Season of the Witch

by James Leo Herlihy

  “Voilà!” he said. “Presenting! Witch Gliz! Ta-taaaaaa!” Suddenly I saw this glorious movie star and I knew she was me.

  “Now preen yourself, Miss Gliz,” he said. “Glide about under the lights. Drink in the glory that is you! Suffocate, my dear, under the sheer impact of your own incomparable beauty!”

  And that’s exactly what I did. I saw myself from a dozen different angles, under every kind of lighting, and I was simply breathtaking. I don’t know what he’d done to my face. But it worked. It may not have been me in these mirrors, but whoever the chick was, she was a star!

  At the last mirror Edward said, “And the winner is Witch Gliz! For her performance in the Edward Atelier production of A Star Is Born!” He handed me a little gold statuette. It was an Oscar. I clutched it to my bosom, and for the first time all afternoon, I knew what to say. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Academy,” I said, addressing faceless thousands in the dark. “My entire career would be nothing—if it hadn’t been for a humble little man named Edward who happens to be the world’s greatest cosmetician. Thank you.” Then I sobbed and ran through the lights to the other side of the screen.

  I must have really gotten into the part, because I was all flushed with excitement and had to lie down on the couch and catch my breath. Edward came in and stood looking at me with adoration. He was perspiring and there was almost a kind of pleading in his voice when he said, “Witch, is it fun? Are you having fun?”

  If it hadn’t been fun, I would have lied to him. Because he looked so dear and anxious to please. All I said was yes. He could see the rest in my face.

  “Now let’s go outside and show off,” he said. We had one more toke apiece from the pipe and then went floating down the stairs and into the streets.

  We ran, we skipped, we pranced, we took bows, we caused perfect strangers to smile, we made a personal appearance before God and all the angels at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. We picked flowers at Rockefeller Center. Edward hired a winged chariot, and we flew down Fifth Avenue, soared high above adoring crowds, in and out of busy little skyways, between skyscrapers. We tossed flowers to children and nuns and peace signs to everyone we passed.

  Edward held my hand in the taxi and put his arm around me. “You’re more fun to be with than any girl I’ve known. Have you had fun being with me?” And then instead of talking on and on as usual, he waited for me to answer, and I realized he actually wanted to know whether or not I was enjoying myself. I could hardly believe it wasn’t obvious to him, but it wasn’t. So I told him that even though I’d had miraculous things happen to me since I’d arrived in New York, nothing had been more fun than this afternoon with him.

  “Really and truly?” he said.

  “Really and truly.”

  He seemed terribly happy, as if I’d given him an Oscar. So I thought I’d lay on a little more for him. I said, “You’re a wonderful man, Edward.”

  “Am I?” he said, and then he looked out the window in a way that looked as if he were very seriously thinking about what I’d said.

  I spoke to his profile and his wild Adam’s apple.

  “You really are. I’ve never met anyone before who tried so hard to make somebody happy. The only thing I wonder about is how you can squander your genius on something like cosmetics.” He thought for a minute before he answered. Then, “Two reasons,” he said. “One, I really do think it’s a good way to turn on people who might not otherwise get the opportunity. And two, I’m a silly fucked-up shit who doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.” The more I heard Edward talk the more I respected him.

  The last part of the taxi ride was quiet, and for the first time I had a chance to think about Edward without having to watch him perform and respond to his talk. I had a chance to realize he didn’t honestly think much of himself. In his own eyes he was just a fag who was putting something over on the world. At times like this I wish I didn’t have such insight into people, because it made me a little sad. I decided to spend the rest of the evening finding ways to make him happy. Since he was homosexual, I didn’t even consider seducing him, but I was determined to do everything a woman can to make a man pleased about himself.

  The taxi took us to Kip’s Bay, where Edward has an apartment. A boy Edward knew got on the elevator with us. Edward introduced me as his sister from Detroit. The boy got out before we did, and Edward turned to me and said, “Was that okay? You don’t mind being my sister?”

  I said, “No, I love it.”

  “Can I tell everyone you really are my real blood sister?”

  “Well, you could,” I said. “But the truth is even more exciting, isn’t it? That we just suddenly met and loved one another?”

  “Oh, you’re right! You’re absolutely right! It’s infinitely more exciting! I used to want a blood sister, but now I don’t. All I want is you.” The elevator stopped at the 14th floor and we got out. As we walked down the hall, he said, “Did you really mean that though? That we suddenly met and loved one another? I know I love you, but do you love me, too? Really really really love me?”

  We’d arrived at his door. He had the key in the lock. “Do you?”

  I looked at him and smiled and nodded real hard.

  “And you don’t want me to go to bed with you or anything?”

  I shook my head and kept smiling. “No. I just love you, that’s all. No hangups.”

  Edward’s pad has hot pink walls, Oriental carpets, and a cushion on the floor the size of a double bed. One wall is entirely glass and it looks out on the East River. The only furniture in the entire room is this enormous paisley cushion and a big round brass cocktail table near the window. The minute we got inside the door, Edward started taking his clothes off. “I always run around naked, do you mind?”

  I said, “No, of course not. Can I?”

  “Paradise!”

  So we got out of our clothes and admired each other’s bodies for a minute. Edward piled some records on the stereo and then he said, “Watch!” and took off like a bird, leaping across the room and landing on his belly on this giant cushion near the brass table. I oh’d and ah’d and applauded and sat next to him, and he said, “Now it’s time to stoke our heads, don’t you think?” And he went to work loading a pipe with grass.

  The table had all sorts of interesting things on it: incense burners and exotic little boxes and pipes for smoking every kind of dope imaginable. Real flowers, too, red roses. And candles of all sizes and shapes. We lit them all, and a dozen sticks of amber incense, too. Then Edward got some goodies from the refrigerator—cheese and chicken and Sara Lee banana cake and Coca-Cola. We had everything we could possibly want, and I began to feel my crazy anxiety again. Everything was too perfect. The view from his window was just too staggering. There were thousands of tiny lights from skyscrapers all over town, but it was still twilight and you could see the sky, a clear starry blue. Obviously it was all real. It wasn’t a stage set or anything, but still it seemed unreal. And that was how Edward suddenly seemed to me, with his craggy, tense face and his splendid physique. He was just too high. And so was his apartment. It was too thrillingly comfortable, too breathtakingly beautiful. Everything about him was too much. Too much in wonderful ways, but still too much.

  I thought about the rickety old tumbledown home Roy and I had found on Canal Street and about everyone sitting at the table, probably at that exact moment, eating Sally’s meal. Or maybe holding hands in thanksgiving, Zapping each other and the whole world with love.

  Edward picked up on my mood and it made him anxious.

  “Are you all right?” he said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We forgot to Zap the meal.” I told him about the custom on Canal Street and he was all for it. So we sat there cross-legged facing each other, holding each other’s hands.

  “What should I do?” he said. “Should I pray or something? Because I’m not sure I believe in God actually. It’s not that I don’t. But I haven’t really gotten into religion yet.”


  “I don’t know if I believe in God or not either,” I said. “But I believe in something. Because otherwise, how could we be so beautiful?”

  “That’s true, Witch. There must be something even more fabulous than we are—to think the whole thing up!”

  “That’s just what my guru says.”

  “You have a guru?”

  “Yes. He’s also my best friend. His name is Roy. He’s nineteen, he’s gay, and he knows all about God.”

  “Fantastic!”

  “He really is.”

  “Will I get to meet him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is he sexy?”

  “Terribly. But it depends what turns you on.”

  “Am I sexy?”

  “Definitely.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Witch, may I touch your breast?”

  “Of course.”

  He did, and it sent a shock all through me.

  “I guess you better stop.”

  “Why? Did I excite you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God! I’m excited, too. This has never happened to me before, Witch.”

  “Really?”

  “Never with a woman. I don’t even know what to do!”

  “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “But shouldn’t we make love or something?”

  “Only if we want to.”

  “I do, Witch. I want to. Do you?”

  “I think it’d be beautiful to make love with you.”

  “But I don’t know how and I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me.”

  “How could I laugh? I don’t know how either.”

  “You mean you’ve never?” he said.

  “Oh, I’ve made love lots of times. But it’s always different. I mean there isn’t any special way. You just enjoy the person, in whatever ways you can both dig.”

  “But what if I don’t satisfy you?”

  “Well, that’s the breaks! Maybe I won’t satisfy you either, but I’m not going to worry about it.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point? To satisfy each other?”

  “No,” I said, “the whole point is to love each other. Isn’t that how it happens with another boy?”

  “I guess. But then, I don’t know really. Because I’m always so interested in being terrific that—”

  “Edward, nobody’s terrific all the time with everybody! Are they?”

  “But I feel like I’ve just got to be. Don’t you see?”

  “Wow, isn’t that an awful drag?”

  “Look! I’m not excited now.”

  “Neither am II”

  “You’re not?”

  “No! Should I be?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Can I finish your drumstick?”

  He didn’t answer, so I started eating it anyway.

  “Goddamnit,” he said, “I shouldn’t have talked so much!”

  “Why?”

  “Because now we’re not making love.”

  “That’s cool. I mean, after all, we had things to talk about, didn’t we? Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No. I’m depressed.”

  “Have another toke.”

  “Fantastic idea.”

  While he was holding the smoke in his lungs, he said, “Are you disappointed, Witch?”

  “You mean because we’re not making love?”

  He nodded.

  “Edward, I didn’t come up here for that. I came here to be with you.”

  He let out the smoke and said, “You know, Witch, you’re saying all the right things.”

  Suddenly I felt caught. Because he was right. I had been trying to say all the right things. I wanted to please him. I wanted to be the first woman he’d ever made love with and leave him feeling manly and terrific about himself. Then I thought, My God, he’s impossible! What does he want me to do, say all the wrong things? So I put down the chicken bone, all set to tell him how difficult I thought he was being, when he took my hand, the one that had held the chicken, and started licking my fingers. He was really enjoying himself, too. So was I. Just then a new record plopped down on the turntable, and the Stones started singing: “‘She’s like a rainbow, she comes in colors everywhere.’” And he made love to me. Terrifically.

  I just know I could write some rich pornography right now. I could describe everything that happened between us, and sell it and make pots of money. The plot would be about these two people who both have overwhelming urges to be terrific in bed, and what happens when they get together. They both try so hard to please that they succeed!

  And they’re left feeling empty. At least the woman is. She doesn’t feel empty because of what happened between them but because of what happens right after.

  The man falls asleep on this enormous cushion. The woman lights a cigarette and sits cross-legged behind him with one hand resting on his hip. She sits there thinking the whole thing over a hundred times, what splendid angelic animals they both are, and how great they’d been for each other. She’s always been eager to prove to herself how sexy she is. Up to now, she suspected herself of being a bit of a phony. But here’s this man who had never made love with a woman before, and he’s lying next to her now, asleep, happy, and exhausted. She’s not only shared a miraculous and special experience with him, she’s also presented him with proof that he can please a woman.

  She goes to the mirror in the bedroom so she can have a look at this remarkable chick, and while she’s standing there savoring the full impact of her wondrous self, someone else appears in the mirror. It’s not the man. It’s someone else. Another man. He waves at her, says, “Hi, there.” The woman hides her breasts and screams like some stupid little virgin.

  The man says, “It’s all right, I won’t peek. I just want to change clothes.” He goes to the closet and starts taking off his shirt. The woman sees her clothes on the bed. She grabs them and runs into the bathroom. Apparently without realizing it, she’s been apologizing all over the place. Because the man comes to the door and talks through it while she dresses.

  “No reason to be uptight,” he says. “We’re always going around naked. Please don’t be upset. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  When she comes out of the bathroom dressed, she feels better. The man’s wearing dungarees now and a Levi jacket painted all over with Day-Glow designs. He starts hanging strings of beads around his neck. He turns to her, says, “I’m a plastic hippie,” and grins. Then he reaches into a drawer and comes out with a longhair wig and puts it on.

  The woman says, “I guess you two are roommates.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “but there’s no problem. We both make it with chicks, too.”

  The woman doesn’t get the full import of this all at once. But slowly it dawns on her. She can’t believe she’s heard correctly. She draws him carefully into telling her more about their arrangement. They’ve been lovers, but it’s a completely open situation. Actually, they prefer women.

  “Does he prefer women, too,” she asks.

  “He adores them. Let’s see what he’s done to your eyes.” He studies her painted face. “Beautiful! He never repeats himself.”

  “You mean,” she says carefully, “he paints each of his chicks differently?”

  “Mm. Isn’t he fantastic?”

  “Yes. He really is, really fantastic.”

  “Have you seen a couple of Fillmore East tickets anywhere? Oh! I know where they are!”

  He finds the tickets in an old coat pocket and leaves the apartment.

  The woman is left with her sleeping lover, but she feels entirely alone. She looks out the big window. The sky is black now but there are millions of lighted windows.

  A sleepy voice behind her says, “How come you’re all dressed?”

  She doesn’t look at him. “I thought I’d better go now,” she says.

  “Will I ever see you agai
n?”

  She thinks for a minute. “Probably not,” she says.

  After a long silence the man says, “Okay, I understand. I’m the same way you are. Once usually does it.”

  The woman thinks she’d better get out of this place pretty fast. But she takes a few seconds to kiss him on the cheek and tell him he’s a magnificent lover.

  When she gets to the door, he jumps up to open it for her. They smile at one another. She walks down the hall and while she’s waiting for the elevator, he steps out into the hall, still naked and splendid, and calls to her. “Don’t forget you’re a star,” he says.

  “Oh, I won’t!” she says. “Not ever.”

  In the movie version, the elevator should arrive at that exact second. But in real life she has to wait quite a while for it. However, this dame is her mother’s daughter, i.e., a colossal phony. She’s able to fill in with small talk and cigarette lighting.

  SHE: Hey, mister, your fly’s open.

  HE: (Laughs and laughs. Funniest joke ever.) Oh, that undid me utterly! Please, marry me tonight! I’d give my soul to have such wit in my life.

  SHE: Sucker! It wasn’t even original.

  HE: Screw originality. It’s timing that matters.

  SHE: Go inside, you’ll get busted for lewd vag.

  HE: Listen, I can use the publicity already!

  SHE: Blah blah blah.

  HE: Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

  SHE: Blah blah blah blah.

  HE: Blah blah blah.

  SHE: Blah!!!

  Coming down on the elevator, I saw a little electronic eye that seemed to be and probably wasn’t a television camera. Anyway, I tripped out briefly, imagining myself on TV being watched on a home screen by some elderly man. He’s in his bed watching the Witch Gloria Show with great fascination. It’s in black and white and he’s been watching all day long. Now he sees me on the elevator leaving my lover’s apartment. He’s a nice man, straight, oldish, like forty maybe, no hair left on top, a hurt, disappointed-looking cat, not bitter but a little sad. And he turns to his wife, who isn’t even listening—she fell asleep, but he hasn’t noticed yet—he turns to his sleeping wife and says, “This girl doesn’t seem to be having much fun after all, does she?” And he switches channels. They’re doing “The Star Spangled Banner” on this one, so he knows they’re about to sign off. This makes him feel a little desperate, because he’s not even sleepy yet.