A Matter of Love in da Bronx (12 page)

--Is it genuine Genoan salami? A rhetorical question. Shoes afootstool, followed by a long, serious guzzle. --Wet the pipes down, Lads! Wet the pipes down! T'wasn't his first of the day, to be sure, as he sang:

They were genuine Genoan sailors, From a genuine Genoan crew Aboard a genuine Genoan galley That served a near genuine Genoan stew.

We're due! We're due! We're due! Said the genuine Genoan crew To be served! To be served! To be served a genuine Genoan stew!

Now a genuine Genoan Lady Asked the genuine Genoan crew If aboard a genuine Genoan galley She could serve her genuine Genoan stew.

Please do! Please do! Please do! Said the genuine Genoan crew Do serve us! Do serve us! Do serve us a genuine Genoan stew!

So with Genuine Genoan salami The whole genuine Genoan crew Serviced her genuine Genoan galley And ate a genuine Genoan stew!

We were due! We were due! We were due!

Said the genuine Genoan crew To be served! To be served! To be served a genuine Genoan stew!

 

--Bravo! Applause. Lou nods, accepting, seat astride workhorse. You're in fine fettle. He hands over half the sandwich.

--And sheeted to the wind! as they say.

--You changed the lyrics. Why'd you change the lyrics? I liked the others best. I still think this is a good time for a musical about Columbus on Broadway, why don't you go peddle it? I think it's good.

--My dear, naive friend... A lengthy basso profoundo pipe organ blast reverberating from his chest. ...must I tell you finally that I've tried to peddle it for the last three years to every producer of musicals who would listen, and those that did, unerringly, to a man, to a woman! agreed, it `just ain't good enough.' Drumroll in the distance.

--Bullshit.

--Put a million bucks--okay, half a mill--on the line, and its gotta be better than good! For halfa salami sandwich. Catch the sadness? Ready... The love that flags the hidden pain of one who has given his utmost and with ruthless honesty finds himself lacking, retaining, though, a bit the promise of a promise for something better in the future. Ready! Aim!

How I could but wish to assuage in some simple manner, perhaps to give you anything of mine that would strengthen your force, your resolve, your rekindled desire for success. Empathy, how excruciating, too.

Fire!

--First, where's my beer?

--Ehhh! You're getting streetwise, Paisan! Good for you. He hiccoughed.

--Lou! Taking the beer. Why do you do it?

--Sam? Taking the food. Why do I do what? Write lyrics?

--Booze so much? You're young, beat me by six-seven years, you're good looking, smart...

--Don't tell anyone, you'll ruin my reputation! Really want to know? Then, I gotta tell you. Everybody sees me with my attache case, right? Everybody knows I use it for beer, right? I earn a living selling, right? So? What's a drunken salesman? Goes with the territory, right? But, Cumba! What am I really? Come on, now. What am I really?

--Don't get sore at me, I don't know. Big bite, small guzzle.

--Shit! Your best friend, and you don't know what I do? I'm a writer! And don't you ever forget it!

--Yeah. But, I've never seen anything you've written. I just hear you singing lyrics to made-up music.

--Okay. Okay. As simply as I can, I'll explain. A writer is a writer only when he's writing. No other job in the world has that qualification. If he's not writing, he's a miserable shit. A crocodile on one end, rattlesnake on the other, devouring everything in the world he comes across because he may be able to use it sometime, someway. Endless cycle. No way out. I drink because I can't write, I don't have anything to say. Besides, a writer who drinks is quite acceptable. Those with paper assholes--they don't have to do common things--think it's easyshit to write the truth. Simple declarative truth! Nothing's fucking harder in the world. No more of that crap. Let me tell you about this snatch last night. You really didn't mind I cancelled last night? Head shake. ~We went to this place--nightclub--in Mount Vernon with another couple because this fellow I write jokes for was working there. I give this romp I'm with an ad lib line for him, so it looks like it's spontaneous, right? The comedian asks her his name. She answers, `Debbie!' He says something about her clothes, and she asks him, “will you kiss me?' And he comes back with my line, `Only if you give me a blowjob!' Now that was it! That was the joke! And the place cracks up! And what does she do? Starts to quiet down, and she pipes up, `You all talk? Or are you going to whip it out?' The place
explodes
! Well, when we see the comedian later, he's so fucking mad at me! He won't even pay what he owes! He's sore, see, because he doesn't have a comeback! She stole his fire, right? He says I should've had a line for him. That she embarrassed him, and practically ruined his career! And she calls him a dumb fuck, and says he didn't know what he was talking about because she all but handed him a new career, and she wants to know why he just didn't whip out his pecker! Man! That put him in a straightjacket because he knew...he knew if he did she woulda!

--You mean--she's not all talk? Small sip.

--You bet! Silver-tongue Lily! What a job she can do! I want to tell you... Oh! Shit! What assholes writers are! Hey! I'm sorry... Hey! You know what? I'm not the fuck sorry! You could let me fix you up with a chick just one time. You're a no-fucked celibate only because you won't take a bite!

--Thanks for the beer. I gotta get back to work.

--Don't do this to me, Sam. Don't cut me off. You're one of the best people I know in this whole fucking world, and I'd never do anything to hurt you. You can't go through the world like this, mad at everything and everyone. There's gotta be someone out there for you! Empty Moosehead bottle tucked back away, taking out a full one.

--Oh! I know there is.

--A-hah! That's a switch. How do you know?

--I met her last night. It was blurted, hauling embarrassment along with the sheepish grin.

--You son-of-a-bitch! Jetting to his feet. You super-double son-of-a-bitch!

--That much of a surprise, huh, that someone would give an ugly guy like me a tumble? Subdued, anticipating the hurt.

--Shit, Sam. Footstamp derived of frustration. Save that for someone else, not for me! I'm delighted! Happy for you! What's her name? Where'd you meet her? How'd you meet her? What's she like? Did you get laid?

--Go to hell.

--You met here...where? A bar? At the porny flick? Right? Right? I bet I'm right!

Lord.

In the deadstillness they could hear the fizz in his newly-opened bottle of Moosehead. Neither one looked at the other.

To Sam, without malice, it occurred that even his best friend might well consider his sole source of social contact to be the bar, or the porny flic.

To Lou, aware of the change in the atmosphere right after he said it, it was only a guess, and meant to provoke laughter.

Both wished friendship was its own responsibility, totally non-analytical.

Sam decided if he was going to tell Lou about the girl, he was going to tell him the truth, all of it. Including the fact that he thought he actually saw her in the porn movie house. As he recalled, she was rather pissed off at him at the last. He gave a description of her that would've put an angel to shame. To add to the fiasco, she thought his name was Sol. Then, he told Lou how he discovered her name.

--So? What is it? What's her name?

--Louisa. One could almost sense the swaying figure of the clodhopper kicking a cowflop.

--Louisa! HolyJesusChristAlmightydidhesay Louisa? --Louisa what?

--Louisa Golczek.

-Louisa Golczek, right? Holy Shit! I guessed too well! My best buddy is bananas over Louisa Golczek! Oh! Yes! He knew a Louisa Golczek. She graduated high school a year ahead of him, he thought. What he wasn't ready to say was that she was on the locker room honor roll--boys and girls--one of the few senior co-eds that laid every member of the senior class who was willing, and according to tradition, within the confines of the building, including, but not limited to: classrooms, labs, girls' and boys' rest rooms, the boys' and girls' locker rooms, the boiler room, custodial office, the auditorium, on stage behind the curtain, in the balcony, the projection booth, the nurses station, the band practice room, the vocational shops, the hallways, staircases, the guidance office (where moments before she had revealed to the counselor that she was seriously considering taking vows for a religious order which was taken quite seriously inasmuch as those Polacks took their religion quite seriously), the telephone booths near the principals office, the principal's office.

 

Hail! To thee, our high school years!

Fond memories bring joyful tears!

Paths of learning from your hallowed hall

And cherished friends will guide us all!

 

The fact was, Louisa Golczek was boys' and girls' Locker Room Honor Roll Mamma Come Loudly if one included in her activities extemporaneous masturbations, oral sex, and weekend night parties on the back lawn of the school building of which the custodial staff complained enviously because the condoms left lying around worked havoc clogging up the mowers, an exaggeration, naturally, because Louisa's main line of defense against pregnancy was the pill. There was no report on how she fared with venereal diseases. But, back to the lawn, Louisa wasn't solely responsible for the story, inasmuch as there were a number of other candidates in contention.

--Oh! Well! Back to work! Lou made an attempt at being merry and gotta-be-off attitude, but all the while was in frenzy, fraught with concern that his escape would be cutoff. He battled with the double snaps on the attaché case. He was riding a leaky raft and it was about to be swamped when he saw Sam had beat him to the front door.

--You know her, right? It really wasn't a question.

Lou brushed imaginary lint from his jacket. His mind tried to go into superslot superfast speed, but the works kept jamming on the fact that Sam was his very best friend. One didn't lie to best friends! Unless it was to protect him. Right? --Well, not really.

--What does that mean, `Well, not really?'

Sam was asking a lot of him. He was asking him to be smarter than Sam. Not only that, he could get a very strong sense of determination; he was a lunging black panther after a prey. --Sam! Look! You told me this girl you met last night had black hair and eyes like port wine. Right? Or, not right?

--That's right. Now, why was he doing this to me? Does he know her or doesn't he know her? Why the game? Now, Lou, remember I also told you she was wearing a hat that looked like she got her head stuck in a bell, so I didn't get a real good shot of her hair, and it was dark.

--Forget it! Can't be the same girl.

--Why not? Now why is he treating me like a jerk?

--The girl I thought I knew has got, like...dirty-blond hair, and eyes colored like emeralds. Is that enough to put you off, Sam? I hope.

--Forget the eyes! Forget the hair! Do you know Louisa Golczek?

--It's not the same person! I've never seen him like this!

--Okay, do you know
a
Louisa Golczek? So, now with my best friend, I have to be a nitpicking Philadelphia lawyer!

--It couldn't be the same person.

--You won't give me a straight answer? What is the problem?

--Sam, I just don't want to get your hopes up. Oh! Shit! There I go again!

Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm chasing some Maid of the Mist. He wouldn't say it right out, but perhaps I'm looking for someone who doesn't exist. But, doing it or not? Isn't that my choice? --Lou! You're not a friend! You're a fraud!

--You've got no right to say that, Sam. And over something you don't even know exists or not.

--Then why don't you tell me? I get the feeling you're trying to save somebody some embarrassment. If you know her, it could be her that you're worried about, having a friend of yours--like me, Sam Scopia--slathering all over her. I don't really believe that. What I believe is that you'll be embarrassed for me, because you think she'd laugh in my face if I asked her out!

--No!

--Yes!

Sam, what do I do? My reason for not saying anything is because I don't want you to find out the girl of your dreams is a fucking tramp! A freehole! Like a carpet, she'll lay wherever she'll be received! And maybe there could be a little bit of the fact that the cheap cunt could turn down a saint like you, who wouldn't be worth a single hair on your head--well, you know what I mean. Maybe I should just stay out of it. And let your friend stick his foot in a bogan hole? Cheap, rotten friend you are. But you'd lose him as a friend if you told him Louisa was a cheap cunt. Besides, what gives you the right to decide who Sam should or shouldn't see? He's a big boy. A mind of his own. Better than your fucking screwed up writer's mind. So what do you think, a guy fucks a girl doesn't mean they're engaged. And if Sam wants to get laid, who's to say, `No?' What happens, happens. Besides, he'd never seen Sam so lit up for life, ever! And wasn't that terrific? Better than him remaining a drudge, right? Right? --Look, Sam! Now please don't get sore at me. Maybe this Louisa you know is the same Louisa I know, and maybe it isn't the same person...

Sam put both his hands on Lou's shoulders. --That's what I've been trying to say. We've got to find out. Not only do I want to see her again, I
perforce
must see her again.

--So spell it out for me, why?

--Because I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Because she is the embodiment and substance of the ideal I conjured in my dreams. Because she has so fascinated my heart I fear if I do not find a response to this beleaguerment I will be deprived totally of all my emotions forever. Because...

--...because you think you're in love with her.

--Your harmonics are mine; mine yours.
Simpatico
. That's right. Because I think I'm in love in love with her. Do you think I'm stupid, to allow myself...no! Just to say I'm in love with someone I've seen for less than four-five minutes? What's worse, she wants nothing to do with me. Called me a jerk. A Klutz. I know she said it with a capital "K."