Rubyfruit Jungle (16 page)

“When all this happened did you talk to Pat about an abortion?”

“Sure I did. She screamed and carried on about how that was murder and here was the fruit of our love. I nearly threw up on that one. Girl’s got no sense. She thinks motherhood’s gonna make her a natural woman or something. Wait until that little beast starts crying in the middle of the night. She’ll wish she’d listened to me. She was determined that I’d marry her and settle down and we’d have a picture book family and get photographed for
Ebony
someday. Shit.”

“Then I guess she’ll learn the hard way. I’m glad you tried to change her mind, but maybe that’s all she’s got. You know how some girls are. They think they’re nothing until they get married and have a baby. So now she’s getting her baby, although she’s minus the marriage bit.”

“Why are you here? You haven’t told me your story.”

I recounted my tales of horror.

“Damn, they get you coming and they get you going, don’t they? Looks like nobody wants their queers, not the whites, not the blacks. I bet even the Chinese don’t want their queers.”

“I don’t much care what any of them want, Calvin. I just care about what I want, the hell with all of them.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think too.”

“Hey, the sun’s coming up. I hope Chock Full opens early today. Don’t forget, I’m looking for an apartment today. You want to come?”

“You know what I’m going to do today? I’m going out there on the turnpike and hitch to California. I mean it. If you could hitch up here from Florida I can hitch out to San Francisco. Come on with me?”

“I would. This is going to sound weird, Calvin, but something tells me I have to stay in this ugly city for awhile. I don’t know how long, but I have to be here. It’s like I’ll make my fortune here or something. Remember those old children’s stories where the young son goes out on the road for adventure and to make his fortune after he’s been cheated out of his inheritance by his evil brothers?”

“Yeah, I sort of remember those. Puss-in-Boots kind of thing?”

“Yeah, kinda like that.”

“Well, I’m going to San Francisco for mine.”

Finally Chock Full opened and our waitress supplied us with goodies. We both took a long time
dunking our donuts because neither one of us wanted to start out on that day. But we had to pry ourselves off the thinly padded stools. On the street, we looked at each other, then slowly stretched out our right hands. It was a very formal handshake, almost like a ritual. Then we wished each other luck and went off in opposite directions to seek our fortunes.

Near the river on West 17th Street, I found a ragged apartment. The bathtub was in the kitchen, the electricity was d.c., and the walls were layers of multicolor from so many coats of paint and wallpaper peeling over decades of misuse. Rent was $62.50 a month. My first piece of furniture was a used single-bed mattress someone had graciously left on the street. I drug it back up five flights of stairs and beat it until I thought it was clean enough to touch.

The next day I got a job at The Flick serving ice cream and hamburgers in a bunnyesque costume. I made enough to cover rent plus I filched as much food as I could from the ptomaine pits at work. After the subway and incidentals I had about $5.00 a week for myself. That sum I hoarded until the weekend when I’d go to the bars, where secretaries from New Jersey met secretaries
from the Bronx and they lived happily ever after. Standing next to the wrought-iron railing at Sugar’s bar with its New Orleans whorehouse red decor I would swear to myself that I wasn’t coming back next weekend. I couldn’t hack the games and I felt like a complete fool going over to some woman and asking her to dance. And the ones who came over to ask me to dance left their Mack trucks parked outside. Boredom set in my bones but I didn’t know where else to turn. So every weekend I broke the vow I made the weekend before, and I came back to lean against the wrought iron railing and look at the ladies.

One Friday night I was spared the red velvet womb of Sugar’s. A young woman showed up at The Flick and ordered chocolate chip ice cream and expresso. She looked straight into my eyes and said, “With a body like that you ought to try something different from waiting on tables.”

“Who me?” I nearly dropped the ice cream in her crotch.

“You. When do you get off work?”

“Twelve.”

“I’m coming back here to pick you up at twelve.”

Jesus H. Christ on a raft. I’ve just been picked up by a spectacular, six-foot woman. Hot damn, New York may turn out to be something good after all.

Twelve o’clock and she was there in a long black cape with a Napoleon collar. It made her look even taller and the high collar drew attention to a perfect nose underneath arching brows. Her name was Holly. She was 25, born in Illinois with no apparent ambition other than to attract attention.
She asked me if there were any job openings at The Flick. There were, and the next day Holly was hired by Larry the Leech who slobbered when he caught sight of her 34C in a leotard. Holly and I worked the same hours and the same area. She must have spent half her wages on me but money didn’t seem to matter to her. It was fine with me if she spent her money on me, if she didn’t care. We went to see every show in the city on our nights off and when there wasn’t anything we wanted to see she’d take me to my door, kiss me goodbye, and swoop off in her black cape. I was having a hard time figuring her out.

Maybe I need to doctor myself up a little. With that in mind I went out in the early morn haze with my pea coat on and less than a dollar in my pocket. Two hours later I returned with a bottle of Madam Rochas, a can of shaving cream, a copy of
The New York Review of Books, Variety
, three Reese’s peanut butter cups, one steak, one package of frozen spinach that had turned my shirt green and froze my liver, razor blades, eye shadow, mascara and a felt tip pen. That night when I went to work I had on the eye shadow, mascara and Madam Rochas, but Holly didn’t notice or maybe she thought I was fine without warpaint.

We got off at twelve and she took me to a new bar on 72nd Street called the Penthouse. You had to have an expensive membership card to get in but Holly produced one.

“Holly, how did you get the money for that?”

“I didn’t. An actress gave it to me.”

“Out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Partially. She’s my lover.”

“Oh.”

“I’m a kept woman, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything at all, but I’d have hit on that eventually.”

“Now that you know my terrible secret,” her voice quivered in mock terror, “are you going to walk out of my life forever?”

“No, but if you have money and all that, why the hell do you work at the salt mines?”

“Keeps me grounded in reality.”

“Who wants that kind of reality? I’ve been in it all my life. I’d like another brand.”

“Well, I like it for awhile. It’s a trip, you know.”

“Yeah. Say, who is this actress lady?”

“Would you believe me if I told you Marie Dressler?”

“She’s dead, smartass, but she happens to be my all time, favorite actress. Come on, tell.”

“Kim Wilson.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“How did you meet her?”

“That’s a long story. I don’t feel like getting into it. Anyway, she’s okay even if she’s over forty. If you want to meet her there’s going to be a big party at Chryssa Hart’s—you know, the archeologist. I’ll be with Kim, but we can all go together as long as I go home with her. Just wait until Chrys lowers her blue eyes on you. That ought to be rich.”

“Spare me the details. She’s seventy years old, had her face lifted five times, and drips diamonds wherever she walks.”

“She does drip diamonds, but she’s forty something and very, uh, well preserved.”

“Great, what does she do, sleep in an alcohol bath? I get pursued by the human pickle. Some friend you are, fixing me up with the geriatric ward.”

“I’m trying to help you out of your crushing poverty, love. I don’t feel like talking about middle-aged ladies. Let’s dance.”

We passed through a long bar, then a crowded room with a stone fireplace, another room, and finally arrived at the enormous square floor with the ubiquitous mirror ball glittering from the ceiling. For all its splash and Broadway clientele, it was a friendly place. Other women and men talked to us, bought us drinks and invited us to parties. Neither of us noticed what time it was until we caught sight of the sky lightening outside the window.

“Look, it is beautiful sometimes, this city. Must be four a.m. and I’m not even tired,” I said.

“Me neither. I only live a few blocks from here. Why don’t we go to my place?”

Ah ha. Finally.

Holly lived on West End Avenue in a big apartment with lots of old molding on the ceilings and parquet floors. A monstrous silver Persian, Gertrude Stein, greeted us at the door and she was pissed that Holly stayed out so late. On our journey through the apartment we found a trail of feline discontent: a chewed slipper, a shredded corner of the rug, and when we passed the bathroom we saw that Gertrude Stein had pulled the entire roll of toilet paper off the roller.

“Is she always this vindictive?”

“Yes, but then I look forward to her little surprises. You know, of course, that we are heading toward the bedroom and that we’re going in there to make love?”

“I know.”

“Then why are you walking so slow? Come on, run.” Holly trotted into a bedroom boasting an enormous brass bed with a plush maroon bedspread. Halfway to the bed she had her blouse off. “Hurry up.”

“I’m going slow so as not to arouse Gertrude’s suspicion in case she’s the jealous type.” Sure enough, Gertrude was paddling after me with hostility in her slanted eyes.

“You’re safe. Gerty will only try to slither between us.”

“Wonderful. I’ve never done it with a cat before.” Holly had all her clothes off and was rolling down the bedspread. She was more beautiful out of her clothes than in them. I tripped getting out of my pants.

“Molly, you really should dance. You’re all sinew and muscle and you look terrific. Come here.”

She pulled me on the bed and I was close to passing out from being next to six feet of smooth flesh. She was running her fingers through my hair, biting my neck, and I started floating on hot energy. She had a soft, thick afro which she slid all over my body. And she kept biting me. Her tongue ran along the back of my ear, into my ear, down my neck, along my shoulder bone and on down to my breasts, then back up to my mouth. I lost track of linear sequence after that, but I
know she put the full weight of her body on top of mine and I thought I was going to scream she felt so fine. I ran my hands down her back and could barely reach her behind she was so long. Each time she moved I could feel the muscles under her skin fluidly changing shape. The woman was a demon. She started slow and got wilder and wilder until she was holding me so tight I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t care. I could feel her inside me, outside me, all over me; I didn’t know where her body began and mine left off. One of us was yelling but I don’t know who it was or what she was yelling. Hours later we untangled ourselves to notice that the sun was high over the Hudson, snow was falling in the river, and Gertrude had devoured my right shoe, my only pair.

“Molly, do you ever make it with men?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know. I guess after making love like that I hate to think of you wasting it on a man.”

“Well, I do it sometimes but not very often. Once you know what women are like, men get kind of boring. I’m not trying to put them down, I mean I like them sometimes as people, but sexually they’re dull. I suppose if a woman doesn’t know any better, she thinks it’s good stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ll never forget when I found out the difference.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two. I’d been sleeping with guys since I was eighteen but it took me four more years to get to women. I think I had spent those twenty-two years ignoring women. I blocked out anything sexual until one night my roommate unblocked
me. We were doing summer stock,
Anything Goes
for the wrinkle set, and my roommate was one of the angels. She threw me in bed, really. I kicked and took a chunk out of her arm but that didn’t last long. She wouldn’t let go and I didn’t want her to, secretly. Then I spent the next three weeks running away from her and telling her I didn’t like it at all and I only gave in because I was tired of fighting. Guess I fucked her over. If I knew where she was, I’d thank her for throwing me in that bed. She knew, and I didn’t.”

“So what happened?”

“The show ended and I came back here for auditions. She went out West and like a stupid ass I didn’t sleep with her on our last night. I was still busy being a professional heterosexual. Every time I think about that, my stomach turns over.”

“I’m certainly grateful to that lady, wherever she is. Here I am reaping the benefits of her courage.”

“Opportunist.” And she wrapped her arms around me for an instant replay.

Saturday I met Holly at her apartment. Kim was there in a deep red outfit with a black and white scarf. She looked pretty much like she did in the movies except for the false eyelashes, plus she loaded her face with makeup to hide the wrinkles and put on her lipstick with a palette knife, to hide her shrinking lipline, I guess. Other than those attempts at youth, she was good looking. I was fully expecting her to sit there with a drink in her hand and bore me with tales of being on the set with Rock Hudson and wasn’t it
funny when Jack Lemmon fell out of the boat before the cameras started rolling, ha, ha … a million laughs from a faded Hollywood that my generation doesn’t give a shit about. Instead she talked about Lévi-Strauss and structuralism and how she was getting into Susan Sontag’s work. But she wasn’t pretentious about it. She seemed to care for Holly a great deal—her eyes followed wherever Holly moved. Gertrude the glutton was napping in her lap and staring out at me from the one green eye she held open for spying purposes.