The Fuck Up

by Arthur Nersesian

  “Yeah, but I’m broke.”

  “I’ll advance you,” Miguel offered. “You made us a tidy bundle tonight.”

  So a group of us walked over to Second Avenue and south toward the Kiev where the cuisine was a mix of Eastern European and American greasy spoon, prepared by Indian short-order cooks. The waitress pulled together a bunch of small tables and after we took our seats, she quickly took our orders. I got a mixed pierogis with sour cream and a side of fries. Fragmented conversations started. I ate and listened to one group in front of me yapping about the film. When one guy called it “a low budget 2001,” I turned to my left and started eavesdropping on snatches of conversation in that direction, “Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X’s mentor, was the one who had him assassinated…and when Mayor Laguardia died they found that all he had was eight thousand dollars in war bonds…I’ve heard that both Roddy MacDowell and Uncle Miltie have the largest penises in Hollywood…” Although the details were interesting, they were difficult to follow.

  One guy that Miguel had casually introduced to me earlier that evening, an older, responsibly dressed fellow named Marty, was whispering excitedly to Miguel at my right. Keeping my eyes fixed on the bore who was talking about the film, I leaned into Marty’s direction and listened:

  “Well, he’s only in the damned place like once every two months or so. Particularly now, since he’s working in Paris.”

  “Do you think burglars were watching the place?”

  “I’m sure of it. Anyway, it was all insured but now the premium is going through the roof.”

  “Well, I only wish I needed a place.” Carefully I propped my right elbow up on the table so that my hand was against my right ear limiting the peripheral noise.

  “It is too bad,” Marty replied, “because you’re just the right type. I only wish I was gay.”

  “Now what’s this compulsion he has with gays? Is he?”

  “No, it’s just the opposite—he’s an insecure heterosexual. Also I think he thinks they’re clean or something.”

  “Well, I’m a pig myself.” Miguel giggled. “What kind of rent is he charging?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s not a money question.”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Nada,” Miguel replied tiredly. “What’s new with you?”

  “Nothing, I’ve been spending all my free time apartment hunting, and it’s really frustrating.”

  “Rents are ridiculous.” Miguel replied.

  “It’s not that. Frankly I think that they’ve been deliberately restricting me because I’m gay.”

  Miguel glanced over to Marty.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Marty asked casually before taking a sip of his fruit compote.

  “Oh, I’m not very selective. Heck, I don’t even mind room-mating with someone so long as they’re clean.”

  “It sounds preordained, Marty,” Miguel said outright.

  “Preordained?”

  “I think I might be able to help you,” Marty started.

  “How?” I asked wide-eyed.

  Marty told me in slow detail about a famous film director who was in his prime during the sixties but since then, due to a series of profitless films and subsequently a broken marriage, had been convalescing. Yet during the last five years or so, while hunting down backers, he had been slowly producing his last film, a real swan song.

  “What’s his name?” I asked. He didn’t want to tell me just yet: this only whetted my appetite all the more.

  “Orson Welles?” I asked, knowing that at the time Welles was desperately trying to make a swan song film and had trouble getting backing.

  “No,” Marty replied, only adding that the filmmaker had no immediate plans to live steadily in New York. The great director had lived his life in several countries and probably spent more time in lofty transit than anywhere else, keeping an operation center/bachelor pad in almost every glamorous world capital. In New York, for instance, he had purchased a spacious SoHo loft when lofts were still just warehouse space flooding the market. He stocked his large space with many valuables, captured after long and great safaris in endless auctions, galleries, boutiques, and curio shops.

  “Is it Zeferelli?” I asked, knowing that he had a fear of wide open spaces.

  “No,” Marty replied, rambling on about how over the years the great director had fallen from lofty metaphysicist to staunch empiricist. Marty explained how other renegade materialists had appropriated his goods. In other words, he had been burglarized three times this year alone.

  “Huston?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Kubrick?”

  “No.”

  “Capra?”

  “Capra? No!” Suddenly I felt Miguel nudging me under the table. My catlike curiosity was getting the better of me. I apologized and listened.

  “He wants a house sitter. That’s all you’ll need to know now.”

  “What sort of rent range does he have in mind?”

  “He’ll probably only be asking for a nominal rent to see that you’re responsible. But the catch is that occasionally he does come to the city, and during those few times he’ll probably want the place to himself.”

  “You mean that he might just pop in at any moment and bang, I’ll have to split?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “No matter what hour of the night?”

  “It’s not like that. He’s extremely formal. If he comes to the city once a month, I’d be amazed. And actually I guarantee that he’ll notify you well in advance.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Good, but he’ll have to meet you first. Understand that nothing will be in writing; all arrangements will be verbal.”

  “Which means I’ll be unprotected. He’ll be able to chuck me out any time.”

  “Unfortunately yes, but Sergei is a decent guy.” Eisenstein had died in the forties. What other great directors were named Sergei?

  “Keep in mind,” Marty continued, “that in essence you’re getting something for nothing.”

  “What country is Sergei from?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Listen,” Marty continued. “This might sound a bit strange, but if you really want this place, a word of advice is look now.”

  “Now?”

  “He’s very taken by those who are very gay and very fashionable, very ‘now.’”

  “You do look more ‘then.’ For a posh loft,” Miguel stated, “looking ‘now’ is a pretty small trade.”

  “All right,” I replied, without the slightest notion of how I was supposed to transform into this ideal image. But if there was indeed an apartment in the balance I’d certainly try to tip the scale to my favor somehow. I agreed to find the proper attire, and then trying to contain the excitement amidst all the noise and cigarette smoke, I pardoned myself for a brief suck of air.

  Although it was chilly outside, I slowly became intoxicated over the spectacular windfall. It was like winning a lotto without even waiting on the long line with losers; a poem published and a loft in SoHo. Standing in the iciness, outside looking in, a fanatical fantasy unfurled: palls of hashish and marijuana smoke streamed from the loft skylight, dust bunnies of cocaine gathered trembling in the chandelier. The permanent temperature of my abode would never breach above or below the mid-eighties so that nude bodies would never be made self-conscious by the cold. There would be no more hard or edgy surfaces to fall against. I: a sultan who had finally found his harem, a thick juicy nerve in search of well-deserved stimuli. Poetry would be written between orgasms. Tonight long-deserved rewards had finally toppled into my lap. I returned to the moment, reentered the restaurant and resumed my seat and pose.

  “So who is my patron going to be?”

  “Please don’t ask me that,” Marty responded.

  “Why such a big secret about his identity?”

  “Sergei is very nervous about his privacy being invaded.”

  “And what exactly is his need for a
gay?”

  “Well, other than the fact that he thinks they’re cleaner, I think his girlfriend might be coming to town. I’m not sure. He might feel insecure about that.”

  “So he wants a court eunuch?”

  “I guess so,” Marty replied with a grin. “But you’re gay, so all that is settled.”

  In his mind I was gay and in this instance that meant I was invincible. I could witness the interlocking of the sexes and remain unfettered. So after I had polished off my pierogis, Marty explained that the celebrated but insecure Sergei would be notified and we’d all have a meeting.

  SEVEN

  The long ride to Brooklyn that night seemed much shorter. When I got in, Helmsley was deep asleep. He had slept silently during my voyage to and from Manhattan. Silently I undressed and cuddled to sleep with the thought that this hard couch under me would soon be replaced by a king’s bed. Sleep came quickly.

  The lights were suddenly flipped on. Through squinted eyes I made out the figure of Angela.

  “Hey! Turn off those lights,” I moaned, and then pulled a pillow over my face.

  “I oughta throw you the fuck outa here!” she yelled back drunkenly. “Who the fuck you think you are?”

  “What is going on?” I heard Helmsley say, and looking up I could see him knotting a bathrobe over his pajamas.

  “This cocksucker cursed me out and I’m gonna teach him who’s dumb,” Angela said, pointing at me.

  “Christ, Helmsley, she’s drunk.” Looking into Helmsley’s puzzled face, I knew he was in for a tough one.

  “Ya just gonna stand there?” she addressed him.

  “Look Angela, I didn’t give you my key so that you could barge in here like a lunatic.”

  “You faggot! God wasted a dick on ya.”

  “Let’s go to bed,” he replied. Grabbing both her shoulders, he slowly tried to steer her into his room.

  “I oughta get my brothers to kick the shit out of ya. That’d put hair on yer chest.” In a moment Helmsley succeeded in enclosing her in his room, but several seconds later, I heard a scream—hers. A moment later, a cry, his, and once again the door smashed open and she reemerged, stopping before me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I want you out.”

  “This ain’t your house,” I replied.

  “Don’t tell me what the fuck house this is, I’ll bash ya.” Helmsley now limped out of his room, cupping his testicles over his pjs.

  “Angela!” he winced. “Stop this now!”

  But she was beyond him. Her eyes were targeted toward me now. Helmsley proved himself ineffective as a protectorate. I looked to the floor and saw my shoes and pants. Glancing toward the window, I noticed it was almost dawn.

  “I want you out of this fuckin’ house,” she repeated as she stared at me.

  “I ain’t going.”

  “Please,” Helmsley appealed. “Go.”

  “I ain’t going.”

  “I’ll give you money for a hotel,” he implored.

  “No.”

  “I’ll get him out for you,” Angela said, taking a step forward.

  “No,” Helmsley commanded.

  “Then call the fucking police!” Angela yelled. Helmsley stood still and looked about miserably. She screamed louder this time, “Call the fucking police!”

  Helmsley went over to the phone and looked at me pleadingly. “For God’s sake, please go. Just for now.”

  “No, Helmsley,” I replied. “If you can’t rule your own house you should go into your room and let me handle it.”

  “YOU DIAL THE POLICE GODDAMN YOU!”

  Helmsley snatched up the phone nervously and started dialing. As he did, a victorious sneer smeared over the bitch’s face.

  “I got your own friend calling the cops on yer, yer a pair of fucking faggots.”

  “I thought you were going to bash me,” I taunted.

  Her face started lacing back and tightening. Before I knew it, she jumped forward and tore the bandage off my right arm. When I stood up, she clipped me, a right cross to my head. Falling backwards, I reached out to grab her, trying to regain my balance. Accidentally I shoved her. She fell backwards right through the old oak coffee table. Now she was screaming and hollering.

  “He hit me! The bastard hit me!”

  “It was an accident,” I replied as I tugged on my pants. Helmsley hurdled over his fallen lover and was punching me all over. He was bigger and stronger than I, so I tried running, but he pinned me down with his knees on my shoulders. All the anger that she had generated and he had stored was punching out on me. I tried to talk to him, but suddenly I felt the hem of my pants being pulled up. Catching a glimpse beyond Helmsley’s anchored torso, I saw Angela drunkenly yanking up my bare leg, and I howled as her molars pierced deep into my calf.

  Quickly and instinctively I kicked her in the face, catapulting her against the wall and onto the floor in a heap. She lay still now. Helmsley saw that she was badly hurt. He bolted off and attended his beloved maniac. Grabbing my shirt, shoes, and coat, I wobbled out the front door.

  Several yuppies walking in an unintentional formation must have thought it a strange sight on their way to work, when they saw me wearing little else but pants, madly limping down Clinton Street. Suddenly a police car with sirens blaring turned a corner and screeched in front of Helmsley’s door. The son of a bitch had actually called them. Goose pimples or not, I wasn’t going to dress until I was a couple blocks clear of the serpent’s love nest. I dressed in a doorway and inspected my leg. Both the upper and lower bridge of her teeth had sunk deeply into my calf. Upon careful inspection I noticed a tiny patch of flesh and sinew ripped off altogether. It was probably sitting in the bottom of Angela’s leathery stomach. I tied a tourniquet around my knee and hobbled to the F. Not knowing where else to go, I got off at Broadway/Lafayette and walked up Broadway, finally ending up at the Loeb Student Center at NYU. I limped my way to a booth in the cafeteria downstairs. There, I recuperated over four cups of tea squeezed out of a single tea bag. My jaw had a deep bruise, my neck and chest pulsated and everything else swelled. But the bloodiest gem of my lacerations was the tear in my right leg. With napkins and rubber bands, I was able to sop up and control the ooze of blood, but I was still worried about infection. I finally decided to go to one of the most merciless and dreaded places in the city, a hospital.

  Since I owed Saint Vincent’s money for repairing the cut arm, I started hobbling northeastward toward Beth Israel. As I walked, the wound reopened. I kept stopping and trying to curtail the bleeding.

  I wasn’t in pain, but by the time I reached Second Avenue I was numb and dizzy. I paused a moment in front of the Saint Mark’s Cinema, just to catch my breath. I didn’t recognize anyone inside. By the time I finally arrived at Beth Israel, the self-applied battle dressing along with the hem of my pants and right shoe were all soaked in blood. I staggered into the emergency ward. Quickly a novice nurse laid me on a gurney and started cutting away at the pants.

  “He hasn’t been admitted yet,” I heard the head nurse remark. Someone questioned me, and then the young nurse returned to the wound. She cleaned it out and brought over an intern, a young Indian woman. She quickly stitched all the frayed flesh ends into an integrated calf, and dashed off to the next impatient patient. As a final fuck you to that wimp bastard, I told the hospital people I was Helmsley and gave his location as my billing address.

  After a couple of hours of recuperation, it was time to go. The Zeus Theater was only a couple of blocks away, and it was already late afternoon, so I slowly staggered there for work.

  I arrived a half hour before my scheduled time. Today was going to be my first solo flight. I was supposed to manage the theater alone. But when Miguel saw me his mouth fell open in disbelief.

  “Are you a masochist?”

  “No.”

  “What’s with you? Every time I see you you’ve been wounded.”

  “Fate’s a sadist.”

&nb
sp; Miguel offered to cover that night’s shift, but I could tell that he was looking forward to having the night off. He had been working every night for the past two weeks, ever since the manager whom I was replacing had quit. I was equally eager to see if I could handle the job. He planted a thankful kiss on my cheek, promised to call, and left.

  All I had that day was the watery tea at the NYU student center, so I appropriated some money from the petty cash drawer, and I went out to get some food. I went over to the Korean greengrocer, which had just opened a salad bar, and put together a complex salad. Then I hobbled back to the theater, and slowly ate it down. I began my first inspection of the theater. Toilet paper was stocked in the bathroom. All the fire codes were being observed. Checking the screen, I noticed that all the acts of fellatio and sodomy were correctly in focus and all the grunts and moans were distinctly audible. Along some of the seats, I saw the dark silhouettes of pleased patrons in rhythmical motions. Life was following art in the theater. I was about to dip back into the office when I heard someone address the box office lady, “Is Miguel here?”

  “Miguel?” she replied. I turned to see the oily subway kid who was initially recommended the job by Tanya. Before the box office lady could tell him that Miguel wasn’t here, I stepped up and spoke to him.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Miguel?” he asked. Silently I went around to the turnstile and opened the door for him.

  “Why?” I said.

  “Tanya sent me for the manager’s job.”

  “I needed someone a week ago. Where the hell were you?” I replied, and then concluded, “I filled the spot.”

  “Shit,” he replied.

  “Sorry,” I replied. He vanished back into the night.

  Proceeding back into the office, I took out the portable TV to forget the dirty deed. The kid shouldn’t have taken so long. I turned on the TV.

  The only time I had ever watched TV in the recent past was when I was depressed. After about five minutes of watching a sitcom, the funniest part of which was the laugh track, I lost reception.

  Finding nothing else to do, I started cleaning the accumulations out of my pockets. Other than soiled tissues, I found a “Be A Cashier In Six Weeks” mail order coupon, which in my former unemployed despair I had pulled from a subway advertisement. The bottom of my pocket was impaled with broken toothpicks and lined with pulverized after-dinner mints that I had taken from the Italian restaurant where Helmsley had treated me, pre-Angela. Finally I came across an unknown phone number scribbled on a loose piece of paper. This I threw into the garbage with everything else. But no sooner did I drop it than I remembered that it belonged to the career woman I had met during the hold-up. I push-dialed her number, but got a recording mandating use of the newly implemented 718 area code. I remembered that she said she lived in Brooklyn Heights, and I dialed the number again, properly. This time I got a mellow “hello.”