had shown him. Andy paused and just looked at me. Well, I didn't expect what he finally said.”

  “Oh my. What happened? What did Andy say?” I was getting as giddy as a teenager.

  “Hang on. I'm telling, though you won't believe it. Andy looked at me puzzled, cocked his head to one side. 'What do you mean? Andy asked.”

  Ethan looked so cute. I relished times when he was passionate as he spoke. “I asked Andy, did you look at him, while you showed him the Marilyns and the Campbell Soup cans?” Uh huh, Andy said

  “He was in anguish. Like he was in pain or something. Frankly I was anxious, felt a queasy knot in my stomach, when I told Andy what I saw. I was afraid he'd be taken down a peg or two. You know Andy wanted very much to be liked by Bob and Jasper.”