The Road Narrows As You Go (42 page)

The streets were clear but there was snow in the trees and grass in Central Park. Soon her cat Murphy would make his appearance in balloon form above the heads of thousands of admiring New Yorkers. For someone so auspicious, Wendy felt out of place in the Upper East Side. She didn't
dress like the women here. She didn't walk correctly either. She slouched. Her manners were all intuitive.

Before her dinner date, she visited Macy's on West 34th to see their holiday trimmings, a classic touristy thing to do. But especially apt, she thought, considering the winter parade in a few days. Take in the animatronic displays, awe at all the departments decked out, sparing no expense, ribbons and silver boas wrapped around the load-bearing pillars, no limit to garlands from ceiling to floor. Glitter, tinsel, and coloured balls. A leafy green wreath the circumference of a train tunnel hanging in the entrance, a red velvet bow pinned to it the size of elephant ears.

The map said the third floor was the toy section. She landed at the top of the escalator and saw how fully the makeover transformed the entire floor into a kingdom of seasonal dreams for wishful and wealthy children in this Christmassy wonderland. Famous from commercials, from the movies, Macy's was even featured in kids' books, with its long, lavish aisles of toys. Macy's was a pilgrimage Wendy never realized she had to make.

A twelve-foot fuzzy Francis stood at the entrance to the toy section dressed as a rabbit Santa, with his ears poking out the sides of his red jinglebell toque, greeting kids with an upraised front paw. His eyes conformed exactly to the way she always drew them, three horizontal lines like the ones depicting heaven in the
I Ching
. And as she walked down the first aisle she saw all the toys there were of her characters. She stretched her hands out to both sides, over the heads of children who sat on the floor staring at the packages of the
Strays
board games and rubber dolls, and let her fingers ripple over the sea of
Strays
merchandise, plush stuffed animals, hard plastic, and cheap wood versions of Buck the dog and Murphy the cat, Francis the rabbit, Raquel the raccoon, Nicki the parrot, even Sam the snake.

Why can't I? said a toddler with a plush Sam coiled around her arm to a rakish white-haired downtown father with hollow cheeks and his hands stuffed into a snow-wetted peacoat. Too expensive, the father said distractedly.

Wendy's shoulders bunched up over her earlobes at the sound of a screechy beckoning from the end of the aisle: Thomas, dear, here they are, tup-tup, those Transformers toys are
over here
. A boy in blue overalls threw a plastic-packaged Buck automaton (batteries not included) onto the bottom rack of
Strays
merchandise and got off his knees and raced along the tiles to meet the mothering source of that crow.

Just when she thought no child loved
Strays
or wanted
Strays
merchandise, a mother and daughter in matching outfits walked up to Wendy and said, Do you know who
this
is, honey? This is Buck's
mother
! Isn't that right? Tell my daughter you're Buck's mother. She loves your strip, but Buck's motherlessness breaks her heart.

I'm Buck's mother, Wendy said. She pulled out a Rapidograph and drew the girl a quick doodle,
Love from Buck's mother
.

Browsing at a comic shop downtown near Washington Square, she found a copy of a recent issue of
Raw
magazine with a folio dedicated to Art Spiegelman's ongoing
Maus
when by coincidence she ran into the very author, who laughed when he saw what she had in her hands and showed her what he happened to be about to buy:
her
latest treasury—
The Mayor Wins by a Hare—
as well as issue nine of
The Mizadventurez of Mizz Biz Aziz
.

That's fantastic you're in town, Art said. I was just feeling nostalgic for the coast, about to buy these books. Gee, it's like you sprung straight out of my thoughts.

Have you read that yet? Wendy said of issue nine.

No, but I hear things. Been waiting to get a copy.

You're
in it. Biz paints the wake like something straight out of a Hammer film.

I'm flattered. I'm scared.

Eating a big slab of Hick's corpse? How does that sound?

Don't spoil it for me!
But it's kind of mean-spirited, don't you think?

Wendy … Art paused. Wendy, that's the
point
! Unleash shockzilla on an unsuspecting public. Used to be Crumb's territory, now it's Aziz's. Bless her heart, hope it never stops beating. Did you tell her you think it's mean-spirited?

Well, in a way.

Art said he missed San Francisco. He told her he had a meeting with his editors at Pantheon in ten minutes and must leave—, but he asked if he could take her out for dinner that night with his wife, Françoise Mouly, and to meet another friend, a local cartoonist Spiegelman thought Wendy would love. She told him she was meeting Gabby for dinner at Gabby's favourite Italian restaurant, Spaghettisburg.

We'll join you, how's that? said Art, pulling a cigarette out of a soft pack in his breast pocket as he spoke. I know the one. Great handmade noodles. First-gen Italians in the kitchen, can't speak a world of English. Let us tag along. I'm sure Gabby won't mind.

Their table at Spaghettisburg was so small, Art Spiegelman joked if it was any smaller they'd be having an orgy. Gabrielle was nonetheless very pleased to see the group—the more the merrier. In Manhattan, conversation was hardly idle, it was one of the core food groups that sustained life on the island, and Gabby was a connoisseur. She knew Art and Françoise well enough but not to invite for an intimate dinner. Richard McGuire was a familiar face from parties, a handsome man she had never had the chance to speak to. Art introduced them all to him—Wendy, this is one of the top three people in New York.

I'm a longtime fan of the funny pages, said McGuire. First I read
your
strip, then
Bloom County
,
Doonesbury
, and
Nancy
in that order.

Wowza, said Wendy.

I'm her editor, said Gabby, extending her hand to pet his. Delighted to meet you. We've seen each other at parties, I think.

Have we? said Richard McGuire and took his seat again.

All through dinner McGuire's knees kept brushing against Wendy's. Sometimes he slid a shin between her legs to rub up and down her calves. She felt compatible with him, that was the thing. She wasn't used to withholding. His scalp was neatly bald, his trenchcoat smartly post-punk, tight-fitting black sweater and black jeans. An asexual curiosity, McGuire reminded Wendy of Tintin, another forever young ectomorph rebel hero type, like Jonjay, and come to think of it, like practically all the boys Wendy went out with—except for Frank.

Spiegelman and Mouly's new project with Pantheon was to publish book-format comics based on pieces first anthologized in
Raw
. They intended to publish a collection of Mark Beyer's
Amy and Jordan.
They also hoped Richard McGuire would do something for them.

Richard is an
outstanding
artist, Françoise told Wendy. You'd
love
his comics. So brilliant.

Thanks, but there's not much to them yet, Richard said and spooned winter vegetable soup into his mouth.

Feeling the toe of McGuire's shoe climb up her left calf, she said, Shimminy doo-bop!

Maus
is a masterpiece by the way, said Gabby.

Well, shucks, said Art. Unfortunately it's not done.

Gabby shook her head. You blew the ears off this century's greatest cartoon icon, Art. The mouse, Art, the mouse. The next century will not live in a cartoon world dominated by the story of a single mouse's face. You've dislodged the centre of the cartoon canon. Not a Bugs Bunny or Fred Flintstone has come close to budging Mickey. But history will show that with the publication of
Maus
, Mickey's been sidelined as the one and only mouse relevant to comics.
Maus
is the maturation of the soul that Mickey Mouse tries to deny.

Oh you think such a thing is possible in a mouse-theistic world? said Art in a jokey lisp.

Françoise cried out, Stop! Let's talk about anything else in the world besides Mickey Mouse! Pour Art a drink. Truth or dare. Truth or dare, Wendy. Which do you choose?

Truth, said Wendy and instantly regretted it.

Okay
, said Françoise with an almost cross-eyed expression, casually turning her neck as if balancing an invisible egg on the tip of her nose with ease. Have you had sex in the last twenty-four hours?

Everyone laughed. Gabby covered her face with a napkin and said, What a question!

In San Francisco, Wendy explained, sex is a game of Russian roulette nowadays. AIDS has the whole city terrified of their own genitals. The gay James Bonds of the Bay Area are dying or celibate. It's a chilly time for sex.

Here in Manhattan, too—, McGuire put his hand over hers on the table, —and yet we stubbornly continue to fornicate conspicuously and promiscuously.

Good for you, said Wendy.

Françoise said, You see the obits for these young beautiful boys in the
New York Times
and must read between the lines when they mention cancer, illness of some kind, or no reason at all. It's sad.

It's hard to get people in San Francisco to acknowledge AIDS, too, said Wendy.

Art stamped out his cigarette and reached in his pocket for another one. He lit the cigarette off the candle on the table. For a few minutes all the friends did was eat.

This
is
delicious, said Wendy.

Told you, said Gabby. Guess who recommended this place to me … Vaughn Staedtler. I'm sad I missed his funeral. I heard he died of pneumonia … Oh.

Oh, said Art. His shoulders fell. The other shoe just dropped for me, too. Do you know, Wendy, did he really die of …?

As they waited in silence for a second or it must have been a third
bottle of wine, McGuire hit the men's room. As soon as he was out of earshot, Art and Françoise leaned right over the table and said to Wendy, So? Isn't he great? He's something special, isn't he? And handsome, too. You two seem to be hitting it off. Don't you agree, Gabby? Oh, if only you lived in New York. We've been trying to find someone perfect for Richard but he's had a string of bad luck. One girl fled to do a master's at Anglia. Another chick dumped him for Steve Martin. Imagine that.

She told them Richard did seem cool. There was some discussion about their affinities as well as where their trajectories might contrast nicely. She was a strip creator and he was more of a conceptual illustrator. Apparently he lived in a loft space with access to a rooftop that had a beautiful view of the city. He was also in a funk band.

Hey, come on now, what about
me
? said Gabby, sincerely insulted. Aren't I available? What is my problem? Doesn't he like women his own age? Jesus, I live right here in town.

Richard McGuire returned to the table and Art said smoothly, Yeah … you're right. Seems most artists I know aren't getting any of the trickle Reagan promised was going to come down from his tax breaks for the wealthiest, surprise surprise.

McGuire joined the conversation he thought was happening. Freelance rates haven't changed in ten years. But rent is through the roof.

People are leaving Manhattan, Art said. In droves. I moved here just when everybody decided to ditch the place. Can't find a studio space in SoHo for under seven hundred a month nowadays. People keep moving to the sticks.

Or L.A., McGuire said.

Even Boston, where prices are still reasonable, artists are moving out, Françoise said as she reached over into Art's breast pocket for his pack of cigarettes. She rolled her eyes. I only smoke when I socialize and drink. I'll regret this in the morning.

America, McGuire said, is leveraging itself to the hilt. All these highrises going up are being paid for on borrowed dime.

Junk bonds, said Art. At a twenty-two percent interest. Fuck. What's he like, Wendy, the kingpin of American finance, the titan of debt? You must know Frank Fleecen, right?

Wendy hardly talks to the man, Gabby said. I handle most of our dealings with Frank. Frank could sell water to a whale, she said. But you'd think he was a vampire ghoul the way the media goes on. He's no evil force. Unlike most of Wall Street, he's generous. He's just what Reagan wanted, someone to turn the economy around and pull us out of the decline the Vietnam War cost us.

The fine art of usury, said Françoise with her fork spinning up a bale of noodles.

What's the word? said Wendy.

Usury? Loans at high interest, said Françoise. A way to make money out of thin air.

Art said, Usury is all of our histories, our shared debt. What came first, money or debt? What once was a pound of flesh in Shakespeare's day is now a junk bond on Wall Street and might tomorrow be a synapse. Money. The big blueblooded banks claim Frank's bonds are diluting the market with risky debt.

She asked if they'd already heard that Frank's wife and Jonjay were missing.

Françoise said they read the newspapers.

Where might Jonjay be hiding? Art wondered.

Who knows? said Wendy. Maybe nowhere.

Do you really think he might be dead? Art asked. Cheez Whiz, I remember I was just a kid when I first met him. Hasn't aged a day, that guy. Freaky. I doubt he's dead. It's not in his character to be dead.

Wendy squinted as if with a sudden migraine. Hold your horses, you met him when you were a kid? The more I know about Jonjay, the less I understand. When I met him I thought
we
were the same age.

He was the kid who teased the hobos, he could steal you anything you wanted, you name it, even a girl's underwear. Then with the usual poof, he vanished, next I hear it's ten years later he's in California, publishing groundbreaking comics, living with Hick and Biz, programming com- puters or something in the Valley. He was so deep in the California scene, he was the unofficial mascot.