Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  ‘I didn’t mind paying,’ Allison assured him. ‘I felt like a patron of the arts. You know, like the Medicis.’

  ‘The who?’

  She flushed. ‘This incredibly rich Italian family who supported artists like Michelangelo during the Renaissance.’

  ‘Huh.’ He considered this. ‘Yeah, that’s what people should be doing. Supporting artists, instead of giving money to the government to build bomb shelters.’ They were just passing a building that held the sign of three upside-down triangles, indicating that there was a fall-out shelter in the building’s basement. ‘Like that’s going to protect them. When that A-bomb drops, it’s all over, babe. No hope. So what’s the point?’

  Sometimes it was hard to follow Sam’s thoughts — he would jump from one subject to another, and the connections weren’t always clear. It was like his mind was packed with so many thoughts and ideas he couldn’t control them, they just spilled out. Maybe she’d just spent too many years around people who talked about trivial things. But she had to try to make some sense out of his ramblings, if she was going to write about him.

  ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘in an ideal world, we wouldn’t even need money. Like, that square in the shop — he should have been happy to be helping a musician. And I could have paid him with a song. It would have brought a lot more joy to his life than twenty bucks.’

  A passing man moving hurriedly jostled him slightly. ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, but that didn’t mollify Sam.

  ‘What’s your rush?’ he yelled after him. ‘Get hip to the reality, man. It doesn’t matter where you’re going. It’s no better than where you are now.’

  What an interesting way of looking at the world, Allison thought. She wished she could whip out a pen and paper and write that down.

  They’d reached the subway entrance. Allison knew she should get back to Gloss, that she’d already used up her lunch hour, but she didn’t want to leave him. She was supposed to be writing an article about him, and what did she have so far? Not much, even after spending all the last weekend with him and practically every evening this week. She needed some background about him, his family, why he left home at such an early age.

  Not to mention the fact that she was hungry.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said suddenly. ‘Let’s go over to Central Park and get a hotdog.’

  ‘I got no bread, babe.’

  She linked her arm through his. ‘I’ve got bread.’

  They walked the three blocks across town to the park and stopped at the hot-dog cart on the corner.

  ‘Hey, man, I’ll play you a tune for a couple of dogs,’ Sam offered.

  The weary-looking vendor raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘No thanks, buddy. I only take cash.’

  ‘He’s kidding,’ Allison hastily told the man. She pulled out her wallet. ‘We’ll have two hotdogs and a couple of Cokes.’

  ‘I wasn’t kidding,’ Sam told her as they left the cart with their food.

  ‘I know, but he looked tired, and I just wanted to be nice.’

  He gazed at her with those big, sad brown eyes. ‘You’re cute. And thanks for the grub.’

  She drew in her breath and tried to keep her expression from showing her delight. Finally, a compliment!

  They’d reached a bench. An old newspaper was lying on it, and Allison picked it up to make a space to sit. Glancing at the headline, she grimaced.

  ‘Did you hear about this? The governor of Alabama tried to block integration at the state university. Isn’t that disgusting?’

  He made a face. ‘Universities. I don’t get it. I mean, what are you going to learn at a university? They don’t tell you the truth. Ya gotta reach into your own soul. Everything you need to know, you can find it there.’

  That wasn’t her point, but she thought he’d made an interesting observation. She needed to remember it for the article.

  ‘My parents are expecting me to go to college in September,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure it’s what I want.’

  ‘Parents,’ he muttered, with a face that made it clear what he thought of them.

  ‘You don’t get along with yours either?’

  He took a gulp of his soda. ‘They threw me out of the house when I was sixteen.’

  She was shocked. ‘Why?’

  He pressed his thumb and forefinger together and held them to his lips.

  ‘They threw you out for smoking cigarettes?’

  ‘Weed.’

  ‘Oh, of course, weed,’ she said quickly. She could have kicked herself for sounding so naive. ‘I can understand why your parents would be upset though,’ she added. ‘If you got caught, you could go to jail.’

  He smiled. ‘Prison. So what? We’re already living behind bars.’

  Her forehead puckered. What was that supposed to mean?

  ‘Did you fight with your parents a lot?’

  He shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘What about? Other than weed, I mean.’

  ‘The usual stuff.’

  She was getting nowhere with this — clearly he didn’t want to talk about his family. She decided to concentrate on his music.

  ‘Do you write all your own songs?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Because you want to share your very own ideas with the world?’ She knew she was putting words in his mouth, but she needed more.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he said, ‘You share too many ideas, you’re just going to lose them. The world will suck the creativity right out of you.’ He hadn’t answered her question, but it was yet another marvellous declaration.

  ‘I loved your song about the seasons,’ she said. ‘Were you inspired by Ecclesiastes?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ecclesiastes, in the Bible. I’m not religious,’ she added hastily, ‘but I was forced to go to Sunday School for years. And there’s a verse that stuck in my head, about how for everything there is a season. Like in your song. So I was just wondering if maybe you were influenced by the Bible.’

  ‘Never read it.’

  ‘But the words are so similar.’

  Again he shrugged.

  ‘OK. Um … how did you learn to play the guitar?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You writing a book about me?’

  She started. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m just curious.’ She smiled, and then with some hesitation added, ‘I just want to know you better.’

  She hoped he would say something like, ‘I want to know you better too,’ and for a moment he seemed to be pondering what she’d just confessed. Finally he spoke. ‘What I sing is who I am.’

  ‘Right.’ It dawned on her that he’d never asked her anything about herself, her family, what she did when she wasn’t with him. It was better that way, she supposed. His life was so much more interesting than hers.

  He finished his soda, tossed it in the general direction of a garbage can and rose from the bench. ‘Gotta go. You coming downtown?’

  ‘No, uptown. But I’ll come down to the Village after dinner. Will you be in the park?’

  ‘Probably.’ Then he gave her a longer-than-usual look.

  ‘Allison … are you connected?’

  She caught her breath. He wanted to know if she was in a relationship, if she had a boyfriend. And he wouldn’t want to know unless he was really interested in her.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘You have to get connected, babe. It’s the only way.’

  Now she was confused. ‘With what?’

  ‘Not what, babe. Who. You gotta connect with yourself. Your spirit. You gotta feel it. And then you gotta let it go. That’s the only way to be free.’

  She couldn’t respond, she was completely speechless. He tossed his guitar over his shoulder, turned away and ambled towards the subway.

  She stared after him. What an amazing, incredible, original human being. For a moment sh
e considered running after him, but she was late as it was. And she still hadn’t come up with an excuse for Mr Connelly.

  But she found one as she hurried back to Madison Avenue. Passing a newsstand, something caught her eye. It was one of those celebrity fan magazines, with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton on the cover. But below their photo another story was featured: ‘The Private Life of Bobby Dale’!

  She snatched it off the shelf, paid for it and ran back to the Hartnell Building.

  As she expected, Mr Connelly was not happy with her. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded to know.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you, I’ve been looking for information about Bobby Dale. And look what I found!’ She held up the magazine.

  The editor was mildly mollified. ‘Well, next time let me know when you’re going to be out of the office.’ He frowned as he read the title of the article. ‘Damn, that was going to be our title. See if you can come up with another angle. Don’t forget, this article has to be two thousand words. And get a move on — I’ve got a call in to Dale’s manager to set up interview times. Have you gone over the biographical stuff I left on your desk? You need to be prepared with questions for him.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Allison promised him, and went to her desk. She took a pad of paper and started jotting furiously.

  Where you’re going, it’s no better than where you are.

  What I sing is who I am.

  School doesn’t teach you the truth … There was more to that one. She closed her eyes and searched her memory, but she couldn’t find it. Hopefully it would come back to her.

  But as far as composing an article about Sam, she had no more worries. She could easily come up with two thousand words writing about his talent, his songs and his brilliant original comments about life. She wouldn’t even have to include information about his family and getting kicked out of the house for smoking weed. Not that Gloss would have let her mention weed.

  Reluctantly she put the pad in a drawer and took up the magazine. Bobby Dale may be the rising star of the music world, but his down-to-earth nature makes him seem more like the boy next door. That was the first line, and the rest of the article was devoted to backing up this statement.

  Even though Bobby has his own bachelor pad in Beverly Hills, he’s more likely to spend time at his parents’ home, where his mom prepares his favourite tuna casserole and he can play marathon games of Scrabble with his dad.

  And later … You won’t find Bobby hanging out in Hollywood’s fancy nightclubs Saturday nights and sleeping till noon on Sunday. He’ll be up bright and early for a backyard touch-football game with his two younger brothers.

  She could just imagine what this upcoming interview would reveal. Maybe she’d come up with some startling new information, like a weekly church visit before the football game.

  She was aware of a figure leaning over her desk, and looked up. An intern whose name she’d never bothered to learn was looking at the photo accompanying the article.

  ‘Is that Bobby Dale?’ she asked. ‘He’s so cute!’

  Allison shrugged.

  ‘You don’t think he’s cute?’

  ‘Not my type,’ Allison said.

  The girl sniffed. ‘Well, you’re probably not his type either,’ she said, and walked away.

  She probably meant the comment as an insult, but Allison was pleased. The girl had just given her an idea. Mr Connelly had said he needed a new angle to the article, and now she had one.

  She got up, strode over to the entertainment editor’s office and rapped on the open door. Mr Connelly looked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I’ve got a new angle for the Bobby Dale article. “Could You Be Bobby’s Girl?” I could ask him questions about his ideal girlfriend, what qualities he looks for, that sort of thing.’

  Slowly Mr Connelly began to nod. ‘Yes. Yes! I like it, it gets the reader involved. Good work, Allison.’ And he actually smiled. ‘I think we just might make a Gloss girl out of you yet.’

  It was not easy, resisting the intense desire to inform him that she had no intention of ever becoming a Gloss girl. But Allison had been around long enough to know when to bite her tongue. She smiled, and nodded, and thanked Mr Connelly. And held back the urge to gag.

  From her desk, Sherry could see into Mr Simpson’s office, which meant that Mr Simpson could see her too. But the door was closed, and there was no glass window through which he could peer out into the bullpen. So for the time being she was safe.

  Still glancing furtively at the office, she rolled a sheet of plain white paper into the typewriter and then opened a folder to reveal Mike’s short story.

  ‘THE WHITE HORSE’, she typed. And under it, ‘by Michael Dillon’.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She practically jumped out of her seat.

  Allison stepped back in alarm. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

  Sherry lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. ‘I’m typing up a short story that Mike wrote. And I don’t want Mr Simpson to know.’

  ‘Why? Is it pornographic or something?’

  ‘No! It’s a beautiful story, about a teenage boy on a horse ranch out west. There’s this horse that can’t be tamed, and he’s trying to get his father to set it free. It’s all very symbolic.’

  ‘Then why are you so nervous about Simpson finding out what you’re doing?’

  ‘Because it’s not Gloss work. I should be doing this on my own time, back in my room. I just haven’t had time this week.’ She sighed. ‘I should never have learned how to play bridge. There’s always a game going on at the Cavendish.’

  Allison shook her head in disgust. ‘I can’t believe that’s how you’re spending your New York evenings. OK, I know Pamela hasn’t been around much, now that she’s hooked up with Mr Parker.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s weird, calling him “Mister” when he’s going out with our friend.’

  What felt even weirder to Sherry was the fact that a friend was dating a married man. Helen Gurley Brown might call it acceptable, but Sherry had her doubts.

  ‘And I know your roommate just sits in front of the lounge TV every night,’ Allison continued, ‘but you could always come down to the Village with me.’

  Sherry smiled and nodded, but inwardly she knew this was not an option. She’d hit the Village with Allison one evening, and that had been enough for her. It was an interesting scene, but she’d found Allison’s folk singer friend to be so arrogant, with all his ponderous declarations about life. Not to mention the fact that he clearly looked down on Sherry, teasing her about her Southern background and ladylike manners. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what Allison saw in the guy.

  ‘And what about Mike?’ Allison asked. ‘I see you two taking coffee breaks together practically every day.’

  ‘He spends his evenings writing,’ Sherry told her.

  ‘Every evening?’ Allison asked sceptically. ‘Even weekends?’

  Sherry nodded, but she could understand Allison’s disbelief. There’d been that one evening, when they went to the author’s reading at the uptown community centre, but nothing since then.

  One of Allison’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Then how come you’re knocking yourself out typing up his story?’

  ‘Because I said I would,’ Sherry replied lamely. Once again she glanced nervously in the direction of Mr Simpson’s office. ‘But I really shouldn’t be doing it on Gloss time.’

  Allison groaned. ‘Honestly, Sherry. Do you have to be Little Miss Perfect all the time? Half the interns here spend their time trying on clothes in the samples closet or looking for free make-up.’

  ‘I know.’ Sherry sighed. ‘I guess it’s just the way I was brought up.’

  ‘Well, get over it,’ Allison said cheerfully. ‘Or, wait, how about this? Turn it into Gloss work.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Gloss publishes two short stories in every issue. Why don’t you submit it to the fictio
n editor? Or give it to the fiction intern, what’s-her-name, with the short black hair and glasses.’

  ‘Ellen,’ Sherry murmured. She was one of the bridge regulars. ‘Hey, that’s a good idea!’

  ‘And just think how thrilled Mike will be if it gets published,’ Allison added. ‘He’ll fall madly in love with you. Maybe he’ll even give up writing for an evening to take you out.’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Sherry murmured.

  Allison regarded her with concern. ‘Sherry … you’re not still torching for Johnny, are you?’

  ‘I guess I’m still thinking about him,’ Sherry admitted. ‘I mean, it’s only been a week since …’ Her voice trailed off.

  Allison gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I know. And he was the love of your life, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Sherry echoed.

  From his office, the entertainment editor stuck out his head and bellowed, ‘Allison!’

  ‘I’d better go. We’ll talk later.’

  About something else, Sherry silently hoped. One of the reasons she liked playing bridge with the other interns was the fact that Ellen knew nothing of her history, and Linda and Diane were too tactful to ask about Johnny.

  Was she still ‘torching’, as Allison put it? She felt something, that was for sure. If she had to give it a name, she wasn’t sure she could call it heartbreak, at least not in the way she’d seen it in movies and read about it in books. She hadn’t cried herself to sleep, not even once. Was she angry? When she’d taken his picture out of the frame, she didn’t crumple it furiously or tear it into bits. The only word she could think of that could describe her feelings was … lost.

  If anyone had ever asked her how she saw herself ten years from now, she would have had no difficulty responding. She’d be in a pretty suburban home, outside Atlanta, with at least one child, maybe another on the way. Her days would be spent caring for the children, cleaning and cooking and shopping. Maybe some volunteer work for the church, and meetings of the local garden club. Johnny would come home from his job at six, and they’d have a cocktail while the kids watched cartoons. He’d tell her about his day at work; she’d entertain him with funny things the kids had said or done.