Eventually we ran out of things to talk about, so I went up to the roof of our building (we are on the twenty-third floor of a forty-three story building) and smoked the joint by myself. I realized that coming to the city is part of some kind of destiny fulfillment. That this day would be the first day of an adventure, no matter where that adventure led. One way or the other, many things are going to happen to me, this is obvious. And I want to embrace every single one of them. When I said goodbye to everyone up in Stoneham, it was like saying goodbye to a life. Like saying goodbye to myself. Whether I ever get any attention for my writing isn’t important. The important thing is that I am here. And I will keep a journal in which to collect my thoughts and my writing.
September 12, 1976
Haim split the apartment very early today to sell posters in front of the museum. Sunday is his big day. He’s famous in his own way because everyone who visits New York City visits the Met and everyone who visits the Met sees Haim selling his posters out front. He owns a beat-up old Cadillac and stores the posters in the trunk. He sells them for five dollars apiece. He told me that on some days he makes as much as three hundred dollars.
Dagmara and I went out and got bagels and lox at a deli. Food here tastes fantastic compared to back home. I felt like a real New Yorker, surrounded by other New Yorkers all talking a mile a minute and drinking coffee and eating smoked fish on a Sunday morning. Back home almost everyone I know is Catholic and they all either go to church on a Sunday morning or are nursing hangovers. So it’s nice to be “Jewish” on a Sunday.
The day was sunny, but not too hot, and we ended up strolling through the park. We bought ice cream. Brilliant sunshine and crazy breezes foretold something wild was about to happen.
So guess what, something wild did happen. After the walk we ended up back in the apartment. Outside the windows the sky grew black and the rain started spitting down, then pouring, then drilling. Lightning flashed on the horizon. So we decided to watch some TV together. Then we smoked some cigarettes. Then we started making out. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was on the TV. Dagmara unbuttoned my Levi’s and nature took its course. I was watching the movie and thinking, Welcome to New York. We didn’t fuck because Dagmara was afraid that Haim would catch us.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dag was very quiet. I told her I had to write, which is why I am sitting here at my desk in the dinette area of the apartment while she rambles around the place fiddling with her cosmetics. There’s really no way to escape each other.
I made some coffee and smoked half a joint and got some writing done. My mom called (Dad on the extension). She said, “Are you all right?” I wanted to say, “I’m stoned, I’m in New York and I just got a blow job from a beautiful woman.”
At the same time, I’m not all right because I’m never all right. Underneath it all, there is a sense of wrongness. Like I did something wrong. What did I do wrong?
LATER, SAME DAY:
I’m back. I realized that Haim would be coming home soon. Dag likes to make dinner for him like they’re a married couple. The weird thing is, we didn’t even fuck and she was being all weird. I did get her shirt off though and she has a pair of very excellent breasts. She’s very proud of them, as she should be.
I refuse to worry about whether this is going to be a great love affair or not. I’ve only been in New York City for a month! Let’s put it this way, I read some of her poetry and she’s going to have a great job at Hallmark Cards someday.
So I split. The city had been scrubbed clean by the hard rain. Not many people out. But the amazing thing about New York is that it never really stops—it’s always going, one way or the other.
First I visited my old neighborhood, Times Square. Hit the porn shops. Some amazing stuff in there. There’s a “straight” section and a “gay” section in each shop. Piles of glossy magazines with titles like Shaved Splits and Open Clits (whatever that could mean)! And then there’s these things called “live peep shows.” You enter a little dark booth that stinks of Clorox and drop a quarter into a slot and there’s a whirring sound and then a little metal shutter rises and you’re looking through a small square window into this circular space about twelve feet wide. And right there, on a platform are two live people, naked and fucking. They look really tired, probably junkies. It’s like a mini-arena so across the way are all the other little peep windows and the feverish eyes of the other men observing in the darkness. Perverts watching hookers fucking. Nice.
I was hungry so I stopped in a place where they serve soda and pita bread sandwiches stuffed with greasy slices of meat that some angry guy with a thick black mustache carves off this gigantic hot dripping meatball turning on a massive spit. It’s called a gyro or a souvlaki or something like that. The guy with the mustache was Greek I guess. But the stuff had amazing flavor. Probably not kosher. I sat at the counter and devoured my pita sandwich and while I was sitting there, these three young black guys wearing tight-fitting caps wandered in, leaned over the counter and started stealing éclairs from out of the display case. Right in front of the Greek guy, like they were daring him to try and stop them. I assumed they must be gang members. The Greek guy acted like he didn’t even see them. They walked out like kings.
A bum showed up who stunk like a chunk of blue cheese. He asked for a glass of water. The Greek picked up this huge chef’s knife and told him to get lost. The old bum told the Greek to fuck himself, then the Greek made a move like he was going to jump over the counter and the bum slipped out the door. Then the bum stood outside the plate glass window staring at us and cursing, the glow of the neon painting him an eerie blue and red. Finally, scratching like he had rabid mice under his rags, he wandered off, cursing.
I bought a coffee in a paper cup emblazoned with an image of the Parthenon and the words “We Are Happy to Serve You” and walked about fifty blocks southward to this strange part of town where the streets are all cobblestoned, empty and dark. Even saw a couple of rats. I ended up down by the World Trade Center, these enormous towers that shoot straight up into the sky. The whole area was completely deserted. Probably not safe but I liked the feeling of danger. Eventually I came to a park and to my astonishment realized that I was surrounded by water, looked up and what did I see? The glowing green Statue of Liberty standing out in the bay. (I guess it’s a bay. New York City Bay?) She was so familiar-looking, it was hard to believe she was real. I was shocked by the symbolism of everything.
I ended up in an alcoholic hangout called the Blarney Stone. The place was all dark wood and mirrors and stank of stale beer and boiled meat. The grinning cardboard leprechauns and four leaf clovers from Saint Patrick’s Day were still Scotch-taped to the walls.
I drank six glasses of forty-cent beer and got a little fucked up. I tried to keep up the conversation with the old guys at the bar, but they were too haggard to bother with me. Still, it seemed like a good place to collect my thoughts. I should go back there again.
On the subway, I fell asleep and overshot my apartment by thirty blocks. Had to walk back through Spanish Harlem to get home. Lots of burned-out buildings, cars in the streets up on cinder blocks, hoods popped, tires and wheels long gone. Saw some black people and mostly Puerto Ricans but I didn’t get mugged or killed! It was like I had some kind of drunken aura that protected me.
In the apartment I could see light under the door to the room that Dagmara and Haim share. I could hear them talking in their thick accents. (They talk in English because they don’t understand each other’s language.) I could have listened by the door, but didn’t.
I lay on top of my bed, the world swirling like a carousel. Later I heard Haim in the kitchen, rummaging around. Then I heard him in the living room, devouring a bag of plums, watching TV with the sound down. I’m in this half-drunken, half-caffeinated state, sort of excited and very tired. I just lay there listening to him. Fell asleep, woke, fell asleep. Thought about the future. The new job. My work. All the obstacles.
Haim finally lumbered off to
bed and I got myself up, drank a ton of water and wrote all this down. Tomorrow’s the first day at work. I’m going to be completely burnt-out.
September 14, 1976
I got up pretty early. Ran into Dagmara in the bathroom, working on her cosmetic alchemy. When she saw me, she didn’t smile. Like I raped her or something. Damn. I guess there will be no more Sunday afternoon blow jobs.
I wolfed down some granola, then sprinted to the subway. I had to leave about eight-thirty, because my new boss wanted me there at nine. There were a million people crushed together waiting for the train. It was hot. The graffitti-covered subway car raced into the station just missing the people on the packed platform. The train was crammed even before we tried to wedge ourselves in. As we squeezed into the cars, ancient crud-encrusted loudspeakers over our heads blared incoherent announcements.
In the jammed car I was immersed in the syrupy stink of coffee breath and deodorant and farts. Men read creased newspapers (a special fold that takes up the smallest space possible because there’s no room to spread out). The women were slathered with makeup like they were headed for the disco. Most of the people stared ahead in the screeching din, some nodded in fake sleep. Twice I caught a girl checking me out. Not sure what I was supposed to do with that. Talk to her? Ask her out? Being so close to so many strangers creates anxiety, I think.
So I got to Jonathan’s loft at nine a.m. Turned out this is the same neighborhood I was in last night! SoHo. Looks different during the day. It’s an abandoned neighborhood, just cobblestoned streets, a few cars, one diner and a bunch of art galleries. There were plans a few years ago to knock the whole thing down to make room for a highway. But the city doesn’t have the money and now artists live down here.
I waited in the stairwell for almost an hour before Jonathan, my new boss, showed up. He didn’t smile, didn’t apologize. Just turned a key in the center of the door because the fox lock is actually a gear mechanism that releases massive metal prongs from holes in the door frame. Everything in this neighborhood is nineteenth-century like that. The stairwells have banisters covered in hundreds of coats of paint, every door is heavy and reinforced with riveted metal, the lofts are enormous, floored with dark planks of ancient wood. The cavernous ceilings are sheathed in patterned tin. The building facades are cast iron.
Jonathan’s place is called Erehwon Video. (Erehwon is “nowhere” spelled backwards. Get it?) We specialize in video art, which is the new cool thing. We assist artists who use Sony Portapaks to make their art. My job is to sit at a desk and answer the phone and inventory our video equipment and the videotape library. People come and go all day. Plus Jonathan has a viewing room where people can watch these videotapes on a monitor (TV set). He also wants me to write publicity releases about stuff we’re doing. I don’t really understand what the big deal is about, but Jonathan’s going to pay me a hundred and thirty-five bucks a week, so it’s worth it.
Most of the “video artists” who come by are hippie types: long hair, bushy beards. I guess they see themselves as revolutionaries who are using video to change the world. (Don’t hold your breath.) These artists videotape everything they can. Some are documentary filmmakers. Sometimes they show their tapes in art galleries, even museums! This Korean guy came by who didn’t say much but laughed a lot. Jonathan says his stuff is in the Museum of Modern Art. Nam June Paik is his name.
We leave a monitor running in the front room all day with video art playing on it. Most of the stuff is pretty boring. Once in a while there’s some nudity which I appreciate. There was even one in which a guy was discussing philosophy while this girl with tattoos sucked his dick. I guess the point was that after a while the philosophy lost out to the orgasm. Some point, huh?
So anyway, I made it through the day. It’s easier than loading boxes on a truck dock. After work I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I headed for Times Square again and had another gyro at the gyro place. I shouldn’t eat so much of this stuff, it’s going to wreck my skin. The Greek guy with the mustache didn’t recognize me. He must see a thousand people a day. No gang members hanging out this time. A lady with bleached gray hair was hunched over the counter, sucking on a droopy cigarette and slurping a cup of coffee. After my sandwich, I gobbled down a New York City éclair—swollen and perfect, almost obscene, packed with yellow ooze.
The streets around Times Square were filled with three-card monte guys and dealers selling nickel bags and loose joints and pills. There were women who seemed to be prostitutes and there were transvestites who I knew were prostitutes. Jamaicans clanging on steel drums, jumpy hustlers hocking watches out of briefcases, sleepy-looking guys snapping flyers, or just weirdos asking for the time of day. There’s always someone walking around talking to himself or yelling at the air. I think the crazies intentionally put on a show so people will identify them as crazy. It’s big business in New York City.
At home Haim was sprawled on the couch watching Little House on the Prairie—I’m sure he thinks this makes him more of an American. The apartment was rank with perfume and hairspray. Dagmara was in the bathroom powdering her body parts in preparation for a date. She posed before the mirror perfecting her eyebrows (she plucks her eyebrows off and replaces them with a thin black line). While Dag works on her face she leaves a lit cigarette on the edge of the sink. Her concentration is total. I wonder what she’s thinking about? Getting a husband? Blowing me? I said hi and she said hi and that was it. Now she acts like she never touched me. I told her she looked nice and she smiled a tight smile. Basically, she lives in the bathroom.
I rode the elevator up to the roof and smoked a cigarette. When I came back down (to write this), Dagmara was gone. Haim and I had a conversation about life. I said it bothered me to see the winos and junkies lying around on the sidewalks. What I meant was it doesn’t bother me to see them and the fact that it doesn’t is what bothers me. Haim got all Talmudic and stroked his beard and said that all humans form themselves into tribes and it’s natural that I shouldn’t concern myself with anyone who isn’t from my tribe. When he said this I realized that Haim considers the two of us to be from the same tribe. Deep down, I don’t think of myself as a Jew, the way Haim thinks of himself as a Jew. I think of myself as a suburban American kid (trapped in a Jew’s body). Fucked up.
I asked Haim if he wanted to smoke some grass and he said the Arabs smoke hashish back in Tel Aviv, it’s not something he does very often. After about three tokes Haim started giggling like a little kid. Then he went on and on about how beautiful Dagmara is, what unbelievable tits she has, how he wants to suck on them, how he wants to fuck her cleavage, have her sit on his dick, how he’s going to cum on her tits, etc. Obviously he’s clueless about what happened between her and me. And clearly she’s not fucking him. Which is just as well.
Work tomorrow.
January 20, 2006
The book is moribund. Sales are in the hundreds, not thousands. Leon is off at the Cairo International Bookfair (God only knows why. He’s not selling my book there.) so we’re not in communication. Whenever Leon is overseas he acts like it’s 1850 and there’s no way to reach me. Wants me to believe he’s staying in a hotel without telephones. Thinking about Leon wears me out.
My ex-longtime girlfriend Elizabeth has gotten hold of A Gentle Death and discovered that some of the chapters feature a character reminiscent of her (Carin). So she e-mails me daily, insinuating a lawsuit. After the last e-mail, I answered her, filling her in on my recent cardiac surgery. I concluded by saying I would be in touch as soon as I felt better. I owe her that much. I loved this woman. And with the knowledge that I did indeed love her, she held me hostage for fifteen years.
We woke every morning in the same bed. We read the paper together, shopped for antiques together. We drank wine from bottles carried up from our own cellar. We drove long distances in the Lexus, sat face-to-face across starched tablecloths, and at the movies, picked popcorn from the same box. We held hands. I always loved her. Just because I
gave in to temptation, should I be condemned? Because I didn’t conform to her idea of the way things should be, I had to be punished?
Of course, living with a former acclaimed actress means you never know where you stand. Elizabeth would argue the term “former,” but once we moved to Connecticut, she retired from the Hollywood shuffle. Nonetheless, every time we entered a supermarket or a shopping mall, we were always reminded of “who” she was. I would stand idly by while she signed autographs. Toward the end, I simply walked away and let her do what she had to. She resented me for this too.
Her favorite weapon was accusing me of selfishness. There wasn’t a move I could make without thinking about her resistance to it. If I couldn’t add to her happiness, she wanted me guilty. She claimed I was “stunted” emotionally and spiritually. (Elizabeth was a New-Ager long before it came into vogue. Always seeking “answers” and “personal growth.” “Personal growth” in our society means greater and greater congruence to the expectations and needs of others.
My love for her wasn’t enough. She wanted slavery. As soon as I stopped worshipping her ass, she began a self-improvement course which demanded total obedience and very little sex. We could never reach stasis. Not possible for either of us. What did I ever do to her? “Cheat” on her? Yes, I did cheat on her, what else could I do? She had lost interest in me. God help the man who marries a beautiful actress. At least I avoided that! “For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds: Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”
January 21, 2006
I can’t put the confrontation off any longer. Elizabeth called the house. After she stopped screaming at me, I reminded her that I haven’t been well and that she was only making me more ill. She said she doesn’t give a shit about my heart. The truth is my weaknesses only encourage her. Perhaps she hopes if she can get me agitated enough, I’ll croak right now.
Leon said there’s nothing to lose, everything to gain by having coffee with her. Pointed out that Elizabeth can cause more trouble than she realizes. He shared all this with me in the smooth tones of his tobacco-sanded voice. On speakerphone, probably drunk. What he doesn’t say is that publishers are skittish these days and according to my contract (unbeknownst to Elizabeth), if I in any way cause the book to be withdrawn from circulation, then not only will book sales cease, I will be compelled to return the fucking advance! And pay for the legal proceedings employed to get that money from me! They’ll take my country house! My 401-k! Fuck me.
Perforated Heart Page 4