A Fan's Notes (23 page)

That is the kind of Chicago conversation I remember, arguments begun on hopelessly puerile foundations and, out of boredom, carried to impossibly ludicrous limits. This one continued until it disintegrated into a hilarious sobriety. We had by then a barful of change with which we were going to call Uncle Louis in Hollywood, to get the word straight from the baloney peddler
’
s mouth. Someone, though, said he wouldn
’
t take Uncle Louis
’
word for it—poor Uncle Louis!—even if he had been Valentino
’
s goddam hairdresser.
“
I mean, how does anybody know crap like that?
”
We got into some name-calling after that, some threats and counter-threats, and then angrily began drifting off one by one. By midnight I, except for the two women at the far end, was the only one left at the bar. After that I breathed easier —decided against any need for making the move. I did not even look down that way again. It worked. A few minutes before closing time, the copywriter came down, tapped me on the shoulder (I acted surprised), fetched me back, and made the introductions.

“
You want to go?
”
I said.

Her sense of the Tightness of things was undermined.
“
Aren
’
t you going to buy me a drink?
”
she asked. She smiled pleasantly.

“
You coming or not?
”
I said. My voice was not pleasant. I was twenty-six, and had the power, and believed that I would always have it.

Over the objections of the copywriter, she came. And she turned out to have the most incredibly lovely body I had ever seen; even now I can see every contour of it, the muscular tautness of her thighs, the fullness of her breasts, all covered by a skin more golden than I had even imagined in the flattering light of the bar, a skin which, even as I lay smoking in interim periods—for such was my need I never slept that night—I had to keep my free hand on, on the hard plain of her stomach, on the sloping hill of her thigh, touch her even as she slept next to me, slept till I reawoke her. I had to touch her because the city
’
s bounty to me now seemed worse than incredible, as if the inessentialness that had always characterized the city had come together in the warm exquisiteness of the body beside me. And I had to touch, and touch, and touch again, to assure myself that everything was indeed real.

She asked me to leave about six. With an evasive smile, she explained to me that her boy friend—an
“
elderly chap
”
who was
“
kind
”
to her—was due by plane into Chicago early that morning.
“
We
’
ll see each other again,
”
she hastened to assure me, still not looking at me. Pleased as punch—pleased? oh,
“
cocky
”
as hell—that I had been so adroit, so gymnastic, I waited, casually leaning against the door and indifferently puffing a cigarette, while she committed to paper numberless phone numbers, her own, her place of employment, and her sister
’
s in Oak Park, where she had been spending a lot of time in the past months. Her chatter distressed me. The numbers and names were beginning to form around her an existence apart from that incredible body on those silk sheets. She was spending a lot of time with her sister because her sister
’
s husband, Ronald, had just died of a heart attack. Her sister had found him on the davenport. There had been a smile on Ronald
’
s face. He was probably dreaming of fishing in Canada because he went there every year, the two of them went together.
“
Ronald liked to fish,
”
she said dolefully.
“
Oh,
”
I said. Taking the paper from her and putting it into my pocket, I kissed her good-bye, patted her suavely on the backside, and left.
“
You don
’
t even know my name!
”
she hollered after me.

“
Sure! Sure I do!
”
I said.
“
It
’
s on the paper!
”
she said, not believing me. She was right not to.

A few minutes later I was on the Elevated weeping, not weeping but bawling like a baby. I was alone in the car, and the city, in the first flush of the morning sun, lay spread out to my left, more like a dream than I had ever imagined it. Reaching into my pocket, I removed the paper, crumpled it into a hard little ball, and threw it down to the far end of the car. What did I need with names and addresses? The city gave everything to one, and I bawled like a goddam madman to be so lucky, never for a moment dreaming that I might be bored. I bawled until I was hysterical, coughing great globs of phlegm into my hands, and knowing for certain, as Henry James
’
s Marcher knew forever about the beast that lurked in his soul, that if ever that life was going to come to me, that life that would be so much more striking than other men
’
s, that it was going to come to me in that city, Chicago. A few days later I met Bunny Sue.

Bunny Sue was nineteen. She had honey-blond, bobbed hair and candid, near-insolent green eyes. She had a snub, delightful nose, a cool, regal, and tapering neck, a fine, intelligent mouth that covered teeth so startling they might have been cleansed by sun gods. Without any makeup save lipstick, her complexion was as milk flecked with butter, the odor she cast as wholesome as homemade bread. On my first breathless vision of her, I wanted to bury my teeth, Dracula-like, into her flanks, knowing that she would bleed pure butterscotch. Her walk quite bowled me over. Slightly toed-out, she didn
’
t so much walk as bounce, skip with the imposing, almost forbid ding temerity of her youth and her freshness—so god-awfully sure she was that these were the eternal and unvarying constants of her existence. She was the girl next door who only yesterday ran around the yard with pee in her pants. She was Hudson
’
s Rima, Spenser
’
s Una, Humbert Humbert
’
s Dolly. She was the scarcely pubescent girl modeling the Chesterfield coat in Seventeen, resting on the haunch of one leg, the toe of the pump of the free leg aimed squarely at the firmament, suggesting that that place was no less than her destination. She was Wordsworth
’
s Lucy, Tristan
’
s Iseult, Poe
’
s Annabel Lee. But, oh, she was so very American. She was the Big Ten coed whose completeness is such that a bead of perspiration at the temple is enough to break the heart. She was the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi—well, no, not precisely; precisely she was the only sophomore in the history of Michigan or Illinois or Indiana to be chosen, above all those other honey-dipped girls, Home coming Queen. And finally, she was Chicago
’
s impossible, nearly obscene gift to me. She was the girl I had sought to allay my grief at USC and been too leper-like to find, the girl I had sought all my nights in the Village, and the girl for whom I had waited way off there at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs. Within moments of looking at her, I knew it was she.

It was only many weeks later that I gave thought to the way I had met Bunny Sue. Though I was given her name by a perfect stranger (a boy who was at college with her) in a bar, I had for many weeks just considered it a piece of my continuing, fortuitous, and incredible luck. I remember that the boy had struck me as a rather sophisticated, even effeminate Holden Caulfield. He had a gold cigarette case, a jet-black holder, and though he had talked rather knowledgeably, even rather wittily, about the sexual mores of coeds—
”
Good Lord, they
’
re scared to death of pregnancy. By the time they get married, half of them will have forgotten in which cavity conception occurs!
”
—I had taken him to be a blusterous kid, attempting to cover youth
’
s natural inadequacies. I was, in effect, amused; and he was having a good time amusing me. At one point he had dramatically slammed his palm on the bar (it was one of his many mannerisms) and exclaimed,
“
Dear chap! There is someone you absolutely must meet!
”
Here he rolled his eyes around teasingly. I suppose my silence told him I was not altogether uninterested; then he launched into a sexless, very limited (
“
Absolutely ravishing!
”
) description of Bunny Sue, explaining that she was on a certain day, by a certain train, coming from her home upstate to Chicago shopping, that he was supposed to meet her to arrange to have drinks, but that he couldn
’
t meet her, he was going to be
“
absolutely too busy.
”
He had written all the pertinent details on a paper, and he now shoved the paper into my hand.
“
You will meet her for me, won
’
t you?
”
I said that I didn
’
t know and asked for a more precise description. He teasingly rolled his eyes around again.
“
Ravishing blond hair! Ravishing green eyes!
”
I said,
“
I
’
ll meet her!
”
We both laughed, and rolled our eyes around playfully. I think his description was going to be a good deal more precise, and I wonder now if I didn
’
t interrupt him to prevent just that. Meeting her, I explained what the note he gave me said, invited her to coffee, and, oh, dear lordy, an hour later, having for the day forsaken my job, my repose, my dignity, I found myself at her heels stumbling through Marshall Field
’
s vast department store; I was that afraid I might lose her.

It was one of those sweltering, near-equatorial June mornings. Hardly any shoppers had braved the heat (we had the great store almost to ourselves), and even those paltry few who had ventured out moved in slow motion, as if the heat were corporeal and staying their progress. Bunny
’
s motion was stayed not in the least. She bounced. She wore a blue and white, fine-checked cotton dress; at her neck she had a little white bow; her white pumps shattered the awful stillness of the store, and as she skipped up the empty aisles, the floorwalkers, the salesgirls, and those few slow-moving customers, all looked, then in benumbed admiration looked again. It was rather terrifying. Now those awful eyes would go to me—to see if I warranted such a prize. Some nodded approvingly, others not (the bastards! did they not see I knew I did not warrant it?). Whether they approved or not, the blood remained hot, furious, and constant in my face; and I found myself dropping a few paces behind her, in deference to her shocking comeliness. It was a comeliness I scarcely dared look upon, one that had me peeking at her out of the corner of my eyes. It was a furtiveness of which she was aware, and it aroused in her an imperious though tolerant smile. She bounced, I stumbled behind her, thinking the morning would never end.

“
We
”
tried on pastel cashmeres, Black Watch plaid skirts, blue ballerina slippers, and it all had the quality of a night mare that takes place under water. I wanted to get away (
“
I
’
ll wait for you in the coffee shop
”
); she wanted my opinion. I sat in a leather chair, chain-smoking and staring at the carpet. Disappearing into a closet, she had the dress off, the cashmere on, and in split seconds (just long enough to visualize those butterscotch thighs) she was parading her choices before me. Did I like it?
“
Fine. Fine,
”
was all I ever said. Running behind her, my ear lobes perspiring, I thundered up to one counter and stood stupid, aghast, mute, as, without batting an eyelash, she purchased seven pair of pale blue panties, a pair for every day of the week, with Monday, Tuesday, etc., embroidered at a place very close to the crotch.
“
Pretty corny, huh?
”
she said to nobody in particular; then to the salesgirl,
“
Is it all right if I wear Tuesday
’
s on Saturday?
”
Here she turned to me and winked, and a very sick smile quite froze upon my countenance. Both she and the salesgirl laughed, a mysterious woman
’
s laugh. That morning was the first day in my life when I recognized there were times when I needed a drink; I needed one then as badly, I expect, as I ever had or ever would again. By noon, exhausted, my nerves gone, my arms piled high with ornately wrapped cardboard boxes, I stumbled into the scalding stree
t behind her, fell at her heels
into a taxicab, and headed for Rush Street.

It seems to be the fashion to take love as it comes, to examine it rather minutely, and to dismiss it rather lightly, perhaps a little sadly, and move on to greater things. But I cannot do that; I know of no greater things. Oh, I wish I could re member that with Bunny I had been a square-jawed, tight-lipped, virile Frederick Henry who loved, lost, and walked back to his hotel in the rain. But I didn
’
t love in that way; and when I lost, I went quite off my head. At Rush Street the bar
’
s light was mute enough, the gin bucks strong enough, but nothing—even the constant chatter with which we sought to assure each other of the high-mindedness of our persons— dimmed the light she cast or stilled the beating of my heart. Maugham tells us how his painter-hero Strickland, like Gauguin, went to Tahiti and knew that he was home, tells how he had lived his life in an agony of exile until he had come to that place, which he had never seen before—home. And that is what I felt with Bunny—except that instead of place I had lived my life in the hope of person, and here she was in the flesh, so that I could, as I had done with that other only a few nights before, reach out and touch her. But I did not dare. I did not touch her then because for the first time I was certain that the city—the city I never did quite believe in— would betray me. Not only did I not touch her, but the only times I looked at her were during those not infrequent moments when she chose to marvel at herself (for she did not quite believe in herself either) in the mirror of the back bar, and at those moments my mind went quite beside itself with pious platitudes. I was
“
Doc Pah-nee
”
no longer, neither a seeker after truth, nor anyone save Freddy Exley from up in the cow country—PR Man! Rock Island!—and I saw myself tuxed and trembling, standing before the beneficent minister, a radiantly demure Bunny by my side, a white orchid in her prayer book, saying,
“
I do. I do.
‘
Deed I do.
”