Francine in her red wig leaned majestically against the bar, while the television offered footage of glowing fried shrimp and fried chicken more orange than a tropical sunrise, after which the lesbian came in.
Yeah, darling, said the barmaid, as if to herself.
T-girl Stacey chugalugged her drink, eyeballed the lesbian from hip to breast and said: Francine, you got a sweet woman here! You got a sweet woman . . .—and the straight man, staring straight ahead, kept nodding to the music, with his hands on his knees.
What’ll you have, Neva?
How about a kiss? said the lesbian, and then Francine’s long ovals of cheek blush began to glow like lava.
Well aware that at the Y Bar she possessed friends of a sort, thanks to her power of pouring free extra shots or cutting anyone off from liquor, Francine—who was the only one of us who knew (although all the rest of us should have understood) that once we had sucked Neva dry, she would go away forever, if she were smart and lucky, after which someone else would take the job, until we had sucked her dry—had persuaded herself to believe that she lacked any need to be taken seriously, but carried with her as many secrets, needs and talents as any other person; for instance, she had been raped on a high school date, then deliberately gained weight so as to appear less attractive, took up drinking and deliberately accentuated the appearance of middle age. (Now she was middle-aged, so I call her a success.)
The way she saw life, there were only hopes and accidents—which is to say that there were many accidents but perhaps only one nameless hope, even though it might appear that a person gave off hopes as numerous as soap bubbles; since all hopes were nameless even when they pretended to carry names, who could count them once they had burst? Why pretend to a diversity of illusions? But if there turned out to be but one single hope, then its seeming murder and reflorescence made for a comedy repeated endlessly . . .—and what finally happened? The desire was achieved, or not. Either way, it silently exploded and was gone. For all Francine could tell, failure and fulfillment echoed exactly the same. Then came the lesbian.
Neva asked what movies she liked and in particular which actresses and performers allured her—for instance, was she enamored of Judy Garland?—Francine was.—Neva asked where she lived, whether she had children and what she thought of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Francine said: There’s a restaurant I sometimes go to. It’s just plain food, you know, but if you ever want to go there . . . ?
Sure! laughed the lesbian, smiling at her.
And once she finally allowed herself to believe that she was achieving some sort of success with Neva, Francine poured herself a triple shot of cinnamon-flavored brandy, all the better to explain: And me and the other girls used to go to opening nights, when one of us would get in line two or three hours before the movie place opened, so that she could get us four seats right together, and then . . .
Hey, called Shantelle, when the fuck are you gonna freshen my drink?
At five past five, Francine clocked out, and Alicia, nicknamed Bubbles, who was actually less effervescent than jittery, spiderlegged herself behind the bar. Shantelle tried to hoax a free drink out of her, insisting that she had paid Francine, who had for her part withheld satisfaction.—Well, Fran? said Bubbles.
Bullshit, said Francine.
I give up, said Shantelle.
Everybody watched in envy when the lesbian took Francine’s hand.
Where the Y Bar stood, partway up the gentle slope of lower Jones Street, one had a decent view down toward Market Street, although the angels and monsters who used to be so plentiful were almost gone now, thanks to the incomprehensible electronic network that allowed prostitutes to offer and accept appointments out of police view if all the more in police records, and thanks also to Stinger and Arthropod and all those other “technology” firms that kept buying up space at imperial rates so that whores like us couldn’t compete.
They went out to the plain food restaurant. Francine was too nervous to eat most of her dinner. The lesbian ate almost nothing anyhow. She paid with a hundred-dollar bill.
An old tan and yellow streetcar with rounded corners went hissing and clattering up Market Street where the amplified prophet spoke of myriads of detailed certainties and a man in an old-time hat whose brim was a perfect halo frowned and glided away. The prophet said: In the end, when we step off this planet, there is going to be a resurrection. Jesus said, all those who are in the grave will hear His voice.
In a small voice Francine asked: Do you think that’s true?
Maybe we’re already in the grave, said Neva. But that wouldn’t be so bad because we’re used to it.
A man in sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt ambled between pigeons, attached to his cell phone by headphones as the prophet continued: Jesus said, you know, Jesus said . . . But they threw the bad fish away. That’s how it’s gonna be on the Day of Judgment. The Living God of the Bible is the God of Love, but He is also the God of Burning.
Let’s burn! said Francine. Then, fearing her joke might not be appreciated, she got quiet, at which the lesbian took her hand, leading past the hooded man who pushed a shopping cart overflowing with blankets, flags, bins, cans and a broom, and so back into the Tenderloin. Finally they went through the Hotel Reddy’s steel-ribbed gate and up three flights of carpeted stairs to Room 543; next door Catalina peeked out and waved. Victoria must have been out. Then, oh, God, oh, God, sucking all the spit out of Neva’s mouth (every drop as sweet as rainwater), touching her, touching her—how could she ever stop?—kissing her ever more breathlessly (or, to tell the story from the lesbian’s point of view, ah, ah, with this new woman’s mouth open as were so many of ours, and from its darkness the moist breath of lust panting out) . . . ! And then finally, when Neva undid the first snap of her jeans, Francine squeezed her desperate fingers in, working them down the smooth downy roundness of Neva’s belly until she . . . and all the while she and Neva kept kissing happier and hotter as if life would never get cold!
At dawn the lesbian promised her: You and I will always remember the things we did to each other.
9
Then it was Xenia’s turn.
I’m pretty bad at receiving oral sex, she instructed Neva. I don’t get off.
What will we do?
We’ll use toys, and our hands and our straps.
Okay, said the lesbian.
10
You only want me to visit for a short time because you’re very very busy and not because you don’t love me, right? said Sandra.
That’s right, sweetheart, said the lesbian.
11
When she first met the lesbian, Sandra had flushed red like Judy. Without knowing how she knew, she understood straight away that Neva was the mermaid of her dreams. In that first stage of infatuation, when what fills us is sheer desire for the beloved in her mysterious coherence (what she might think or need becomes no part of the picture), Sandra, again like Judy, could barely keep herself from fondling and embracing her prey. And Neva smiled. Here came their first time, and their tenth. Later she could scarcely remember what the lesbian had done to her.
Like many lonely people, Sandra longed to offer herself completely, and sometimes made the mistake of submission to self-sufficient or even selfish people who used her without respect. Worse yet, once she had committed herself, she feared inflicting pain; so she kept her lovers, then cheated. (I was much the same.) But with Neva her luck came up quadruple sevens. And when I consider her greater role, as yet unknown to her—but let me whisper that it would be thanks to her and the straight man that Neva finally escaped over the rainbow—I can only sing Amen. At this time Sandra merely noticed—gratefully!—that here was someone as bountifully, inhumanly selfless as she herself had tried to be. And so her dreams enriched themselves.
Frank S. Caprio, M.D., that great heterosexual who knew everything about female inver
ts (Hostility is an emotion common to lesbians. I knew a lesbian who threatened to kill a roommate if she continued to go out on dates with a certain man), would have diagnosed her adoration as a dangerous case of lesbian-thespian complex. Imagine, for instance, our shy, lovely and unloved Sandra being invited backstage to the real Judy Garland’s dressing room . . . ! You’ll remember that Judy went both ways! Then what? Oh, those Judy Garland eyes, and that smooth white Judy Garland skin, and . . . The young aspirant to a career in the world of the theatre, explained Dr. Caprio, may overtly express her extreme admiration of her idol and invite an intimate relationship. Conversely, . . . the successful actress finds narcissistic gratification in assuming the maternal role towards a beautiful young girl who worships her. The relationship becomes a neurotic one and serves to gratify unconscious, incestuous wishes by the young girl to feel secure and close to a mother surrogate. At the same time, it affords the actress an opportunity to gratify her neurotic, narcissistic need to be adored and loved. Oh, my! Unconscious, incestuous wishes! Not to mention assuming the maternal role! Didn’t that capture everything about our sick, sick Neva, who was so infected and hence so dangerous? I promise that this will be a cautionary tale—
Sandra dreamed of oceans, and of a great rock which snowed birds upward and downward. But she was not allowed to visit the rock just yet. It was near enough to be seen from shore, as a greyish-beige mountain on the ultramarine horizon. She discovered that she was a little girl. She wanted something, but what was it? On that cloudy summer evening under a vast chestnut tree, there came the thrilling stately skirl of pipes, and her mother stood in the grass with her little Sandra on her shoulders. Sandra wished not to be so little, and so just as the drums commenced clattering she became one of six young girls in tartan skirts who began to twitch their slender legs, enthralled into dancing. The easy freedom of this change delighted her. Looking up through the chestnut leaves and into the white sky, Sandra sought something, maybe a bird, but nothing came to her. And then, straight ahead of her, through the bars of the wrought-iron fence she saw Neva gliding near, flexing her wrists as would a seal her flippers, and the coolness came up from the grass as drumbeats descended like grapeshot while Sandra and the other young girls bent their knees, jigging up and down on the grass, courteous and stately, with their topknots always vertical, facing each other. Neva passed through the fence, and the grass did not bend beneath her feet. Now the young girls upraised their white arms and opened their fingers, leaping so beautifully and carefully when Neva came (but in her dream Sandra leapt the best); then the drums ceased and a seagull cried thrice while a wood pigeon cooed glottally. Neva took Sandra in her arms. The girl felt so loved and safe, so warm, maybe just a trifle aroused—and hopeful, yes; everything good could happen! Drums rolled; bagpipes blared and wailed, and Neva carried her up into the air, beyond the white arch, past the herb garden and the aviary over the long path through the wheatfield that led round and round the volcanic cone called the Law, past the wild horses and into the fragrance of the sea-wind. Below and behind them, some girl, maybe Judy, was tittering like a gull, while cumuli oozed over the high-grassed dunes. Sandra’s life had become perfect. Easily and rapidly she rode in Neva’s arms. Crossing the boundary-strata of blackened kelp and then such soft sand as one could have happily laid a head on, they flashed across the sea, toward that great bird-rock which grew taller and whiter with nearness. And the sea went green, with its great bird-rocks going likewise green ahead of them and the wind freshening; while Neva carried her higher and higher. Sandra tried to kiss her mouth, but Neva’s face was far away. Seagulls boiled around them in the white sky. Now they began descending into the pissy stink of the guano-whitened gannet island, where it snowed birds upward and then downward into the dark blue sea and a fat white seal waved his flippers. Neva was rushing down; their hair shot straight up over them, and they landed in a narrow dark cove. Again Sandra tried to embrace her lover, but Neva slipped silently right through her, hurtling high to vanish among the gannets and gulls. And everything felt suddenly so cold, and Sandra had lost everything! Comprehending that the dream could change at any minute—Neva might even return to her—the abandoned girl tried to be brave. And now from the receding sea, in the softness of the reddish-tan sand, a naked mermaid arose, wide-eyed. She was beautifully outstretching her arms to Sandra, but she was not Neva.
12
Shantelle, watching the lesbian’s long pale hands, used to fall speechless. (I remember Shantelle on the bus, shouting on her cell phone in order to be heard: No, because I just didn’t realize that the bus schedule got cut back, so I . . . No, I just told you that’s the reason I’ll be late, because when my case worker said . . . No, that’s not acceptable; I can’t miss a visit with my kids. Yes, ma’am, I do admit that last week I was five minutes late, but that was because . . . No, I already said I can’t help the fact I’m gonna be half an hour late, because this motherfuckin’ bus . . . But how can you do that to me? That ain’t right. You know what? That just ain’t right, to keep me from meetin’ my kids. Well, whatever. I’ll talk to my case worker. And, ma’am, I just wanted to say to you, you are a fuckin’ bitch.) Al and I both agreed that the blue spangles on the lesbian’s black dress scintillated like magnified galaxies, burning our eyes. (Her eyes seemed to love everyone!) All of us wished to approach her more closely, and perhaps to lick her arms and shoulders—although Al’s bravery left him whenever he acted on it. Neva allured us with the shocking brightness of a gold coin in a silver hoard. Sooner or later we each succumbed, like the Nebraska farmer who was sent tantalizing pedophilic mail-order catalogues by disguised entities of the United States Government until he finally signed up for one of their offerings, and got convicted.
We all busied ourselves at arranging our ideas of her, mostly in secret but sometimes with each other’s convivial help, into more distinct icons to adore, these being less accurate likenesses of her than thrilling first impressions, but more substantial all the less, on account of their gilded frames: Neva and her narrow-lipped shining slit . . . and Selene with her arms and legs laid out limp around her . . . and Shantelle slapping her own face involuntarily or not . . . and Erin, who usually did not want the lesbian to put anything inside her; she sat up straight in her little black nightdress, which was pulled up above her navel, and could not stop licking the corner of Neva’s half-opened mouth, round and round and round with her head lolling back and her eyes not entirely closed, while the lesbian licked Erin’s slit, up and down, up and down, until quite soon and suddenly Erin screamed. From the lesbian’s point of view it might have been tiresome when we got so exalted that we kept repeating ourselves and then forgetting the punchlines of our stories, expressing our unique loves less brilliantly than we imagined, stinking up Neva’s mattress with our sweat. But when we compared notes in the Y Bar we felt like collectors trading rare and beautiful stamps from Central Africa.—It is from these discussions (so many of them thanks to the retired policeman) that I know so much about how we all loved—and whenever I arrived at my quotidian ignorance, I’d lie, fantasize, invent, as I would certainly need to do if I worked in pretty Raquella with her choker of plastic pearls, her plastic pearl earrings, her black scarf, her bustier striped silver and gold and her black hair waved just so. Francine called her a real class act; why she said so is beyond me; I saw Raquella at the Y Bar only half a dozen times, in that first July and August, then never again; I do remember that unlike Shantelle, she could not refrain from reaching out to caress the back of the lesbian’s hand. But I never learned much about the shape and quality of Raquella’s love . . .
13
Once Francine took in the effect that the lesbian was having on us all, she felt, in her words and Judy’s, disgusted; on the other hand, as she presently confided to me most ruefully: Well, even before my first time I could already imagine going down on her, just licking and sucking and sucking and licking until . . . Seven dollars. Actually, sorry, I mean eight d
ollars.
I paid, and Neva came in.
Seven dollars, said Francine.
Okay, said the lesbian, withdrawing a hundred from that sealskin pouch.
Here’s your change, hon.
You keep it, said the lesbian.
Francine put it away, saying nothing. Neva was taller than she had seemed, and maybe not as young, not that it mattered. Francine poured herself a bourbon and soda. Samantha’s drink did not yet require attention; that lady sat lip-synching to Barbra Streisand. In the corner, a bald Dutchman was negotiating a date with Judy.
Earth to Francine! cried Shantelle.
What?
Gimme a triple.
Fourteen dollars, big spender.
And less ice. You’re rippin’ me off with that ice.
The rule is two cubes. If you want one cube, you’ll get more air.
Just for once, why not go less stingy with your booze?
It’s not mine.
Then why the fuck do you care? Come on, Fran. Pour it up to the top.
That’s four extra shots, and I’m not Fran. Twenty dollars.
Forget it.
Then you want a triple and an ice cube. Fourteen dollars.
Then gimme all my ice.
Two cubes?
No. I want three.
The Lucky Star Page 15