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Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG

Page 18

by J. G. Rothberg


  “Did you ever meet her roommates?” the Sergeant in dark blue asked.

  “I met one. A girl named Caroline. Anna told me me she had two roomies. Never met the other. Don't know her name.”

  Connor broke his starring at me. “Where were you for the last few moments? You seemed off in space”

  I smiled, not knowing or caring if he suspected the dope. “Anna, thinking of my Anna.”

  The detective kept nodding, and pushing his chin forward. “Thanks for your cooperation,” Connor said, trying to convey some sort of gratitude. I doubted his honesty. “We have our work cut out. I'm sure we'll be back with more questions.”

  I went back to Anna's bedside. There are always more thins to think about. Hidden meaning behind secret doors.

  “You know that girl Mina, the one with the boyish bob,” I whispered to Anna, “sitting at the end of the Warhol table at dinner earlier this evening. Well, she often told me I am a fantasy lover. Yes, Anna my love, I know I sound like I'm bragging. But let me go on on.” I leaned closer to Anna's ear whispering ever so softly, letting my breath spill over her earlobe, hoping this could awaken her. “Anna, she called out to me, Oh, Nick you're so beautiful, and you satisfy so thoroughly But darling you don't have a brain in your head. Keep it that way, Nick. That makes you even more endearing. Really, Anna, can you believe that? Hey, but I do my thing and fuck them,wildly, and get them all the speed and drugs they need to keep their tight bodies in shape. Anna. Do you believe I'm empty headed?”

  I must have fallen asleep in my chair for awhile. When I awoke, startled at first, I had no idea of time. Anna lay in the same position as always. Ethan wasn't around. Couldn't tell if it was day or night, or if a day might have passed me by.

  A nurse came over, and I kissed Anna and pulled up. “This is difficult for you,” she said. The nurse was an older woman, grayish short hair, with a round face, made me think of my grandmother, who was a nanny, helping young mothers with their newborns. “She'll come through, just keep giving her love.”

  I smiled and walked away, yawned and stretched. The nurse pulled the curtain around Anna's bed, told me she's changing her adult diaper, washing her body, and placing a fresh white hospital gown.

  Ethan walked in, and immediately blurted, “What's going on?”

  “Anna's all right,” I told him. “A nurse is in there cleaning her up. That's all. By the way, how did it go?”

  “Do you mean at the office?” Ethan asked. I nodded yes. “Great. We got a heck of a special section on Art in America. It might blow paint off some canvases,” I laughed, and kept looking at Ethan. “You look tired, man,” he went on. “I'll be here for a while. Take a break. Get some air, Nick. It will do you good.”

  I told him, I'll do just that. Maybe head over to the Warhol studio to check in. “I've been thinking it would be a good idea, to bring over Anna's photo album, the one she always talked about. Maybe going over the pages will do her good.”

  The nurse opened the curtains. Anna looked so fresh, laying on fresh linens, sweetly powdered with talcum. I leaned over and kissed her, gently. “Ethan's here. I'll be back in a short wile with your photo album, babe. Okay?” Ethan pulled a chair over; I took a final glance, blew her a kiss and walked out.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Searching my coat pocket I found a little blue pill, stuck to the lining, which I quickly swallowed. It felt good to be out in fresh air. I began walking from the hospital to Andy's studio in the old Fire House on East Eight-Seventh Street. That building which a delight to work in rather than the upstairs back parlor of Andy's house.

  I paced myself taking long strides, then switching to short hops walking on an imaginary straight line. It was late afternoon, with darkened patches of clouds making the sky above appear bruised in parts. There's a black eye, and there's a contusion on the forearm and there's … . I smiled, but the wind that day smacked my cheeks, stinging every once and a while, leaving quickly, only to sweep up litter flying without purpose – only to drop half a street away. The intensity of Anna's condition hit hard, and I needed to think. About what? knowing self-examining thoughts at this point could only lead to trouble. I never like to think too deeply. But Anna did, and in my frustrations with her, telling her many times that she thought too much, and to lighten up, I found myself of late seeking the roots of my being.

  Walking up Third Avenue, I realized that to present myself at the studio and engage in usual activity as if I weren't confronted with tragedy was asking for trouble. Whatever Andy's dilemma, even if none, I felt a need to inform about Anna's state. Any other decision would hang on my neck like the proverbial albatross.

  Sometimes it's about playing ball, or playing along, my dad once told me, and at other times, you strike on your own, because you want to make an important announcement. So, be true to yourself, that's the point. At the end, always be true to yourself. I doubt very much if my dad practiced this set of rules, at least I never got that impression.

  When I walked in to the old firehouse studio, I was surprised to see, Billy the kid from rehab in Arizona, sitting on the floor, in conversation with Andy, while the artist was examining a canvas. Andy's expression showed a bit of fawning over Billy, with that salient grin Andy often evinced, approving the kid's presence next to him, like a frolicking puppy. Somehow Billy noticed me, stood up and ran over grasping my hand to shake. Yes, Billy wore the very same red boots, I remembered from rehab, though his hair seemed longer.

  “I came looking for you,” he said. Have been here a couple of days. At first I thought you conned me about working here with Andy. But a couple of the girls who wandered in and out told me you'll be back, you were caring for some one who had collapsed.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hang with me, got to say hello to Andy.”

  When I looked down at Andy's Self-Portrait, he was toying with, I said, “Real cool, Andy. Sixties, cool,” stood around for a moment, bobbing my head up and down. I waited a moment for him to ask how Anna was, but nothing on that subject emerged. Andy was immersed in smoothing the canvas.

  “I got things to do,” I said, and walked on, with Billy trailing.

  Mina, the model who screamed for help when Anna collapsed was sprawled on the couch, like the nude in a Goya painting, but fully dressed in a gray workman's outfit, with dressy black pumps.

  “You look tired, sweetheart,” she said. How's your girl doing?”

  “Okay, I hope. “She's not out of a coma yet.”

  Mina exuded a long sigh. “I'm sorry.” Still lying sideways, with one elbow on the sofa cushion, her left hand with fiery red painted fingernails, resting on her cheek, Mina was a still life portrait, a mode she often affected. Her brilliant black eyes gazed first at Billy and then at me.“What's this kid's story? He keeps saying Andy is his father. Andy just laughs. I told the kid, many boys say that to win approval, I suppose.”

  “Got to go,” I said. Give the bunch my regards.” I felt dumbfounded for a moment standing in front of Mina, and I don't know why. But she sensed something that told her to layoff, that I'm not here to fuck and get dope for the pack. Funny, now my appreciation for her grew several notches.

  I began walking around the studio, in circles, and feeling weary with the system here that I placed my self in. Anna had engulfed my thoughts, my Anna. My Anna.

  When I turned to leave, Billy yelled, “Wait a sec. I want to go with you. He grabbed a red plaid tartan shirt jacket and caught up with me.

  Outside flecks of white snow swirled from gathering clouds. The mid-November air was brisk and windy; but a bright sun began to emerge in the afternoon sky.

  Billy said, “Andy is weird man. Weird. He told me he never reads just looks at pictures. So we sat there looking at that self portrait. He's weird, man. All the while he just smiled at me, shook his head at me while, saying uh, uh,uh uh., for two days now. What's the guy on?”

  “Nothing, maybe he's high on life,” I told Billy. “You'll get used to it after a while.”
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  “Were are we going?”

  To a girlfriend's apartment. To get her photo albums.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Listen, the girl Anna is in a coma now. I hoping showing her pictures of her family album will shake her awake. You see that, don't you. Billy? Anyway, she an old chum with Andy from Pittsburgh.”

  “Maybe she 's my mom,” Billy said.

  I stopped on the corner to wave for a cab, and asked Billy why he keeps saying Andy is his father.”

  “Why not?” he said, shaking the blond hair out of his eyes.

  “Wise ass,” I told him pushing him into the back seat of the cab.

  “You told me at rehab back in Arizona that I can be around you. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Blissful Interlude” by J. G. Rothberg is a work in progress. To Be Continued …

 

 

 


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