“I will say one thing, Cosmo, you meet people in an orgy. Not like conventional sex, sneaking in corners, undermining human society selfish, acquisitive, dirty. I mean every time one gets laid, as it were, it’s conservative politics, don’t you think? On the other hand, orgies are liberal, humane. The ambience of impulse, the deluge of sensation, why orgies are corporate form, the highest expression of our catholicity, our modern escape from constrictive, compulsive, unilinear simplifications of medieval sex. Don’t you think?”
“They give me a certain cultural feeling.”
People were sliding across my legs.
“Precisely.”
A pulsing hole went by.
“Precisely a feeling of mind, as it were.”
People were sliding across my legs like lizards. I was inching one buttock at a time toward the foyer. A squeal of recognition needled my ear. My hands flew up, slapped a breast, belly, weedy groove.
“You!”
She collapsed into my arms and we went sliding down the molding like snakes, sliding out of massy sucking foliage. But she quit, suddenly dead as a ton. I dragged. She babbled encouragement, “Gimme, gimme sincere.” I reached the door with her, opened it, and light swept her body. Bruised, vaporous, shining with oils, more limp than any deposition I’d ever seen, more tragic than Cordelia in the arms of Lear. But she wasn’t Cecily.
She was all right. Whoever she was, squalid enervation made easy lines like vines; lips, like avocado pulp, hung lovey in her face. Nose, belly, legs, all in good repair. I helped her stand, then turned her about to consider another prospect. I smiled. She smiled. Both of us a smidgeon self-conscious, confronting one another this way, a couple in the eyes of the world, standing apart, she and I, and it wasn’t easy to think, to ignore the great pull of the worm bucket and pretend to individuation. She gave way shyly under my glance, and leaned toward the wall. There was no wall. Her hands flailed like shot ducks, her eyes grabbed for mine, flashing fright and dismay, and I flung after her into the sticky dismal, thrashing, groping like Beowulf in the mere for a grip on Grendel. I seized a wrist. I dragged, dragged us up to light. She whimpered so at the injustice, the imbecilic ironies. For her sake I contained my own distress. It wasn’t exactly she. Like her, like her in many ways. Not a speck worse. But another girl. I released her, simpered an apology.
“You must love me very much,” she said. “My name is Nora.”
Such tender imperative. Another time, another place, who knows what might have been. If circumstances were slightly different, the light better, noise a little less, if, if, if I hadn’t shoved her back in, furious with myself, we might have had a moment, a life …
“To think, Cosmo, how we build on merest chance — marriage, society, great societies — as if there weren’t ever so much to choose from, so much that any choice at all must seem fanatical in its limitation. Isn’t it that which makes the satyr frightfully amusing, his perpetual hard-on?”
“Ho, ho. A singular notion. But awfully true, Tulip. Awfully true, indeed.”
I stumbled past them at the titillating margin. She was mushing his little rear in her fist.
“Cosmo, Cosmo, I think I see a perversion. You’ll have to tell me what it’s called. If only there were a bit more light. My, how it smells. Cosmo, what would you call that smell? The vocabulary of olfaction is so limited in English.”
“Communism?”
“I adore your political intelligence, Cosmo. Why is it on every other subject you’re such a horse’s ass?”
I shoved into a bathroom to wash and look for fungicide, slammed the door, flicked the light. Voilà! A girl. She was bent over the sink having spasms. I pressed beside her, ran the water, snapped a towel off the rack.
“May I?”
She presented her chin, flecked, runny as it was, and didn’t make an occasion of it. Her eyes were full of tears. Elegant gray eyes like hers; blond hair to the shoulders, in love with gravity. In less than a minute there was a bond, soft and strong as silk, holding us. I wiped her chin, we laughed at nothing, chatted, smoked a cigarette, and felt embarrassed by our luck in each other. I peed, and one of us said, “Let’s get out of this party,” and the other said, “Yes, right now.” Holding hands tightly we left the bathroom and worked down the hall and through the living room. More people were arriving, thickening the stew; dull raging continued all around. At the door stood a big man.
“I’m glad you came tonight, Harold.”
“I’m glad you’re glad,” I said. “Name is Stanley.”
He wore a shirt and tie, nothing else. He had bloodshot eyes, a beard, a cigar in his mouth. Fumes drifted from his nostrils as if from boiling sinuses.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving.”
“I’m sorry you’re sorry.”
“I feel as if you want to say something nasty to me, Harold.”
“Not at all, I assure you.”
His legs were black and wild with hair. Burning meat looped on his thigh.
“You must have had a fight with one of your girlfriends. And I have to pay for it, eh, Harold? Well, what’s a fuck’n friend for if you can’t mutilate him every ten minutes, eh?”
He laughed, winked at her.
I edged by him, nodding agreeably, grinning, slapping his shoulder lightly. Not too intimate. I knew the signs and wanted to give no excuse for violence. I tugged her along behind me into the outside hall. He leaned after us, saying, “How do you like my beard, Harold?”
“Makes you look religious.”
“You think I’m not religious?”
“I mean it’s a nice religious beard.”
“Say what you mean, Harold. I hate innuendo. I’m not religious. I’m Satan, right? What should I do, Harold?”
He was yelling as we went through the lobby, then out to the street. She squeezed my hand, pressed to my side. He pressed to my other side, yelling, “A moralist like you knows about people. I’d like to be like you and keep my principles intact, but I’m weak, Harold. I lack integrity. I haven’t the courage to commit suicide, Harold.”
He laughed, nudged my ribs with a big fist. His meat angered and there were suddenly two of him: Laughing and Angry. I snickered and looked up the street for a cab. She whispered, “Ignore him,” and I whispered, “Good idea.” I saw a cab, waved. It started toward us. She got right in, but he had my arm now.
“Wait one minute, Harold. I want your opinion about a moral problem.”
He pushed his face at mine and tapped his beard, grinning and winking. “Which way is better, pointed or rounded?”
“How about growing it into your mouth?”
He let go of me and stepped back.
“That would kill our conversation, Harold. And you know when people stop talking they start fighting. For instance, if I stopped talking right now I might kick you in the nuts.”
He stopped talking, dropped his hands lightly on his hips, spread his legs. I kicked him in the nuts.
“Ooch.”
I leaped into the cab, slammed the door, slammed the lock, and his face smeared the window as I rolled it up. His eyes glazed, his upper lip shriveled, spit came bubbling between his teeth. His fingers clawed then whipped across the glass as the cab shot away. I turned to her. She was staring at me with big lights in her eyes, quivering. She dropped her eyes. I inhaled, rubbed my hands together to keep them from shaking and from touching her.
“That look on his face,” I said.
“And his penis.”
“That, too.”
“It was so biblical.”
“Old Testament.”
She touched me, then took my hand. Going across town we talked about the people, what they looked like, what they said, who did what, and so on. We talked in my apartment, listened to our voices, boats in the river, planes in the sky, and it was impossible to say when it happened or who laid whom and we fell asleep too soon afterward to think about it. Not that I would have thought about it. I’m not a poet, I’m Phillip. And then
I awoke as if from a nightmare and it was brilliant morning. She was standing like a stork on one leg, pulling a stocking up the other. She said, “Hello,” and her voice was full of welcome, but I saw she was too much in motion, already someplace else. Her eyes were pleasant, but they looked through mine as if mine weren’t eyes, just tunnels that zoomed out the back of my head.
“Leaving?”
“I’ll call you later. What’s your number?”
“Leaving?”
I stared at her. She finished dressing, then sat stiffly on the bed to say goodbye. We kissed. It was external for her. I seized her arms, kissed harder, deeper. She was all surface despite me, despite the way she felt to me. I released her.
“Look,” I said, “you can’t leave.”
“Please, Phillip. It’s been nice, very nice.”
She stared at a wall.
“Is something the matter?”
“No.”
A toilet flushed next door, water retched in pipes. I got out of bed and went naked to my desk. I found a pen, returned, and pushed her backward onto the bed.
“I’m all dressed, Phillip.”
I shook her hands off, lifted her dress, and scribbled across her belly: PHILLIP’S. On her thighs: PHILLIP’S, PHILLIP’S.
She sat up, considered herself, then me. As she rehooked her stockings she said, “Why do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have something in mind.”
“What can I say? I’m aware the couple is a lousy idea. I read books. I go to the flicks. I’m hip. I live in New York. But I want you to come back. Will you come back?”
“I have a date.”
“A what?”
“Can’t I have a date? I made it before we met.”
“Break it.”
“No.”
“Will you come back?”
“I’ll try.”
“Today?”
“I’ll try,” she said, straightened her dress, went to the door, out, and down the steps. D’gook, d’gook. The street door opened. She was gone. I was empty.
I flopped on the bed, picked up the phone, and called my date for the afternoon. A man answered.
“Yeah?”
“May I speak to Genevieve?”
“Hey, baby, the telephone.”
His voice was heavy, slow, rotten with satisfaction. Heels clacked to the phone. A bracelet clicked, a cigarette sizzled, she exhaled, “Thanks, Max,” then, “Hello.”
“This is Phillip.”
“Phillip? Phillip, hello. I’m so happy you called. What time are you coming for me?”
“Never, bitch.”
I dropped the phone, g’choonk.
I flopped on the bed, empty, listening to the phone ringing, ringing, and fell asleep before it stopped. There was no moment of silence, no dreaming, nothing but the sound of her footsteps going down, then coming up, a knock at the door and I awoke. It was early afternoon. She leaned over me.
“Phillip.”
I caught her hand, dragged her down like a subaqueous evil scaly. We kissed. She kissed me. I bit her ear. We kissed and there was no outside except for the phone ringing again. I let it. We had D. H. Lawrence, Norman Mailer, triste.
I lighted cigarettes and put the ashtray on her belly. Even tired, groggy, triste, I could see we were a great team. Smoke bloomed, light failed, I savored the world. Before the room became dark I turned on my side to examine her belly and thighs. The PHILLIP’S were in each of the places. All about them like angry birds were: MAX’S, FRANK’S, HUGO’S, SIMON’S.
“For God’s sake,” I said.
I looked into her eyes, she mine. She put out her cigarette, gave me the ashtray, and turned her back to me. I was about to yell, but was stopped by writing down her spine: YOYO’S, MONKEY’S, HOMER’S, THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH STREET SOCIAL AND ATHLETIC CLUB’S.
My voice trickled.
“All right, we’ll do this properly. Get to know one another. I see you’re difficult. Good. Difficulty is an excellent instructor, just the one I need. It’ll extend the reach of my original impressions. I misjudged you, but I appreciate you. I’ll study you like a course. Turn around. Let me kiss you, all right?”
She turned around. I kissed her. She kissed me. We had Henry Miller.
In the shower I scrubbed everyone off front and back and asked her name.
“Cecily,” she said.
“I’m Phillip,” I said, “but you knew that. Cecily? Of course, Cecily.”
I couldn’t have stopped the tears unless I’d chopped out my ducts with an adze. She giggled, stamped her feet, clapped her hands with glee.
Mildred
MILDRED WAS AT THE MIRROR ALL MORNING, cutting and shaping her hair. Then, every hour or so, she came up to me with her head tipped like this, like that, cheeks sucked in, a shine licked across her lips. I said, “Very nice,” and finally I said, “Very, very nice.”
“I’m not pretty.”
“Yes; you’re pretty.”
“I know I’m attractive in a way, but basically I’m ugly.”
“Your hair is very nice.”
“Basically, I hate my type. When I was little I used to wish my name were Terry. Do you like my hair?”
“Your hair is very nice.”
“I think you’re stupid-looking.”
“That’s life.”
“You’re the only stupid-looking boyfriend I ever had. I’ve had stupid boyfriends, but none of them looked stupid. You look stupid.”
“I like your looks.”
“You’re also incompetent, indifferent, a liar, a crook, and a coward.”
“I like your looks.”
“I was told that except for my nose my face is perfect. It’s true.”
“What’s wrong with your nose?”
“I don’t have to say it, Miller.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“My nose, I’ve been told, is a millimeter too long. Isn’t it?”
“I like your nose.”
“Coward. I can forgive you for some things, but cowardice is unforgivable. And I’ll get you for this, Miller. I’ll make you cry.”
“I like your legs.”
“You’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had who was a coward. It’s easy to like my legs.”
“They’re beautiful. I like both of them.”
“Ha. Ha. What about my nose?”
“I’m crazy about your big nose.”
“You dirty, fuck’n aardvark. What about yours, Miller? Tell me
The phone rang.
“His master’s voice,” she said, and snatched it away from me. “Me, this time. Hello.” She smacked it down.
“What was that about?”
“A man.”
“What did he say?”
“Disgusting.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked how much I charged … I don’t care to talk about it.”
“To what?”
“It was disgusting. I don’t care to talk about it, understand. Answer the fuck’n phone yourself next time.”
She dropped onto the bed. “Hideous.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“I was humiliated.”
“Tell me what he said.”
“It must have been one of your stinking friends. I’m going to rip that phone out of the wall. Just hideous, hideous.”
I lay down beside her.
“He asked how much I charged to suck assholes.”
I shut my eyes.
“Did you hear what I said, Miller?”
“Big deal.”
“I was humiliated.”
“You can’t stand intimacy.”
“I’ll rip out the phone if it happens once more. You can make your calls across the street in the bar.”
“He was trying to say he loves you.”
She thrashed into one position, then another, then another. I opened my eyes and said, “Let’s play our game.”
�
�No; I want to sleep.”
“All right, lie still. I want to sleep, too.”
“Then sleep.”
I shut my eyes.
“I’ll play once. You send.”
“Never mind. Let me sleep.”
“You suggested it.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Son of a bitch. Always the same damn shit.”
“I’m sending. Go on.”
“Do you see it clearly?”
“Yes.”
“I see a triangle.”
I didn’t say anything.
“A triangle, that’s all. I see a triangle, Miller. What are you sending?”
“Jesus Christ. Jee-zuss Chrice. I’ve got chills everywhere.”
“Tell me what you were sending.”
“A diamond. First a sailboat with a white, triangular sail, then a diamond. I sent the diamond.”
I turned. Her eyes were waiting for me.
“You and me,” I whispered.
“We’re the same, Miller. Aren’t we?”
I kissed her on the mouth. “If you want to change your mind, say so.”
“I am you,” she whispered, kissing me. “Let’s play more.”
“I’ll call Max and tell him not to come.”
“He isn’t coming, anyway. Let’s play more.”
“I’m sleepy.”
“It’s my turn to send.”
“I’m very sleepy.”
“You are a son of a bitch.”
“Enough. I haven’t slept for days.”
“What about me? Don’t you ever think about me? I warn you, Miller, don’t go to sleep. I’ll do something.”
The Collected Stories Page 6