A Matter of Love in da Bronx (15 page)

Driving the porcelain convenience is the way Sam heard it described. Overindulgence in drink, food or other noxious embodiment usually led one to vomit in the toilet while holding the seat as one would a steering wheel. That was just about what he was ready for after Lou gave him the stupendous news that he had in fact not only located Louisa Goldczek, but he had actually arranged for a rendezvous in the vestry of St. Polycarp's Church after the ten o'clock Mass this Sunday! That wasn't what brought on the vomity heaves. It was the conflict within. He was at loggerheads with himself, like one person playing both sides of the chess board. Not only did he know the best move to make, he also knew what his opponent was thinking. In this case, Sam confronted Sam. Sunday morning, tomorrow, would he dutifully go with his father to put a second coat of varnish on the gym floor, or did he go to meet Louisa Golczek? On one side, he might be a little timid to confront her--for many obvious reasons--but there was no question he wanted to talk to her again. On the other side, his father wouldn't tolerate for a moment any frivolous consideration that left him to do the work alone. So, the resolution of the conflict came down to whether or not Sam would disobey his father. Even with Lou guzzling Moosehead before him, Sam could envision the exchange. In his father's two fifteen-word and one one word sentences, he would use five times the word "asshole," at least three times each, "ingrate!" disrespectful, selfish, with one "Lousy, good-for-nothing." He would end with the word, "No!" irrevocable, period. And Sam would accept it! He never pursued the question, just blind obedience. He wouldn't permit himself to confront his father even as a daydream. He knew the reason, though he wouldn't face it. Simply, his father would be the victor in any confrontation. He knew that because he indirectly answered the question when he supposed what would happen to his mother and father should he die. They would survive. They would go right on living. There had to be another reason, and Sam would admit only that it had to be his own psychological make-up. He had heard that a son doesn't become his own man until his father dies. Is that because there's a constant shadow over him? That in his mind his father was always bigger than life, and, so, in his mind he can never surpass the man until his vulnerability is proven by death? Or that the insurmountable gratitude for giving him life and teaching him the ways of the world cannot be seen as mere Nature's doings rather than the magnanimous act of a Shaman? Chances were greater that his own conception was an act of pure lust rather than part of a deliberate architects design. Or, if grandchildren were involved, the father can never sit atop the highest pedestal until the spot is vacated by the patriarch. In this case, it didn't matter. Sam would do exactly as he wished, or he wouldn't. His heart was cut dead center, which tore at him so badly, so unable to make a decision, he thought of escape, alleviating the agony of making any choice at all...forever. He saw only the impasse, the inability to purge his own desires, the years ahead of mounting self-loathing for not responding to his own responsibility to himself, the repetition of the same battle resolved in the same way. The proportion wasn't astounding, but getting that way.

--I can't make it tomorrow morning.

--Are you crazy? Crazy! He almost dropped the Moosehead.

I gave Lou our whole and entire conversation, word for word, at least enough of it to convince him I knew what I was talking about. I understood everything about everything. Now, if he would do his friend one more favor: Meet Louisa Golczek in the vestry, and ask her if I can telephone her myself, sometimes, if it would be all right, if she didn't mind too much, if I wasn't making a pain of myself, if I made it real short, if I promised at the end of three minutes to cut my throat?

Curtain on the ineluctable lyrical mazewaltz.

PHANTASMAGORIA.

She before him, Louisa Golczek was.

The bar at Club Syncopation which was on Morris Park Avenue, below White Plains Road near the streets of the Presidents: Fillmore, Garfield, Taylor, Melville, Van Buren, Adams; a social hangout for young adults who rented it out for parties, weddings. Today, a christening. The son of Mary's brother, Joe.

Was it? Was it, her? People! People! Too many people! Sunday nice and pressed cleans, nice and white wide smiles, nice fake airs, socially acceptable hypocrisy--not that a single person in the place knew what that meant. All around and about. Through them, appearing, disappearing, coming closer! Louisa! Louisa! It has to be you! Oh! God love you, Lou! What a better part of my bosom you are than my own chest! What great feeling I have for you for making this unbelievable apparition appear before me! An emissary to give an object lesson to all emissaries! How you succeeded, and how I didn't believe you! And what it took for you to coerce me! Complete and total renunciation of our friendship, a fate somewhat worse than facing death by duckbites. It really wasn't that hard a task, I wanted to make the rendezvous. Uncontainable generation of joy, greater than the discovery of my penis. Or beer nuts. Or beach days. How shoutingloud could I Tarzan yell? Enough to shatter windows on Pelham Parkway, I bet. So? It's her. Be casual. Be calm. Acknowledge her--walking toward you--real debonair like; now take your thumb out of your nose. Lou left me here, said to get a drink, and he'd be off to find her. Did he? And did he send her to the bar? Just like he told of the meeting in the vestry and Louisa's concession to meet her admirer at the affair that afternoon.

She was alone. Just standing. Do it! Go talk to her! With just one word of advice: Don't fuck it up!

--Hi! She turned quickly. Too quickly. God! Those eyes! Those suck-me-in and swallow-me-whole optics shifting into super reburn memory. There wasn't much of a hindrance in his throat, about cannonball size. I just had to spoke...I mean, I just had to talk to you. What did you say? I just had to spoke! I just had to spoke! What the shit is the matter with you?

Mary took him in full now, the eyes he adored narrowing in speardrawn recognition, an almost imperceptible flare the only indication of discarded warmth. --Him! It's him! Oh! Lord in heaven! A brazencock! You're an unmitigated brazencock to show up here!

--I had to see you. Faceskin drawn as tight as a kettle drum's, reflecting agony of a martyred saint.

--If that's your business here, you have no business here. I want you to go. Right away!

--You indicated something more...? I would give anything! Was it lost? All lost? Manacled to an anchor and thrown overboard in forty fathoms of foamy brine?

--The arrogance! I can imagine her life! I neither give nor sell, Mister, so leave. Don't you ever approach me again. She turned into the arms of a tall, emaciated man; thinning, plastered down black hair; wearing a pencil thin moustache; a gruesome tie; a polyester suit; and a greasy grin.

--There's someting, Eh? Babe? Both hands to her arms possessively massaging as if he were forming eighty-nine cent loaves of Italian bread. There be someting?

--Ah! Vito! I was complaining service was so slow! Dance! We should dance instead. A|way! Away!

Vito Cidrugli armsteered her through the throng out of sight.

Sam's eyes were locked onto her until she was no more; now if he could do the same with her from his heart and mind... Going down the stairs and out of the club, he considered himself lucky. At least she didn't say it out loud, that she found him repulsive. Who could blame her for sending him on his way. He was nothing more than a...a...brazencock! Isn't that what she said? He never was one of those before. In the startling sunlight of the street he had the strange and distinct feeling he had lost all sensation in his legs from just above his knees...and moving higher. Inescapable. The simple, singular, solitary, single fact. There was nothing left. He would know it was the moment when he stuck a stick in his eye and felt nothing, a mere matter of milliseconds. He had just about made up his mind, though not quite how. The incorrigible heartwretchedness, inconceivable in terms of physical pain, unendurable another moment.

--Sam! JesusChrist-Almighty-you-are-really—

getting-to-be-some-big-pain-in-the-ass-for-Lord's-sakes-will-you-stop-walking-and-listen-to-me-you Fucking-zombie-don't-you-want-to-meet-Louisa- Golczek?

--I did...

--Sam, you bust my hump to meet this gal, and she's waiting for you, and you take off like a red pepper mill is grinding up your ass!

--Thanks, Lou, but I talked to her and she wants nothing to do with me. I told you...

--Look, Sam. Cough, fart, do something, but don't cry. I can't stand crying. Now Louisa is waiting to meet you! She's waiting! I've arranged it!

--Lou, I wouldn't tell anyone else this, I want to die.

--Sam, die is all right; die is not all right until after you meet Louisa because she thinks I've had my hooks out for her just because I've had my hooks out for her! You're not going to make me look bad because she's some terrific lady, I know. Now, don't be a fuck, and do as I say. Come. Hey! Louisa! Louisa! Say! Call Louisa for me! Louisa! You gotta come down! He won't come up! Thanks! Louisa, it's my privilege and honor to introduce my very best friend in the world, Sam Scopia. Sam...Sam! Meet Louisa Golczek! Louisa! For Christ's sakes, a cat can look upon a queen!

--What? Oh! Yeah! Very nice to meet you, Sam. You...uh...found something that belongs to me?

--Lou? What are you doing? This isn't Louisa Golczek.

--What do you mean? I'm not Louisa Golczek?

--Take my word for it; THIS is Louisa Golczek, I KNOW.

--This may be the Louisa Golczek you know, it's not the Louisa Golczek I know.

--How do you know Louisa?

--I met her in Eden Farms. Her name was on a drawing she dropped.

--Holy shit! Like a sketch?

--Yeah.

--Holy shit what?

--Holy shit! He thinks I'm her! You want to meet Louisa Golczek! I'll introduce you Louisa Golczek. Bring him along! Single file. Back up the stairs. Mary! Mary! Come here! Do I have a surprise! Here! What's your name? Sol? Sam? What?

--Sam.

--I thought it was Sol Youchah?

--He's not Sol Youchah. Is this Louisa Golczek?

--Yes, that's Louisa Golczek.

--I'm not Louisa Golczek.

--No, you're not. I'm Louisa Golczek, and if you two don't mind, Lou and I have someplace to go. Start from the beginning, right? Mary, meet Sam; Sam meet Mary. Tah-rah!

Sam looked at the hole in his fingernail.

Mary looked off toward the bar.

There had to be a readjustment about the name.

--I...ah...know about the drawing.

--That's where I got the name.

--I know.

--I'd...ah...like to return it to you.

--To me?

--Oh! Jeez! I mean, to Louisa...!

--Forget it. It's really mine. Just throw it away.

--Can I have one with your name on it?

--You really want one with my name on it?

--Yeah.

--I'm...ah...sorry about before.

--I don't know what you're talking about.

--Oh! That's good! That's very good. You're smart.

--You are, too. I know that.

--How do you know that?

--I can tell. You can do two things at the same time, like me. I can work, and daydream, and hum, all at the same time.

--Do you! I do, too! Work is so...awful.

--You don't like being an artist? I would think that would be terrific, to be an artist.

--Oh! That's what I want to be someday. A dress designer. Do you know, I thought you were Sol Youchah, and your wife died, and I couldn't believe you'd be here chasing so soon after...that's why I said what I said.

--The brazencock! Yes. Sol's my boss. My name's Sam Scopia.

--Sam what?

There it was again. As ominous and as black a roiling cloud as any ship met at sea scudding from eyeball to eyeball dampenings her visage. It was enough to remind him of the south Bronx ice factory where he watched a two-hundred pound block of ice get skidded out of a second story landing and crash into a zillion pieces when it landed on the concrete driveway. He felt his heart would follow suit. He knew a third rejection would be the last ever he'd ever suffer, which is what got to him as much as the expected turndown. For God's sakes, Lady! All I told you was my name! --Sam Scopia.

--Shhhh! Are you crazy?

There she was abusive again! And shushing me! And wondering if I'm crazy. And now, look at the gorilla putting his arms around her! If anyone ever looked like Nunzio the Hitman, this is the guy. What the hell am I mixed up with here? A Louisa that turns into a Mary that turns out to be a Mafia Moll? And he's cockeyed drunk!

--Joe, I want you to meet a friend of mine...from work! Sol Youchah! Meet my brother, Joe.

--Ayyyyy! Whadayasay, Solly, any friend of my sister... If you're not having a good time at my son's christening, you can just make believe it's a bris! Crazy, drunk laughter. Stagger away.

Dumb, ignorant bastard. He's the host? He can make as much of an ass of himself as he likes. --Now, what you do that for? I told you, I'm not Sol Youchah! My name is...

--DON'T say it! I know what your name is. I want you to listen very closely while I tell you my father and mother is up here, too. That's my father, there, in the wheelchair. My mother...I don't see my mother. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you'll be sorry if they recognize you...

--What's that supposed to mean?

--That's supposed to mean you get out of here if you know anything. Look! I had to call you something--anything but you're real name. Now go!

--You're good at asking people to leave. Overpractice. Ask me. I can leave, all right, but this time I'd really like to know why. She suddenly became sad. Old.

--Not here. Not now.

--Where? When? I want to see you again.

--No. Impossible. Watch it. Here comes Vito Cidrugli again.

--I don't care if he's a button man...

--He's not. My brother is.

--I'm not leaving until you promise to see me again.

--I don't know...

--You must.