Meatloaf in Manhattan

by Robert Power

  ‘Look,’ he says, pointing his laptop at me.

  THE CONTROVERSIAL PLATFORM ‘ALTERLIFE’ HAS BEEN TERMINATED FOLLOWING THE ARREST OF ITS FOUNDER AND CEO ON CHARGES OF FRAUD AND INSIDER DEALING.

  The link to Alterlife is cut. Its world is blank. Over the next days it emerges that Brad Zakora, the Ivy League computer geek and Alterlife’s creator, had mirrored the Madoff Ponzi scheme in Alterlife’s stock exchange and transferred ill-gotten funds to his personal bank account in Dubai. In the midst of the maelstrom and financial meltdown, everyone (the record companies, the fans, the media industry) wants to know the identity of Firenze. Within hours hundreds of hopeful singer-songwriters claim ownership and prime-time TV opens its new reality audition: Finding Firenze.

  ‘It’s like the movie,’ says Snowball, leaping to his feet in our kitchen, the queues of smiling wannabes on the TV snaking around Madison Square Gardens. ‘I am Spartacus!’ he yells, with wobbly eyes like Kirk Douglas.

  ‘No, I’m Spartacus!!’ I screech in my campest Tony Curtis voice. We both laugh out loud. He knows I don’t want to get into this bunfight. We’d talked about it soon after Alterlife shut down. I’ll wait. I figure they’ll come to me once the FBI sort through the accounts and see the royalty payments. And if it doesn’t happen? Well it’s not the end of my world. I’ve got a new song humming through my head and plenty more years to create music. And I must admit that being a woman of mystery appeals to me. Yet I do miss Firenze, whoever she was, with her long blue hair and slender fingers. And I’ve become really fond of Pegasus, my mysterious admirer with the wings of an archangel. Two lovers trapped in a void somewhere, in a place I can’t see or know. Maybe they’ll find happiness together.

  John is walking a few steps behind his wife and kids in the shopping mall, deep in the grief of his secret loss.

  ‘So, peach or pearl?’ asks his wife, over her shoulder.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  She stops and looks around.

  ‘The tiles, John, the tiles,’ she snaps, the irritation clear in her voice. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  He stares at her, with no idea of what to say or do.

  With all Alterlife accounts being frozen, the cheques stop coming. So I do some sums and calculate the money we have left in the bank. I subtract next month’s rent, bills and food. It’s enough, so I type in the numbers from my credit card and buy the tickets for the round trip. Snowball is deep in some jungle landscape with Donky Kong, swinging from branch to vine, collecting coins and points. I can hear pings and zings from the computer and grunts from Snowball.

  ‘Arrruuuueee,’ he shouts, which means he’s dead.

  He slumps exhausted on the floor.

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ he says, to me, to the room, to Donky Kong. ‘Level seven, I got to level seven. Only five other people have. Ever.’

  I smile the broadest of smiles, loving the timing, loving the flow of our lives.

  ‘Ain’t that just grand,’ I say, getting down on the floor with Snowball, our noses touching. ‘Because Firenze has just bought us tickets to Italy. We’ll be in Milan by the twenty-fifth!’

  ‘You mean …’ he gasps, eyes twice as wide as normal, barely comprehending what he’s just heard. Then he hugs me near to death and I whisper into his ear.

  ‘We leave on the eighteenth. First stop Florence and the Uffizi so I can kneel before my Venus. At last, I’ll come face to face with my muse. Then, once we’ve dived into the river off the Ponte Vecchio, it’s the train to Milan and de da … the Donky Kong World Championships.’

  We roll around the floor, so happy that all we can do is laugh and laugh.

  MEATLOAF IN MANHATTAN

  Steve is my only contact in New York. One thing I need to know about Steve, said my cousin Richard, is that he’s blind. Totally blind. Has been from birth. Fine, by me, I said. Just be great to have somewhere to stay. So I double check the apartment number and ring the bell. Nothing. I ring again. Then there’s a shuffling along a corridor and a craggy voice calls out ‘Who’s it?’ from the other side of the door. ‘It’s Frank,’ I shout back. ‘Your friend Richard’s cousin … he phoned to say I’d be coming.’ Bolts are unbolted and the door swings open. There’s Steve. Eyes rolling around in his head, long straggly beard, wild hair, skinny body, bloated belly wrapped in a saggy greying vest, saggier underpants propped up by bare stick legs, gnarled feet, blackened toenails.

  ‘Come in,’ he says. ‘I thought it was next week.’

  I follow him along the passage, or rather through a maze of piled-high newspapers. A bit like the trenches in the First World War, but drier.

  ‘Braille. New York Times. I’ve collected them for thirty years. Bulkier than normal copy. But keeps the place warm in the winter.’

  ‘Be good in a fire,’ I say, not sure what I mean. I’ll put it down to jetlag.

  ‘Turn left … now,’ he says walking ahead of me, ‘and you’ll see a room with a mattress. You can sleep there.’

  I take the next left at the intersection and, true enough, it leads to a tiny room, bare save for the mattress, sheetless and dappled with human stains and peppered with cigarette burns that look like bullet holes. Maybe it was once used for an execution, stood on end in the corner of the room, the victim strapped and blindfolded, the mattress cushioning the impact of the bullets to save the plaster of the walls. Anyhow, most welcome after an eternity in Qantas cattle-class.

  ‘I’ll have a lie down,’ I say.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Steve from a room somewhere else.

  When I wake up it is getting dark. I can hear a radio playing. The sounds are those of an excited sports reporter shouting above the noise of a stadium. I need to pee. I haul myself up and try to find my way back to the maze. I can see a silhouette across the way. It’s Steve on another mattress on the floor.

  ‘Shhhh …’ he whispers. I freeze. Steve’s holding a cassette player to the radio speaker. The commentator is clearly very animated. After a moment Steve clicks the off button.

  ‘Magic. Red Sox’s home run. Sorry to shush you, but I don’t want interference with the recording. I collect baseball moments. From the radio.’

  ‘Oh …’ I say. ‘I’m busting for a piss.’

  It’s next morning. Well, it’s light, so it’s clearly daytime. I wander along another trench and there’s Steve in his usual attire, unchanged. He’s standing by a table in what must be a kitchen, shaking pills from half a dozen bottles.

  ‘Vitamins and stuff,’ he says, swallowing handfuls. ‘We can go out for breakfast if you like.’

  Outside in the street the wind is vicious and there’s ice on the pavement. Steve wears ancient jeans and a tatty trench coat, way oversized, clearly in sympathy with his underwear. He’s got a white stick, but doesn’t tap it anywhere. Just carries it under his arm.

  ‘My diner’s on the next block,’ he says. ‘Ed’s.’

  We have coffee and eggs on sourdough. Everyone knows Steve. The waiter. The chef. All the customers. ‘Hi Steve,’ they all say. ‘Hi,’ he says back. ‘This is my new friend Frank, visiting from overseas.’ And they all smile at me, nodding approval. After our third cup of coffee Steve says he’ll show me around the neighbourhood, which sounds like fun. We have a great day of it. This is his turf. He’s lived here all his life, knows every shop, tells me the family stories of all the proprietors, the scandals, the tragedies, the triumphs. We stand in front of old buildings and new ones, landmarks and statues. Though he’s never once seen a thing, he seems to know so much detail and nuance.

  ‘How do you get to know all this, Steve?’

  ‘I just listen,’ he says.

  ‘Like baseball on the radio?’

  ‘Yeah, like baseball on the radio.’

  At night-time we go to Steve’s favourite restaurant. It’s Hungarian. He recommends the roast duck in cherries. With each morsel he closes his eyes, savouring the essence. The cherries, the meat. Experiencing the moment, unimpeded by distractions. I
t sure is the best duck meal ever. Ducks and cherries, what a combo.

  ‘Do you see anything?’

  ‘Only when I smoke some good grass.’

  So next day I decide to surprise him. A kind of thank you for the mattress. Times Square is full of hustlers who whisper into the faces of passing tourists, ‘Crack, weed, speed.’ I walk up and down and then say ‘weed’ next to a skinny black guy with an Afro and a silver front tooth. He looks the least vicious and least likely to beat me up. ‘This way white boy,’ he says, hustling me to a side street. ‘How much you got?’ ‘Show me,’ I say in a tough voice. I’ve rolled up my shirt sleeve to show off the tattoo I got one drunken night in Kings Cross. I hope it makes him think I’ve been to jail. He opens a crumpled brown paper bag. Inside is some fine looking grass, flower heads and all. ‘How much you want?’ says my tough voice. ‘Fifty,’ he says. ‘Thirty.’ ‘Fifty.’ ‘Forty.’ ‘Fifty or fly.’ I give him the fifty. He pushes a bag into my back pocket. ‘Go, go, go!’ he says, implying danger. My heart races. I hurry along the street to Central Station. In a cubicle in the toilets I check my stash. Inside the bag are dried onion rings. I sit on the pan and try to work it out. But a rip-off’s a rip-off and I’ve never felt so much the redneck.

  When I get back to the apartment Steve is lying on his bed, radio to his ear, cassette recorder at the ready. ‘Big game,’ he whispers, ‘Chiefs and Rangers.’

  ‘You wanna eat?’ I say, deciding to forget the afternoon’s humiliation.

  ‘This is all the food I need,’ he says, tapping the radio. ‘Brain food. The diner’s open all hours if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Good idea … I’ll see you later. Enjoy the game.’ He is already.

  Back on the street, it’s dusky and shiveringly cold. I take a slug from the pint of Wild Turkey I’d bought as compensation for being mugged. It slips neatly into my jacket pocket. I’ve still got my wrap-around dark glasses on to perpetuate the cool look and surreal feel. I look down the road to Ed’s Diner, its neon sign flickers in the receding light. I imagine I’m Steve, close my eyes and walk forward. Within a pace or two I’m stumbling, so I cheat a bit and squint. When I get to the diner I trip up the step.

  ‘You, okay, buddy?’ says a man in the doorway.

  ‘I’m Frank, Steve’s friend.’

  ‘Let me help,’ he says, taking my arm. ‘A friend of Steve’s is always welcome here. Let me take you to a table.’ He guides me to a booth and sits me down.

  ‘Hey Charlene,’ he calls, ‘here’s Frank, a friend of Steve’s. You be sure to look after him.’

  I put my hands on the table. The way a blind man might. Feeling the surface. Checking out where the cutlery and condiments are. Charlene is standing in front of me. I tap the tabletop with my fingertips.

  ‘Oscar Peterson,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘The piano player.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Ray Charles just left.’

  Charlene is nice to the eye, even through dark glasses indoors. She is tall and slim, brownish long curly hair and a beguiling smile.

  ‘Shall I read you the menu?’

  ‘That’d be kind of you,’ I say, looking straight ahead.

  ‘Or maybe, you tell me what you’d like and I’ll tell you if we have it.’

  ‘Meatloaf?’

  ‘Sure we have meatloaf.’

  ‘With gravy?’

  ‘Always with gravy.’

  ‘Go easy on the bat.’

  ‘Bat?’

  ‘Out of hell.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell the chef. No bat.’

  ‘No bat.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please. Milk, no sugar.’

  It’s quiet in the diner. In fact, after I order, the only other customers, an elderly couple, leave. I react to the closing of the door, but don’t turn around. I’m still in character. Charlene is standing by the coffee machine chatting to the chef and folding paper napkins into neat triangles. She has a delicate touch. I keep my head still, watching her through my sunglasses, my night vision, like a spy. She turns and walks towards me. I smile in her direction as if attracted by the sound of her footsteps.

  ‘Here’s your coffee,’ she says. “I’ve put it by your right hand.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s thoughtful of you.’

  I slide my hand carefully along the shiny tabletop until I touch the mug.

  ‘You’re a friend of Steve’s, but you’re not American. I can’t place your accent.’

  ‘I live in Australia, but I was born in Ireland. Dublin. The South. Where are you from?’

  ‘Texas. San Antonio.’

  ‘The Alamo.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘John Wayne. “Truly, you must be the Son of God.”’

  She laughs. ‘You do a terrible American accent.’

  There’s a call from the kitchen. ‘On my way,’ says Charlene as she walks away, the trace of a swagger. Homecoming queen maybe. The chef slams a steaming plate on the counter. He’s a different man from the other morning. This must be the night shift. Charlene says something to him and points over to me.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouts. ‘Steve’s friend, Frank. Welcome. I’ve made you the best meatloaf in the whole US of A. I’m Ed. Not the owner, that’s another Ed. Enjoy!’

  ‘Many thanks,’ I say, waving a hand in the general direction of his voice. ‘Nice to meet you Ednottheowner. I’m Frank. But not always. Frankly, it’s hard to be honest all the time.’

  ‘You’re a funny guy, Frankly,’ says Charlene placing the plate in front of me. I reach for the condiments.

  ‘Salt and pepper,’ she says, guiding my hand forward. There’s a spark of electricity as our fingers touch. We both seem to notice.

  ‘It used be easy to tell the difference,’ I say, my fingertips exploring the shape of the cellars. ‘Pepper, circumcised. Salt, uncircumcised. Nowadays they come in all shapes and sizes. Penguins and flower girls. Normally more holes for pepper, and then sometimes they do the S and P.’

  ‘You could always pour a few grains onto your hand and lick it.’

  ‘True enough, but a bit tacky. Anyways, we’re okay here,’ I say shaking the salt gently onto my plate. ‘This boy’s not had the snip yet.’

  Charlene smiles. We seem to be getting on just fine and dandy. I eat my meatloaf in the way I’ve seen Steve eat. Using my non-visual senses. Forgetting my eyes. Through my dark glasses I see Charlene noticing my sensitivity, my sensuality.

  ‘More coffee?’ she says after I’ve finished.

  ‘No I don’t think so, thanks.’

  ‘You on your own, with Steve?’ asks Charlene.

  ‘Yeah. All alone in a strange and scary city. You on your own with Ednottheowner?’

  ‘Yes, I am Frankly. All on my lonesome,’ she says mockcoy, ‘and it can be plenty lonely for a country girl in the big smoke.’

  ‘Then maybe we could hook up together.’ I say without hesitating, seizing the moment. She sits down opposite me.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ she says, wide-eyed.

  ‘That we might both enjoy spending some time together. I could tell by the fingertip test.’

  The faintest of smiles tells me she felt it too.

  ‘We could play blindman’s buff,’ I try for size, in tune with the lightness of the conversation. Another smile.

  ‘You know, Frankly,’ she says, ‘I’ve had lots of offers from strange men in this place, but never blind man’s buff.’

  I notice she’s looking at my hands, the way women do, so different to men. I stretch out my fingers.

  ‘Can I hold your hand?’

  She looks around. All the tables are empty and Ednottheowner is in the kitchen, out of sight. She places her palm on mine.

  ‘You have lovely soft skin,’ I say, gently caressing her fingers, one by one. Our fingertips touch and the same little spark of electricity passes between us.

  ‘Two,’ she says, ‘I get off work at two in the morning. W
e could go for a walk. I love walking late at night.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you, blindfold at the ready. What’s the time now?’

  ‘About a quarter after ten,’ she says, without needing to look at her watch.

  ‘Then maybe I’ll find a bar to while away the hours before you get off work.’

  ‘There’s one right along the road.’

  ‘How about you point me in the right direction,’ I say, getting up and maneuvering to the door. ‘Here’s ten bucks, is that okay?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she says, taking me gently by the arm.

  It’s freezing outside. ‘Stay warm, this isn’t Bondi,’ she says, leaning forward, turning up the collar of my coat. ‘The bar’s at the next block. There are people outside. You’ll hear them.’

  ‘How far?’

  About a hundred yards. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Sure, I can smell whisky at half a mile.’

  ‘Don’t drink too much.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Can I kiss you?’

  She pauses a second, weighing up the moment. Then she touches my face and moves her cheek so close to my lips I can smell her skin. ‘A little peck,’ she whispers, ‘just here.’

  The joint is full of students, what with Columbia being so close by. I sit at the bar, dark glasses folded away in my pocket, sucking on a Budweiser, taking swigs from the bottle of Wild Turkey when no one’s looking. Next to me are three young students, two men and a woman, arguing loudly.

  ‘Ask him,’ says one, ‘go on ask him.’

  ‘Excuse me sir,’ says the woman, ‘but would you mind helping us out?’

  ‘No leading questions,’ shouts one of the men.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she says, holding up her hands. Long thin fingers, blood-red nail varnish.

  ‘Louis Armstrong, like Louis the fourteenth, or Louis Armstrong like Norman Lewis?’

  ‘Who’s Norman Lewis?’ I ask.

  ‘He wrote books on the history of the Sicilian Mafia. But that’s not the issue. Do you get the question?’

  ‘Like Louis the fourteenth, but with all his toes and no horse’s head in the bed.’

  ‘Very good, and kinda funny,’ she says, ‘and I like your accent.’