Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG

by J. G. Rothberg

  “I'll bet Dylan will be a no show.”

  “Shut up,” Nick. You like to spoil any event I bring us too,” Ethan scowled.

  “Guys,” I screamed above the cascading noise. So we danced around and ended up in a group hug.

  From the crowd a guy about Ethan's height, wearing a dark blue cap pushed back on his head, showing his swept back black hair, wearing paint spattered dungarees, and a worn out thick shirt jacket, ambled towards us, with a big smile.

  “I'm Alex. An artist. Now live in the Village.”

  We nodded, and in a drunk and stoned sort of way. I said, “Welcome Alex.”

  “All of you American?”

  “We sure are,” Ethan said.

  “I'm Alex, he repeated from Donetsk, in Ukraine. Do you know where that is?”

  Which subway, would I get on,” Nick asked.

  “No, no in Soviet Union,” Alex said.

  “I was teasing, man. Be cool. Here light up.” Nick handed him a Camel cigarette stuffed with marijuana. “You'll relax.”

  “Oh, I am relaxed already.”

  Seeing Alex, I had a strange feeling that I was with my father as a young man. Something about his looks, his brisk, wide walk. His arms thick, even under the old tight shirt jacket. A horizontal striped Naval shirt showing underneath. That accent, thick guttural, Slavic, many consonant sounds, reminiscent. I admit I know little if anything about my parents' early lives. . They rarely evoked stories of where they grew up. My mother once mentioned they had a dirt floor, which always needed sweeping. It was hard to imagine sweeping a dirt floor. Would flying mounds of earth fly in your face?

  “Before artist I work in coal mines in Donetsk. My friends work there too.”

  “Alex, why are you telling us this?”, Nick asked.

  “I'm artist, I said. I want to paint you, my lady,” he said squarely looking at me.

  Nick burst out laughing, shaking his head up and down. “Wow, Not a good pick up line, Alex. You got balls coming over, when she's hanging with two guys.”

  “No, no. Not like that,” Alex protested, his big black eyes burning. “When I see her at first, it was like a force grabbed, shaking me, telling here against wall and portrait of you will be my Mona Lisa. I want to paint portrait, with clothes on,” Alex replied facing Nick.

  “Hey, that's up to the lady.”

  At this point a smiling, pixie haired girl walked up and held onto Alex's hand. A black inked tattoo showed on her upper left arm. “This is girlfriend. She's American, from Cincinnati,” which Alex pronounced as Chincinatti.

  The tattooed girl pulled on ear, first and shuffled as if listening to some dance music, and extended her hand to each of us. “Her I paint in nude. She has beautiful body. I paint her with gardenia on her cunt, to create mystery.

  Th tattooed girls smile drably, and still shuffled to imaginary dance music. Nick interrupted. “Alex, why do you want mystery, there? Do you want people to think there is a cock and balls behind the gardenia.”

  The artist feigned a smile, pushed his nostrils closer, and snorted. “But art is not all play. Hard work is what it is, hard, but you do what you have to do, to have bread and wine on table.”

  All at once, I saw my father greeting me in a dark blue pea coat, a picture I've seen many times. And when I looked at him it was as my whole history was coming at me like a speeding meteorite, coming more and more in focus.“Hard work to get bread and milk on table. I heard my Poppa say that that many times. The accent, now Alex's phrases began freaking me out. I began nervously twirling my hair.

  Smiling uneasily, and not knowing what to say, I told Alex, “I'm sure we'll meet at other times and at other functions. We seem to travel in the same circles. I'm not ready for any kind of portrait, but thank you Alex for your kind, offer.” I wasn't concerned that as an artist he was fragile, no I thought full well, he was a strong, antagonistic type. But something in me wanted to act coy and demure, traits

  I might not have, but thrust myself into that mode, showing off, and or distracting Alex from real knowledge of who I am. Why I do or not do not do, or say things, baffles me.

  “Very well. Good,” Alex said, looking slightly away but not enough away from to avoid his stare. Both of us were silent for the moment. “I hope we meet again, and soon.” His tone was formal. He turned to look at me. He then nodded to both Ethan and Nick, and extended a hand loosely to me. Shockingly he then said, “I tell my friend Andy Warhol, I met inspiration for Marilyn Monroe painting,” His tone was formal. He turned to look at me.

  “Do you see Andy? Does he know your work?” Ethan asked, as Alex walked away with his girlfriend. She look a swift look back, as if Alex urged her to check on what we were doing.

  “What was that all about?” I said softly to the guys.

  “He wanted you, babe. I told you you're a sexy lady. Now do you believe me?” Nick said.

  “There was more. I wonder if he's any good,” Ethan said, as an artist.”

  Nick shrugged. “Should we care?”

  While the guys were analyzing Alex's intention, I ws struggling with what he represented in me, and I told the guys, ”You know, he reminded me of my roots, and I so want to know more of this.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” I asked Ethan.

  “Why do you want to did deep. It will only cuse problems.”

  “What the fuck did the guy bring up Andy and the Marilyn painting puzzles me,” Nick said.

  But my mind was on a remembrance of my mama, pulling out the album from a chest of drawers in her bedroom, a few months after my pop passed away. “Look Anna. See how strong and handsome he was.” And she lifted to album and kissed the photo as tears ran from her eyes. And when I looked closely at that photo, even with tears still moist, I swear, he wore the same clothing as Alex, he had the same look, the same combed back hair, the same big black eyes. A similar arrogance to his look, as Alex.

  “In mama's eyes there could never be a comparison with my dad. He was her hard working, coal mining, knight in shining armor. But I … I disappointed them, with a pregnancy.”

  “Anna it's okay. Don't go there now,” Ethan said and placed his arm around me, and Nick joined in both hugging me fiercely. “I am so lucky,” I said, “to have both of you in my life.

  “And we are always here for you, Anna,” Nick whispered in my ear.

  Meeting Alex was as if someone a pulled switch, and turned a strong light on my darkest memories. Now even the fun loving people at Gerde's Folk City, looked ominous, their faces inverted like unearthed ancient human skulls. Were dark memories, a norm for my mom, and my pops, I asked. Was their life a tale of overcoming? Why couldn't I ave given more them emotional support?” Death was all I saw.

  .

  When we were at Ethan's, Nick was usually a showoff, and stoned out of his head. “Watch me Ethan, hey kid, watch. You'll learn a thing or two.” Ethan stalked off when Nick so ordered, stretched out on his sofa and fell asleep. “You scare him. Nick. Be gentle with him,” I admonished him.

  “Be gentle. What is he a chick. What the fuck. He's no prima donna. Am I gentle with. We fuck babe. That's what we do.”

  “I don't think you mean that.”

  “Probably not. You know, you got my heart is with you always ”

  “Strange or is it. When tapped you become the seet, lovable, caring Nick.”

  “For you, only remember that. But hey, you and me babe, let's dance.”

  In a trance of emotions, after lots of drinking earlier n the night, and pot smoking now, we threw ourselves at each other, holding one another tightly, warmly, and lip-locking ferociously. “You are delicious,” I told Nick. “And so are you, babe,” Nick said warmly in dulcet tone of voice that always assured me, I could feel same in his arms. Ethan slept through our sexual maneuvers, and Nick and I finally exhausted ourselves, and fell aslleepat opposite sides of Ethan's big bed.

  Chapter Ten

  According to Nick, on a three way phone call
, the other day, with Ethan and me, “Andy is walking on air, the guy is ecstatic about this first New York solo show. He's like a little kid. All smiles.” The event was set for this coming Tuesday, November 6, at Eleanor Ward's Stable gallery, and Nick told us to anticipate a grand event. Ethan explained that Ward originally set-up a gallery in an old livery stable on west Fifty-Eighth Street, selling mannequins and fashion photos by new artists. “But by the mid-1950s” as Ethan said is in his precise, clear headed voice, “Eleanor got a lot of talk to show paintings, and began annual events called the Stable Annual, and later moved the gallery uptown to Madison avenue. She lives on the first floor.”

  “So, we'll be at … .“ I attempted to ask.

  “At Madison and Seventy-Fourth,” Ethan quickly inserted.

  That Tuesday, I left work early, making sure I would have enough time to shower, get my hair in curlers, do all the prep work needed for this I was sure gala event. As I was leaving the office, Dolly Martin, a tall, thin gray haired woman who was our office manager, wished me a good time. In her wispy way of talking, she said. “Celebrate hard. You know we averted, a world war, and we should be thankful.” Dolly usually tended to emphasize the worst and during these last couple of weeks of confrontation with the Soviets over Cuban missiles, she was largely hysterical, “This will lead to nothing good. She practically gave us hourly updates about U.S. spy planes spotting Russian ships with missiles on their way to Cuba, President Kennedy’s warnings to Russia and the embargo of the island, just ninety miles from Key West. “We had tense and nasty moments, I'll tell you.” Finally yesterday afternoon, Dolly stood in the doorway, telling us the worst is over, that President Kennedy confirmed ships and missiles are heading back to Russia. Where and how Dolly got all her information was somewhat of a mystery. Her information was more than you were likely to read in the newspapers, I swear. She appeared liked a walking news bulletin, tethered to some lofty source. “And I'll say this much, for our young Mr. Kennedy, not only is he the darling of your generation, but a smart and tough cookie.”

  “Yes,” I said thinking I had to say something.

  “So, drink, Anna, to Camelot, to Jackie and Jack and the good ole USA.”

  “I will,” I replied.

  When I got home, Caroline was there, tending to the plants, she displayed on our window ledge. Her hair was swept up in a whit towel, and of course she wore her favorite pink bunny slipper and pink bathrobe. Wiping the leaves of the xyz Fix plants and talking to them in the sugary voice. “Now you be good little kids, while Mamma is away for a while tonight.” Then turning to me,”You're home early. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering why she would think there's a problem.

  Caroline didn't answer. Wait a moment while I juice up some fresh carrots. I sat on the sofa hearing rigorous, roaring, nerve shattering sounds. Then silence. Caroline emerged carrying tow glasses of carrot juice. “Drink up. This will do us good.” I drank as she ordered, but found a slight bitter taste to the drink. When I asked her about it, Caroline seemed puzzled for the moment. “Oh it's probably some of the home grown parsley from the window sill, I mixed in.”

  After taking a few sips and moving her lips to erase a carrot juice mustache, Caroline leaned back and sighed. “I didn't go to work at all this past week, with the nuclear crises and all. I got sick to my stomach. Do you know, Tom my boyfriend the police officer, told me, of all places in the morgue, Sunday night. That is another story what we did there.”

  “What did Tom say?” I knew Caroline wanted to talk more about what they did at the morgue, than what Tom said.

  “Well. New York cops are preparing for the worst, with the standoff with the Ruskies, as Tom calls it.”

  “It's all over now, I understand.”

  “Is it really, is it ever all over? Good.” Caroline's lowered voice made me feel uneasy. “Oh, Tom is such a great lover, oooh, I get goose pimples thinking, how we made love under a gurney with a bloodied corpse of an old lady stabbed in in her apartment the other night.” The place of love making, she and Tom chose disgusted me, and made me pause as I tried to understand this girl. Nick's first impression was so right on. She is bizarre..

  Caroline was in a talkative mood, I was thinking. What a place to get laid. “Oh,well Caroline, we'll catch up another time I got to get myself groomed for tonight's event,” I said, and told her that it was Andy Warhol's first New York City solo exhibit in a prestige gallery.”

  “Oh, la dee,” she said returning to water her plants.

  .

  Pampering myself, rolling my hair in curlers, somehow took my mind off Caroline and her newest exploits, and also an anxiety I was beginning to feel about tonight. Andy hadn't seen the new me, the new me as Marilyn Monroe, and I began obsessing about the Ukrainian artist we met the other night. Would he be at the exhibit, would he ridicule Andy about me as inspiration for the Marilyn paintings?

  At the doorway to the gallery later that evening I fluffed my blonde hairdo, making sure my curls were meticulously in and out of place; smoothed my eyebrows, checked my lips and pressed down my slinky black dress. I didn't mind making room, pushing to the side as other guests arrived. It was funny in a way: some smiled, some scrunched their nostrils, some didn't even notice, some said, “Good evening. Will you be joining us inside?” Usually, an older guy, made the remark. I smiled back and nodded.

  Ready to enter the building now I puckered my face, freezing the moment; I threw my head back and laughed. I felt a camera moving up for a close-up. And I heard music, rising slowly to a crescendo. Really, I am serious. How marvelous. I felt so good.

  There were baskets full of badges with Campbell soup cans tied to ribbons, on a table. Everyone was taking one. Andy walked around handing some out too. I took one, pinned it to my dress, and with my lipstick scrawled Anna, as if it were a name tag. I looked for Ethan, and for Nick, couldn’t spot them, but noticed Alex in a corner of the room. Soon enough Andy joined and hung to wall talking to the small group. He seemed to clutch the wall, as if he might fall. Andy, the man in black, black jeans, black jacket, black shirt and skinny silver tie; Andy was already into the fashion of the east village.

  Smiling guests came over to Andy with their name tags, which he autographed, while hangers on swiftly turned heads for a quick peek at me. I maintained composure. Just there to see the art, meet friends, talk, sip a glass of wine or two, though I kept my dark glasses on. I looked for Robert Rauschenberg. I would like to have a one on one conversation with him now that I have had a couple of months worth of courses in Art History. That was not to happen this time around. Didn't see him.

  I stood before Andy's large Red Elvis canvas, but thought of Rauschenberg's Canyon, a Combine painting of fabric, nails, photos and cardboard among other items on the canvas. Bob's paintings for me contained a strong feeling for color, composition and light. Was Andy's Elvis, kitsch art compared Rauschenberg's? Soon I heard, “That Elvis, isn't it super great.” Nick, pushed his way toward me with a glass of champagne. “Brought this for you. It’s good stuff. You'll get a kick from this Champagne.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked as we smooched lips.

  “You'll see. For you. Bet you can't take your eyes off the Elvis paintings.”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Love it,” I continued with my lie.

  Nick wore his baggy blue pants that hung so irresistibly on his hips, and a midnight blue shirt.

  Nick pulled back gave me a broad smile. “Only the best for my girl,” he said as we sipped from from our glasses. His luscious eyes narrowed and he showed a most devilish grin. Nick whispered in my ear after taking a slight nibble, “Laced with cocaine, for my baby.”

  I giggled. His warmth, the nearness of him, as usual intoxicated me more.

  “See your portrait is over there,”Nick pointed to a Monroe diptych.”

  “My portrait? Oh that's sweet. I'm still Anna and you're cute,” I said.

  “And you are irresistible,” he shot ba
ck.

  “Have you seen Ethan?” I asked.

  “He's around, looking at paintings, taking notes, talking to people. Hey, got to move on. Got business to do. No more chatting with my sexy lady. This is Andy’s first big show in New York.” And practically in the same breath, Nick added, “I’m sure Ethan will be here in a moment. Later, Anna. Okay? I love you. I'll be back. Oh, by the way. See the tall bony women standing with Andy. She's Eleanor Ward. You should get to know her.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not. She handles new artists.”

  Nick gave me a big wet kiss again, scooted off into the crowds and didn’t look back. As in the past, when there's business to do, Nick was at his business best. I admired his sense of control over himself, but wondered what the mechanism was which allowed him to turn feelings on and off like a spigot. Oh, well, Nick's was so hot, and so beautifully formed. I watched him curving in and out of clusters of onlookers, stopping, chatting. And from a distant it seemed to me wiggling his tight little ass, which I assumed was for my enjoyment.