The letter below -- a description of a party my wife, some friends and I attended the summer of 1989 -- is gossipy, mundane and boorish, an excellent example of the yahoo persona I struggled with throughout my young-man years.
The letter does end well, or at least with some honesty, and true to the idea that not a lot has changed in twenty-five years. Describing a flash crush I experienced when I happened upon a beautiful young Jewish woman in the IRT station at 96th Street, I write:
So I sat there lost in reverie, thinking about women, about how they are so amazing -- a book that you always wanted to read, a key to the fucking universe. And I wondered about my life and the choices I've made: how I am now closed off to women. I'd been thinking a lot about stoicism lately, about the abnegation of any dependence on things that take you out of your self, like pussy, and I was comforted by the thought, the imperative, that I was no longer going to bind my ego to collecting pussy and books.
Summer 1989
Well, man, please forgive the inexcusable tardiness, a tardiness made all the more inexcusable by the fact that I haven't really been working: on the average about a day and an half a week. I've just been sitting/lying around doing absolutely fucking nothing. But tonight I have made the vow to bust up ol' Granddaddy Lethargy, coax him out on the ledge with a beer quart in my fist, and then kick his ass off for the twenty-two-floor reverse soar.
"The poop chute. Ah, yes! A delicate little morsel. And a bed in the bargain! But, oh, why not?" The best part of the story was the reclining chair complete with lever thrust, the one that left you with a tasty vision of the inner workings of your suave host's nostrils. What did Archimedes say? "Give me a lever and the right place to stand, and I can move the world." Anyway, a very good tale; I've repeated it quite a few times.
Right now, right at this second, the medical school "cocktail club" is having a shindig on the roof of Bard Hall (the roof you can look down and see from our south-facing window, the one that the ledge that we walked on overlooks). The music, which sounds like a Top-40 medley from the last three years with its SteveWinwoodPhilCollinsU2PetShopBoysREM droning, is drifting up eleven stories and elbowing its way through our open window (which is open because it's damn hot in New York, or at least, suddenly, hotter than it has been since last summer). But, anyway, the reason I mention this, that the medschool patsies are attempting to get heated, is that I fantasized, as I went to the stereo to change albums and turn up the volume, I fantasized climbing out onto the ledge (the one we were on that day), and, after casting a baleful but honest gaze down upon the tops of their dull heads, I fantasized firing, springing, leaping, swooping off that ledge, howling and clawing my way into the heart of the naked night; the medstudents, a little cheery from there half-sipped Vodka Collins and the Terrence Trent Darby pooping€ out of the PA, would yank their heads back in response to my cry and see me -- ninety feet up and twisting and tangling and stroking like a motherfucker. But just when it would look like I had lost all control and was about to plunge to an ugly death, I would straighten up and spread right into a swan dive, the prettiest swan dive you've ever seen.
The medstudents would be gasping and moaning€, throwing down their drinks and scratching at their throats for air. After holding the swan for a second, I'd tuck and roll, angling my body just so as to catch all the good gusts blowing off the springtime Hudson and thereby pushing me south and erasing some of the gap that separated our building from Bard Hall. Twenty-feet away from the roof and dropping fast I'd have to pull out all the stops. Flattening my body like a piece of sheetrock, my arms outstretched, I'd get lucky and snag the last bump of Hudson pop, just enough to push me --centimeters -- over the top of the guard rail, the rail that separated the occupants of the Bard Hall roof from the domain of my majesty, THE MAJESTIC DOMAIN OF THE AIRWAYS. To counteract the lethal impact of an eleven-floor fall, I'd collapse my arms and head under my chest and roll into a series of somersaults, effectively dissipating the force of collision with the roof. I'd end the somersaults -- two dozen or so in number -- with a springing handstand into a back flip, landing squarely on both feet right in front of the keg. I'd then grab a nearby 16-oz. plastic cup and pour myself a tall foamy one, calmly tossing it back in three noisome gulps.
At this point, they'd come running up, all those chummy medschool ninnies, begging me to tell then if it was true, if I had really done what they thought they saw me do. I'd turn to them and say, "No, that wasn't me. I think you've have had one too many of those cocktails. But if you could honor one request. I'd be very happy if you could pour me another beer.
Jessica is sorta seeing (not that you'd care, just that it's something to talk about) one of Ashley's first-year classmates. Jessica met him at a party that we went to a while back; it was Nancy's party. You met Nancy briefly when you were here. She was the one who thought she had seen you before. As parties go it was pretty damn good. Anyway, Jessica knows Nancy from Berkeley, and she was told that some other people she knows from Berkeley (the dance/drama groovies) were gonna be there, so she decided to accompany us.
The three of us, along with Gary and Eleni, trundled down to 103rd on the 1. It was raining pretty good, but not of the particularly cold variety). And we get there and, okay, the place is nice and full. Gary and I are clutching the quarts; there are medschoolers around, but they're nice and thinned down by a bunch of other types, like the Berkeley expatriates and sundry career-track cadavers.
Nancy's roommate is an old time college crony who now works in NYC publishing -- a real world-beat closet yupp six-foot cunt; a lot of her co-workers were spread about the apartment, which was all very well and good; it's always good to have margarine around you know, in the back of the refrigerator, when you run out of the real thing.
Once inside the door and all the obligatory greetings and introductions are gotten rid of, the first thing I do is head to the fridge to deposit the two sixes I'm cradling. I open the fridge door and bam! -- not an inch of free space and nothing but beer. I say to myself, "It's gonna be an good evening." I open the freezer and place the twelve little Adolphs in their frosty womb. Nancy protests; says I'll forget and they'll explode. I assure her, "They won't even be there long enough to catch a chill." Then I levitate out of the kitchen, quart still in hand like it was riding shotgun.
I make my way into the living room. A lot of women, but nothing special. Pet store kittens. All small and dewy-eyed. More like dolls, come to think of it. Nothing to inspire the snake to extra innings.
Antony is there with his girlfriend, Grace. Grace has a girlfriend with her, a Plain Jane, but an open and eager one. The three of us talk a little, but it's good and loud, and I can't make out what they're saying. So I cut out, which at parties is always more like a fading out, slowly, blandly, fading to a different region of conversation.
I cruise back into the kitchen and grab three cans from one of the sixes in the freezer; the 32-ouncer is long gone. It's more happening in the kitchen -- as it always is, despite the fact that it's always the best lit place at a party -- probably because that's where all the serious, or more serious, drinkers congregate.
Dusting off the first can and cracking open another in one subtle mercurial notion, I strike up a conversation with a dude from Mississippi. His best buddy from way back is a medschooler classmate of Ashley's. He's just back from Europe. He's talking with one those real soft, real pretty and mellifluous accents that only a gentrified boy from the Deep South can utter. He's just back to the United States from Europe and he hasn't been laid in ten months and he misses his girl and he misses his hometown. But what's so great about what he's saying is that he's telling it to me in a real upbeat honest, strong way. He's not whining or bitching; he's just saying, "Yes, this is the way it is right now, and I'm a sure looking to be out of it."
The other thing that was interesting about the conversation with this guy from the Deep South, Dee was his name, was that you could tell that he was kind of uncomfortable about saying he was from Mississippi. Whether it was because he was in trendy, "I-am-Godly" New York City, or because of the movie MISSISSIPPI BURNING, I don't know. But like a good, slightly beer-buzzing, never-fear-to-be-honest Californian, I went right to the heart and asked him if he felt kind of self-conscious and shitty when he told the New York uppity-ups where he was from. And he knew where I was coming from, and he said, yeah, he did, but that when he really thought about it he knew he was okay and that he shouldn't feel that way because he was just reacting to the way that he thought and feared people might be thinking of him. I thought that was pretty damn excellent. So I celebrated with can number three.
Around about this time I excused myself the company in the kitchen -- snatching two more Coors in departing -- and went back into the living room to check out how the gang was doing. Ashley and Jessica were jawing; Antony, Grace and Plain Jane were huddled together looking a touch uncomfortable (I don't think they were drinking much); Gary was with some med-peers; Eleni was off dangling, partially disenfranchised (which is normal for Eleni).
I go up to Gary and he tells me he's about to put on his tape. I say, "Absolutely!" But first let me fill you in on something.
The odd thing about this party was that just about every person that walked in the front door came with a party tape clutched in a sweaty palm, a tape that they'd made and wanted to put on the cassette player. I'm not talking one or two individuals; I mean ten-to-fifteen people. Naturally, this created a balmy and tense climate throughout the evening because when one person, who had doubtless spent hours working up a final product, put on their tape, eight-minutes later another person would come along and rip that tape out and stick her tape in; at times, Nancy had to act as mediator, a paramedic for flustered pomposity.
So anyway, by the time I got back to the dance floor in the living room, Gary had decided to make his move and put on his James Brown mix. He goes up. Not that many people are dancing, four or five of those pet-store kittens and maybe one to two throwaway weenies. He hits STOP and then EJECT, slides the tape out (one of the marry half-rap/half-disco house music compilations (why is the shit so popular?) and slides his in; pushes PLAY, and then, Wham! It's, "Haa HaHa Haa . . . " That old familiar pop Pa poppop Pop of pristine funk. In no time, the living room is awash in gyrating flesh; it was a stormy ocean at night out there, all these whitecaps luminescent and vague in the dark; the people, nothing but salt sea foam spit from the surf up to crumbling cliffs. I'm out there, popping, chucking and ducking -- feeling good -- beer in hand and a fresh one close by on the stereo -- knowing that music means a lot more than something you listen to at a party; but that somehow, being drunk out there among a bunch of people, the volume shaking my feet and everybody trying as hard as possible to express what it is that they want to express, that is when music comes closest to the magnitude that it really is.
I don't know if Jessica was at that moment, dancing with the guy who she is sorta seeing now, but I do know that a little later on, after the James Brown had ended and the party had cleared out a little, she was dancing with him; and that's where it all started. The four of us -- me, Ashley, Jessica and Ishmael (that's the guy's name) went back together on the subway that night -- but Jessica stayed with us.
I ordered a steak sandwich tonight, but I got a full steak instead. None of the waitresses speak English in this place we occasionally go to. I said, "Bistec." And sure enough I was brought a bistec. (So you see, I'm your blood brother, going€ through some of the same things. ) Ashley, she ordered tuna fish, a tuna-fish sandwich; but the waitress cane back and communicated to her that they had no more tuna fish; so Ashley ordered a big "ensalada."
I hadn't had a steak in a long time, longer really than I can remember. It sure was good, and big too --it covered the whole platter. I cut off a portion for Ashley, and in return I got some of her salad. Man, I can't begin to tell how good it was to take a nice bite of well-seasoned, well-tenderized and well-done steak, just melting as soon as it touched my tongue, and then to wash it back with a tangy crisp fresh clean mouthful of shredded lettuce and cabbage, some rice, red beans and bread & butter on the side. The only drawback was that they had the air condition jacked up to notch Nordica and I was in shorts.
On our way home we stopped at the deli and bought some bottled water, half & half, toilet paper and peanut M&Ms. Back up at 22A I turned on the TV and was glad -- surprised and gladdened -- to find that the Mets were playing the Giants. And what do you know? There was good old Will Clark taking a cut at a David Cone twister.
Well, Mark, more apologies. I got your second letter the other day, and needless to say, I feel pretty crummy as a friend, this one I'm working on now still being in the hopper and all. I'm trying to make it longer than usual in order to compensate for its tardiness. It sounds pretty lonely out there, but sometimes it's nice to be that way. I know it's hard to believe when you're actually doing it all alone like that, but I've found, from the few times during the past five years when I have been solitary, that it's something to look back on with an acute sense of appreciation and dignity. Not that many people get a chance to do a Kafka thing, whether because of big fears or poor intellects or empty wallets. So it's a definite success that you're doing it. I know my heart goes out to you. I sure wish I wish out there busting up a new culture with you.
Since it's been a week since I started this golden calf, I might as well fill you in on some of the basics: I got work now; I work nights; I've been to more parties (all chalked up to the inconsequential); the A's swept the Yankees this weekend right across the river here and are still in 1st place (Antony and I were gonna go see one of 'em, but didn't); the Giants are still in second the Reds; the Lakers swept the Suns to make it into the NBA finals; Detroit is having some trouble with Michael Jordan & Co. -- that series is 2-2 (I don't know, I think the Bulls have a shot at meeting the Lakers. The Pistons just don't look that good. The Lakers, by the way, look awesome).
I sat down next to a Jewish damsel on my back from work the other night. It was 12:30 AM and it was the 1 train. We were both waiting at 96th Street station. I had taken the 2 up from 42nd but had to get off at 96th because that's where the 2, which is an express, veers east and goes up into the Bronx. It was a pretty long wait, about fifteen minutes. When the 1 finally came it was on the express instead of the local track. I pondered the enigma for a millisecond -- the space between my moving and uplifted heel and the sweating gray concrete of the subway platform -- and then strode, like Jack London in Klondike snows, toward the opening train doors. About a stride and a half into my travels a young woman in a tan cotton overcoat stopped me and asked, "Is this, the . . . the right train?"
"Yeah, it's a 1. It'll take you Upper West Side."
So she got on, and I followed. I scanned the subway car, acting as if I didn't already know exactly where I was going to sit, and then sat myself right down next to her.
The train left the station. I looked over at her. She was Jewish, that was for sure, with that telltale bushy wavy, oh, man, that syrupy hair; and she was reading the "Arts and Leisure" section of the NEW YORK TIMES. But what made the vision complete were these caramel-colored freckles that wreathed her nose like tiny kisses of sunshine and Cracker Jacks. Now that, that, that is a measure, a degree, a digit of manifest perfection -- those caramel-colored freckles -- so much like fresh cut grass and just-cooked donuts that you don't know whether you want to erect an alter or simply sit down to a feast. I looked at her wrists, so delicate and healthy and singing, and that was it! -- I was sold and lost down the river rambling uptown on the local.
So I sat there lost in reverie, thinking about women, about how they are so amazing -- a book that you always wanted to read, a key to the fucking universe. And I wondered about my life and the choices I've made: how I am now closed off to women. I'd been thinking a lot about stoicism lately, about the abnegation of any dependence on things that take you out of your self, like pussy, and I was comforted by the thought, the imperative, that I was no longer going to bind my ego to collecting pussy and books. But sitting next to this splendid daughter of David, I found myself totally drunk stoned and glazed. She could have crooked her little golden brown finger, and I would've licked the shit right out of her bunghole and then begged for more (kinda like Henry Duke, I guess); she was the sole substance off all things.
Before I knew it, as I was still whirling chants inside my head, she got off at 116th, Columbia University. I should have known! A fucking academic siren! The bitch wooing me with her visible invisibility to the old island where once fancied myself king, like Odysseus with Calypso, like Odysseus with Circe, but in this case I wasn't even -- not even -- an Odysseus. I hadn't even put wax in my ears: I jumped right for the ocean, right for shore, when I heard the song. No foresight, no control. I should have known. It was all there: the whole familiar look. And what do you know? All the old temptations came running, like a dog to his bowl freshly filled.
Mark, tell me if you need any reading material or foodstuffs sent. I'd be happy to be of service. Keep up the good work.
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