I walked over to the Marilyn diptychs; fifty faces divided into two parts. One side blue and black, the other black and white. I ran my hands through my hair again, and again wondered if this were kitsch or true art. When I moved over to view the gold Marilyn – her face positioned on a large gold painted canvas, an impression stung like an electric shock. Thoughts of the Mona Lisa for our times and later times, came to mind. What struck me of all the painting, the Marilyns included, this large canvas, with its thick gold backdrop and insert of Marilyn Monroe, is what I could call art. But the other canvases? Who knows. I sure don't.
I had a shuddering impression that people were staring at me, so I gave a flick of my head, shook out my hair, and smiled at no one in particular. Funny thing, about the snippets of conversation I overheard. A man's voice was whispering. “I don't know if this is a joke or not. Fifty portraits of the same face? And look at these people.” (I imagined he poked his companion to look at me.) To which a female voice replied, “Well, honey, you have no sense of humor.”
“Maybe I don't,” said the guy. “And a lot people I know, don't.”
At that point I slowly turned to see who the talkers were, but they began moving away, the man tucking a rolled up copy of the New York Times in his jacket.
I laughed inwardly, kept staring and must have been in a trance of sorts for I didn't hear Ethan sneak up behind me.
“A dime for your thoughts, Lady Monroe,” he said.
I turned, fell into his arms, gave him a big kiss and wiggled my bottom from side to side.
“You know Ethan, I've been staring at these painting and wondering. What is it all about?”
Ethan nodded and didn't say anything at first. “Boy you're down on Andy, aren't you. What did he do or not say to you this evening?” Ethan chuckled.
“No, as usual he didn't see me or say anything to me. But I'm serious.”
“I like your dress. Sexy. Have you been getting looks. Stares?”
“Yes. Seriously Ethan. You are an art critic. What do you think?”
Ethan placed his hand over his mouth and seemed to breath heavily. He looked like a young professor in his chocolate brown corduroy jacket, with patches on the sleeves.
Ethan was shaking his head. “I can't say. Have to look around. And Anna, you know by now that a critic doesn't make snap judgments. I got to think this through.”
Ethan grabbed my hand and we strolled around, stopping at the Dollar Bill paintings, and the Campbell Soup Cans, and the Elvis, and more Marilyn and Coke Bottles, and a large Baseball.
Strangely, well not strange at all when you think of it, as we passed by groups of people, conversation was on Nuclear war.
“Do you believe the Soviets will get the hell out of Cuba?”
“Yeah. You heard President Kennedy, last night. They agreed to dismantle their bases.”
“I still get jittery,” one girl said, taking a puff of a cigarette that looked like it was pinched with pot.
Finally Andy approached, and Nick followed. Ethan pulled Andy over, and I introduced myself again as his little playmate from Dawson Street. “You remember Andy. We were inseparable. We went to movies, we drew, and collected photos of movie stars. I’m Anna. You’re little friend with pig tails. Oh, Andy this is a lovely show. I'm so happy for you.”
Photographers emerged from no place and began pushing and shoving each other to get a good shot of Andy and me. I gave the opportunity my best and leaned in. But Andy turned to move away. Andy whispered something to Nick, and then quickly moved on. I 'm sure my face turned a beet colored red. Ethan hold a glass of white wine, and shook his head.
“The guy won't recognize that I existed in his life. All the years, and through high school. He surely knew about my pregnancy. We were inseparable. He wants to forget his involvement with me and my life.” Well, I broke out in tears and sobbed and the guys surrounded me, hugging and kissing me. I later reflected on the moment, wondering what the other guests at the party had thought about our little drama.
“Are you okay now?” Nick asked.
“Yes. I suppose so.”
Nick took a moment, tilting his head upwards. “What a day for a gallery party? You know. The whole Cuban missile crises ... everybody's mind is on … nuclear shit. I don’t know. Hey, babe. Got to go.”
Nick, wait,” Ethan called out. Are you talking missile crises to cover for Andy? You don’t need to that. No man, you don’t.”
Nick didn't respond, and Ethan said, “Let’s go.” I shook my head yes. What could have been a celebratory event a happy time, turned sour. Nicked grabbed my arm, some guests starred, as we walked on. I turned to a group gawking at me and shot out my middle finger at them, fluffed my hair and moved away with Ethan.
“Nick’s attitude, not taking us around and introducing us to friends and people, and others hurt me,” Ethan said. “So, I'm not art critic for Esquire any longer; is that his difficulty?”
He turned to me as we walked up Madison. From the look in his eyes it was clear he too was hurt, being pushed aside by his friend Nick, not Andy.
“I’m not sure what to believe,” I said to Ethan.
He held my hand and hailed a cab with his other. “I'm happy you're staying with me these days. Maybe you'll move in sort of. I mean stay more nights with me, Anna.”
I didn't answer, but probably trying to assure myself, I whispered, “We didn't lose Nick. I know that.”
Ethan snuggled closer in the Checker cab. He placed his head on my shoulder, first looking at me and then smiling.
“He’s not a friend. A friend is loyal. All the time. A true friend, I mean. And Anna, have you ever figured out Nick's real feelings and thoughts. He's often zombie like, from pills and acid, and in a nano second pops back up. And he is your friend, your best friend or lover?”
My protests that Nick was still loyal didn’t prevail. I thought how Ethan is the clear opposite; his mood and emotions are all over his face. Often I'm able to read Ethan's face like a book.
The cab pulled up to Ethan's building. He held me tight and we swayed beneath the brown canopy as we entered his lobby. “Ethan, I know we’re best of friends. But can you see the three of us, as lovers.”
The bright bluish lights under the awning threw shadows on Ethan's face.
“You’re talking about free-love,” he said.
“I can't put a name on it other than Anna, Ethan and Nick. Our names. That’s what it is.
“You are a poet, Anna. But Nick just ditched us.”
“No, Nick. He working tonight. He has other obligations too.”
Ethan kissed me hard on my lips. “Got to work all night. And you got to get up for work and school tomorrow. You have a full day ahead.”
I kissed him as he was finishing his sentence. Ethan, I felt needed me, needed me very much tonight. Inside the apartment as we threw our coats on the sofa, Ethan said. “Just be comfortable, Anna. There's wine in the kitchen. I've got to hit the typewriter, while things are fresh in my mind.”
“I understand, sweetheart. No apologies, necessary.”
I undressed and slipped on my long nightie that hung in his closet, walked into the kitchen and got two glasses and the white wine bottle from his refrig, poured him a glass, wrapped my arms around him, as he already had positioned himself in front of his portable Underwood typewriter.
“I need you Anna. I'll always need you. I hope you'll always be with me.”
I kissed the top of his head, then swirled his chair around, jumped on his lap and kissed hard and wet, brushed my hand through his hair and we kissed again and again and hugged ever so tightly.
I could feel his man passion pressing against me. “Let's do it Ethan. You'll feel better.”
Just as he was about to rise from his chair, Ethan blurted,
“No. Hang on, Anna. Frustrate me. Please frustrate me.”
“Ethan, that's silly.”
“No, come on.”
Ethan kissed hard and caressed my breas
ts with his hands under my nighty. Suddenly he pulled the garment up and kissed and gently bit my nipples. I reached down and unzipped his pants, pulling his penis out, and stroked his balls. Ethan moaned. “Frustrate me,Anna. Oh, that's good. More of the same, baby. More.” And I stroked as he kissed my breasts, Suddenly he pulled back. “Anna do you understand why I said what I said.”
“Actually, no” I replied, still breathing heavily, as we stopped pawing over each other.
“Now I can go back to my writing with a passion, coming from my frustration.”
“You are nuts, but if that's what you want … okay.”
He shook his head, yes, and I left for the big bed. This was a difficult time for Ethan. From riding high as Art Critic for a prestigious magazine, from a person welcomed by artists and galleries, from a strong bonding with Nick and me. But career wise, he felt diminished..
As I stared vacantly, I became aware of a strange thought. His sorrow comforted me. What a terrible feeling, I chided myself. I wanted Nick to be here, where he belongs, here with Ethan and me.
“Ethan, “ I called out. “I love you, and I know you will succeed. You are at a crossroad. And so is Nick,” I went on.
“I love you too Anna. But let's not bring up Nick in every sentence. Okay?”
I watched as his head bowed to the typewriter and his fingers moved quickly, conveying thought and image to paper.
I turned the bedside light off and rolled over.
Something strange happened the other day, and I must admit it now. I walked into Madame L. Socrates' store front parlor, on Second Avenue, near my apartment. I was dressed in casual Monroe attire. The sign in the window read, Madame L. Socrates, Famous Clairvoyant, Psychic Readings, Card Readings. All are Welcome. She was a plump middle aged woman in a dark house dress, with dark hair, dark eyes and a dark complexion. She didn't smile as she greeted me, but immediately blurted, “You are dead, my dear. Don't you see?”
“Dead?” I was frightened and started shaking.
“Look here in my mirror,” she said pointing to an oval glass on the parlor wall. Look for your reflection.”
“I don't see any.”
“Yes, that's right because you are truly dead.”
“No, no that cannot be,” I protested. “I've looked at my reflection many times in my own mirrors, and saw myself. Why are you telling me such a grave lie?”
Madame L Socrates leaned back on her plump feet and began laughing boisterously, loud, and her face skewed as she continued these bursts of laughter. I ran out in the street, running, running to where, or how long, I do not know. Yes, I am truly dead, and if memories and desires live on, then I am alive and well, at least in the pages of this diary.
Alas for now, I lay in Ethan's bed, watching his stooped over frame hovering over the typewriter keys. I am trying desperately to sleep, to dream, to rest finally. Bitter as my contacts with Andy Warhol have been, I realized Ethan was hurting badly. My head throbbed, my stomach convulsed. But when I looked again at Ethan, and realized he was not overtaken by frustration, but moved by desire to be the best he could, the best art critic, with the best platform on modern art. Ethan evinced a screw everybody else with his pounding fingers. I'm on my way back to the top and then to higher grounds, so screw you Andy and everybody else. I here. At least that is what scurried through my mind as Ethan worked.
I still won't believe there is trouble in our Paradise. You'll see, Nick and Ethan, we'll all be together and move on to a better place: A Paradise Regained. Oh, how I wanted both guys as lovers; each one of us free, but lovers. I feared something was amiss, and I was frightened. So I pushed my mind to a vision of a house we all shared, Nick and Ethan and Anna. Lilacs bloomed in its season from a big old tree. On the front lawn, apples fell in an apple orchard, falling down, which is their nature. At night, scores of deer, munched on the fallen apples.
Good night, good night, I whispered as my eyelids grew heavier. Sleep tight, my Dearest Diary and may a great bird soar higher and higher in the night sky.
Until tomorrow, my lovers, when we begin a new day.
Fix Check to see if Ethan was up for position at Art Mirror is mention earlier
Chapter Twelve
When I woke up this morning Ethan was still at his Underwood portable writing a review of Andy Warhol's first New York solo exhibit. Moving to shower, I wondered if the whole of the artsy, art crowd, clung to you only when you have something to give, and something they want. That's the impression I was getting for sure .
But Ethan wanted the job so very much at Art Mirror. He believed turning in his review of Andy's show at the Eleanor Ward Gallery would clinch it for him. Ethan was a hard worker and showed no unwillingness to get his prestige back. That was another aspect of Ethan's personality I admired. Besides I wanted to take care of him. He was on a bumpy road. I know he needed my support.
Still, the contempt I felt last night coming the art crowd was all new to me. Yes, I had it rough these last years, I mean living in an emotional void, but I tended to be satisfied, accepting, and looking to idolize people. And I felt lucky especially to have hooked up with Ethan and Nick. I always idolized Andy.
I had professors too at college whom I admired and some office people. So, there Andy Warhol. So there. I know I have said this at other times. So what? I began laughing at myself in the large mirror in Ethan's well lit bathroom, as I put the finishing touches to my blonde curls.
“Ta, I called out as I was leaving. Ethan didn't move at all, but said “And ta, to you my lovely.”
When I returned after work, that evening, I found Ethan asleep, on his back, his mouth open, wearing baggy gray sweatpants and a gray tee shirt, I had bought for him from a Barnes and Noble store near to the City College building. I bought Nick the same set, but in his size of course.
I dared not disturb Ethan, I knew he needed the rest, though I wondered if he completed his review. I wanted to peek at his writing table, but chose not to. That certainly would invade his privacy, since I had no permission to look through his papers, and I believed that is how free lovers must act.
Anyway, Nick had asked me to join him for a special dinner celebration this evening, so I washed, dressed and left Ethan a note where I would be, so he could join us. As I was putting the finishing touches to my lips, Ethan woke, and asked, “What's happening Anna?” He was so groggy, and barely could walk a straight line as he zigzagged his way to the bathroom to pee.
I asked him how his writing had gone; he said he had more to do. I told Ethan I was off to the Tavern on the Green restaurant in Central Park. He nodded, and re-positioned himself at his typewriter.
“Nick didn't abandon us …. by even the slightest.“ I said. He turned to face me, his big brown eyes looking right at me,. “We'll see.” Ethan swiveled back to his little white out bottle and typewriter keys. “Anna, be good,” he yawned at me.
“I'm always good,” I said in a breathy voice. “You really should know that by now.”
Ethan smiled, yawned once more and stretched as he got up to give me a big kiss.
“Ethan, you will succeed. You will. You deserve it. Are you sure you won't come along?” I added as I was about to leave.
Ethan kissed me again, first on my forehead and then hugging me, planted a kiss on my lips.
Tavern on the Green is a short hop and skip from Ethan's apartment. Nick was already there, when I walked in. He seemed raring to go on about something. Anyway, Nick told me earlier that day he wanted to take me to a nice place, with views of trees and green grass.
“Oh, is this a date,” I had asked.
Nick laughed. “Yeah, babe let's call it a date.”
The Tavern was ablaze with lots of tiny white lights, showing off the big old trees in the park. There was something festive there, and as Nick later told me, the restaurant was taken over by the same people who owned restaurants in the Seagram building, the sleek, new black tower on Park Avenue.
Nick looked so handsome, in a deep
blue blazer, blue button down shirt and those fabulous baby blue slacks. He confessed he owned seven pair of the blue slacks, so he' d never be caught short with a an unclean or unpressed pair when a festive occasion arose. An odd quirk, I thought. I wore my large dark shades, a white kerchief, tied loosely over my blonde hair; and this time I wore a skin tight black slacks and a black blouse dress under my coat.
Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG Page 11