The Road Narrows As You Go (43 page)

Some artists
are
the epitome, said Françoise and sipped healthily from her wine.

Art said, Lately my impression of immortality is that it's all a matter of who holds the copyright.

Meanwhile Richard McGuire was attempting to pull off Wendy's shoe with his foot.

This spaghetti is outrageous it's so good, Wendy said after a last pasta coil wiggled its way in between her puckered lips.

I love this place, said Gabby.

Marcel Duchamp used to eat here every night, said Richard. His studio apartment was down the block. It was called something else then.

A natural pause in the conversation felt nourishing, not awkward. Salvation Army bells rang out from across the street and snow dripped off the restaurant's awning as if to remind them of the approaching season. Wendy admitted to us that in this moment, she regretted how another year had passed without her Christmas special on television, and wanted to avoid the subject of the holiday.

Did you get a chance to read Biz's comic yet? Wendy asked Art, who motioned that he couldn't answer right away with his mouthful of noodles.

Françoise says, Art brings it home, he says look what I've got. I know what I have in my hands now. I might be in these pages. For the first time in a long time I'm afraid to open this comic, but when I do I feel transported. I mean her ink like blackened pools of blood, all these intense shapes framed so neatly and cleanly within panels. There is some special
kind of horror here. I think Pantheon should publish the memoir at some point, don't you? She touched Art's wrist.

Art agreed wholeheartedly, yes. Gabby agreed. Richard agreed. He said he showed his copies of her comix to everyone he thought would appreciate them. He'd picked up a lot of funk thanks to the references in Biz's comix over the years.

Françoise said, This issue is the culmination of her talents, I think. I found the narrative horrifying and beautiful, extremely emotional and cruel but not satirical. I can't get over her artwork—the intuition at play is amazing.

It is satirical, Wendy said. Biz sees the world as one big satire.

Art continued now that he'd swallowed: I was glad to see your assistants make appearances, too, and not just published cartoonists. I expect your friends to go far. Lots of talent. What were the other two names again? Mark I remember because I buy
Asemix
. And we have Aluminum Uvula's seven seven-inches—mostly for her cover art, I admit. The audio is extreme. Has she put out any more?

Aluminum Uvula is your assistant? Richard said. That's amazing. And she's in issue nine? Wow. I'll have to read it again. I love her stuff. It's so brutal.

Rachael's got a lot of guitar pedals but no guitar, Wendy said. A lot of microphones but she doesn't sing. She records a couple hours of noise a week in her bedroom. I'm not sure how she decides when to put out another single. It all sounds like beautiful hell to me.

Then there's Mark's noise-based comix, said Art as he drank from his ice water, alternately chewing and spitting ice back into the glass. Kind of a gallery crossover, what he's doing, except if I remember correctly he's a bit of a Looney Toon. We put an
Asemix
page in the last
Raw
.

Yep. He's the same wise drunk Daffy Duck. And Patrick's got lots on his plate. Lots of work for me. Lots of freelance gigs. He was doing in-betweens for Hanna-Barbera, and he draws at least a dozen monsters a
year as spot illos for Dungeons & Dragons modules. It's his stack of failed attempts to get a strip in the papers that breaks my heart. I had it lucky from the get-go thanks to Gabby here.

And the other gal. What's her name?

Twyla Noon. Twyla is my faithful
accomplish
—I mean, she accomplishes everything, while the rest of my assistants pitter-pat and I dilly-dally.

Your assistants
actually
ate Hick Elmdales? said Richard. I'm going to have to read that issue again. I thought those silhouettes were … I don't know, satirical … Mort Walker stereotypes.

No, that's us. I've had a long time to accept that Biz was eventually going to publish this issue. I watched her put the pages together over the last few years. I don't really know what she's trying to
prove
… Someone might think she's serious.

Biz is, Art said. Biz Aziz is always serious. He laughed and said, All I know is, when Jonjay handed me a piece of flesh on a paper plate of the drawing I'd done, and told me to
eat
, I could not help but take that moment seriously. Felt real to me.

Françoise stamped out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. I think with this issue, she said, Biz has claimed Hick's death as a pivotal moment for underground comix.

We
should
publish these nine issues in our Pantheon series, said Art. I mean, why wait?

Wendy thought of all the disagreements she'd had with Biz over the years and she regretted them all.

Absent-minded doodles scattered the table. Whenever one of them had finished doodling, Gabby supplied them with a fresh napkin so that by the time everyone was ready to go, no one had to pay for the dinner— the waitress told them their drawings covered the check.

The chef was a big
Strays
fan. He came out of the kitchen to personally shake her hand.

*

Under single petals of snow falling from on high to the sidewalk outside Spaghettisburg they embraced one another and said goodbye until next time. Spiegelman lit another cigarette and said he was going downtown to see John Zorn perform
Cobra
at White Columns. Françoise was tired and would share a cab with Gabby, since they were going the same direction. Gabby kissed Wendy on the lips. Ooh, I hate you, she said. Have fun tonight.

McGuire shuffled to and fro on his flirtatious feet watching Wendy decide what to do next.

Art Spiegelman said, Oh, I almost forgot. I brought this for you—, and passed Wendy a Kodak film canister. I thought you might get homesick.

She opened the lid and smelled the weed bud lodged inside. Yummy, thanks.

Sorry it's not got the Elmdales extra kick, Art shadowboxed, but it
should
do the trick.

Sweet of you, she said and kissed him on the cheek.

McGuire waved at the cab as it drove away. He turned to Wendy and said, Listen, I've got a rack of wine back at my studio, and rolling papers, if you want to go smoke that. I'm just around the corner. Spitting distance. I don't know. Night's young? Want to come by? I mean, feels like the conversation just got started. Don't really want to end things so soon.

Thank you, Richard, it sounds like tons of fun, but I can't.

You sure let me play friendly for a while. Gave me the impression you were into having some laughs.

I love laughs. I thought you were being funny. My whole life has been about laughs on top of laughs. I love meeting new people, and laughing with them, I really do.

Oh, that's it.

And I never had a regular boyfriend my whole life.

Never? But I heard you and Jonjay were an item—.

No. God, no. Everyone thinks that for some reason. Not since I was a teenager did I think he was my boyfriend. A relationship with Jonjay's more like signing up for a six-week aerobics class that meets once a week for an hour. After the class is over you instantly start getting fat again.

You don't think he loved you?

Oh, we loved each other, yes. Like best friends. Like incestuous siblings. But I had a lot of competition. He loved a lot of people. Lots loved him. I once caught Jonjay kissing his own reflection in the mirror. You understand? Jonjay loves everyone he meets for what they reveal to him about himself.

He's alive? McGuire asked.

Until they find his skeleton.

You really are beyond beautiful. Richard McGuire moved a sproing of hair off her forehead for a clear view of her eyes. So let's just go back to my studio and draw drunk. I love drawing drunk, don't you?

Sloppy weather, sloppy, sloppy, I do hope this blizzard's cleaned outta here before the parade on Friday. The doorman to the Zabriskie Hotel welcomed her in from the blowing snow. Grew up in it don't like it. Don't like the cold.

Oh gosh. She leaned on his shoulder. I must be so drunk. I didn't even notice how hard it's schnowing. Wonderful to shee you. Night-night, she said and without the money to palm him a tip she drunkenly kissed him.

When she asked the concierge if Frank had returned yet, the man said, No, ma'am, Mr. Fleecen had not, and, instead of any messages, offered her freshly steeped tea. This is my first trip to New York, she said, sipping orange pekoe from the mug he gave her. I think a very talented man hit on me tonight. What do you think of that?

The concierge pulled his long, bony hands out of the pockets of his black velvet vest and wiped the black curls of his black hair. He shrugged from ear to ear and said in a cordial tone that these men's come-ons
might reassure her at the very least that Mr. Fleecen wasn't alone. She kissed him, too.

In the elevator, the elevator man blushed and grinned at his shoes as he took her to the penthouse. She leaned against the wall the whole time, blinking an eye, singing
I Feel Love
. According to his brass nametag his name was Baa.

Baa? she said.

Yes, ma'am?

Oh, nothing, thank you. She kissed him goodnight. Boy, was she drunk.

Could he smell the—she didn't ask, or did she?—the fact she was pissdrunk?

No, ma'am, said Baa.

In the penthouse she opened the film canister and took a whiff. Skunk. Went outside, rolled, and smoked a joint on the balcony under the one or two stars visible over Manhattan. A moment later she leaned away from the patio furniture and vomited excitedly into the pot of a trembling ficus.

The snow fell in countable numbers. She went back inside. Turned on the television.
Hostages in …
Not that she was lonely.

His voice woke her up.

I'm a billionaire, he said and touched her shoulder. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room.

Gross. You smell like wall-to-wall carpet. Stale coffee. Hairspray. Cigar smoke. Cheap cologne. Sweet alcohol.

I'm stinking rich, he said.

Pee-yew
. And no flowers? Some new boyfriend you are. Go take a shower and wash off some of your corporate swill.

What about you?
You
reek of nicotine. Did you smoke a pack of packs?

Frank carried her to bed and lay down beside her, ran his hands and face through her hair. Mm, wait a minute, did you
score
?

Pfft!

I mean weed, calm down. Gee, you
did
have a good night. You're all paranoid. When did you get home?

Hours ago. Or minutes. No idea. I already puked. I can't get the smell of Art's cigs out of my hair. I'm drunker than a sack of rocks.

I can tell.

They made love in a manner she later described as more physics than physical—he felt her up like an abacus, and she lay there under him and watched as he strummed all her beads back and forth, up and down across her body's rails, she was numbers adding up under his hands. Her math was so bad in grade four her teacher scolded her too many times to keep count because she never did the homework. He made love in sequences and patterns. Maybe this Euclidian approach was what she loved. Maybe she loved the new pace. She wasn't grinding her teeth. She realized this all of a sudden in the middle of an orgasm.

No more bruxing.

For her this was a true sign. This deserved a
Dear Dr. Pazder
… She might actually be in love with this money manager. If she lay awake for a few more hours beside him in bed after a fuck like that, with a pen or pencil in her hand and a yellow legal pad in her lap, and doodled comic strip ideas while he snored, then that was her idea of early emerging domestic bliss.

He left another note on top of the TV. It was wedged in with a dozen longstemmed roses.

Wow, it's 6 AM. That's the best fucking sex & longest I've slept
in years!

I don't know if you know the spell you've got me under.

You are the reason I am crushing Wall Street.

Meet me @ the Hexen offices today, OK?

I'll introduce you to the staff.

Strictly professional, my love, xo, FF

28

Wow
. And,
Strictly professional, my love, xo
. Out on the deck, the snow was gone, and having melted off the streets, left Manhattan's skyline glimmering in a white and silver mist. The storm was sure to be a memory by the time of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade two days from now. Thinking about
FF
, she put on a pink cashmere sweater with a low V-neck, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. The phone rang and she ran across the room to answer it with nobody in her mind but Frank as she fell across the sofa and kicked her Adidas up and said into the phone's ivory mouthpiece, Baby, baby, with the Rolex prick.

What the—, a growly man said, who the fuck are
you
?

Weh—ah, she said, bit down hard on her lip and squeaked.

Sue? Is that
you
? I
knew
something was up. Motherfuckers. I swear. You dirty cunts. Goddamn you
both
, you conniving, mendacious, double- crossing white-collar … Is Frank there? Put him on. I try every fucking number I have for the guy and I'm down to the last of my disconnected when you pick up. Sue? Are you there? You listening? Now I know he's in New York. Don't lie to me, Sue. They won't let me in to see him.

Wendy's hand was at her throat.

The man on the other end of the line shouted. You know who this is. Tell him Kravis called.

She ran to the elevator and then ran through the lobby.

Hallo, she said as she hurried past the concierge. No tea or coffee for me this morning, thanks. Hallo, she said to the doorman as she hoofed it down the stairs, looks like you got your wishes, the snow's all melted.