The Americans, Baby

by Frank Moorhouse

  ‘Like you’re not all crazy demonstrators,’ he said, feeling he’d better ask. Sam said check. Who’d care if they were – Atlanta? Hell, they wouldn’t. Chop chop chop.

  He should have gone into the factors business. Now there was a business. He could have gotten into the Heller corporation. But that was just a swap of one big corporation’s slippery rope ladder for another. Which people always tried to untie at the top.

  There had been that deal about a fifty-five-pound motor scooter you could put in a carrying bag. People want to ride scooters not carry them. Let’s face it, Becker, you haven’t been meteoric. He’d end up like Sam.

  ‘Will you contact Morrison?’ the Leader asked him.

  He’d forgotten the silence.

  ‘Morrison?’

  ‘Our agent.’

  ‘Sure – contact by end of week through Hansen Rubensohn – McCann Erickson.’ Brisk and businesslike was Becker. He pulled himself back to the situation. ‘Sorry politics got mixed up with the coffee. We really don’t give a damn,’ he told them.

  ‘We did it for money.’

  ‘That’s all right – I had to check it out – see here,’ he leaned across the table holding up the folder of material with Sam’s margin note. ‘When Sam says check, I check.’

  They all dutifully looked.

  ‘Got to protect the Coca-Cola image,’ the fourth one said with a hesitant laugh.

  ‘We’re all a bit sorry we got mixed up in that thing at all,’ the Leader said.

  After the recording session they went to have drinks and after drinks they went to the Apple Disco.

  He entered into the coloured lights growing brighter now dimmer as the roar of the band changed from loud to louder.

  ‘This where you always come?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s new,’ one shouted back.

  Well, that answered his question. Sighting the girls – all attached, he guessed – no regular hostesses – he’d stay for one drink – what was he doing with the Hi-lighters? – what was he doing here? He couldn’t hear what they were saying. He didn’t want to hear what they were saying. They weren’t talking anyhow. He didn’t want to talk either.

  He was left with the young one. The others danced with girls they knew.

  He intended leaving after one more little drink.

  He saw the young man staring at a group of girls sitting unaccompanied except for one young man in jeans. Attractively brassy girls.

  ‘Question: What do monsters eat?

  ‘Answer: Things.

  ‘Question: What do they drink?

  ‘Answer: Coca-Cola. Things go better with Coke.’

  The young man wasn’t listening. The young man named, was it … Phillip?… wasn’t listening.

  Things go better with Coca-Cola.

  He looked around. Freedom in the Golden Age of Athens.

  The pianist couldn’t play.

  Another drink.

  The pianist couldn’t play ludo.

  The young man couldn’t take his eyes off the brassy girls. The young man … named Phillip?

  ‘Let’s go over and talk to them,’ Phillip said, nodding towards the girls.

  ‘Lead the way – it’s your country.’

  ‘They’re TV.’

  He picked up the scotch.

  They sat down with the girls.

  ‘May we join you?’ he asked.

  It was unnecessary. The young man named Phillip knew them.

  Their voices.

  They sounded like men. Dogs?

  ‘These regular women?’ he whispered to Phillip, uneasy.

  ‘TV,’ whispered Phillip, ‘transvestites.’

  The word zotted through to him. Not for old Becker. ‘Not my scene, man,’ he said, working himself back on to his feet, staring at them.

  He leaned over and said to Phillip, ‘You’re supposed to be clean.’

  The young man Phillip laughed, embarrassed. ‘For laughs, man.’

  ‘On me,’ he said, and sat down. Too tired to move.

  The Phillip was holding hands with one, for Godsakes. What was he doing here with one of them? And one of them was now beside him saying, ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘It’s now,’ he said, ‘now I’m really just going,’ he said, pouring a quick last drink.

  ‘Oh, you’re R and R,’ heshe said.

  ‘Oh no, I’m not,’ he said, ‘I’m not R and R. Look, this isn’t my scene.’

  ‘It’s simply dreary, simply dreary, I agree,’ the man’s voice came out of the make-believe woman’s face, the golden wig, flowing gown, stockings, high heels.

  Heshe said, ‘I simply adore talking to Americans. Could listen to them for hours.’

  His clean young folksinger was kissing, was kissing, one of them.

  They were attractive OK, but they were men. Not his sort of thing at all. Becker the executive.

  He knew he had to get out. This was not his scene.

  Heshe had taken his hand and put it on her stockinged leg. He could feel the web of the nylon.

  He left it there. Why?

  A groin stirring. Oh no.

  ‘The light effect is marvellous. Fabulous,’ husky, deep, male voice.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I wish we had it at the Bird Cage.’

  ‘The where?’

  ‘Oh you must be very new to town – our little place.’

  What was he doing with half an erection?

  Oh Sam, if you could see me now. Oh mother and father. Out, he must get out.

  ‘Come back for a party, darlings.’

  Phillip was saying something about yes, come back for a party.

  ‘Bring the young R and R man,’ one said.

  ‘He’s coming, darling,’ heshe said, ‘with me,’ and gave the other a pointed look.

  The bloody music the bloody pianist.

  He grabbed the scotch and they grabbed him and wheeled him across the floor. And the young man in jeans.

  In their car he was kissed lightly by – Kaye – all right Kaye, call her Kaye. He wanted out. He kept her at a distance with his hand.

  Kaye said, ‘What are you then? – shouldn’t ask, no names no packdrill, what does it matter, forever gay. I’ll call you Jed. Marjorie …’ Marjorie kept on talking. ‘Marjorie,’ Kaye screamed, ‘Marjorie, remember the R and R guy at the Cage, remember? You do remember.’

  ‘Shut up, Kaye, your stories aren’t funny.’

  Giggling giggling.

  His ears were blunt from the music.

  He looked out at the streaming shop fronts, houses, poles, signs, bus stops, and wondered what was happening to him. And about Sam. What sort of guy was Sam?

  ‘Look, I really must get out.’

  ‘You can’t you – remember, Marjorie, you remember? The Negro.’

  Phillip was kissing Marjorie.

  Miss X was glumly driving.

  ‘Why you sad?’ Kaye said to him. ‘You Americans are all the same and you get sad after midnight. All thinking and thoughtful; what you got to worry about?’

  ‘Oh no. Look I must go, out, get out, I really must. Not feeling at all well.’

  ‘Have a drink at my place, darling, and then off you go – have to be sociable, remember, Marjorie? You remember the Negro and the R and R, you remember, Marjorie?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  The flat was screamingly feminine. He said he wanted to go to the john. They showed him where. As he went in the door he heard music leap scratching at his tired ears.

  Knocking on the lavatory door, ‘Hurry up, darling, we are all rather desperate.’

  Love’s dribbling dart. He tucked it back in.

  Miss X pushed passed him.

  ‘Look, I really must go,’ he said to Kaye.

  ‘You can’t go,’ she shoved a drink into his hand.

  Phillip and Marjorie were dancing.

  ‘I must go – I have really had it – Sam says I have to get early nights. Look, I’m basically very square.’<
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  She was swaying to the music in front of him.

  ‘Look, please.’

  He drank his drink. ‘Please, I must go.’

  He was sticky with discomfort.

  ‘Please.’

  She took his hand and was trying to dance with him.

  ‘Please.’

  He shouldn’t be pleading. He should just go.

  ‘Doesn’t your R and R man dance, darling?’ Marjorie said to Kaye; and then to him, ‘Dance, let yourself go, darling, really you must.’

  He was sweating too. ‘I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t be here.’

  Miss X and her young man in jeans were shouting at each other.

  What about the police?

  He started for the door.

  She tried to pull him back.

  ‘Please.’ His coat came half off.

  He pulled it back on.

  ‘Come on, you don’t have to go yet.’ She was becoming aggressive.

  ‘Look, really, I’m pooped – please let go.’

  He detached her hand from his coat.

  Marjorie and Phillip came over. Marjorie said, ‘Having trouble keeping your man, Kaye?’

  ‘Bitch.’

  Then Kaye took Marjorie’s hand and together they barricaded him – he couldn’t reach the door. ‘Ladies – please,’ he heard himself say, ‘I must go.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ Phillip said.

  He ignored Phillip and tried to break through the two barricading his way. Kaye got him in a grabbing embrace.

  Hot-faced with anger he pushed her away and she fell against the door jamb. ‘Good night,’ he said with finality and anger, making it to the door.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ Kaye yelled at him and spat on him.

  The spittle hit his arm like a drop of lava. He recoiled out the door, slamming it behind him, holding his arm bent away from him, staring at the spittle. He moved down the stairs, using his handkerchief in frantic swipes to wipe it away, keeping on with the wiping until he was well down the street. He threw the handkerchief away but still held his arm bent away from him to avoid contaminating the rest of his body.

  It had begun to rain. It was always beginning to rain in his life. The dreadful smell of hair fixer from Kaye’s wig smelling now from his shoulder where she’d had her head. The spit. He took off the coat and hung it on a fence picket. Cleansed by both the shedding of the coat and the rain drops. His sister came to mind whose husband was in Vietnam or based somewhere, perhaps just at Fort Benning. This Godforsaken country. He was being persecuted. What was happening Atlanta? To Rotary with Sam tomorrow. Exile. He waited in the drizzle for a cab, praying, ‘Our kind Lord and heavenly Father, we turn to you knowing we pray to one who hears and answers. We ask that you take us by the hand and lead us to the path of righteousness. Give others strength of heart. Strengthen those of us who are weary. Accept us as your radiant servants …’

  The Girl from The Family of Man

  Angela convinced me to go to my first peace march. I guess it was a case of conviction following cunt, but not altogether, because by then I was also some of the way convinced. Even if I hadn’t been some of the way convinced I would have gone because of Angela’s political steam which gave off a very high reading indeed. I mean also that I don’t think demonstrating is a wet thing. I might still do it now but for different reasons. I wouldn’t feel I was changing the world, for instance. For a short time I thought there was a chance we’d swing it – change the world – but that was just Angela again – she was there to keep the faith – without her my belief in the goodwill of man was really as weak as piss.

  It seemed also at the time terribly good to find an American who could find something wrong with America – and a good-looking bird at that; different from the other Americans you meet out here teaching.

  I met Angela when I was angry about things and a bit shat off with all the bullshit flying around about Vietnam and other things. I found myself hooked by the way she talked – she had that sort of methodical mind which Americans seem to have – they talk about ‘projects’ and ‘resources’ and so on.

  ‘It’s great to see an American who sees through it all,’ I said to her.

  ‘The New Left’s really alive back home,’ she said. We were sitting in a bar. I was drinking, she wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she said. ‘I find I need all my wits about me to get by in this crazy world.’

  I wondered how dumb I became with the grog. Her not drinking made me a little uncomfortable. But I could live with it.

  ‘I’ll try not to be a slob,’ I said. ‘I don’t usually drink until I fall down.’

  ‘I had enough of that at college,’ she said, ‘and drugs – it ruins a lot of the kids.’ She was very concerned. ‘A lot of my friends take drugs but it seems to knock them out of the action.’

  ‘Sometimes I think it’s the only thing to do,’ I said, asking myself what the hell I would know about it. I suppose I’d let Angela think I was more political than I was – I wasn’t in the Labor Party or anything like that – just a sympathiser. I guess.

  ‘At least you have a party of labour and a strong trade union movement,’ she said passionately. ‘They must give the Left a dynamic.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘In a sense, yes.’

  We sat there talking while I drank three brandies and she had another orange.

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ I said, my voice tentative, but the lust was upon me. Yaaaah.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ she said, ‘I’ll get a bus, I know my way around now.’

  She pulled a timetable from her Greek shoulder bag. That was Angela – the timetable – and the Greek shoulder bag.

  ‘There’s one at nine thirty-two,’ she said.

  I insisted she let me take her home in a cab.

  ‘OK,’ she drawled, guardedly.

  We held hands in the cab but she said, ‘Kyle, please let’s not rush things – sex can become a hassle.’

  At her place on the wall she had a big picture of an Indian – either Nehru or Gandhi. I took a punt on Gandhi.

  ‘Why you got Gandhi on the wall?’

  She looked up at him. ‘Satyagraha,’ she said.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Non-violence – I worked with SNCC in Atlanta – Students’ Non-violent Coordinating Committee – racial integration – we ran schools on non-violent tactics. Any groups here?’

  ‘We’re not that advanced,’ I said, wondering again what the hell I’d know about it.

  ‘Non-violence is terribly potent,’ she said.

  After the coffee I tried to kiss her. She allowed our lips to meet, but I knew she didn’t want to be in it.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ she said softly, easing me away, ‘let it come naturally and easily,’ she said, making me feel like a lecher. I am a lecher.

  She moved away from me and picked up the coffee cups.

  ‘I’d like to see some classes on non-violence started here,’ she said, taking the cups into the kitchen. I wondered if I’d ruined things for myself by being too gropy.

  ‘I’d like to read something about it,’ I said, which was pretty true.

  ‘I’ll lend you a book,’ she said, going to the books and coming back with Gandhi.

  At home I poured myself a big brandy and wondered if perhaps I really was pouring my way to alcoholism – I thought about Angela and her politics – and about her body – about her tits. And I wasn’t conning her – I mean about the politics – she was just more advanced than I was, you could say.

  I sat there browsing – taking a little Gandhi with my brandy – when I came across a part which said, ‘Chastity is one of the greatest disciplines, without which the mind cannot attain requisite firmness …’ and went on ‘… he whose mind is given over to animal passions is not capable of any great effort …’ and ‘… when a husband and wife gratify the passions it i
s no less an animal indulgence.’

  If it had been anyone else’s book I would have drop-kicked it into the shithouse. What the fucking hell! I couldn’t see how a girl like Angela could swallow it – she was supposed to be all for free love and so on. For a few seconds I was dead scared that perhaps she was having me on.

  I threw a few more brandies down my throat and went to bed.

  I saw Angela the following night.

  I was scarcely in the door before I was checking her on Gandhi. ‘What’s all this crap about chastity and discipline?’ I said, a little more fiercely than I had intended. ‘You couldn’t go along with all that?’

  She laughed. ‘He’s a little crazy there,’ she said as we went into the living room, ‘but that’s his way, I guess.’

  ‘You had me frightened,’ I said, giving her a squeeze. I rather defiantly held a bottle of brandy I’d brought. I’d debated whether or not to bring it and then thought, Hell, I’m letting her and Gandhi get the better of me. Christ, it wasn’t as though I was a drunk.

  ‘I brought something to drink,’ I said. ‘I hope you don’t mind. Gandhi would.’

  ‘Silly – of course I don’t mind – please get it out of your head I’m a puritan.’ Her voice rose. ‘I just don’t like it myself.’ Then she laughed. ‘I’m going to have to get drunk and go to bed with you just to prove a point.’

  ‘All right,’ I said encouragingly, ‘let’s go.’

  I drank. She had about one sip or two and then sat on it. I was mad for her.

  I took her hand. ‘I’m crazy about you,’ I said.

  ‘I like you, Kyle,’ she said, ‘very much.’

  We sat there in the half furnished room with the books stacked against the wall, a guitar in the corner, an Indian rug, some beads hung from a peg on the wall, a painting by Picasso – one of the Harlequin paintings, she told me.

  We sat on the floor on cushions and talked, nonviolently.

  We watched a television documentary on New China while I slugged myself with brandy.

  ‘I wrote a poem on China,’ she said, almost shyly.

  Naturally I said, ‘Read it to me.’

  I praised her. I like a girl who writes poetry – they’re usually pretty way out.