Emma Who Saved My Life

by Wilton Barnhardt

  “Oooh blinded by the light, baby!”

  “Gimme those sunglasses—I can’t see, I’m blind…” Janet and Mandy fumbled around like St. Paul after his vision, falling to the sand, rolling about.

  “It’s so white, so bright, so clean and fresh!”

  “The George Wallace Poster Child, don’tcha know?”

  All right, I won’t take off my shirt. I put it back on and then everyone said they’d stop kidding me and then I took it back off and they didn’t stop kidding me, so I turned over on my back and tried to have the patience to lie there and get a tan. Attention moved to Emma:

  “Emma,” Janet asked, “why are you all dressed in black on this hot beach, girl?”

  “I’m in mourning for my life.”

  Janet and Mandy looked at each other blankly.

  “Chekhov,” Emma added. “You didn’t seriously think the Emma Body was to be revealed in public, did you? I’m sitting over here next to Gil who is also the Whitest Person in America.”

  “Don’tcha want a tan?” asked Mandy.

  Emma winced, showing a polite disdain. “Give me one good reason to turn yourself a different color.”

  Janet and Mandy shrugged and ran back to their Frisbee, then altered course for the surf. They ran headlong into a wave, shrieking shrilly as the water washed between their legs and splashed up their fronts.

  “Look at them,” said Emma, all emotion drained from her voice as she reclined back, listless, against an ice chest. “That’s a sewer they’re swimming in. Tons of New York garbage, toxic waste, chemicals, the backwash of the Great Metropolis. And feces: human feces, fish feces, Susan’s feces. Living things are out there too, you know—eels, sea worms, man-of-wars and slime and all kinds of living GOO, and when they’re not shitting they’re looking for something to slime up against—uccccck. Sharks, barracudas, swordfishes—”

  There are not swordfishes, I said, looking up at her.

  “Yes there are, I’ve seen them on sale at Peterson’s fish market, so I’m sure they’re out there, waiting … waiting. Biding their time: waiting for Emma. Manta rays too, hammerhead sharks and things with tentacles and sucker-pods and mouths that go like this—” Emma demonstrated a grouper’s expression from behind her sunglasses, which made me laugh. “Are you seriously gonna lie out here?”

  Yes, I was one with the shore.

  “It’s too hot,” she said, getting to her feet lazily, wiping the sand away. “There are mosquitoes and you’re gonna turn pink you’re so white.”

  White for life, I resigned and got up.

  “Come inside with Doctor Emma, Doctor of Blenderology—I’m going to show these people how to make a blender drink and I’m going to get everyone drunk and things will get out of hand and squalid and disgusting and Lisa and Tom will discover they’re not right for each other, Tom will walk into the sea Star is Born-like and leave a will bequesting this beachhouse to the three of us.” At this moment, a hundred yards away, they were sitting together under an umbrella, leaning against each other affectionately. “To the blender, troops!” ordered Emma, pulling me behind her.

  Emma’s Secret of Blenderology was remarkably simple: put a little pretty-colored liqueur/fruit juice in a blender, add half a bottle of vodka or gin or tequila—something clear—and put in some ice, then blend to Slushee consistency.

  A big cumulus cloud wandered in front of the sun, so the gang moved indoors and sat around waiting on new blender creations.

  “Let’s play a game or something,” said Susan.

  Yeah, said everyone.

  “I know,” she said, brightening, “how about Truth or Dare?”

  No, said everyone.

  “What’s wrong with Truth or Dare?” asked Chris.

  “Uh, how about Who Am I?” proposed Mandy. That was where one player thought of a famous person, living or dead, and everyone took turns guessing by asking yes-or-no questions.

  “I’ve got someone, I’ve got someone!” said Susan, settling into a big beanbag chair, which she nearly obscured. “A great person!”

  All right.

  “Is this person a man?” asked Tom.

  “God no,” said Susan.

  “Is this person a lesbian separatist feminist writer published in the last five years?” asked Emma.

  “Well, uh, yes,” said Susan, irritated at the speed of play.

  “Lotta challenge to this game,” said Mandy.

  Having gotten that far though, having guessed ten or more feminist writers, even Janet and Mandy gave up.

  “It’s Kristin Howell Kroppett,” said Susan, laughing, throwing her hands up. “C’mon you guys—she wrote Rape of My Thoughts: Daily Coping in a World With Men. She’s very famous—”

  “Her own mother hasn’t heard of her,” mumbled Janet.

  “Let’s try another game,” said Lisa.

  “Truth or Dare is always fun,” said Susan. “I remember—”

  Everyone again: NO TRUTH OR DARE.

  Somehow it was decided that we all had to write personal ads, like the ones in the back pages of the Village Voice.

  “Looking for well-hung Chicano twins for hot oil and whipped cream S & M parties—,” began Mandy, when Susan cut her off, having mysteriously become in charge of the game.

  “No, honey,” she insisted, “we must do it for real. We’ll learn a lot about each other this way. So few people can articulate their needs these days.”

  “I need another drink,” said Emma, articulating. As Lisa went to bring the pitcher of some brown-looking cocktail in, everyone scribbled, balled up false takes, grumbled. Doing it seriously is difficult, so no one did.

  “Swinging hot-looking single white sex-machine coming off eons of celibacy looking for middle-aged dwarves into bondage and discipline for women’s prison scenario—”

  “Emma, please!” Susan cried, with an exasperated gesture. “You have to take this seriously now…”

  More scribbling. Tom read his:

  * * *

  SWM, 27, attractive, interested in most everything, stuck on Wall St., seeks culture, variety and good times through SW, 21–25, intelligent, artistic, committed, well-read, tall and attractive would be nice too.

  * * *

  “You could probably cut some words out of that and save money,” Tom pointed out, clearing his throat.

  (That’s odd, I thought, Lisa isn’t tall.)

  “Here I am, Tom,” said Lisa, pursing her lips, Marilyn Monroe-like, “I’ll put my response in the mail today. I’ll learn to stand on tiptoes.”

  Susan read Lisa’s aloud:

  * * *

  SWF, 24, pretty good looks, some smarts, starving artist in the Village, looking for Mr. Perfect, a smart, successful, hunk, initials T.D. if possible, must have Jersey Shore beachhouse—

  * * *

  “All right, all right,” Susan said putting it down, “we get the point, Brandford.” I noticed Emma, out of Lisa’s line of sight, filling her cheeks with pretend vomit.

  Susan read Janet’s clever lesbian ad reverently, Mandy gave up and said she couldn’t do it, Chris’s was sappy (“Some day he’ll come along? The Man I Love? If you love Gershwin, showtunes, opera…” etc.), and then Susan solemnly read mine.

  * * *

  SWM, 22, lonely in the big city, struggling actor in career and in life. Waiting for someone I don’t have to act with, someone caring and understanding—

  * * *

  “Gil, this is wonderful,” said Susan, interrupting herself. She read on:

  * * *

  —someone not after the shallow ’70s self-involved cheap thrills relationship, a seeker of something permanent and deep, soul-baring, giving. I have much to give to such a woman; all I ask is she be open and kind, liberal and willing to be vulnerable and honest at all levels for a true union of hearts and intellect. Big tits a must.

  * * *

  “WON’T ANYONE take this seriously?” Susan stormed, as the rest of us laughed. Too late, though. The cloud had
passed and Mandy and Janet headed back for the surf, Tom took his shirt off again and Lisa bounced off the sofa to give him a hug.

  “Back to the blender, soldier,” Emma said, nudging me.

  That afternoon, like those of the days following, took forever to complete, operating in the Beach Time Warp where one walks to town, gets a popsicle, walks back, ducking into the airconditioned supermarket to look at magazines you don’t buy, comes back to the house, talks with someone, goes out to the beach, walks up the shore then turns around and walks down the shore past the house and down to the infinitely far pier, wades, climbs a dune, finds a shell, throws away the shell, sits on the porch and then asks someone what time it is to discover an hour has gone by and it’s just three-something and the day, like the sea, stretches before one, time given to you to waste … one falls into an automatic plod from point to point, conscious life ceases, only thoughts that don’t require energy are sustained and those not for long. More booze, a soft dehumidified potato chip, a cookie out of a bag someone else brought, someone’s low-tar-and-nicotine cigarette—sneak one for later—the body’s needs are few.

  “There are going to be fireworks tonight,” I heard Janet say, as I lay on a deck chair on the porch facing the sea. “Asbury Park and some in Sea Girt too and we’ll be able to see them from here.”

  Under the spell of Emma’s Brooklyn Bombers, Multiple Orgasms and Spanish Flies (I’m sure she was making the same drink over and over, inventing names for it), I drifted in and out of afternoon sleep on the porch, letting fragments of conversations waft up from the beach …

  Chris: “Then I was with Michael but John, who didn’t know I was alive on the Planet Earth, starts getting interested after all this time—and I’ve always wanted him, Susan—you know my type…”

  Mandy: “No that’s the thing about the Chicago Cubs—I couldn’t be faithful if they won the pennant, you know? They have to lose, they have to fuck it up right at the end and disappoint everyone because that’s Chicago. One day they’ll win something by accident and it’s not going to be the same. And the White Sox—good god, don’t talk to me about the White Sox…”

  Tom: “Well no, Lisa, that’s what’s so interesting about what they call risk arbitrage—one day all of Wall Street is going to be virtually a casino, a place to stake a bet on futures and numbers and rises and falls—nothing to do with investment or corporate soundness. And this computer boom they’re predicting is going to blow the lid off of trading as we know it…”

  Emma from the kitchen: “Now it’s obvious that Ronald Reagan is going to wrest this summer’s convention from Jerry Ford, take the nomination, become president, and destroy the world, right? And I got to thinking. If Reagan had been a successful movie star, he’d be showing up on TV movies now and not headed to the White House one day. Originally he was going to be in Casablanca, then the part of Rick went to Bogart. If Reagan had been in Casablanca his career would have succeeded and he never would have turned to politics. Now here’s the big Question for the late twentieth century: if you had a choice between having Casablanca—the greatest Hollywood-style film ever made—the way it is today OR keeping Reagan out of the White House and maybe saving the world from nuclear destruction … which would you choose to have? You laugh, Janet, but I stay up nights working on that one…”

  For the next hour I was quasi asleep, drifting in and out of insensibility, waking up finally when I heard the sound of my own name, mentioned by Chris:

  “But has anyone seen him onstage? Is he any good?” And rather than hear a chorus of YES, I heard Mandy go “Sssssshhhhhh! He’s right out there in that chair.”

  Well? No one had see me onstage. I hadn’t been onstage yet, which I think is a pretty good excuse. What have I done this past year? If I seem slow in remembering, it’s because it was so boring. Monica at the theater and I keep reading new play submissions. I kissed her at the Christmas party and began to maul her drunkenly and she said she had a boyfriend now and put me off. She didn’t exactly push me away, though. There must have been about five good minutes of kissing in there before she remembered what’s-his-name. I was stage manager twice, once for Kitty Korner in the fall (whewwww, did that ever bomb) and this spring I managed Signora which was fun because we had a good actress as this rich divorćee in Amalfi seducing her own son—

  “But Mandy, a name is a political statement!” Susan was under the porch. “As a lesbian you have a duty to change your name to ‘ManDie.’”

  Where was I? Oh yeah, my career. I’m everyone’s favorite nice guy at the Venice. Gil do this, Gil do that. Stage managing is fun but it’s not acting, is it? Well hell, there are no parts for me. I can’t play Signora, now can I? This fall there’s lots I could do. I’m going to audition for everything. And if the Venice doesn’t cast me, I’ll audition at other theaters, though they don’t like for you to do that. Maybe I’ll go to … (Contemplation of life/career/work sent me right back to sleep.)

  An hour later:

  “Wake up, sweetie pie,” Emma said in my ear, tapping my already red shoulder. “You’re gonna burn, better come inside.”

  I got up and felt half-drunk and queasy. It seemed about fourish. The light had begun that late-in-the-day slant. Janet and Mandy saw me stir and yelled from the beach to come down and play Frisbee. “Come on down!” yelled Tom. “We’ll show these girls how to play a little Frisbee.” Maybe later, I yelled back. (Yeah, like an hour after my funeral.)

  “I used to be good with people,” said Emma as I joined her in the kitchen.

  When was that?

  “No, I used to be able to talk and make conversation and get on with my fellow man…” Emma was distracted by the mess she had made of the kitchen. “I tried talking to everyone today. I bored them, they bored me. I tried my Panties Theory out on Janet to no avail.”

  Panties theory?

  “You know, that little girls’ panties are the key emblem of twentieth-century literature? Ulysses and Finnegans Wake by Joyce, Caddy’s drawers in Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, Nabokov’s Lolita—all of them, panties-obsessed. It’s clearly impossible to write a novel without using little girls’ panties.”

  Moby-Dick?

  Emma put her hand on her hip. “Gil, I think it’s perfectly obvious that Melville is implying that the whale is wearing a pair of little girls’ panties. Ahab doesn’t want to kill the whale, he just wants it to rise out of the water in order to see its panties.”

  And Janet didn’t go for the theory?

  “Intellectual discussions went out in the ’60s, Gil. There’s only you and there’s only me. You never look at me strangely when I talk about panties. What do you want to drink?”

  Nothing ever again.

  “I have new thoughts on all subjects,” said Emma, again presiding over the disaster area/kitchen that looked like an explosion of ice crumbs, peels, fruit bits, empty booze bottles and multicolored liquids had occurred there. “And I’ve reached a revolutionary conclusion.”

  Yes? I said, yawning.

  “Tom can’t help being boring and average and rich and tan. And in his limited Republican WASP little way he is sort of sweet. It’s Lisa that’s the problem. I now hate Lisa.”

  No you don’t. (I poured myself a glass of straight orange juice.)

  “I’ve been watching everything from my kitchen window here,” said Emma. “Susan went in the water. Tidal waves along the Eastern Seaboard, sea levels are rising around the world. She went swimming and Russian trawlers started following her; long-haired activists in rowboats interposed themselves between the two: ‘Don’t kill this one! Put those harpoons away!’”

  So you’ve been sitting here all afternoon thinking up these rotten jokes, huh?

  “Nothing else to do. That’s why I woke you up. I’d gone two hours without savaging anyone and I couldn’t take it anymore. And I’ve been contemplating my life. Looking at Lisa and Tom, seeing them close and affectionate and intimate … and it just came to me, it was borne in on me th
at I will NEVER live a life like that, there will never be anybody for whom I’m like that. I am one human being incapable of walking hand in hand with someone on a beach. Now why is that?”

  I wish I knew, Emma.

  “Well work on it and when you figure it out—why normal life violates and repels me—let me know, willya?”

  Emma got bored with the blender as people took her making fresh rounds of drinks for granted. She deserted her post and Lisa took over. Lisa was going to make a red, white, and blue drink. She’d seen it done somewhere. Coconut liqueur on the bottom since it was thickest, grenadine syrup and vodka next because it was second-thickest, and blue curaçao on top. It all fell in on itself and made a purple sludge and it tasted awful but Lisa kept making them, trying the red, white, and blue in different orders, arrangements, and proportions. This became known as the Purple Sludge and, once acquiring the taste, we found ourselves begging Lisa to make them all weekend long.

  Tom went to get steaks. Later it came out Susan was a vegetarian, Chris was sort-of, Mandy and Janet didn’t want steak, I wasn’t hungry as I was full of potato chips which I ate mindlessly in the kitchen with Emma. But Tom bought these steaks. And they had to be cooked on the barbecue and Tom and Lisa shooed everyone away from the barbecue—not that anyone volunteered to help in the first place—and played Suburban Couple On The Patio and between them they made four trips to the store for 1) paper towels, paper salad bowls, plastic cutlery (which wasn’t a huge success because we couldn’t cut Tom’s well-done steaks with plastic knives), 2) beer, because everyone was sick of candy tropical blender drinks and Purple Sludge, 3) some more beer because it wasn’t enough and we drank it all waiting for these steaks to get done, 4) fixings for potato salad, a three-bean salad and a pudding dessert, all of which Lisa was inspired to get when the steaks were nearly done so the meal could be put off another twenty minutes. (“Potato salad and pudding,” sneered Emma to me privately. “Already she’s thinking like a school cafeteria dietitian. Watch her make us eat everything on our plate.”)