by Marilyn Kaye
‘Yes. And I work here.’
‘Yeah? What do you do?’ Pamela asked.
‘I am a philosopher. So you must take my words very seriously.’ With that, he gave a slight bow and walked away.
Allison gazed after him in wonderment. ‘A philosopher …’
Pamela wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t think there’s much money in that. Let’s go.’
Bleecker Street was enthralling — Allison thought she’d never before seen a street that was so alive with interesting-looking people and places. They passed coffee shops advertising poetry readings, jazz clubs, folk-music clubs, signs and posters that proclaimed everything from ‘The End Is Near’ to ‘Ban the Bomb’. In front of one doorway, a woman with heavy dark bangs that practically covered her eyes was handing out leaflets.
Allison took one. It was for a new play that was opening that week. Pamela looked over her shoulder to read it.
‘The Curse of the Ruling Class. Is it a musical?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ asked the girl with the fringe.
‘I thought all the plays were up around 42nd Street,’ Pamela said.
‘This is Off-Broadway,’ Allison explained.
‘Off-Off-Off-Broadway,’ the girl corrected her. ‘We’re theatre for the real people. We reject the commercial garbage they show uptown.’
Pamela looked at her quizzically. ‘Real people go to shows on Broadway. And it’s not all garbage. My parents saw Camelot on Broadway, and they said it was the best play they ever saw.’
Allison couldn’t see the girl’s eyes, but she could imagine the disdain that filled them. ‘Thanks,’ she said quickly, and tugged on Pamela’s arm. She was beginning to think that maybe the Village wasn’t her roommate’s cup of tea.
But Pamela’s expression brightened as they moved down the street. ‘Hey, there are nightclubs here.’
‘Absolutely,’ Allison exclaimed. ‘Folk, jazz … look, this one is having an open-mic evening, and it’s only a dollar to get in.’
Inside, they paid their dollar fees to a man with a scraggly beard behind a booth. He then directed them to go down some stairs.
A lot of stairs. And when they finally reached the bottom and passed through another door, Pamela’s face registered serious disappointment. And as usual, she had no problem expressing her reaction verbally.
‘This looks icky.’
Allison didn’t think so. The small, dark, smoky room contained about a dozen little wooden tables, each one holding a fat, half-melted candle, and more than half were occupied by beatnik-types. The walls were black, but brightened slightly by a string of tiny coloured lights that hung just below the ceiling. There was a small raised platform at one end, with a microphone stand. And behind the microphone were two bearded men with guitars, and a woman with long, straight blonde hair singing one of Allison’s favourite songs, ‘Where Have All the Flowers Gone?’
They weren’t the famous folk trio, Peter, Paul and Mary, but they looked like them and sang like them and that was enough to make Allison very happy. She and Pamela took seats at an empty table.
When they finished the song, Allison joined the applause enthusiastically. A waitress appeared at their table.
‘What can I get you?’
Pamela spoke first. ‘A martini, extra dry, with a twist, please.’
Her order was greeted with the same expression that Allison had imagined on the face of the Off-Off-Off-Broadway theatre girl.
‘We don’t serve cocktails,’ the woman said. ‘We got coffee and tea.’
Allison spoke quickly, before Pamela could complain. ‘Two coffees, please.’
By now the singers had started another tune. Allison knew this song too, it was the one about the lemon tree that was very pretty but you couldn’t eat the fruit. She loved the symbolism …
Clearly Pamela did not. When the song was over, she turned to Allison and made a face. ‘I hate this kind of music. You can’t even dance to it.’
‘Just keep listening,’ Allison urged. ‘It’ll start getting to you.’
But the next act wasn’t a folk singer. A gaunt, sad-looking woman in grey took to the stage and recited poetry, accompanied by a man playing bongo drums. Allison couldn’t understand it all, but she appreciated the fact that the audience was paying attention. But by the time that performer left the stage, Pamela looked positively sick.
The waitress reappeared with their coffees, and Pamela eyed hers balefully.
‘I’ll ask if they have something else,’ Allison offered, half rising from the table to go after the waitress.
‘No, never mind,’ Pamela said. ‘Actually, would you mind if I split? I need to wash my hair.’
Allison sighed. ‘OK, I’ll go with you.’
Pamela shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly. I can find my way back on my own.’ She patted Allison’s hand. ‘No hard feelings, OK?’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind going alone?’ Allison asked.
But Pamela was already halfway to the door.
Clearly her roommate was not going to be her regular companion on what Allison hoped would be frequent jaunts to the Village. It didn’t really matter; she didn’t mind at all being alone in a place like this. In fact, even though she didn’t know a soul in the place, she felt like she belonged. Which she’d never felt back home.
She’d always been different, as her parents and older brother often reminded her. Actually, the word her mother more frequently used was ‘difficult’. Even as a child, her mother said, she had constantly questioned everything — why does the fork have to go on that side of the plate? Why can’t I eat dessert first?
Once she got into her teens, she found real things to rebel against — mainly at the private school she attended. The awful uniform, which denied students any means of expressing themselves with originality. The prayer they were forced to say before lunch. The lessons in etiquette and gracious living — too ridiculous. Allison complained incessantly, and she was almost suspended a couple of times for breaking rules.
Her parents shouldn’t have been surprised when she turned seventeen and refused to be a debutante.
For generations, the women in her family had been presented at the same ritzy, exclusive club, where all the members could claim an ancestor who had come to America on the Mayflower. Allison wouldn’t even go to the ‘coming-out’ parties thrown by her classmates. Instead she went alone to small cinemas where she could find foreign movies. Like Breathless — the French film that was dark and tragic and not entirely logical. She could totally relate to it. And the very next day after seeing it, she went out and had her long hair cropped in the style of Jean Seberg, the actress.
She’d always been a believer in fate and destiny. And that belief was affirmed when, while waiting her turn at the beauty parlour, she picked up an issue of Gloss. She knew about the magazine of course — she’d seen classmates reading it. It was a standard conventional rah-rah teen rag for girls who were more interested in prom dresses than in civil rights or the atomic bomb. It must have been sheer boredom at the beauty parlour that made her open the magazine that day.
But it turned out to be fateful, because she just happened to open it to the double-page description of the internship programme.
She’d always been a writer — mainly of poetry and short stories and her own opinions, which she’d submitted to her school’s ‘literary’ magazine, but which had been rejected for being too weird. She picked out the one she thought Gloss would consider the least weird — a diatribe about school conformity and peer pressure — and sent it in with her application.
Her parents, strangely enough, didn’t make a huge fuss when she showed them her acceptance to the Gloss programme. Maybe they hoped a traditional, popular magazine would influence her. Or maybe they were just pleased to get rid of her for the summer, before shipping her off to college.
In any case, here she was, in New York City’s Greenwich Village, the Village, surrounded by people who looked ju
st as unusual and unconventional as she did. And where she felt more comfortable than she’d ever felt in her life.
While she’d been daydreaming, the poet accompanied by the bongo guy recited another poem. When they finished, there was more applause, and they left the stage. Almost immediately, they were replaced by a guy with a guitar slung over his shoulder.
Someone introduced him, but since she was sitting way in the back, she couldn’t hear the new singer’s name. She could see him very well, however, and what she saw almost made her heart stop. This guy bore a close resemblance to a certain young folk singer who had just produced an album, an album Allison absolutely adored. His wild curly hair, his moody demeanour, and eyes that even from a distance she could tell were brown and soft. He hadn’t shaved recently, and the shadow on his face made him look dark and mysterious. He was the antithesis of every ordinary baby-faced pop singer who made ordinary girls scream. Allison couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He strummed his guitar, and began to sing. And although his singing more closely resembled mumbling, she could pick up enough of the lyrics to realize that this was an angry protest song, like the kind her idol sang. It was something about the working man who had to fight the establishment, and how all working men should unite and make a revolution.
When he finished, there was the usual smattering of applause. Then, to her surprise, he took off the guitar and left the stage. Was that all he was going to sing?
She checked her watch, and saw that she’d have to leave very soon if she was going to make it back to the residence before curfew. But how could she leave when she didn’t even know his name? She waved to the waitress. ‘Could I have the cheque, please?’ she asked. And as the waitress jotted something on her pad, she asked, ‘And could you tell me the name of one of the singers? The guy who looks like Bob Dylan.’
The waitress slapped the check on the table. ‘No idea.’
‘Could you find out for me?’
But the woman just shrugged and walked away.
Allison fished out some money, put it on the table and hurried out the door. Outside, she scanned the dark but still lively street. There was no sign of him. Maybe he was in one of the other clubs, or sitting in a coffee house.
She checked her watch again. There was no time to look for him now. But he was a folk singer, and this was the folk singers’ scene. And she’d be back to hunt him down.
She was still thinking about him the next day, and dying to tell Pamela. Her roommate had been sleeping when she got back, and in the morning they both overslept and had no time to talk. The Gloss interns had been kept occupied with lectures and presentations all morning.
Pamela and Sherry were discussing this in the Hartnell cafeteria when Allison arrived at the table.
‘I haven’t been this bored since sophomore algebra,’ Pamela was saying. ‘I mean, really. Circulation management. Who cares?’
‘Some of it was kind of interesting,’ Sherry pointed out. ‘For example, I didn’t know that advertising revenues kept the subscription rates low. Did you know that, Donna?’
The dark-haired girl had been perusing an old issue of Gloss that she’d laid alongside her tray. She looked up and pushed away the long hair that had fallen across her face. ‘What?’
Sherry repeated the question, and Donna nodded.
‘Yes, that’s interesting,’ she said, without actually sounding very interested. Then she went back to her magazine and her food.
There was a lot of the latter, Allison noticed. Soup, Salisbury steak with gravy, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, two rolls … and what looked like double portions of practically everything. She was eating steadily, as if this was going to be her last meal for a long time, and she turned the pages of the magazine as she ate.
‘Well, I’d rather hear about fashion and beauty,’ Pamela declared. ‘That’s what Gloss is supposed to be about, right?’
Allison disagreed. ‘No, not really. It’s supposed to be covering all things that teenage girls are interested in. And after what I saw last night, I can tell you for sure they’re missing a lot.’
‘I’m guessing you liked Greenwich Village,’ Sherry commented. ‘
‘Liked it? It was a whole different world! Philosophers, poets, folk singers!’
Pamela wrinkled her nose, but Allison ignored her. ‘And one folk singer in particular …’ She let out a long, meaningful sigh.
Pamela perked up. ‘A guy?’
‘Mm. He reminded me of Bob Dylan.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You do know who Bob Dylan is, don’t you?’
‘I heard him once, on a TV show,’ Sherry said.
‘He’s kind of hard to understand. He sounds more like he’s mumbling than singing.’
‘And from the pictures I’ve seen, he looks pretty grubby,’ Pamela declared. ‘Is that how this boy looked?’
Allison shook her head vigorously. ‘Not grubby. Earthy, masculine. Like a real man, not a pretty boy. I really like that natural look.’
‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Pamela said, looking at her hard. ‘You know, your eyes would look a lot bigger if they were a little less natural. Have you ever considered mascara?’
Allison turned to Sherry. ‘How am I going to live with her all summer?’
‘Opposites attract,’ Sherry said. She turned to Pamela. ‘You didn’t see this Bob Dylan lookalike?’
‘She walked out while the poet was reading,’ Allison told her. ‘
Pamela shook her head. ‘Sorry, Allison, that just wasn’t my scene. I didn’t see one person who’d fit in at the Stork Club.’
‘The Stork Club,’ Allison repeated. ‘Do you have any idea how pretentious places like that are?’
‘How do you know?’ Pamela asked. ‘You ever been there?’
Allison didn’t answer. ‘Well, I’m planning to spend my free time in the Village. You want to come with me, Sherry?’ she asked.
‘Maybe some time,’ Sherry said vaguely.
‘How about you, Donna?’
The girl looked up. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Do you want to go to Greenwich Village with me?’
‘I’m busy,’ Donna said, and went back to the magazine.
Allison blinked. Busy the whole summer? And why was she being so rude? She looked at Sherry, who just gave an ‘I don’t understand either’ shrug.
‘Does anyone know what’s on the schedule for this afternoon?’ Sherry asked.
‘Not more lectures, I hope,’ Pamela said. ‘No, wait, I take that back. I wouldn’t mind a little more sales-and-distribution talk.’
Allison was surprised. ‘Are you serious? That was the worst. I couldn’t understand half of what the advertising manager was talking about.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t listening to him,’ Pamela said. ‘Just looking. Anyone remember his name?’
‘Alex Parker,’ Sherry told her. ‘He is handsome. But I don’t think he’s eligible for sugar-daddy duty, Pamela. He was wearing a wedding ring.’
Pamela shrugged. ‘Helen Gurley Brown says it’s OK to have affairs with married men, as long as you just think of them as pets, and don’t take it too seriously.
And I’ve heard that a lot of these married men send their families off to the country or the beach in the summer. Did you ever see that old Marilyn Monroe movie?’
‘The Seven Year Itch,’ Allison said. ‘They showed all her old movies on TV last August, just after she died.’
Pamela nodded. ‘That’s the one. The man’s wife and kid are away, and he thinks he’s going to have an affair with Marilyn Monroe while they’re gone.’
Sherry shook her head firmly. ‘I don’t want to sound like a prude, but honestly, Pamela. Going out with a married man? That’s just plain wrong.’
‘I just want to go to a nightclub,’ Pamela sighed.
‘Well, there’s always Mr Duncan, the accountant,’ Allison suggested. ‘The fashion editor’s secretary warned me about him. He’s famous for making passes at interns.’
�
�Which one’s Mr Duncan?’ Pamela wanted to know.
Allison looked around and lowered her voice. ‘He’s over there at the table in the corner, by the water fountain. In the grey suit.’
Pamela looked. ‘Kind of short and balding, with a beer belly?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not that desperate.’
As Sherry and Pamela went into a debate over the ethics of dating married men, Allison’s thoughts went back to the singer of the night before. She had a sudden image of bringing him home to the stately townhouse of the Sanderson family, and introducing him to her parents. They would die. Of course, they wouldn’t demonstrate their dismay. They’d greet him with their usual impeccably patrician manners, offer him tea and express their strong disapproval privately. ‘N.O.K.D.,’ her mother would say. Not our kind, dear.
Or maybe they wouldn’t be so surprised. By now they had to realize she wouldn’t be introducing them to a clean-cut Ivy League-educated, socially acceptable Episcopalian in a Brooks Brothers suit. They had to know by now that she was not going to live up to their standards. She’d made it very clear that she rejected everything about their privileged class and their expectations of her — their materialism, their concern with the family name and status and gracious living, the rules that had been drilled into her at home and at the snotty private school she’d attended for twelve years.
Pamela had fantasies about going to the Stork Club. Allison had gone to the Stork Club with her parents, her older brother and his snobbish fiance, back when he graduated from Columbia University. All she remembered was a pretentious restaurant filled with overdressed people eating overpriced food. Her parents, her brother and his girlfriend fitted in perfectly. The place was totally artificial, just like they were.
She hadn’t yet informed them that she wouldn’t be attending the exclusive women’s college they’d picked out for her in September. She hadn’t told them she might not be coming home at all.
‘We need to get back,’ Sherry announced, and all the girls rose. From the corner of her eye Allison saw Donna stuff the rolls and the little plastic-wrapped crackers that had come with the soup into her backpack. How odd, she thought.