City Light

by Harry Mazer

  “My new—? Oh, you mean—” She half-smiled. “Not always—are you glad to hear that? But I’m not sorry, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I am.” I stared at her. I had a full spoon raised to my lips and there it stayed. “I’m sorry,” I said. I threw off the smiling, cheerful idiot disguise. “I’m very sorry.”

  Julie had her hand on her cheek, her head cocked, held back as if she didn’t want to look at me directly. “Why be so sorry? This gives you a chance, too, a chance to do things differently.”

  I moved my chair closer to hers and slipped my arm around her. I didn’t want to hear about the letter again. “I missed you,” I said, and I kissed her. I had some movie image of myself in mind. You know, the old you-can-talk-and-talk-but-actions-speak-louder-than-words bit. I kissed her. I didn’t think she held back. I thought her kiss was as strong as mine. I put my hand over hers, and when we stopped kissing there was that soft swimmy look on her face. So I kissed her again, or tried to, but this time she pulled away.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You’re not,” she said. “You’re not sorry a bit.”

  “You’re right.”

  She pushed her chair back. “You still don’t understand, do you, George?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know what that letter was all about. I don’t know what kind of craziness you’re up to. All I know is I miss you and I think you miss me. The way you just kissed me—”

  “You don’t want to understand,” she said. “You want what you want, and you’re not even thinking about what I tried to tell you or what I want.”

  I was smiling at her, holding on to that smile, holding on to the idea that the kiss had told me everything I needed to know. “Julie—come back.”

  “George, I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

  “Julie, please—”

  “George, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for work.”

  We walked outside together. “See you around, then,” I said.

  “Are we friends?” Julie said. “I want to stay friends, George.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if I want to be friends with you.”

  “We’re friends,” she said.

  “Sure,” I said, and I walked away.

  When Troy first started going with Chris, he used to ask me questions about Julie. How had we managed to stay together so long? Was it sex? What about sex? Didn’t it get dull with the same person? What did we talk about? From which I gathered that he liked Chris a lot and was wondering how long they would last.

  He claimed he couldn’t understand me and Julie, the mystery of the two of us together for so many years. How could I go with one girl so long without being bored out of my skull? “You’re together all the time … in her house.… Well, that’s it, then. You’re one horny cat.” He gave me an evil look, as if now he knew everything. It was sex. Had to be. What else could make a guy stay with a girl not just month after month, but year after year? Sex—that’s what it was.

  “You and Julie,” he said once.

  “Yeah, me and Julie, what?”

  “Nothing, forget it.” But then he said suddenly, with that open-faced look, “I envy you.”

  Once I thought I was worth envying.

  And another time he asked me, “What do you really think about Julie?”

  “I like Julie.” It was such a limp thing to say. Like Julie? I liked bluefish. I liked my suede jacket. I liked to drive my father’s car. Liked? I like Julie? It wasn’t a pimple on the real feeling I had for her.

  Now, though, when I told Troy I wasn’t seeing Julie anymore, he didn’t say anything comforting. “You’ve joined the human race.” That was all. Didn’t ask why, what, or anything.

  I was home, restless, couldn’t stand my own thoughts, and went into Joanne’s room to play with the computer. I got Top Hat back on the chatmode. We “talked.” Nothing much as far as I was concerned. Stuff that didn’t matter. Killing time stuff.

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, TELL ME TWO THINGS YOU HATE.”

  “WHY?”

  “WANT TO FIND OUT ABOUT YOU. OKAY?”

  “I HATE … NOT KNOWING WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TOMORROW. LETTERS THAT DON’T ARRIVE. WRONG NUMBERS. GUYS WHO NEVER HAVE PROBLEMS. I COULD GO ON. HOW ABOUT YOU, TOP HAT?”

  “EMPTY ROOMS. DOGS. GREEN-PLAID PANTS.”

  “I CAN’T STAND THE SIGHT OF BLOOD.”

  “YOUR OWN OR OTHER PEOPLE’S BLOOD?”

  “ANYONE’S. I’D NEVER MAKE A GOOD DOCTOR.”

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, HOW CAN YOU BE FEMALE AND HATE YOUR OWN BLOOD?”

  Female? I stared at the screen. Female? My own blood? I didn’t get it, and then I did.

  Top Hat thought I was a girl.

  Where did he get that idea? From my handle? Beauty Parlor? Because, presumably, only girls didn’t like the sight of blood? What about nurses? Or was it something about the way I said things? I thought about that for a moment and rejected it. I didn’t have any problems about being a boy. No identity crises.

  Then something else occurred to me. Why was I so sure Top Hat was a he? Was this a double case of wrong assumptions? Was he, Top Hat, a he, or what? Maybe what we had here was a “he” (Top Hat) who was a she, and a “she” (me) who was a he.

  This was a nice mix-up.

  “TOP HAT, FOR YOUR INFO, I’M NOT A.…” And then I stopped, went back, deleted it. Because there was something embarrassing about this whole situation, yes, but something intriguing, too. I started over again, playing around, playing for time, playing it by ear. “HOW ABOUT YOU? HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT BLOOD?”

  “DOESN’T BOTHER ME.”

  “DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I’VE ALWAYS BEEN THAT WAY ABOUT BLOOD. HAD A NOSEBLEED ONCE AND PANICKED. JULIE MADE ME LIE DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND PACKED TOILET PAPER INTO MY NOSE.”

  “WHO’S JULIE? YOUR SISTER?”

  “BEST FRIEND. GIRLFRIEND.” Not exactly a lie. No, it wasn’t a lie at all. But it was less than the truth. “AT LEAST SHE USED TO BE MY BEST FRIEND.”

  “WHAT HAPPENED?”

  “YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE.”

  “YOU HAD A FIGHT?”

  “NO, I COULD UNDERSTAND THAT. SHE JUST DECIDED WE’D BEEN FRIENDS LONG ENOUGH.”

  “JUST LIKE THAT? SOUNDS PRETTY COLD-BLOODED TO ME. WERE YOU FRIENDS A LONG TIME?”

  “SIX YEARS. CAN WE CHANGE THE SUBJECT? I’M STILL HURTING OVER THIS.” Then Joanne appeared, and I signed off. “HAVE TO GO NOW. MY SISTER, THE COMPUTER OWNER, IS HERE.”

  “TALK TO YOU TOMORROW, BEAUTY PARLOR?”

  “COULD BE.”

  Later, thinking about Top Hat, I couldn’t pinpoint anything in the conversation that would prove “he” was a boy … or a girl. So the mystery remained. Then I thought how I’d let him/her or her/him go on believing that I was a girl. I felt a little funny about it. But I hadn’t done it deliberately. I hadn’t out-and-out lied. I’d just neglected a few facts. If we ever talked again, I’d set it straight. Or not. Depending on how I felt.

  Anyway, the mix-up and the mystery added an element of spice and kookiness to the situation that intrigued me. Made me look forward to talking to Top Hat again. I suppose what I liked was the game element. The idea of: Who was Top Hat? And could I do it again? Could I keep it going? Get away with having Top Hat believe I was a girl?

  Well, it wasn’t world-shaking, but it was something to think about, and its big virtue was that it was some-thing-not-Julie to think about.

  Chapter 11

  “WHERE DO YOU LIVE?” Top Hat asked.

  “OVER THE G. W. BRIDGE.”

  “NEW JERSEY?”

  “HOW’D YOU GUESS?” I two-fingered out, “AND YOU?”

  “NEW YORK CITY.”

  “CITY MOUSE AND COUNTRY MOUSE.”

  “IS JERSEY LIKE THE COUNTRY?”

  “WELL … NOT EXACTLY,” I Said. “BUT IT’S SURE NOT NEW YORK.”

  “OR CHAMPION, EITHER.”

  “WHERE’S THAT?”

&n
bsp; “ILLINOIS. WHERE I COME FROM. I’M REALLY A COUNTRY HICK.”

  Male hick? Female hickess?

  “WHAT’S NEW JERSEY LIKE?” Top Hat said. “I’VE NEVER BEEN THERE, JUST HEARD PLENTY OF NEW JOISEY JOKES.”

  “JOISEY IS JUST FINE. IT’S MY HOME AND I LIKE IT.”

  Talking to Top Hat was a game, a game of wits, a guessing game. How much could I tell, being absolutely truthful—well, pretty truthful—and still not give away the game? How much could I say and not clue him/her in that she/he was talking to George Farina?

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE?”

  Would a guy ask me that?

  “I DON’T HAVE A BEARD. OR A MUSTACHE. OR HAIR ON MY CHEST.”

  “I SHOULD HOPE NOT. WHAT ELSE?”

  “DARK-HAIRED.”

  “TALL?”

  “NO.”

  “AVERAGE?”

  “SHORT.”

  “THIN?” Top Hat asked.

  “NOT PARTICULARLY.”

  “PRETTY?”

  “NOT AT ALL.” Was “he” disappointed?

  “ARE YOU BEING MODEST?”

  “TRUTHFUL. NO ONE EVER CALLED ME PRETTY.” George, you’re getting good at this.

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, BEING PRETTY IS NOT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WORLD. TAKE IT FROM ME.”

  “ARE YOU PRETTY?” Now you’re getting to it, George.

  “SOME PEOPLE SAY I’M WEIRD, SOME PEOPLE SAY I’M WIRED.”

  Weird female? Wired male? Or vice-versa?

  “ARE YOU SHORT?” I asked.

  “TALL.”

  “HOW TALL?”

  “FIVE ELEVEN-AND-A-HALF.”

  Five eleven-and-a-half? That settled it. Male.

  “ARE YOU A BASKETBALL PLAYER?” I asked.

  “NOW AND THEN. HOW ABOUT YOU?”

  “THAT’S NOT MY SPORT.”

  “I DON’T PLAY ANY GAMES NOW. I JUST DANCE.”

  Dance? That settled it. Female. But maybe not. Guys danced, too.

  “DO YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?” Top Hat asked.

  “FRIEND WHO IS A BOY, YES.” Clever, George. “A FOOTBALL PLAYER AND A PIANO PLAYER.”

  “YOU’VE GOT TWO BOYFRIENDS?”

  “NO, JUST ONE.”

  “A FOOTBALL PLAYER WHO PLAYS THE PIANO? OR IS IT A PIANO PLAYER WHO PLAYS FOOTBALL?”

  “EITHER WAY.”

  “IS HE SEXY?”

  What did I say to that? “NOT TO ME.”

  “WHAT KIND OF BOYFRIEND IS HE, THEN?”

  “ORDINARY, WE’RE GOOD FRIENDS, THAT’S ALL.”

  A good thing Joanne was a sound sleeper because I was in her room every night that week, hacking it with Top Hat. My parents’ light was out. The house was dark, quiet; the only thing to be heard was the low hum of the computer, the quiet clicking of the keys.

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, YOU THERE?” Top Hat came on. No hi’s, no hello’s, no how are you’s. This was shooting straight from the hip. “BEAUTY PARLOR! HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR PARENTS?”

  “ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10? MY DAD’S ABOUT A 7. MY MOM’S AN 8½. WHY?”

  “MY FATHER’S A 2 TODAY! HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HOME AND HE’S NOT HERE. I SHOULD HATE MY FATHER. I WISH I DID. I CAN’T. PITIFUL 2!”

  “HOW ABOUT YOUR MOTHER?”

  “DON’T LIVE WITH MY MOTHER. SHE’S REMARRIED. I HATE MY STEPFATHER. HE’S A MINUS SIXTY-SIX. DON’T WANT TO TALK. DEPRESSED. SIGNING OFF NOW.”

  I didn’t tell anyone about Top Hat. We were computer pals, we had an electronic relationship, something separate and apart from my everyday life. Someday I’d tell Julie about it. I made a friend, Julie, a very good friend. After all, it wasn’t so bad being without you. I made this friend, this computer nut, this hacker, this ghost in the machine, this guy-gal, this he-she, this dancer, this weird, wired someone I was getting to really like with’ out even knowing if it was a he-someone or a she-someone.…

  And does it matter?

  One night, on chatmode with Top Hat, I started talking about Julie. I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to walk the edge. Or maybe I wasn’t thinking anything, just needed to talk about her.

  “I HAVE THIS FRIEND.”

  “ANOTHER GUY?”

  George, you almost gave yourself away. “WALSH,” I said. “THIS FRIEND—WAS—IS—WAS—WAS A FRIEND.”

  “WHY WAS?”

  “WALSH SAYS WE’VE STUCK TO EACH OTHER TOO MUCH. SAYS WE HAVE TO GET OUT AND MEET OTHER PEOPLE. WE’VE KNOWN EACH OTHER SINCE WE WERE TWELVE YEARS OLD.”

  “TELL WALSH YOU’RE DOING IT. YOU’VE MET ME! TRA-LA!”

  Tra-la? Aha! “TRA-LA YOURSELF.”

  “ARE YOU LAFFING? I LIKE TO MAKE PEOPLE LAFF. DOES WALSH MAKE YOU LAFF?”

  “SOMETIMES. MOSTLY, NO. A PRETTY SERIOUS PERSON.”

  That week I made a rule for myself. No talking about Julie to Top Hat. No thinking about Julie, no daydreaming, no pretending things were going to work out. No Julie in the mind. I was going to think about something else. Other girls, food, Troy, Top Hat.… Think about avocados, anything at all but Julie. Thinking about her was like being sick, like being subjected to the Chinese water torture, like having a faucet dripping a drop at a time in my head.

  On the radio, someone wailed, “I just caa-aan’t live without chewwww … my pore heart is breakin’ an’ blewwwww …” My heart seemed fine, but the rest of me I wasn’t so sure about. I started going to the gym every day after school and working out in the wrestling room, concentrating on all the basic moves. When I wrestled, I never thought about Julie.

  And I talked to Top Hat a lot. That was my big distraction.

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, I THINK YOU DRESS SORT OF QUIET AND CONSERVATIVE. IS THAT TRUE?”

  “CLOSE ENOUGH. CHINOS AND MOCS.”

  “WE ARE VERY DIFFERENT! I’M ANYTHING BUT CONSERVATIVE. WHICH IS A GOOD THING. FRIENDS SHOULD BE DIFFERENT. WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO DO IN YOUR SPARE TIME?”

  “WRESTLING.”

  “QUIET, CONSERVATIVE, AND YOU LIKE WRESTLING?”

  George you just blew it. How are we going to get out of this one?

  “IF YOU EVER TRIED WRESTLING, YOU’D KNOW THERE’S NO FEELING SO GREAT AS GETTING YOUR OPPONENT PINNED.”

  “BEAUTY PARLOR, I DIDN’T KNOW GIRLS WRESTLED.”

  “YOU NEVER HEARD OF MUD WRESTLING?”

  “I THOUGHT IT WAS A BIG SHOWBOAT. IS THAT WHAT YOU DO?”

  “NO. THE REAL STUFF.”

  “WHERE?”

  “AT MY SCHOOL.” George, how long can you keep this going? It was like juggling. First I had two oranges in the air, now I had three.

  “DO MANY GIRLS GO OUT FOR WRESTLING IN YOUR SCHOOL?”

  “NO.”

  “YOU’RE A PIONEER.”

  “NOT REALLY.”

  “YOU’RE MODEST, BEAUTY PARLOR.”

  “NOT REALLY.”

  “YOU’RE STRONG. ANYBODY WHO WRESTLES HAS TO BE STRONG.”

  “THIS IS TRUE.”

  “I’D LIKE TO TRY MUD WRESTLING. WALLOW AROUND LIKE A PIG IN A BIG WET MUDPIE. SOUNDS LIKE FUN. I’LL TRY ANYTHING ONCE. WELL, MOST ANYTHING.… DID YOU EVER ENTER A WET T-SHIRT CONTEST?”

  “NO!”

  “WOULD YOU?”

  “I’M NOT BUILT FOR IT.” Here it is, George. The big question. “DID YOU EVER ENTER A WET T-SHIRT CONTEST, TOP HAT?”

  “HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT … YES. AND I WON.”

  Chapter 12

  The Cliffside Growlers, our girls’ basketball team, was playing the Greenfield Panthers for the county championship. “I’m going,” Troy said. “You want to come?”

  Greenfield was Julie’s school. I figured it all out in a moment: I’d ask Julie to go—no date, just a friendly foursome. Afterward, we’d all go out for food. Julie and I would be together, but with other people. Wasn’t that at least half of what she wanted? She’d always liked Troy; I remember once she’d said he had an interesting mind. Interesting. One of Julie’s favorite words. I saw the four of us afterward in Troy’s truck. They’d be tal
king and I’d sit back, putting in a remark here and there, idly playing with Julie’s fingers. She’d see that we could do things with other people and still be together.

  I phoned Julie. Beth answered. “Doesn’t Julie ever answer the phone?” I said.

  “You’re lucky you got me, George. Make it fast. I’m getting ready to go out. If he ever shows up.”

  “Where is Julie this time?”

  “She’s out with Martin.”

  “Who?”

  “Cousin Martin from Rockport, Mass.”

  “I didn’t know she had a cousin in Rockport.”

  “Yes, George, she has a cousin in Rockport and so do I.”

  And did she have a cousin in Brockport and Hyannisport, Eelport, and Airport? “Tell her to call me when she comes in.”

  “Will do.”

  The minute I hung up, I called again. “Beth, do you give Julie my messages?”

  “George, I do. Every time.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “Listen, George, could I say something? This is serious. No jokes. I’m four years older than you, and I’ve had things happen to me.”

  “No, Beth. Don’t say it. I know what you’re going to say.”

  “George, really, it hurts me to see you like this.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I hung up. I didn’t want her pity. Ridicule me, despise me, but don’t feel sorry for me.

  That was Thursday. Friday I called Julie around five o’clock when I knew the whole family was home. It was masochistic. I had promised myself I wouldn’t do it. But I didn’t know when to quit.

  “George?” her mother said. “Julie just ran out to the store for me. She ought to be back in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know if she’s going to be home tonight?”

  “No, I’m not sure what her plans are.”

  I hung up and started waiting again. Waiting is hell itself. Waiting for a phone call that, in your heart, you know is never going to come. I told everyone to keep off the phone. I set the timer and paced up and down, listening to it tick off the seconds. When it rang at ten minutes, I got an itch down my back imagining that Julie had just walked into her apartment. Okay, now her mother was giving her the message. George called ten minutes ago. Call him back.

  I set the timer again. I’d give her another ten minutes.… Bong! Right. Here we go. Julie has just walked in.… George called.… She goes straight to the phone.… Or is it straight to the bathroom? I’m sorry, George, she’s not available.…