Hollywood Savage

  I am fucked, my dear, well and truly, I say, wincing at how literally the words could be taken.

  Work not going well? Isabel’s voice full of real sympathy (one of only three editors for an online ’zine, she’s well acquainted w/ the dread that accompanies any creative assignment, the incipient deadline).

  Not going well would be an improvement, I confess.

  Uh-oh.

  Not why I called, Iz, I say.

  No, sure, you want to hear about somebody else’s misery, call me, right?

  I want sordid, lurid, spare me no detail.

  She laughs her throaty, smoker’s laugh, seductive and raspy, says, Especially lurid, yeah?

  What’ve I been missing?

  What haven’t you? she rejoins, and though she tosses this off as lightly as the rest, I feel my stomach lurch and coil, feel sure she’s trying to tell me something (without, of course, betraying Maggie—her first, her original, her only, BFF), but before I can respond, she continues:

  I actually thought, for a whole minute there, that I’d met him—I mean really, him, the Man, the Great One.

  Again?

  Oh forget it, I was wrong, I can’t even—

  Wrong as in—don’t tell me, Iz, another gay one—

  Fuck off, Miles, and NO, by the way, just the opposite—this guy was so macho he owned a goddamn gun, can you believe that? Me sleeping next to a guy with a gun in his nightstand?

  Of course, you liked it.

  This is greeted with such a mad fit of giggles, know I’m right.

  He ate red meat for breakfast, I go on. Drank whiskey for lunch, and fucked coeds for dinner—

  He hunted, he grunted, she says. The whole bit.

  The strong but silent type.

  Now there’s an understatement, she groans. The problem was how much—just—bullshit I read into those silences—God, Miles, you’d think I’d know better…

  Love is blind, I offer.

  As a fucking bat, she says.

  So what happened?

  Haven’t you ever been, she starts to say, then stops (the abrupt way she’ll cut herself off, meaning it’s something she doesn’t want to admit; naturally I’m all over her—)

  Been what, Iz—what, what!

  You, you, you know, she says. In love. So (taking a deep breath, I can just see her rolling her eyes, repossessing herself). In. Love! And then something—I don’t know, something they do, or, Christ, wear (this last made me shudder slightly, an involuntary gesture of empathy for whomever she’s remembering in whatever godforsaken outfit, the poor, sad, nonmetrosexual bastard)…

  —Or suddenly come out with something like “Reagan was the best president this country’s ever seen”—and the whole edifice—you know, the one you’ve built on the skeleton this person’s offered you, making him mysterious, wildly intelligent, ultra-deep, but in a nonverbal way—

  When in fact he’s just an alcoholic asshole who doesn’t ever start talking? I conclude for her.

  Precisely, she goes on. And suddenly, bam! You realize that while this person looks a lot like the person you’re in love with—looks exactly like him, in fact—he doesn’t, actually, exist—not anymore, anyway…

  We are both silent, then, doubtlessly remembering phantasms past.

  It’s hard to sustain illusion, never let anybody tell you otherwise, she ends sorrowfully.

  Even when you so badly want it to be true? I ask, not forgetting this is, after all, Isabel, she of the psych Pee Aich Dee, citer of a thousand studies, our resident expert, “experience” collector (“more like specimen,” as Maggie once said)—a baiter, at least, if not exactly a fisher of men.

  Wanting it so badly is the only thing keeps it going, she says. But it sure takes a lotta psychic energy to repress all the evidence to the contrary … and inevitably one day you’re gonna be vulnerable—simple sleep deprivation, say, so your guard’s down—and that evidence’s gonna slap you right across the face—it’s so! Rude!

  What happens then? I ask—not because I couldn’t guess, but because I always want to hear Izzy’s narratives through, for the casual madness of any given scenario (presented, predictably, as your simple, ordinary example of typical life), always an impromptu little life lesson with matching advice (case in point):

  Then you just better hope you got your own ride there so you can turn around and get your sweet little ass on home, she finished, as grim as Izzy ever gets— I don’t know about you, but once I realize I’ve made ’em up, I can’t so much as look them in the eye again.

  I wouldn’t know, I mutter, and she laughs—thinking of, then saying it, Can you imagine anyone having the gall to invent Maggie?

  In a blinding flash I remember tripping on ecstasy years and years ago, asking Maggie if she truly believed that we created our own realities, and when she said yes, I’d whispered, Then I must be a genius, because I created you…

  The memory like a cramp around my heart—actually have to lie back, lifting my feet off the floor for the first time in what feels like years. I must sigh, because when Isabel speaks, her voice is soft.

  You sound tired, Miles.

  You have no idea.

  Listen, Christ, don’t wait so long next time, huh?

  I promise, Iz.

  Call it a night, then?

  I’ll talk to you soon.

  Sooner, she raises me (queen of the last word).

  I hung up, closed my eyes, aware of the city coursing below, above, all around me. Without even bothering to close the curtains, without so much as bending to unlace my shoes, I bunched the pillows under my head and sank into blessed nothingness.

  —3 may, Hotel Chelsea, NYC

  New York, first day. The time difference perfect, no adjustment necessary; woke up around 9:30 LA time, thus making it past noon before I opened my eyes. Which of course was just fine, because noon in Manhattan is still considered morning (remember during my deformative years in the East Village, Sunday brunch was served till five P.M.), and I never so much as considered sleep before three A.M.—or, for that matter, had dinner before nine…

  It feels good to be here, “back East” (“back East” I mouth, mocking myself), here where you can still feel the old world laced through it all, beneath, around, below, diagonally, it is inexorable—it is New York—and nowhere does this bloom more openly than in the New Yorker … New Yorkers with their European facades, languages, history, faces, hours. (New Yorkers with our, goddamn it.)

  Went out briefly for a cup of coffee at a Greek diner—asked for a regular, got it with a generous splash of milk and big sugar pour, then picked up the obscenely fat Sunday paper, happily anticipating diving into the Book Review, feeling more like a native with every doorway entered, every purchase made, every footstep taken.

  Walking back to the Chelsea, it’s a relief to feel yesterday’s weird heat wave having subsided, and suddenly I was shockingly aware of how unutterably gorgeous an early May day can be here, the sky washed a clean, cerulean blue, the temperature perfectly mild, the breeze carrying just enough of winter’s undertow to make goose bumps rise along my arms, ruffle the hair at the back of my neck (had forgotten this—how much New York is like a woman, with its sudden, irrational changes of climate, insufferable and hugely welcome at the same time).

  Back in my room, cranked the windows wide & lay back on the bed to work my way through the paper, lighting the first (and, to be perfectly honest, the best) of the day’s cigarettes (Maggie used to roll her eyes watching me suck the smoke down, and say “The smoking adventure has begun!”).

  Because it was the weekend, I imagined her at home; she’d only just be rising herself, wearing the white silk robe she favored (does she still?) when she didn’t have to rush to dress, a pot of coffee spicing the air, the same Times spread richly all around her.

  I specifically did not imagine him there, lying idle in his boxers, half-naked and insolent, idly scratching his stomach, reaching occasionally to kiss her (w/ tongue). No, didn’t pi
cture that at all.

  Pushing the paper aside, I rolled over on my stomach, aware of an exhaustion so deep it felt like illness, my eyes like sandpaper; closed them for a second, knew I’d never sleep.

  When I opened them again, it was dusk.

  For one long minute lay blinking into the room’s shadows, having absolutely no idea where I was, and it wasn’t till I heard the din of traffic streaming through the windows that it all came rushing back.

  My tongue felt thick, had the consistency of cardboard (but drier). I staggered to the bathroom, stuck my mouth underneath the cold water tap, taking great, brain-numbing gulps, tasting the city’s tap water’s unlikely purity, the blessed absence of the terrible chlorine aftertaste you get in LA, so strong it made bottled water a necessity rather than luxury.

  Felt a lot better after I took a shower, using the hotel towels w/ the abandon of every slovenly guest, leaving them heaped and sodden.

  Although I wouldn’t think about it, not for a second, I knew where I was going before I stepped out of the lobby; I am Savage, this thought did get through; I’ve come home to spy.

  I grabbed a cab, directed the young Sikh driver to the loft in SoHo (it persists, my apparent inability to say “home” or even “my place”—it’s just “the loft,” an enviable amount of real estate square footage in prime Manhattan neighborhood); the address given on my driver’s license, four numbers plus one letter in a row of numbers… signifying, exactly, nothing.

  By the time I paid the cabbie, my insides were roiling, my temples beginning to throb. I emerged onto Broome Street and took my keys out, fumbled like a new tenant w/ the locks, telling myself my heart was pounding louder, louder, and louder because I climbed up to the top floor, ignoring the elevator, suddenly needing as much time as I could possibly buy.

  At the door, I stopped, caught my breath. There would be no knocking; not, as my friend Spoder used to say, happening. Instead, unlocked the front door w/ a stealth that would make even the Mossad proud—let myself in without a single sound.

  Knew at once the place was empty—only then did I call out hello, voice cautious but loud.

  Nothing.

  Tried (unsuccessfully) not to feel criminal as I walked through it, mind in overdrive, taking note of everything.

  It had been left abruptly, this was clear—clothes were caught by, spilling from, their drawers. I checked: she had taken her favorite lingerie (slate gray La Perla, which I fucking bought her one extravagant Valentine’s Day).

  Ashtray full of cigarettes in the kitchen—meant what? Could be anyone—Isabel, maybe even Maggie in a rebellious phase … (in fact, there was no doubt in my mind whom they belonged to. Motherfucker).

  I rolled in between the sheets, I put them over my head. Was it sex or just her I smelled?

  Rolled out, disgusted. In my own home, like some private DICK. I need an Rx, I thought, I need a fucking shrink.

  Heard myself make an animal sound, a cross between growling and a howl, and for the second time in one day felt the threat of tears thickening my throat, threatening my eyes.

  Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  Coming back, the evening’s turned balmy, the breeze itself a sweet, almost tropical caress against my face, everything bathed in a kind of gilded haze—a twilight that is half carbon monoxide, half sweet salt air.

  It’s so nice, I just keep walking, the tension fading with each block I put between myself and—the loft. (Maggie’s place, I try, and have to stop in my tracks. Oh fuck no. NOT happening.) Concentrate instead on being outside, on being here.

  Covering the distance between SoHo and Chelsea, I’m eventually lulled by the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, and hypnotized by the hundreds of people I pass, this city’s endless parade of characters—real faces, with expressions created by trial, effort, work; by unexpected bouts of happiness and four seasons per year’s worth of weather. I see faces untouched (for the most part), by Botox or surgery, faces that show their real age, and a good number of those easily past sixty (an anomaly rarely found in LA); everybody’s eyes glitter, it seems to me, with promise and depth.

  It feels as though the evening itself has fallen over my shoulders like the lightest of cloaks; a friend’s embrace. Find the city’s sounds, people and traffic, snatches of music, the rustle of leaves, pure comfort—the inexpressible comfort of being home.

  Sense it as soon as I swerve through the Chelsea’s doors: something’s different, something’s off. Break into an instant sweat, the sudden panic of being found out—and then I see her.

  She’s sitting in the lobby, both on the edge of her seat and hunched into herself, as if she has been waiting in this position for so long that the tenterhooks themselves have sunk in roots.

  It is only when she lifts her small, white face up to me, not quite believing her own eyes, that I’m flooded by the force of her presence in my life. Acknowledge it to myself for the first time, how she has edged everyone, every place, to the periphery, and insinuated herself so deeply in me that when I see myself reflected in her eyes, I have the deep sense, an almost physical feeling, of the universe slotting itself back into place. My fists unclench, and I lift my hands, palms showing, toward her.

  In a second she’s in my arms.

  How did you, I start, but she won’t let me speak, she is covering my face in kisses, kisses like hot pepper, inflaming as she goes—

  I tracked you down, she said. It doesn’t matter—the thought of you gone, that maybe you’d never come back—I realized none of it mattered—not that stupid woman, nothing—I made up such a lie, I told Will—

  But it was my turn to cut her off while I asked the guy behind the desk for my key.

  How long? I asked, sweeping her close to my side, heading for the elevator.

  Three days, she answered, speaking the words as if enunciating the winning lottery numbers.

  —4 may, NYC

  That first night with her, my forbidden love, in the city of cities, in my city, seeing it through Lucy’s eyes, was incomparable.

  As if performing for her, the bedazzled tourist, New York was out in its all exuberant mongrel finery, the weather perfection, talent—not the prepackaged, publicized, airbrushed LA kind, but just raw, pure, agenda-free, paraded the streets, with me as the puffed-up, prideful emcee, trying to stop the ridiculous proprietary sentiment that kept welling up (this is mine, this is me, this is it, you are here) from percolating up and out.

  We walked everywhere, all the way down Broadway to the beginning of farthest West East Village, because that is—or at least, used to be (back in the day, as they say—in mine and Maggie’s day, the amendment won’t be refused) the city’s true melting pot, where one can (could) glimpse its heart…

  It was hard, even through my own euphoric haze, not to notice how much less raggedy (as in money-money-money-money) it’s become, streets overly abundant in rich little trust fund daddys’ girls doing their best Top Model struts, shouting their inanities into cell phones clipped to their ears—accessories that made them look part machine. Stepford Borgs, I thought, and ignored them, going out of my way to find, to point out the people I recognized as the E. Vil’s true denizens—

  Like the group of gorgeous young Latinos goofing off, the newer, sleeker boom boxes propped like nothing on their shoulders, dancing around pairs of Ukrainian teenagers still dressed for church but freed of their parents’ chaperonage—while their language was totally foreign, they chattered and shriek-giggled in the universal way of the female teenager.

  Interwoven throughout were what I could only think were statistically anomalous numbers of truly stunning women—women with cocoa-colored skin and Asian eyes, women with flaming red hair and terrific tits strolling by in five-inch stilettos, gypsy women with wild hair and a waterfall of nose rings, dressed in multicolored layers, sweeps of liquid eyeliner outlining coal black eyes, dozens of bangles clinking musically on their wrists…

  As different as they wer
e from each other, they all each had a New York woman’s unique bearing, both totally aware and not in the least self-conscious of their own allure, a city-bred arrogance; it seemed to me they knew themselves to be perfect, a feeling one can only truly maintain while still young enough to suspend disbelief in one’s own mortality.

  It was contagious, all that energy, it pulsed through you, an indiscriminate, manic, loud, joyful, furious, throbbing, wild energy, keeping to the beat of music blasting from car stereos, soaring from wide-open apartment windows—I even caught percussion from the iPods jammed in people’s ears, the skyline blurred with springtime.

  We swerved from caffeine to mimosas, Bloody Marys to Camparis, going from café to bistro to bar, staying less than an hour at each place, then proceeded to use the same blueprint for lunch, starting with Afghani appetizers at the Khyber Pass on St. Marks Place (admittedly the tackiest street, but I really did love the food), before stopping at a little Russian place that had sprung up in my absence for, we both agreed, the perfect blini, freshly baked and heaped with caviar and sour cream, before retracing our steps to have a real meal at the Mexican Grill on Sixth Street, where I led Lucy through the cool dark inner room and out into the unexpected garden in the back, fenced off from the street and festive with paper lanterns and big earthen pots of wildflowers.

  It was gratifying to find that the young Indian girl who took our orders remembered me (but, equally gratifyingly, not my name), and served us guacamole on the house when she brought our pitcher of frozen margaritas.

  Lucy was wearing a white dress I’d never seen before that tied behind her neck, dipped low to reveal cleavage, creamy and sweet, her tanned bare arms; the smattering of freckles across her nose had never been more endearing, her eyes never more purely Caribbean blue-green.

  We kept leaning across the table to kiss each other, intoxicated all over again; it was as if we’d shed everything troublesome when we’d left LA, Lucy a different incarnation altogether; I’d never seen her so carefree. She laughed more, laughed harder, giddy as a young girl.