Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG

by J. G. Rothberg

  The following day Ethan called saying he was going up to the new studio to interview Andy, and as usual invited me to go with him. “He's rented an old Fire Station near his house.”

  “I don't think it would be a good idea for me to go along.”

  “Look Andy has to face up sooner or later that he's your friend,” Ethan replied.

  “I'm not thinking about Andy. It's you. You don't need a monkey wrench thrown at you, now.”

  “Funny phrase, but can't happen, because of my magazine. You know Andy, when you're up there, he's all over you.”

  “I know, but now is not right, Sweets.”

  “Okay, but I'll tell you everything, especially when I throw some of his background at him.”

  “Maybe he doesn't know much about that,” I said.

  “Well, whatever occurs, I'll fill you in.”

  Ethan came uptown and we met at coffee break time at Schrafts; he was headed back to Andy's studio, later that morning. He told me all about Andy's new Death and Disaster paintings, and the new place. “Someone told me Nick will be back, maybe weeks from now, but he'll return.”

  “Why was this person so sure,” I asked Ethan, hoping the information was from a good source.

  “One of his ladies told me, and somehow I believe she know what she was saying.”

  “I wish I could believe her. Though you don't know if it was wishful thinking.”

  “Maybe. By the way, Andy has a new assistant, a young guy, Gerard Malanga. Met him yesterday. He helps with the paintings, and silk-screening. Let me add, Anna, Warhol's Green Car Crash canvas, is macabre, surrealistic and disturbing. The guy hanging on the telephone spike, dead or almost, the car crash, an oblivious passerby across the street. I'll say this, Andy has captured the zeitgeist, and banality of our times.

  “Bizarre, isn't it?” I said. “Why is his head turning to violent aspects these days? It is scary to think about how at any moment, the quiet of ordinary life can turn instantly into horror. This says to me that life is so precious, and why we place so many obstacles in front of our selves? ”

  “I don't know, but this is great art.”

  I stared into my coffee cup; I was beginning to feel lost again, the old pains, shooting through my body and shaking, the synapses of my blood vessels.

  “What's happening, Anna? Why are you staring into your cup of coffee?”

  “I keep thinking that I pushed Nick away.”

  “No, you did not. Now stop thinking that. I just told you, he will be back soon.”

  “I wish I could believe this. Look, Ethan is it wrong for me to push for life and happiness? I didn't want to hurt Nick. That was the furthest from my mind. But … but … the way I handled his proposal was without any understanding of what he was trying to do. I want us to be happy, to have a life together. Is that so bad. I am a good person and so are you and so is Nick. Why is he gone?”

  “Don't take on that kind of thinking. You are a good person, and Nick and I both love you. I assure you. You deserve all the happiness, you can get. Please, believe me.”

  I looked up and smiled.

  ”Got to run,” I heard Ethan say. I leaned over and gave him a big, wet kiss. To tell the truth, I was relieved when he left needed to be alone, for the moment. I broke off a piece of my corn muffin, sipped my coffee, and breathed a little easier. I couldn't convince myself that Nick would be back soon, and this agony will be blown away. Will I have to live with loving and losing someone? Was it my own romantic desires that gave this relationship greater depths and meaning than reality? Sighing didn't help much, though I seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. Shocking myself by thinking, I could never be fully happy again, I got up from my chair, and rushed to bury myself in my work. Without Nick, here and now, I believed I could never feel sure about my future,

  Part 2

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had to get away from it all. The freaky drug scene was screwing my head too much. And what was strange is most of the time I never knew when enough was. I still don't know. I just had to leave. Somehow, I believed Anna would figure something out. I left some clues and she's smart girl. I couldn't confront my disillusion with my scene, with her. She closed a door for me,when she mocked my proposal of marriage not even realizing what she was doing. Look, the Warhol thing, the pills … too much, unreality. Anna was different, but I would not confront her and let her know what I had hoped to do.

  For the next month I was home in central New Jersey – my parents house an old Victorian in Vineland, where we have lived as far back as I can remember. I've been keeping up with my rent at the Chelsea. First time around, I sent Brad a check for a month in advance. This time I sent payment for two months. Brad told me that Anna stayed over, many nights. I was happy about that, but I needed to do, what I needed to do.

  I became restless after one month at home, basically doing nothing; hanging out at the motorcycle shop with some old buddies; looking up old girl friends, but they had all married. Who said you can't go home again? Maybe you can't. So, I finally left.

  I had many regrets keeping Anna in the dark for what I am doing. Anna would never do this to me. She is an open girl, a caring person, and I truly love her, but not the way she wants it, with some crazy ideas about free-love. Yeah, I'm into free love, but not as an ideology, Look the initial path of our relationship was a good one. We had fun. We humped and we bumped. She appreciated me, as I did her, and I liked that. Now, I have to do my stuff.

  I am in Sedona, Arizona, at a drug rehabilitation clinic, which my parents sent me to, and are paying for. I'm sitting in the waiting room for my session with a dry-out counselor. She hates when I call her that. She tells me, she's Dr. Kantor, and has a Ph.d in Clinical Psychology. The doc says I minimize my opportunities for successful treatment when I refer to her as a dry-out counselor. Anyway, I'm not so sure this psychoanalysis is for me.

  Dr. Kantor popped her head through the door from her office. Her bespectacled eyes and pallid round face, belied a slight grin. But let me add, her swept up brown hair gave her a sexy look. Yeah. I told her that, and I don't know if she felt flattered. She offered no response, at all.

  “Nick, I'll need another fifteen minutes,” Dr. Kantor said. I'm sure that's okay with you. There are magazine on the table.”

  “Sure, doc,” I said. “Take whatever time you need. I'm not going anywhere.”

  “Just fifteen minutes. I assure you.”

  After scratching the back of my neck a few times, standing and stretching, I sat back down and sifted through the small pile of glossy magazines on the small table to my side, and found Art Mirror, Premiere Edition with a colorful photo of Andy. “What the fuck,” I mumbled and snatched up the mag, searching for the article. On the contents page I noticed Ethan's name as managing editor. “What the fuck,” I shouted again and flipped through pages to Ethan's review.

  With a broad smile,I began reading Ethan's account of Andy's first solo New York Art gallery exhibit.

  I quickly scanned the piece, focusing on the following paragraph. "Andy Warhol is surely the most inventive and the most dramatic painter working today. His art pieces at Eleanor Ward's Stable gallery, a combination of paint and silk-screen technique, exude technical brilliance. Warhol's Marilyn Monroe series show his competence, as one of today's greatest painters; while his choice of colors, portray a vulgarity and a pathos for one of the truly great icons of our generation.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I yelled. “That's my boy, all right. Ethan doesn't hold grudges,” I told myself. “Hope he's taking care of Anna.” Phrases like Warhol's uncanny vision, the illusory focus of the American dream, exploding the social sham, permeated the piece. I continued reading Ethan's overwhelmingly positive critique, and it brought a sense of euphoria to me, making me think of Anna whose happiness always reassured and nourished me, awakening my sense of self, which was scraped momentarily dry.

  It was fifteen minutes later and the door opened. “Come in, Nick,” Dr. Kantor sa
id. I walked in slowly, nodding my head all the while. “Lay down on the coach as usual. Keep your shoes on. Feet on the mat, please.”

  You know, I'm never comfortable doing this,” I said.

  “I know Nick, you've told me several times. But that's the way it is. Besides, you don't have to look at me when you're speaking. This should make it easier to talk.”

  “I have no problems in that regard, Doc. Is that better? Calling you doc.”

  “Dr. Kantor, would be preferred.”

  Dr. Kantor, it is.”

  Well, I did as instructed. The sessions with Dr. Kantor progressed with me babbling my mouth off, on the couch and the good doc, I mean Dr. Kantor barely saying a word.

  At our third, three times weekly session, she asked if I remember the first time I had sex. I love to talk about the subject, but to chicks or guys I know. Well, as you might guess, once I started to answer the question I let it all spill out.

  “Do I remember what feelings I had? Yeah, that's what I understand psychology is all about.” In a way I was waiting for the question. I've told bits and pieces of this story to my women friends, to let them think we're going somewhere, you know emotionally, and not just fucking.

  I stretched and arched my back and settled in lying flat on the couch, and staring up at the ceiling. “I was born on Halloween, 1937,” I began “under a harvest moon, and named Nick, an only child of Judy and Billy Boxer. They are my parents.”

  Dr. Kantor interrupted. A first for her. I turned my head to face her. “Let's skip a rehearsed talk,” she said. Her expression was emotionless. “Tell me what comes to mind, even if it sounds random. Don't judge, don't filter. Just let me hear your thoughts as they flood into your head.”

  “Okay, Dr Kantor.” I turned away from her. “There was this Gwen, a classmate who had lived down the road, and who used to graze my butt, with her hand lingering, as we passed each other in the hallways, at school. In a way, she reminds me a little of Anna. Tight body, big tits, firm ass. You're not offended with the words tits and ass?” I asked.

  Dr. Kantor laughed, finally a human expression. “Just say what comes into your head Nick. No censoring, no filtering. One question before you go on.”

  “Well, I finally got you interacting. Most of the time I feel like you had left the room, and I was talking out loud and to myself.”

  “Nick, my question is why would you think, tits, offends me.”

  “Well, you're a proper looking person. You don't smile much or talk much, until now. Does that answer your question?”

  Whether it did or did not, I never knew for Dr. Kantor went back to silent mode. I remained silent too for these moments.

  “What are you thinking Nick? Please share.”

  “I don't like the silent treatment, which you excel at, it seems.” I turned and looked at her once again. “So I figured what the fuck. I'll play that game too.”

  “This is not a game. This is psychotherapy. Are you resisting me? Nick, what we do here, is break down some protective layers to your psyche, expose them, and see your reactions.”

  “I'll get back to what I was saying before tits. This word provoked a whole conversation, didn't it Dr. Kantor.” Silence once more. I went on. “I was going to say, as I look back now that Gwen reminds me of Anna. Not Anna now, though. Anna remade herself into a Marilyn Monroe look alike. And she pulls it off.

  “What are your feelings towards Anna,” the now talkative Dr. Kantor asked. I began thinking, either she's on a roll or I am. Wow.

  “My feelings are good. I like her. Like her a lot. She's fun. And a great lay. Sorry about that word Dr.Kantor. But she enjoys sex as much as I do. We're in sync. you could say. And she's a pretty woman. Yeah. I like her. She's fine.”

  The doc gave me the silent treatment again, after I told her what I felt about Anna. As I lay on the coach I placed my hand over my mouth, breathing into my open palm. “You know you are pissing me off. I just told you something. Hey I would like a response.”

  “I'm not in therapy here, Nick. You are. Just say what comes to mind.”

  “Well, Anna really pissed me off, on that last night we were together. Wait a minute. I'm getting away from your first question. “

  “Say whatever comes to mind, Nick”

  “Okay. I proposed marriage to Anna. Yeah. In a nice restaurant. And the staff brought over a red rose and champagne. And Anna laughed and cried, and told me that's not … not what she wanted at all. Not at all. I even brought my grandmother’s ring. I'll tell you doc, I really wanted to push her out my life. But I'm not that kind of person.

  “What were your feelings?”

  “Maybe shame, humiliation, anger. I'm not sure.”

  “Go, on. Let's talk about those feelings.”

  “Enough of that” I said. “Look I told you the story. And that's the way it was. Now where was I?” I was in pause mode again, thinking this doc is making me loose my cool, like I did with Anna. I don't like those feelings.

  “Oh, yeah,” I went on. “My first time with sex. So, one Sunday morning – remember I was fourteen at the time – and I slept a little late that day. My mom knocked on my door around eleven o’clock.

  “Okay to come in?”she asked.

  “Sure,” I said, stretching my whole bod on my maple wood bed. That was the best bed I ever slept on. I had plastered the sideboards of that bed with magazine full page color photos of Mickey Mantle. On the walls of my room I had hung huge posters of Whitey Ford, Mantle and a poster of a testy Casey Stengel, the NY Yankees manager, leaving the dugout.

  “My you’re a sleepy head this morning,” my mom had said.

  “I don’t have school, today” I yawned at her. “You know that mom.”

  She smiled, then old me, “Guess you had better shower now. Go on, I’ll get your clothes ready with clean underwear.” I could feel mom's eyes following me as I stumbled into the bathroom. Dr. Kantor?”

  “Yes, Nick.”

  “You said, say what's in my head. I don't know.”

  “Continue, Nick. Go on.”

  “Soon, my mom opens the bathroom door, picks up my underwear, and tee shirt that I just dropped and checks that the towels are clean. “Mom,” I yelled as I was about to step into the shower.

  “Now don’t go all modest on me.. You were my baby. You know, I’ve seen you naked, and I've diapered you and washed you. Silly boy.”

  “How did you feel at that moment,” Dr. Kantor asked.

  I pushed my hand to my chin, and shook my head at first. “Nothing, if you mean, did I feel shame? No. Sometimes I thought this might be wrong, but I love my mom, love her so much.” I started to laugh.

  “What seems funny, Nick?”

  “Well, nothing.”

  “It must be something. You would not have laughed.”

  I lay quietly on the the doc's sofa. A slight tremor ran through my belly, as I was about to speak. “You know I love my mom, very much. Hey, call me a mamma's boy. I don't mind.” I went dead silent for another moment, waiting for Dr. Kantor to say something. She remained silent.

  I sucked in some breath, and let it out slowly, and finally spoke. “Many evenings when I had finished homework, I would comb and brush out my mom's long blonde hair. I changed her hairstyles, sweeping her hair up sometimes - and laughed and brushed her hair back to the way she had worn it. Maybe I should have become a hairstylist. You think so, Dr. Kantor?” I laughed.

  “Okay, back to my original story, of mom following me into the bathroom. You know she always meant well. Always wanted to make sure I was nice and clean. I remember she laid out clean undershorts and socks, that Sunday morning, a bright white tee shirt and Levi dungarees, and placed them over the closed lid on the toilet bowl. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” she said, and walked out and closed the bathroom door behind her. That was it. Nothing more. So, why do I feel a tingling through my body.”

  “What do you mean by tingling. Explain that?”

  “I don't know. Not mu
ch to explain. Just tingling. Like sometimes when you get goose bumps.”

  “Elaborate Nick, so I understand you fully.”

  “We all get goose bumps. You know Dr. Kantor, I'm beginning to feel … “ I began stretching my neck and turning my head around, to give it a crack.

  “So, I showered quickly, stepping out maybe a couple of minutes after she left. I brushed my teeth, spreading the red and white tube of Colgate on my toothbrush. The images of that day are still in my head. It's weird, doc, I mean Doctor Kantor. It's plain weird, like I'm tripping. I remember standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror, turning my face left and then right, examining my chin, and wondering when the slight blond hairs would grow in, full enough, to shave. Gosh I am talking now like a speeding train. I'll tell you something. I feel like I'm on an acid trip. Not really. Sort of, I suppose. Anyway, I toweled dry my long hair to the right side of my face. As you can see now, I sweep my hair straight back.