Come Dancing

by Leslie Wells

  “Oh, it’s simple. You just need an egg beater; I didn’t see one in your drawers.”

  She’d probably rummaged through every nook and cranny while I was out. “All right, Mom. Have a good trip.” With a sigh of relief, I put her on the bus and took the subway home.

  Chapter 15

  Nite Klub

  After unpacking my weekend reading, I put on Billie very low. I was editing a new nonfiction manuscript of Harvey’s about the Korean War; something I didn’t know much about, but had to trust that the author did. Just when I was ready for a break, Suzanne called and suggested we meet at her studio.

  I walked across town to Avenue B, passing bleary-eyed people creeping out of decrepit buildings that appeared to be condemned. The entire East Village was basically one giant crack den, which meant you had to be on your toes even in the daytime. Picking my way around discarded syringes outside Tompkins Square, I reached Suzanne’s place and took a creaky freight elevator to the top floor. The door opened into an airy loft with several big skylights. Suzanne looked the part in overalls spattered with paint, her red hair bandannaed out of her face.

  “It’s so nice of you to come.” She gave a toothy smile and held her cigarette aside to kiss my cheek. “Let me show you what I’ve been working on.” She gestured toward two unfinished pieces on easels.

  “Those are very nice.” She had daubed splotches of paint on the canvas and put feathers into the wet patches to dry. The effect was, as Jack had put it, like a parakeet had flown into a window and bled colors down the pane.

  Suzanne smiled. “Thanks. I’ve been feeling kind of stuck lately.” She dropped her cigarette and crushed it into the tarp. “I was thinking of adding another type of material; maybe glass beads?” She seemed to be asking my opinion.

  “That might be interesting.” I recalled the bird-watching guide I’d just finished proofing. “Or since you love birds so much, what about doing paintings of them? A lot of people are really into them.”

  “Hmm, that’s an idea. I’ll think about it.” Suzanne put her hands on her hips and stared at the canvas. “To be honest, I’m getting a little bored with the artist thing. Maybe I should go back into fashion. I just feel …” She turned to me, a searching look in her eyes. “… like I need something of my own to do. Mark doesn’t want kids yet, and I don’t really either. But I need something to keep me occupied, other than organizing his life. You know?”

  “I think it’s good to do your own thing,” I agreed. “Did you like being a designer?”

  “Not that much, really. It was mostly Mark forcing his friends’ wives and girlfriends to buy my dresses. Once they’d all bought a few, it kind of dried up.” She lit another cigarette and blew smoke toward the skylights. “What I’d really like is to have my own hair salon, but he doesn’t want me dealing with the public.”

  “Has Ariel been any help in getting into the art scene?”

  “Not really. She’s dragged me along to a few parties, but I always feel like they’re laughing at me. I don’t know why it has to be so difficult; I see ridiculous things selling like hotcakes. This Schnabel guy glues pieces of his dinner plates to canvas, and he’s considered a genius. Let’s get lunch,” she said, her expression brightening. “There’s a great macrobiotic place on First.”

  We hit the street and walked to a cubbyhole of a restaurant. A sullen waitress poured us green tea without speaking and put an ashtray in front of Suzanne, who lit another cig. “I usually get the brown rice and steamed vegetables,” she said.

  “I’ll have that too.” The waitress went behind a beaded curtain and started shouting at someone in the kitchen to wake up.

  “I admire you for working so hard at your job,” Suzanne said. “Aside from the painting, I haven’t done much since I’ve been with Mark.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  “Six years. We met when I was a stylist in a salon in London. I did his hair, and one thing led to another.”

  The waitress plunked down two steaming bowls.

  “I feel so much better since I went macrobiotic. I’m very careful what I put into my body,” Suzanne said, stubbing out her cigarette. “I’d like Mark to go all-natural, but so far no dice. He says Jack would give him too hard a time. They like to tweak each other, as you may have noticed.”

  “They do seem close.” I took a bite of undercooked brown rice.

  “They’re like brothers, and Sammy takes everything up a notch. They egg each other on, which can be funny, but sometimes it gets tiresome.” She put down her fork, having eaten only a few mouthfuls, and lit up again.

  “Does Patrick hang out with them much?” I asked, since she hadn’t mentioned him.

  “Oh, Patrick is a special case altogether. He’s been in his own world the past couple of years. The blow-me bubble, Jack calls it. But Jack doesn’t let him get away with it. Mark and Sammy are intimidated by him, but Jack just lets it fly. Plus,” Suzanne added, “they have their little four-way competition going.”

  “They compete musically?” I asked.

  “Musically, socially, every way you can think of. Who has the best clothes. Who can hold the most liquor without getting squiffy. Arguing over who writes the best lyrics. Going after the same girl to see who wins. Once Mark and Sammy went out with a dancer on alternating nights for a month, before she broke it off with them both. That was before he met me,” she clarified. “But I don’t see why they need the one-upmanship. Actually,” she leaned toward me, “I think fucking the same girl is the closest they can get to fucking each other, without really doing it.” She winked.

  Now that’s a disturbing thought.

  “I have another theory,” she added in a low voice. “This one goes a bit deeper. From what Mark has said, none of them could get anywhere with women before they hit it big. Deep down, they still feel like those gawky guys who couldn’t make it with a girl. So anyone who’d pursue them must not be worth it, right? Like any club that would want me, I don’t want to join.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said, spearing a tiny hooded mushroom.

  “But if the girl has been with Patrick, then she really must be desirable because he wanted her, and he’s one of the top rock stars in the world. So that makes it okay for Jack or Mark to want her. Or even Sammy, if he’s feeling particularly lucky. And the same for Patrick; if a girl has been with Jack, then it validates him wanting her. Makes it even better in fact, because he’s so jealous of Jack. Then he’s one up on him.”

  “That’s quite a theory you’ve worked out. I can see how it makes sense.”

  Suzanne shrugged. “You get to know a lot about human nature when you’re doing hair.”

  I wondered if Jack had competed for a woman with Mark or Patrick in the past. If he had, obviously it could happen again. “Jack and I seem to be getting a little closer, but sometimes it feels like one step forward and two steps back.”

  “Jack can be a bit … elusive,” Suzanne said enigmatically. “I should tell him to bring you to L.A. with us; it gets tiring being around Patrick’s chippies. And you seem to be a steadying influence on Jack. Which hopefully will rub off on Mark.” She smiled.

  I’d love to go, but I don’t exactly have an invitation. I thought about her “steadying” comment. “I’ll bet it can be difficult being with a musician. Especially at their level.”

  “The star thing can get a little old. I’m not knocking the money or lifestyle; I’m definitely spoiled. But having to be on the alert all the time for other women prowling around—that wears me out.” She frowned and signaled for the check. “And they’re so wrapped up in their own world when they’re making a new album, sometimes you feel like second fiddle. Or third or fourth.”

  “It sounds like it’s smart to stay as independent as possible.”

  Suzanne sighed. “That’s easier said than done. I’ll be glad when this record is finished; they’ve been living and breathing it for months, and now they’re getting ready for a couple of con
certs they’ve decided to do while they’re in L.A. You haven’t been to see them rehearse yet, have you?”

  “No, but I’d like to. I didn’t know anyone outside the band could watch.”

  “I’ll tell Jack to bring you along one night.”

  I got some money out of my bag, but Suzanne waved it away. “Oh no, my treat. We’ll have to do this again soon,” she said before we parted.

  At six-thirty the phone rang and a twangy guitar chord resonated in the receiver. “Hello?” I said. Another chord, a little higher, then it dropped way down low and repeated for a few beats. “Could you tell what I was saying?” Jack came on the line.

  “Um … you’re almost done there?”

  “I’m desiccated, I’m pixilated, I’m frustrated, I’m about to bust open, I’m so full of what I got to give you,” Jack said in his black blues voice. “I’m gonna pass out if I don’t get me some soon. I’ma boil your cabbage when I get home, baby.”

  “My cabbage can’t wait,” I said, laughing. “But I did get a lot done today. And I’m much more knowledgeable about the conflict in Korea.”

  “We have to work on your sex talk,” Jack said in a normal tone. “Ko-rea just ain’t doin’ it for me.”

  “Sorry, but that’s what I’ve been up to. Should I meet you at your place?”

  “I’ll see you there. You can assist me in the shower.”

  “Now I feel a lot better.” Jack sat on the edge of the mattress and toweled off his hair. It stood up straight from his head, pointing in all directions.

  “Hold on, I’ll dry it for you.” I went into the bathroom, where water was still trickling slowly down the drain. I picked up the sopping wet towels from the shower floor, wrung them out and hung them up, then got the blow drier. I plugged it in by the bed and stood in front of Jack, lifting strands of his damp mane and drying it piece by piece. He put his arms around me, eyes closed, his face resting against my bare chest.

  “Mmm, you’re putting me to sleep,” he mumbled into my breast.

  I wish we could just curl up together, stay in and skip the party. “Do you want to rest for a while? You must be tired.” Five hours of playing the guitar, sandwiched between what we’d been doing, surely must have taken a toll.

  “Nah, let’s go to this thing; you’ve been stuck inside most of the day,” Jack said. “I want to get out too. Thanks for the blowjob. I mean the blow-dry. Actually both,” he added with a grin.

  “You’re welcome.” He’d showed me a new technique in the shower that he definitely seemed to enjoy. “I guess we’d better get dressed if we’re going.”

  “Why don’t you pick something out for me to wear?”

  “Okay,” I said, going over to the closet. “If I don’t come back in an hour, be sure to come find me.”

  “It’s not that bad, is it?” Jack said, following me. “I just need to hang some of this shit up.”

  The tangle of clothing looked even worse than before. The laundry baskets were full to overflowing, surrounded by piles of shirts, pants, ladies’ items … I spied the blonde wig laying on the shelf next to a top hat.

  “I’ve got to let Carla in here to do the washing,” Jack said. “She ruined a couple of my suede jackets throwing them in the machine, and ever since I’ve told her to just leave it.”

  “How about these?” I plucked a pair of pants from the floor. “With this shirt?” I indicated one of the few on a hanger.

  “Good choice.” The phone rang, stopped, and rang again. Jack went to rumble into the receiver. “Really, he won’t go to back to sleep? All right, put him on.”

  I listened, curious about who it was.

  “Hello Oliver,” Jack said. “Your Mum tells me you got up in the middle of the night. You don’t have a tummy ache, do you?”

  For a minute he was silent. “I’ve had bad dreams too. They seem real, but they’re not.” He paused. “Sure, here goes. But promise me you’ll go back to bed after this.”

  He waited for an answer, then crooned into the phone: “When Ollybear played, he played very hard; when Ollydog ate, he ate very much. When Ollyfish splashed, he splashed very big; when Ollycat bathed, he bathed very clean. When Ollyowl flew, he flew very high. When Ollymouse slept, he slept very soft …” He repeated the phrases several times, eventually drifting into a barely audible whisper.

  “No trouble at all,” he said in his regular voice. “Yeah, I’m going out with Julia tonight. Sure, she’s wild for me,” he added loudly, for my benefit. “Yeah, she’s here now … I won’t … I will. Okay, love ya.”

  Jack hung up and came into the bedroom, smiling. “Oliver had a bad dream and wouldn’t go back to sleep ‘til I sang him his bedtime number. I usually tuck him in when I’m there.”

  “Were you always into kids?” I asked.

  “Nah, just lately. It was having my own nephew that did it. And Emma’s getting to be fun too, now that she’s bigger. She was more of a mama’s girl before.” Jack regarded me. “How about you, have you ever dealt with children much?”

  I shook my head. “Never even babysat.”

  The phone rang again. “Yeah, we’re ready. We’ll see you there.” He hung up. “That was Sammy. They’re heading out now.”

  We went down to the car, and in a few minutes Rick stopped at the club on White Street. The photographers were out in force, and this time Jack had sunglasses for both of us. We started making our way through the phalanx of popping lights.

  “Jack, Jack!”

  “Jack, this way!”

  We were almost to the door when a pudgy man stuck his camera in my face and blinded me with his flash. “Another new ladyfriend, Jack? I thought you preferred blondes.”

  Like a shot, Jack was on the guy. He pushed him into the wall. “Want me to rearrange your face, you cunt?”

  The man exploded his flash in Jack’s eyes. “Go on and hit me! I’ll see you in court!”

  Jack drew back his fist. “I’ll kick seven shades of shit out of you!”

  I snatched at his sleeve. “Jack! Let’s go inside.”

  Jack glared at the man for a moment longer, then shoved him away hard. He took my arm and pulled me toward the entrance. Inside the music was so loud, the floor was shaking with the bass. Has Jack brought his blondes to this club? Of course he has, since the photographers know his preferences.

  “Your party’s on the fourth level,” said a woman with a shaved head and studded collar.

  We pushed through the churning mass of spiked and tattooed punks, Jack with his shades still on. Upstairs, the wall bore a mural by Keith Haring, an artist whose work I’d seen around the East Village. The crowd was less cutting-edge than the one below; slick-looking women in black leather—many of them blonde—lounged on couches, while others shouted over the noise. Several people made a beeline for Jack right away. He spoke to them and I nodded, but didn’t catch their names. I was still vexed by the photographer’s comment. It was starting to ruin my mood, so I forced myself to push the thoughts away.

  A woman with a roundish figure and shoulder-length brown hair approached. “Julia, this is Mary Jo,” Jack said, gesturing between us.

  “Good to meet you,” Mary Jo said, scrutinizing me with piercing hazel eyes. “Did you get your PR done this afternoon?” she asked Jack.

  “Yeah, it went fine. Patrick did most of the talking.”

  “As usual,” she observed. “Speaking of which, a new TV channel is starting on August first, called MTV or some such. They wanted to know if you guys would do an interview. No telling how big an audience they’re going to get, so it might not be worth your time.”

  “Up to Patrick,” Jack said. He asked what we wanted, then went to find the bar. Mary Jo looked at me. “Jack has mentioned you a few times. Maybe you and I could go out for a drink.”

  I had the distinct impression she wasn’t too pleased with whatever he’d said. “How about Tuesday; six-thirty at Fanelli’s?” She nodded. I wondered why she wanted to see me without Jack around. I h
oped I’d pass the audition, but somehow I doubted it.

  Jack sailed back to us pinching two plastic cups in each hand, Sammy and Vicky in tow. I embraced Vicky, happy to see a friendly face. Jack handed Mary Jo and me our drinks, belted down a whiskey, put his empty beneath the second cup and sipped it. Mary Jo left to talk to someone else.

  “I like this music.” Vicky twisted her hips to Bad Brains. “What do you think of it, Jack?”

  Jack eyed her. “I figure we survived disco; we’ll survive punk too.”

  “Let’s go shake our tail feathers,” Sammy said, and they went to where the dancing was.

  “So here you two lovebirds are.” Mark’s hair was back to its normal color with only a few splotches of green on the ends, which made his beak of a nose even more pronounced. Suzanne’s leopard-print dress accentuated her angular frame.

  “That was fun today,” she said to me. “Jack, you haven’t invited Julia to the studio yet. She’d like to see you rehearse.”

  “She’s so busy with her work, I doubt she’d have the time. Plus it’s kind of boring.”

  “Oh, I’d love it,” I said.

  “Anybody want another drink? I’m going to get a chaser.” He headed for the bar.

  We were joined by Patrick, decked out in skintight chartreuse pants that looked like they’d been sprayed on, and a tangerine-colored top that set off his azure eyes. Patrick laughed at something Mark said, and then gazed in my direction.

  “I see you have staying power,” he commented, as if I was a burr stuck to Jack’s britches. “I was reading an interesting book the other day on Nicholas and Alexandra. Is that the kind of thing your company publishes?”

  “We do a little history, but it’s mostly commercial stuff.”

  “Isn’t that the way of the world. Did you finish your Proust?”

  I was surprised he remembered. “I’m bogged down in the third volume. I just need an uninterrupted chunk of time to make a dent in it.”

  “What are you making a dent in?” Jack asked, appearing beside me with a foaming beer.