by Lisa Gitlin
Cherry laughed, and her laugh was still loud, but Judge Holmes must have had a civilizing effect on her because it no longer sounded like a trumpet.
“My friendship with Louise has evolved,” Cherry said.
“Was she gay this whole time?” I asked, bouncing in my seat like a kid. “Was she gay when I saw her in court?”
“She was, but she wasn’t out,” Cherry said.
“But she’s out now?”
“Yes, Joanna, she’s out now!” Cherry was being patient with me. I wondered if the judge knew about our wild sex that day, but I didn’t ask.
“Are you girls in love?” I said.
Cherry’s face lit up like a meteor shower. “Oh, honey, we are so in love,” she said. Then she whispered, but her whisper was like someone else’s normal voice. “It’s very physical!” she said. “We had to drag ourselves out of bed today so Louise could get to court. She’s working only part-time, so we just lie in bed all day and fuck!” She laughed. I was so preoccupied by this image that I couldn’t concentrate on my tattoo. I tried to re-focus. “All right, now that you know about my love life, I want to know about yours,” Cherry said.
I told her that Terri had broken my heart and Dee and Terri had broken up and I had this perfect revenge date with Dee and I was totally depressed. “I think I may be mentally ill,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” Cherry said. “You’re just confused. What about that gal you were talking to at my potluck? The cute dykey one with the nice butt? I noticed something going on there, much to my chagrin.”
I smiled. “You’re talking about Kimba,” I said. “I think she’s pissed at me or something.”
“Why is she pissed at you or something?”
“Well, we went out on New Year’s Eve and we spent the night and made out in bed and stuff, but we’re just friends, Cherry, except, you know, I am attracted to her, but …”
“You’re attracted to her, but you’re just friends?” Cherry yelled. “How attracted to her are you, Joanna?”
“Well, it’s not like Terri,” I said.
“Honey, Terri was your first love! That’s a whole different thing! It’s like the first time you go to the toilet yourself!” I looked uneasily toward the inking room, but the guy didn’t came out and tell her she was ruining his concentration, and she continued roaring at me. “The first time you go to the bathroom instead of in your diaper, it’s a watershed moment, if you’ll excuse my choice of words. But after that first time,” she continued over my laughter, “you just do it!”
“How can you compare taking a piss to falling in love?” I said.
“They’re both natural physical functions!” Cherry said. “Stop glamorizing falling in love, Joanna! It’s just something nature dreamed up to perpetuate the species, and gay people were just created to keep the population under control.” Before I had a chance to consider this intriguing theory, Cherry said, “So why did you say Kimba was angry? Or didn’t you say?”
“I don’t know if she is. But she’s been acting funny ever since I told her that Terri called and said she and Dee were breaking up. She hasn’t called me or wanted to get together very much. But I don’t really think it has anything to do with that. Kimba and I are just friends! I don’t even know why we’re talking about this, to tell you the truth.”
“Oh, Joanna, stop being such a child,” Cherry said. “Of course Kimba was upset when you told her Terri called. And why do you think you’re depressed after going out with Dee? Because, lady, you don’t love Dee. I don’t even think you love Terri anymore. You love Kimba! Girlfriend, you’ve got to stop making such a big deal out of love! Love comes and it goes. I fell in and out of love with you in about two seconds!” Before I had a chance to feel insulted, the door to the inner sanctum opened. “I think he’s ready for you,” Cherry said.
Cherry cheered me on while a huge, tattoo-slathered man named “Ranger” inked my eagle on my upper arm. It does hurt to get a tattoo, but it’s better than a bellyache, which is what Kimba accused me of having after my “Live Free or Die” tattoo wore off. “Quit moaning and groaning and get a tattoo already,” she said. But she wouldn’t go with me because she’s seen loud, brawling, ink-slathered men in blue collar bars her whole life and tattoos do not impress her.
I walked Cherry to the Metro. Before she got on the escalator, she said, “Remember, Joanna. Love is as natural as peeing. Don’t hold it back, or you’ll wet your pants.”
A woman in her sixties getting onto the escalator said, “We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” I didn’t know if she was annoyed or amused by Cherry’s pee talk, but it was pretty funny.
Cherry and I kissed goodbye and I said she was the perfect person to be present for the creation of my first tattoo. “Good luck with Louise,” I said, as Cherry stepped onto the escalator. “I hope it lasts a hundred years and a day!”
Cherry looked back over her shoulder, and her face glowed in the chilly air. “Honey, if it lasts another five minutes it will have been worth it!” she called. And she kept on riding, her back erect in her purple wool coat.
The potluck group met at Dee’s house again, and it was horrible.
Everyone was there, and Dee looked lovely as usual, and she had her punch fountain plugged in and the Vodka punch flowed. My tattoo was covered, but I pulled up my sleeve and showed it off and the girls oohed and aahed. Bette was there with a new girlfriend, a handsome butch with a strong build, a short haircut, and a toothy smile, and my friend was in full form to impress her sweetie, waxing eloquent about everything from the mating habits of eels to the history of underarm deodorant. Dee paid special attention to me, putting her hand on my shoulder and refreshing my drinks, and she pepped up the party with a story about her problems with the bitchy supervisor of one of her group homes.
The problem was Kimba. She wasn’t paying any attention to me and, in fact, was acting kind of mean. She was strutting around, not behaving with her customary understated charm but more like a barnyard rooster, and I have to admit she looked very cute with her surfer boy hair and this silky blue shirt with some cuff links that I bought her during one of our shopping expeditions, and she had on some new jeans and new loafers and I don’t even know why I noticed everything she had on, frankly, because I doubt that she noticed that I was there. Well, she did, because she blandly said that my tattoo was “nice,” and then she told me to stop hogging the chips and she put me down when I said Dee’s group house kids should organize a rebellion, saying, “Are you going to lead it?” I didn’t appreciate her making fun of me. I didn’t mean what I said literally; I was just expressing anger over the cruel inadequacies of “the system.” I’ve always had a lot of respect for Kimba’s intelligence. Not only is she one of the wittiest people I know, but she’s an excellent problem-solver. She can solve any puzzle, build furniture from raw wood, install a toilet, and write impeccably (she’s shown me a couple of her NASA reports and they are lucid and well-organized and not even bureaucratic-sounding). Her photography has won contests. I know all I can do is write, but she doesn’t have to make me feel like an idiot when I open my mouth. I don’t do that to her.
This is my problem lately. I focus on the negative. I never thought I had a negative attitude. With me, the glass was always half full. That’s why I stuck with Terri for so long. If Kimba wants to be like that, so what? I can’t expect my friends to be perfect. But instead of ignoring Kimba’s behavior I let it bug the shit out of me while not enjoying Bette’s joy over her girlfriend and Dee’s sweet attentions and the vodka punch and the delicious homemade dishes and Dee’s sandwich fixings with REAL mayonnaise—I’m talking about Hellman’s, which is the only acceptable kind to a Jewish girl, and you know what? That’s one thing that Kimba doesn’t do right. She buys this ridiculous mayonnaise, I don’t even remember the kind. It’s some sort of off-brand shit and when I saw it in her refrigerator I screamed. She imitates me screaming, and in fact goes into this whole “Joanna” routine of my eject
ing the mayonnaise from the fridge and trying to dump it in the trash, and I have to admit it’s hilarious. That’s another thing she does. She’s a brilliant mimic. I’m a terrible mimic. I’m funny, but I’m not a good mimic.
Why am I going on and on about Kimba? Why did I let her get to me like that? I even left the potluck early, while the party was in full swing, and I walked home and those awful new tenants, the two thugs and their crackhead girlfriend, were standing in the hall when I went upstairs and I said, “Hey, kids, how ya doin’?” just to connect with somebody, and they looked at me as though I was a cop and one of them grunted. That happened just an hour ago and I’m thinking of tossing a Molotov cocktail in their room.
Maybe I’ll call Kimba and leave a message on her answering machine. But I hate her. What am I going to say? “I hate you?” That wouldn’t make me feel any better. Maybe I’ll ask her if she wants to go to American City Diner for a hamburger tomorrow. I’m dying to tell her about Cherry Hill and the judge. But what if she won’t go? What if she doesn’t even call back?
I’ll just sit here and hate myself. I can’t think of anything else to do right now, except maybe go to the Reeves building and sit on the sidewalk eating a Subway sandwich. But Judge Holmes is not bothering much with her magisterial duties these days, and I would end up going before some schmuck who would make me do community service for the rest of my life.
March 2001
I’ve been staying at Nicky’s for the past three days, waiting to see if I can move back into my burned-up building. And no, I never gave in to my urge to throw a Molotov cocktail in the street people’s room. The street people wrecked the building themselves. Those morons.
Last Wednesday afternoon, the thug boys, the crackhead girl, and the two white junkie sisters tied up Gerald in the upstairs bathroom and said that if he didn’t give them all his money they would set fire to the building. I had just come home and was passing the bathroom and the door was closed, and I heard Gerald yell in his queeny voice, “Don’t you understand? My money is tied up!” And one of the thugs said, “No, YOU are tied up!” and Gerald said, “I mean I don’t have any liquid assets,” and I heard the crackhead girl scream, “Shut up, motherfucker! We don’t care about your liquid asses! Just tell us where the money is!” Then I heard one of the junkie girls say, “Yeah, we need it to send to our families,” and her sister said, “Hush, Joleen.” I was standing there, wondering what the hell to do. Then Gerald said, “Please put that gasoline can away and untie me. We’ll work something out.” And the second thug said, “Fuck all that! Tell us where your bank card or money is or we turn you into toast.”
I ran to Jerome’s room and found him lying placidly on his bed. “Those scumbags have tied up Gerald in the bathroom and are trying to rob him!” I yelled. “They’re threatening to burn down the building!”
“I got nothin’ to do with those fools,” Jerome said, looking at the TV instead of me. I realized with a shock that he had probably masterminded the whole thing. “I’m gonna call the cops,” I said. “Those people are desperate. What if they set fire to the building and we all burn up?”
“There’s a fire escape right outside,” Jerome said. “We ain’t gonna burn up. Anyway, they ain’t gonna set no fire.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause they ain’t.” He probably told them to just use the gasoline can to threaten Gerald. But then I heard a splashing sound and ran out and saw one of the white girls pouring gasoline over the carpet. “What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed. Jerome got up off his bed as though he was responding to a call to dinner and went into the hall. “What I tell you?” he said. He walked up to the junkie and pulled the gas can out of her hands. “Fuck you, Jerome!” she said. Jerome went to the bathroom and I trotted behind. We found the two thugs, the crackhead, and the second white girl in there with poor Gerald, who was lying on his back in the bathtub, all tied up with rope.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” screamed Gerald. “How can you do this to me?”
“Y’all shouldn’t have thrown me out,” Jerome said. I wasn’t aware that Gerald had evicted Jerome, who seemed to have a steady supply of income, but then Jerome said, “You know you liked it.”
“You were having sex with Gerald?” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Jerome drawled with a hint of a smile. “The boy had the time of his life.”
“God!” I said. “You fuck Gerald right on top of fucking Nicky and the whole rest of the world? You’re unbelievable.”
“Nicky is my heart,” Jerome said. “Gerald is my slave boy.”
“I hate you, Jerome!” Gerald shrieked. “You are a horrible man! I want you to untie me this instant!”
“Shut up, motherfucker!” the crackhead said.
“Be quiet, Tee Tee,” said one of the thugs, and looked at Jerome for instructions.
“Untie him,” Jerome said, and one of the thugs started to untie the knots that bound Gerald, and suddenly there was a woosh! The hallway was on fire, and the junkie girl came to the bathroom door with a grin on her face, and I realized that she was demented. “Burn, house! Burn, house! Burn, burn, burn!” she yelled, waving a book of matches. Fortunately there was a fire escape outside the bathroom, and we all got out of there, including Gerald, who wasn’t tied very securely. The junkie fire setter didn’t want to go and her sister pleaded with her, “Come on, Joleen, come on!”, but Joleen just stood there with that crazy grin and the sister screamed, “She’s mental, she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” and finally Jerome picked her up and carried her like a sack of potatoes onto the fire escape and pushed her down ahead of him.
We were the only ones on the second floor of the house, and everyone on the first floor got out safely. It was a miracle that no one was hurt or killed. Thank God Johnny and Guillermo were out visiting Guillermo’s family in Wheaton. The fire department came immediately, but the second floor of the building was extensively damaged. My place, which was at the corner of the hall, was intact except for some smoke damage, but the smell in there was pretty bad.
Nicky insisted that I stay with him in his beautiful brick two-story house on upper 16th Street. Nicky has been living by himself ever since his veterinarian boyfriend left and said he hates living alone and he gave me the whole second floor, which he never uses. Jerome has come here a couple times and banged on the door and begged Nicky to let him in so he could “explain what happened,” and Nicky refuses to let him in, but then he goes into his room and cries. Then he comes out and pops a couple of his headache pills.
I know Nicky can use a good friend and I should have moved in with him months ago, when the all those street people started appearing in the building. But I can’t let go of anything. I get attached to people and places and even after they go bad I cling to them for dear life. I’m one of those Jews who would have refused to leave Nazi Germany. I would have been running around yelling, “Visa, Schmeeza! I’m not going anywhere! My family has been here for 200 years! Don’t listen to Uncle Moishe with his crazy stories! Someone dropped him on his head when he was three years old!” On and on, all the way to the showers.
March in DC, and spring has come in like a lamb. I’m out of the building for good, because Gerald is repairing it and then selling it and moving to Australia to become a ranch hand. I laughed when I heard that, but somehow it seemed right. After his humiliation in the bathtub, Gerald is going to reclaim his manhood. I wish him all the best.
On Sunday, movers are going to transport my stuff here to Nicky’s. Dr. Bobb said maybe I should store it and give Nicky some time to know if he really wants me to stay, but Nicky said not to listen to “that crazy man” (spoken with sugary affection), and insisted that I stay here as long as I want.
Yesterday Kimba called and Nicky told her what happened and she came over with a big bowl of homemade spaghetti. She hugged me and said she’s so, so sorry. The three of us ate dinner and then we played scrabble in Nicky’s cozy living room. Afterwards Nicky went into his r
oom to call his friends and Kimba and I went out on his porch, where it was warm and breezy. Kimba and I sat on the swing, and I put my arm around her, and we listened to the rustle of the trees and the cars going by.
“Were you pissed at me?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You didn’t ask me to go out with you after New Year’s Eve,” she said.
“I did,” I said. Then I remembered. “Well, I was going to. But then Terri called and I told you, and you seemed so irritated, and then you didn’t call me.”
“I heard you went out with Dee.”
“Did you not want me to go out with Dee?”
Kimba looked at me, her face about an inch from mine. “I did not want you to go out with Dee,” she said. I thought she was going to kiss me, but she didn’t. She just turned away and kept looking out onto the leafy, light-splashed street.
April 2001
I’m happy because I love Kimba. Do you have to love someone to be happy? I know that loving someone doesn’t make you happy. I wasn’t happy when I loved Terri because she didn’t love me. But Kimba loves me. She collects things from the woods and gives them to me. She bought me a necklace and a bicycle. She cooks spaghetti and meatballs for me and she baked a cherry pie for me, Billy boy, Billy boy. She smells like apricots. She makes me laugh all day long.
We laugh while we’re having sex. Is that normal? I never laughed while having sex, except with Cherry Hill, when we played nurse-patient. But I laugh harder with Kimba, even when I’m coming. She indulges me in this Judge Holmes sex game, in which she “does” Judge Holmes, ordering me to do this or that, and it’s amazing how accurate her imitation is considering that she’s never even met Louise. I have a better time with Kimba than I’ve ever had with anyone in my life.