Cheap Diamonds

by Norris Church Mailer

  I would never be famous like these people, but I missed painting a lot and decided with even more resolve that I was going to try to make the time to get back to it.

  We were only a couple of tables away from the Warhol group, and I gratefully sat down, stashing the duck under the table, while of course Sal went over to speak to them and air-kiss some more. He stood there for a minute telling them one more time how near he had come to death, when Andy leaned over and said something to him in a low voice, and Sal looked back at me, then motioned for me to come over.

  “Cherry, Andy wants to meet you. Andy, this is Cherry.”

  “You can’t be Cherry,” Andy said. “We already have a Cherry. Cherry Vanilla.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, too, Mr. Warhol, but I’m not a Cherry Vanilla, I’m Cherry Marshall.”

  They all laughed like I had said something really funny. I didn’t know if they were making fun of me or laughing at what I had said, which wasn’t particularly funny. One of the women had pretty blue eyes and wild, curly light-brown hair. She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Viva,” she said, “and Andy meant we already know somebody named Cherry Vanilla—in fact there she is, over in the corner.” I looked, and there was a kind of ordinary brown-haired girl sitting in a group next to a guy with long red hair and a green baggy sweatshirt who was standing up on the chair proclaiming something loudly in a foreign language, like he was giving a speech.

  “Is that her with that guy standing up on the chair? What language is he speaking?”

  They all roared with laughter again. I was beginning to be a little confused, and my smile was stiff.

  “That’s Andrew! He’s reciting from Finnegans Wake. He can recite seventeen pages of it!”

  “Finnegans Wake? You mean like James Joyce?”

  “Exactly! You’re a smart girl,” one of the women said.

  “Yeah, well, I went to college.” Even in Arkansas we had heard of James Joyce, although I didn’t necessarily want to tell them I had tried to read some of Finnegans Wake one time but didn’t get even seventeen pages into it. It did seem like a foreign language to me. I couldn’t imagine memorizing any of it. I wondered if the people at the Warhol table had read it. Somehow I didn’t think so. Most of them looked fuzzy-eyed, like they were stoned, and most could have used a good bath. In the chair next to Andy, there was a skinny girl with short white hair and black eye shadow wearing a silver tissue minidress, her head on the table, passed out cold. A little pool of drool had formed under her mouth. Nobody seemed to think it was weird. They just ignored her.

  “So if you can’t be Cherry, what can we call you?” Andy Warhol said.

  “How about Blizzard? That would be a good name for her,” a woman with blue-black hair and purple eye shadow said as she drew in a lungful of cigarette smoke. She was wearing what looked like a black patent-leather bodysuit. I bet she was sweating in it. The room was stifling.

  “Oh, Ultra Violet, that’s no good. Too much like a Dairy Queen drink,” a guy with long shaggy hair said in a slurred voice. “How about Electra? I like Electra. Her hair looks like she stuck her finger in an outlet.” Everyone thought that was hilarious, too, except me.

  Ultra Violet. Cherry Vanilla. Viva. Didn’t anybody have a normal name, like Linda or Mary?

  “Great. I like Electra,” Andy said.

  “Well, thanks, guys, but I kind of like Cherry, since I’m already used to it. Sorry about that other girl. She’ll have to change her name. Maybe she could be Fudgsicle.”

  That really made them roar. I nodded to them and went back to the table with Sal. “Well—you really made a hit with Andy!” Sal gushed. “He never gets that enthused. Maybe he’ll ask you to be in one of his movies.”

  “I don’t think I want to be in one of his movies. I’m not much of an actress.”

  Although I had never seen a whole one, I had read about his movies and seen clips in art class. Most of them were either weird and boring, like a close-up of somebody’s eye that went on for hours, or everybody was naked and stoned.

  “Do you think any of them are actors? You don’t have to act to be a superstar. You just have to have—IT. And you have IT, my sugarplum, in spades.”

  I wasn’t so sure I wanted to have IT, and I wasn’t so sure any of the people at Andy’s table had IT, either. In fact, looking around the room, most of the people seemed like they were on some kind of drugs or drunk or something. People were making out at tables, and some of them were going a little too far. At one of the tables a woman had her top pulled up and you could see her bare breasts. The room swam in red light. It was getting really hot in there. I didn’t know where to look, so I tried to read the menu.

  “Are you going to eat dinner, Sal? I already had pizza with Ron, but I’ll have a Coke or something.”

  “Pizza? Oh, my darling, you have to have something besides that. Pick anything off the menu and it’s on me. Mickey lets me run a tab. In fact, he lets most people run a tab. Once in a while somebody even pays it.”

  A pretty blond waitress who was chewing gum came over.

  “So, what’ll it be, guys? We got steaks, chops, lobster, you know the drill.”

  “Hi, Debbie. I think we’ll have the lobster tails tonight.”

  “Going for broke, huh, Sal? What’d you do, rob a bank? Lobster tails it is. For both of you?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” I said, looking at the price list. “Maybe I’ll just have the fried shrimp.” The lobster tails were $8.95 and the shrimp was $3.50. I didn’t want Sal spending all that money on me, and frankly I had never eaten lobster and didn’t know if I’d like it.

  “No, no, no. You have to have the lobster. Two lobsters, Debbie. And bring on the salad.”

  “Be right out.”

  “I made her night,” he said. “Most people in here usually just get the salad, share it, and eat the rolls. Poor Debbie Harry is the only waitress who will work the back room. She wants to be a singer and likes hanging out with all the singers back here—over there is David Bowie, the one in the blue feather boa, and Lou Reed, the one wearing silver sequins. Lou’s band, the Velvet Underground, plays here. The place is just crawling with singers! The front-room crowd are the bigger tippers, though. And Siberia, the upstairs where the bridge-and-tunnel crowd is shoved—you saw them standing in line—tips the biggest of all. They think they’ll get elevated to the downstairs or something, I guess, poor clueless things.”

  “Don’t these people back here have any money?” I was sure Jane Fonda and Andy Warhol had enough money for lobster if they wanted it.

  “Some do. Though if most of the regulars get a few bucks, they spend it on drugs. A lot of them would be dead if it weren’t for Mickey’s credit and the chickpeas. He’s a saint.”

  I thought of him picking his nose, but that didn’t necessarily make him not a saint. I guess even saints have boogers.

  The menu said STEAKS, SEAFOOD, CHICKPEAS. There was a bowl of them on the table, like peanuts. I ate one, and it was hard and salty.

  “Don’t eat those. They’re dreadful. Save your teeth for the lobster.”

  A beautiful blond girl in a form-fitting blue satin dress came over and gave Sal a big hug.

  “Candy! Don’t you look wonderful! Cherry, I’d like you to meet Candy Darling. She’s the prettiest girl in the room, don’t you think?”

  She was. I said so. She had pale creamy skin and a cute little nose. Her makeup was perfect.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” she said in a soft voice. “You’re pretty yourself.” They giggled, and Sal whispered in my ear that Candy was like him—a chick with a dick. It was hard to believe. Even at close range, she looked exactly like a woman. This evening was getting crazier and crazier. Three more queens came and joined us, Holly Woodlawn, Wayne County, and Jackie Curtis. We talked about the best places to get big-size shoes, which I certainly appreciated, and makeup and hair tricks. I liked them all a lot, and nearly forgot they were men. They would be gre
at girlfriends.

  Then Debbie brought out the lobster. I made a couple of attempts to cut it open, but my knife kept sliding off the shell. Sal noticed me struggling, took pity, and showed me how to tear off the little flippers and shove the meat out with a fork in one chunk. It tasted sweet and came with a small dish of salty butter. It was a little rubbery but not at all fishy. I tried to concentrate on chewing the lobster and not notice what all else was going on in the room, but it was impossible. A woman they called Andrea Whips got up on a table and yelled, “It’s showtime!” then proceeded to take off her clothes while doing a drunk little dance. I thought she was going to fall off the table and land right on top of us, but she caught herself at the last minute every time she started to go over. Everyone was clapping and cheering, and then another girl with long black hair got up on a table right in front of Andy’s group and said, “Hey, Andy! Andy! Look at me! Look at me, you coldhearted bastard! Can I be in one of your movies now?” She had a fork in her hand and started sticking herself in the legs with it, hard. Blood trickled down in four thin rivulets. She kept screaming at him to look at her, all the while jabbing herself harder and harder, but Andy didn’t even look up one time, just kept on talking like nothing was going on. A couple of guys grabbed her and pulled her off the table kicking and screaming. Sal and the others didn’t seem overly concerned with her, or Andrea Whips, either. I guess they were used to stuff like that. But I sure wasn’t. What was I doing there? I couldn’t help but think of my mother and daddy and what they would say if they could see me now. Our preacher, Brother Wilkins, would drag me out by the hair of the head and make me kneel all night on my knees on a rough stone floor and pray for forgiveness for even being in such a place. I started thinking about how to gracefully get up and go home and not hurt Sal’s feelings.

  Before I could say anything, a girl in a minidress made out of a flag came by our table with a plate of brownies and held it out to me. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take one. They’re great.” I took one. Then the girl said, “Only eat half.”

  Well, that was weird. I certainly wasn’t fat, and who was she to tell me to only eat half? I hate it when people who don’t even know you tell you what to do, like what to eat or not eat. A lot of people just assume if you’re a model, you don’t eat anything, and frankly a lot of the girls don’t. They live on coffee and cigarettes and a salad once in a while. But I like food. I bit into the brownie and although it wasn’t the best one I ever ate, it was pretty good. Brownies were my favorite. I guessed the restaurant just passed out dessert after a meal for free, like the free chickpeas. I ate the whole thing, washing it down with the rest of my Coke. I noticed Sal didn’t take a brownie. Candy did, and some of the others, but they didn’t eat the whole thing. After a while, it began to really get hot in there, and I started to sweat. The lobster must have made me sick. My head was beginning to swim and it was hard to draw breath.

  “I have to go to the bathroom, Sal. Be right back.”

  In the hallway, there was a phone booth, and I blinked to clear my eyes as I saw a naked butt pressed against the glass side. The phone booth rocked back and forth, and the windows were all steamed up. I went on past, trying not to look because I was really getting sick and woozy-headed by this time, and pulled open the bathroom door. There was a couple in there, as well, going at it hard and heavy against the sink. They hardly even looked at me. The guy’s pants were down around his ankles and his belt buckle was banging against the floor. I began to panic. What kind of a place was this? I opened the door to run out of the bathroom and slammed right into a man, nearly knocking him over. He grabbed me by the arms, pushing me back inside, and I screamed.

  It was Lale Hardcastle.

  “Hold on, honey! Where’s the fire?” Then he got a good look at me. “Wait a minute! I know you! You’re the girl that was in Bonetti’s studio that day!”

  “You were one of the naked guys,” I finally said, almost in a whisper. How could we be having this conversation right in the women’s bathroom with two people who were doing what they were doing not six feet away from us? My stomach was feeling worse and I was really having a hard time keeping my head together. Far from being able to smack Lale Hardcastle across the face, all I wanted was to get out of there and breathe some fresh air.

  “I was. Sorry about that. I can explain. By the way, my name is Zack Carpenter.”

  “Right. Zack Carpenter. Of course. I have to go.” I tried to push past him, but he still had his hands on my arms. The girl by the sink moaned. The slap-slap of flesh and the clanking of the belt buckle on the floor became faster.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. What’s your name? Where are you from? I’ve been thinking about you ever since that day. I saw your picture in Rouge.”

  He was talking but the words coming out of his mouth sounded like a swarm of bumblebees. I was getting frantic. I felt like if I didn’t get out of there that instant I would start screaming.

  He pulled me close to him and kissed me on the mouth, sticking his tongue down my throat. I couldn’t believe it. I jerked away from him, wiped my mouth with an “Ugh!” and ran out of the room, slamming the door in his face. Then I raced out through the restaurant, past all the famous painters, past Louise Nevelson, who was still holding court at the bar, past Mickey, past Dorothy Dean, past the line of people in suits and nice dresses and out into the night. I ignored the voices that were calling after me. If I didn’t run home right this minute, a red-horned demon was going to grab me and take me straight down to hell.

  I didn’t even look at the lights—I just ran without stopping. Crossing Park Avenue South, I nearly got hit by a car. The driver slammed on the brakes and started yelling at me. Horns were honking like crazy, but I didn’t care. I got to Fifth Avenue and ran down to Twelfth Street, not stopping once, hardly drawing breath. I think Lale had come out of Max’s after me, but I didn’t know for sure. I had never been much of a runner, but right then, there was nobody, nobody, nobody who could catch me. Just as I got to the safety of my block, out of nowhere, somebody jumped out and grabbed me, and then I did start screaming. He put his hand over my mouth and pulled me into the shadows.

  “Cherry. Hush, baby. It’s me. It’s Aurelius. Stop screaming, Cherry. You going to rouse the cops.”

  “Aurelius?” He held me in his arms and I was so scared that I was shaking like a trailer house in a tornado.

  “What happened, baby? What’s after you?”

  “I don’t know. A boy. A man. The devil. I don’t know.”

  “What are you on?”

  “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  “I mean drugs. What kind of drugs did you take?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t take any drugs. I ate some lobster. I ate a brownie. I drank a Coke. I don’t know. I feel sick. I’m scared. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  “A brownie? Where did you get it?”

  “Somebody at Max’s Kansas City gave it to me. Some girl dressed in a flag. I don’t know.”

  “It was probably a pot brownie. Those things can be lethal. Can you throw up?”

  “I don’t know.” He took me to the curb and stuck his finger down my throat. For the second time that night, I gagged, and this time I threw up a river of chocolate with green specks and white lumps of lobster in it. It was disgusting. But he didn’t seem disgusted. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped my mouth. Then we sat on the nearest stoop for a few minutes.

  “Are you any better?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. I think so.”

  “We’re nearly home. Let’s try to go on.”

  We got to our house and he opened the door and we started up the stairs. Mrs. Digby had her eye to the crack of her door as we passed.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Digby,” he said, like we had just been out for a stroll. “I hope you had a lovely one.”

  The door closed and we went on up to our floor, him half carrying me up the steep stairs. Aurelius got the key out of my bag.


  “Ouch!” he said as he banged his head on the little door leading into my room. “I forgot about that thing. I lived in this apartment when I first came here. You and me, we’re too big for rooms like this.”

  He went into the bathroom and started running hot water into the tub. I didn’t feel like the demon was after me anymore, and was shaking a little less, but I still felt awful. A pot brownie. Maybe that’s why the flag girl had said to just eat half.

  “Come on. Let’s get you in the tub. That’ll relax you. Come on. It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  My arms and legs felt too heavy to move, and I was in a floaty place where I didn’t really care what I did, so I let him undress me and put me in the tub. It didn’t even feel strange. I sank down in the warm water up to my neck while he sat on the toilet top beside me and talked and sang to me, stories about him growing up in the cotton patch, funny old songs by Hank Williams or Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. “Hey, good-lookin’! What’cha got cookin’? How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me?” He had a great voice. I slowly began to relax and finally, when the water got cold, he handed me a towel.

  “Where’s your nightgown?”