Lives of the Circus Animals (20 page)

H
enry flung the door into its frame. The wood and steel slammed together beautifully.

And he stood there, catching his breath, letting his emotion subside, satisfied the scene had played out so clean and sharp.

Then he thought: Now what? He had just fired his assistant. Or no, she quit—it was one of those simultaneous acts where cause and effect merged. Was that what he wanted? He waited a moment, expecting Jessie to come back so they could discuss the scene and understand what was appropriate or inappropriate here. But this wasn't a fictional piece they could do again. She did not return. Which gave Henry a whole new reason to be angry with her. The silly bitch—he was careful not to think cunt—had quit. Damn her.

He did not need this today. His inner life was already a muddle. Did his outer behavior have to be a muddle as well?

She had left the computer on. Henry stood beside it, looking at the TV part, trying to remember what button one pushed to turn it off. He collapsed helplessly into the armchair. “Oh, Jessica.”

What would he do without her? How would he get through his days? He'd have to hire a new assistant, wouldn't he?

But today was Wednesday. He had a matinee in two hours and another performance this evening. There was no time for life on matinee days. Life would have to wait until tomorrow. He had not even showered or shaved yet.

He went into the bathroom, prepped his face with hot water, then sculpted shaving cream over his chin and cheeks. He hated shaving with a safety razor and preferred an electric, but he needed a close shave for a show, what with all the makeup and cold cream.

While his whiskers soaked in foam, Henry faced himself in the mirror, a shabby fellow with dyed hair and a creamy white beard, like a punk King Lear, but gentler than Lear, sweet and harmless.

Why did Jessie quit? Was it something he said? Well, of course, it was something he said. They'd both said too much. So he was just an old queen? Old Queen Lear. But his words had been nastier than hers. How had he allowed their argument to get so out of control?

He held the safety razor under the hot water, lifted his chin, and slowly drew the blade up his throat.

I am such an anus, he thought. Why had he lost his temper? Because of Toby. If only Toby had been better sex.

He rinsed the blade under the tap and began a new swath.

In heartier, lustier times, he would've just fucked the bumptious boy and been done with him. Now, however, he was in his fifties; his cock was no longer the be-all and end-all of sack time. He had to think about
their
pleasure,
their
satisfaction. Which could be quite enjoyable. But if they weren't enjoying it, then he couldn't and it was no longer sex. Which was what had happened last night. Which should have been the end of it. But Henry wanted to see Toby again. He needed to see him again.

The blade scratched beside his ear, a loud, gritty, sandy sound.

Why see Toby again? He couldn't fuck the boy, he couldn't eat him. The boy was useless to him. Yet Henry wanted to see Toby again. So badly that he'd even agreed to go see his bunch-of-unemployed-actors-put-on-a-show-in-somebody's-cellar kind of play. Toby said they were doing an after-midnight performance on Friday and he was sure he could get Henry in.

He knocked the razor against the sink to dislodge a clot of soap and whiskers. It rang like a spoon on a glass calling a room to order.

He must be falling in love with Toby. Or something.

Whatever it was, the whole business made Henry angry, testy. And he had taken it out on his silly-billy assistant. Didn't she know him well enough by now to ignore his uglier moods?

When he finished shaving and splashed cold water on his face, he saw a new face in his mirror: Queen Lear. Was that such a bad thing? She'd be kinder than King Lear, wiser and better tempered. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd be just another bitch.

He took a quick shower, then dried himself and dressed in his usual sloppy going-to-the-theater clothes. His sole nod to fashion was a nicely tailored Burberry trench coat for the rain.

Passing through the living room, he saw the computer was still on. Oh, Jessie, he thought. The hell with you. The hell with Toby too. He left the machine running and hurried out the door to the elevator.

Downstairs the rain continued to fall, a gauze curtain of water. Go ahead and piss. He opened his umbrella and plunged in.

His reprise of temper surprised him. But it was Wednesday. He had two shows ahead of him and would have no time for life today, no emotions until Thursday. Thank God.

At the first crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, he felt himself being watched. He leaned his head back and peeked across the ridge of his nose. He saw a short, gawking, white-haired woman under a bright yellow umbrella that gave her a look of jaundice.

“Hey,” she said. “You're somebody, aren't you?”

He took a deep breath. He turned to her. He smiled and nodded. “Yes. Henry Lewse. So nice of you to recognize me.”

She continued to stare. “Why would I know you? You on TV?”

“No, madam. Theater. But thank you just the same.” He looked back at the crosswalk light, wishing it green.

“It can't be theater. I don't go to theater anymore. It's too expensive. Where else?” she demanded. “Help me here!”

He faced her again. “How the hell should I know! Maybe you bloody dreamed me!”

She didn't even blink. “You don't need to get nasty about it.”

Y
OU: Let's talk about success.

ME: All right. Yours or mine?

YOU: I'd say yours. After all, I'm dead.

ME: Success means nothing to the dead?

YOU: No. We're free of that rat race. We don't have to live anymore with those two imposters, success and failure.

ME: I like that. “Those two imposters.” Who said it?

YOU: I thought I just did.

ME: But before you. It's not original with you. Or me either.

 

And it wasn't. Caleb stuck his pencil in his mouth and thought.

He was back in his office, back at his game of words. This usually went better after dark, but a rainy day was almost as good as night. A green grayness filled the city like aquarium water. Falling rain continued to strike the patio outside his window in perfect splashes that resembled tufts of grass. Caleb wondered if this bad weather would last through Friday. Wouldn't it be awful if he had to cancel his party?

“Those two imposters, success and failure.” Where had he heard the phrase? It sounded good. And not just good, but true. He bent over the notebook again to see where the phrase would take him.

 

ME: I've learned firsthand that success is not entirely real. It's never complete. No matter what you get, you want more. But failure is an imposter too?

YOU: Like success, it's only temporary. And all in the eye of the
beholder. What feels like failure to you is going to look like success to someone else.

ME: That's something I still don't get. That there are people out there who think I'm a success. Who envy me.

YOU: The only complete failure is death.

ME: But you're dead. Is it really so bad?

YOU: Not half as bad as being sick. And I suspect it's not half as bad as starving or being an alcoholic or a paranoid schizophrenic or getting persecuted by Stalin's secret police.

ME: This isn't helping me.

 

The downstairs buzzer buzzed.

Caleb cringed, then sat very still. He wasn't expecting anyone. The mailman would leave packages in the foyer. A messenger would come back later. He remembered his last unexpected visitor.

He waited. There was no second buzz.

He relaxed and went back to the dialogue. But the voices in his head were gone. There was nothing now but gray pencil words on green-tinted paper. He thought a moment and a new question came to him.

 

ME: So what did you think of Toby? Was I unkind to him?

YOU: You're asking me? The dead boyfriend?

ME: You were always more experienced in the kiss-the-boys-and-say-good-bye department.

YOU: All right then. You want my reaction? In the game of love, we all need to be slapped now and then. Especially when we're young. When we think we're the center of the universe. It's part of our romantic education.

ME: So you're saying I did the right thing?

YOU: I'm saying you should have hurt him more. Slapped him physically and emotionally. You should've caressed his heart, then pinched it. Kissed it, then drop-kicked it like a football.

ME: Where's this coming from? You were never cruel when you were alive. Not knowingly.

YOU: But now I sometimes wish I'd hurt you knowingly instead of accidentally. A deliberate kick is more real and intimate than an
accidental one. But you should understand that. You're the man who wrote
Venus in Furs
.

ME: But I identified with the husband, not the wife.

YOU: You wrote the wife awfully well. You must have wanted to slap me around a little. Too bad you never did.

D
ownstairs in the foyer of One Sheridan Square, standing by the buzzers and intercom, Jessie blankly watched the rain hit the black asphalt in tiny white explosions. She was no longer waiting for an answer, she was just waiting. She considered taking out her cell phone and calling upstairs, but if Caleb wasn't home, he wasn't home. Too bad. He would've enjoyed hearing how she'd just told his favorite Shakespearean sellout to go to hell.

She opened her umbrella and stepped outside. But where to go? She did not want to go home. She did not want to be alone with her brand-new freedom. She was proud of quitting, but where's the joy in pride when you can't share it with anybody?

Stopping at the corner while a chocolate brown UPS truck lumbered past, she looked back at Caleb's building. It loomed over the little triangle of iron-fenced garden like a cliff topped with a castle of solitude. She could see no windows up there, only a few shrubs and the old water tank on stilts.

Maybe it was for the best that Caleb was out. Telling him how she'd quit would also mean telling him she'd seen Toby. There was no dignity in ratting on Toby. It might suggest she'd quit because Henry was bonking the twink. Or worse, that she had rushed downtown to tell Caleb because misery loves company.

But she wasn't miserable. No. She was happy that she'd quit. Really. The action was wonderful, spontaneous and real. But the adrenaline high of high drama was beginning to wear off. She could see the downside of storming out. Her bank account, for example. And the job market wasn't especially great right now. She didn't have a clue about what she could do next with her life.

There was a Starbucks around the corner, facing the newsstand at the subway entrance. She went in, thinking she could hang for a half hour or so and try Caleb later—if she decided to try him again. The place felt surprisingly cozy for a Starbucks. The walls were exposed brick, russet and orange. Lunch hour was over and only a handful of people sat at the tables, reading books or newspapers or working at laptops. There was a harsh stink of wet wool under the aroma of coffee. Jessie bought a cappuccino and almond croissant—she might not be able to afford such treats in the future—and went over to an unsorted stack of the
Times
from the past few days. She found three different Arts and Leisure sections and took them to a table by the window.

The cappuccino was foamy and fragrant, the croissant soft and sweet. Rain dribbled down the window glass like fake tears.

Jessie knew she should be thinking about her life and what to do with it, but she went straight to the movie ads. Dreamer, go to the movies. The only half-decent program was down at Film Forum:
The Decalogue,
Parts Seven and Eight. She'd seen all ten films already. She couldn't remember which of the Ten Commandments these two episodes addressed. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods? Thou shalt not worship false gods? Whatever, moral drama from Poland was not what she needed today.

She turned back to the theater page.

There was
Tom and Gerry
. She should be inured to the image by now—the quarter-page advertisement featured the same art deco couple that floated on the billboard outside on Seventh Avenue—but the sight gripped her heart and squeezed it.

Fuck this, she thought. Your fight was over piffle, but you were right to quit. He took you for granted. He barely noticed you. He's probably not even fully aware yet that you're gone. He won't notice until he starts drowning in unpaid bills. So why are you so sad? What kind of a masochist are you?

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned to another page. Her eyelids opened on a review of “Leopold and Lois.”

“Night Clubbed” said the headline. The reviewer was Kenneth Prager. The opening sentence read: “Like their namesakes, Leopold and Loeb, the musical couple of Leopold and Lois are murderers.”

Jessie was not a fan of Leopold and Lois. They were too East Vil
lage superironic for her taste. A bad review might be just what she needed right now. There is nothing like seeing untalented success get kicked in the butt to raise one's spirits on a bad day. She folded the page back and began to read.

“You think you're all alone, a stranger in a strange city, and then you remember you're not alone.”

The male voice behind her was a bit too loud and clear, like someone talking on a cell phone. She didn't bother to turn around. “Jessie? Hey. It's me.”

Now she turned.

He stood over her, a tall, thin geek with stringy brown hair gathered in a long, loose ponytail.

“Charlie?”

He was grinning like a fool, as if she should be pleased to see him. “Not bad,” he replied, assuming she'd asked how he was doing. “And yourself? May I join you?”

“Uh, sure.”

He folded his elaborate length into the chair across the table. Jessie hadn't seen Charlie Walker in almost two years, but he looked much the same. Forty going on eighteen. He still wore a black T-shirt and black jeans and long hair, like a slacker out of college. Charlie Walker was her ex-husband.

“You could've knocked me over with a feather when I saw you sitting here. Small world.”

“Are you living in the city again?”

“Oh no. Just visiting. Doing sound for a trade show. I tech for Pfizer and other forces of evil.”

Charlie dressed like a musician, but he was a techie, a sound engineer who'd been doing theater work when Jessie met him ten years ago. Techies are more practical and less ego-naked than artist types. Which she enjoyed for a while. But then Charlie found that work was steadier and the pay superior in the corporate sector. Dull practicality swallowed him like a wolf.

“We're up at the Javits Center, waiting for a mixer console that won't arrive until five. So I thought I'd come downtown and check out old haunts. This used to be my favorite Greek coffee shop, you know. But they paved paradise and put up a Starbucks.”

He was staring deep into her eyes. It was an old habit of his, a meaningless tic that Jessie blamed on herself. When they first got together, she had told Charlie that he was too skittish and needed to look people in the eye more often. Which he began to do with a vengeance. He did it with men as well as women, and gay guys like her brother often got confused. His blue pupils were as pale and shallow as a wash of watercolor. He could be sexy in a lazy, laid-back, lullaby manner. He regularly bored women into bed.

“Are you still with—I'm sorry,” said Jessie. “I can't remember her name.”

“Justine. Oh yeah. We own a house in Trenton now. Real estate is real cheap out there. And we got married.”

“Oh?” A half dozen emotions flew around her head, none of which she could express in words. All she could do was squint.

He chuckled, then shrugged. “Just because it didn't work with you and me doesn't mean marriage is bad. And ours ended amicably.”

“Yeah, well, we didn't have any money or property to fight over,” said Jessie. Or illusions or heartbreak or love.

“We didn't have a pot to pee in,” he agreed and chuckled again, his old, annoying, cartoon rasp, like he had a throat full of candy wrappers. “So. What have you been doing? How's your life?”

“My life's okay.” There could not have been a worse day to run into an ex-husband.

“Where you working? You still reading scripts at whatsit's?”

“Manhattan Theatre Club. No. That's like three jobs ago.” She studied the pitted foam in her cappuccino. “I'm the personal assistant to an English actor in a Broadway show. You know Henry Lewse?”

“Uh-uh. But you know me. If they're not in a
Star Trek
movie, they fly under my radar.”

“Well, he's nobody important,” said Jessie.

But this truth did not correct the lie. And the lie made Jessie feel more deeply than ever what she had lost. “You're an
assistant,
” he had sneered. “Only an assistant.” Now she was the assistant to nobody, which made her nobody.

“You kept our place downtown?” said Charlie.

“Oh yeah.”

“Good. That was a really good apartment. Cheap.”

“It should be. It's an illegal—sublet.” Her voice caught in her chest. The sudden thickness there annoyed her. She had no job now, no husband, no boyfriend, not even an apartment with a lease. “But you're happy in Trenton?” she said.

“Oh yeah. Trenton's cool. We got space. We got a garage, where I can mess with my electric bass. Justine has a garden. Work's dumb but the money's good. I'm not surrounded by techno whizzes who make me feel like a flop. I just go with the flow.”

“The tao of Trenton,” said Jessie.

He laughed. “To be sure. We can all find peace in our inner Trentons.”

Jessie opened her mouth to laugh with him—and she burst into tears.

Charlie grinned, as if these were joke tears.

Her throat closed up and the hot water spilled out. “Oh shit,” she croaked. “Why am I—?” She tried to laugh at herself, but each breath only brought up another sob.

Charlie finally understood. He leaned forward, tried to show concern but could only resume his old gaze-into-their-pupils look. He reached across the table and took her hand.

“Jessie? What's wrong? You're not crying about Trenton.”

And she scornfully laughed, which brought up a fresh volley of sobs. “Fuck,” she sputtered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” She pulled her fingers out of his hand and grabbed a napkin to cover her eyes. She pressed the heels of both hands against the sockets. A moment passed and she regained herself. She lowered the napkin.

“It's not about seeing me?” said Charlie.

“Oh no. Not at all.”

“I didn't think so.”

She stretched her jaw wide, took a deep breath, swallowed, and blinked. Her eyelids felt raw. The coarse brown napkins at Starbucks were not designed for crying jags. “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. I'm having one of those days where I absolutely hate my life.”

Charlie nodded, as if this were a perfectly reasonable thing to feel. He seemed uncomfortable but not distressed. Which was so like Charlie. His manly stolidity was one of the things Jessie had liked about him, when she didn't despise it.

“How long were we together?” he suddenly asked.

“Three years.” She sniffed up a last noseful of tears. “And were married for one.” But Charlie was never quite a husband, he was more like a stunt.

“Is that all?” he said and resumed his sweet, friendly, stupid look. “Feels longer than that. Much longer.”