Inside Madeleine (11 page)

“Come in here, Susie Q, come here, pussycat,” Lise cooed, and in walked Susie. Purring, she slunk down to our feet and curled up. “You know, Dylan and I don’t really have sex anymore,” she said, her body a yellowish, hot fruit under the covers next to me. I felt her breathe. My eyes had adjusted and I could see her in that barely way.

“Really?” Ron and I fucked like poisoned beasts the times we were together. It was vicious. But we were seldom together anymore. “You two are such a great couple. Why do you think you don’t have sex anymore?”

“We’re like best friends. I don’t know. We just have no passion or something. He’s like my brother.” She rolled over onto her back. It was getting stuffy now. It was the time when you throw the blankets off and feel incredible release. She turned back to face me. “Sometimes, I think it’s because we started pooping in front of each other. Like that was the beginning of the end of our physical attraction.”

“Wow. Maybe you should see a counselor. You two are so good together. Ron and I, we have sex. But we’re horrible together.”

“You’re horrible together? He’s horrible to you, Linda. There’s a difference.”

Then I threw the blanket off. It felt involuntary. The fresh air cooled my pink cheeks. Susie scurried out, gently rubbing her feathery self against my body as she went.

“You’re right, Lise. You’re right.”

The next morning, we went shopping again. I never had that much money, but she had a credit card that her mother paid off every month, and shopping was something she did sort of like I waitressed. It was serious work to her. I tried not to bump into her while I excitedly walked down the street with her. I couldn’t help but crane my head around: the East Village mesmerized
me. Lise bought a pair of dark, stiff jeans, a forest green cashmere sweater she claimed was for visiting her grandmother, and a vintage, yellow vinyl handbag. Then we stopped for lunch at a place on Sixth Street that we’d been to before. It was downstairs and had a lovely garden. A piano sat in the back and sometimes someone was there playing, but not that day.

“I’m a vegan now, Linda.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“I don’t just not eat animals, I also no longer consume any animal by-products. No milk, no milk products, no eggs, no honey, no leather,” Lise went on, “I still haven’t decided whether to throw out all my leather stuff I already have …”

“Wow. That’s intense. That’s a real commitment. No honey? I didn’t think honey was so bad.” I ate my salad in silence. I was not a vegetarian, but I sort of pretended to be one in front of Lise. I didn’t actually ever say to her, “I’m a vegetarian!” but I never ate meat in front of her. So, in my mind, I was only being half-dishonest, as if such a thing existed.

“It’s a matter of principle. The bees produce honey for their own reasons, not for us. We think we own this world, but we need to share it properly with other creatures,” Lise said, the wonderful edge of righteousness emanating from her very core. “It’s up to each and every one of us to make this world a better place. That’s what it takes. To end the senseless killing of animals by the selfish, hate mongering rich people in this world.”

“Right,” I said, thinking of all the bacon I planned on eating when I got back to Boston and feeling so confused yet so in awe,
in admiration, of Lise. She knew what was right! And she even had the good sense to then live in accordance with her knowledge. I knew nothing at that point, not even how to get myself off, so her convictions and certainties amazed me. I wanted to be her, in so many ways. I wanted to be rich and so secure in my righteousness. I wanted to have large breasts and a boyfriend who was nice to me even though he was a rock dude.

Later, we decided to go hear a friend of hers and Dylan’s band, Inner Revolution, play at CBGB. I was so excited. Seeing bands was the absolutely most favorite thing I did in Boston. And CBGB was this historic club that I had never set foot in. How would it compare to Boston’s The Rat? I put on a pair of suede hot pants that laced up the sides and black vinyl (see! I was sort of vegan!) boots with chunky high heels. I’m sure I wasn’t wearing a bra. I never wore bras.

Lise looked at me. “Are you sure you want to wear that?”

“Yeah, man! It’s CBs! I’m excited. I’ve never been.” Then I noticed her outfit. It consisted of dark rinsed, baggy jeans, high tops and a plain black T-shirt.

“Wow, the style is really different here, isn’t it?”

“I guess so. You look sort of tacky.”

I didn’t know what to do. Put on my jeans? I felt that would be no fun and I was desperate to have fun.

“I’m just trying to rock.”

“Whatever. Let’s go. It doesn’t matter.”

The inside of CBs was perfect. Stinky, dark, dirty, graffitied. I wanted to jump up and down and go, “Woohoo!” Instead, I began drinking heavily. The music was so loud I could barely hear the conversations Lise had with her friends. I didn’t really know any of them and I was feeling a little left out, a little self conscious, but it wasn’t messing with my joy of being at CBs. The music was different than the bands I frequented in Boston: it was more serious, less “fun.” They were saying important things. They were making a stance. They all looked like Lise, but they were young men. I liked my music sexy and angry. I liked a band called Zug Zug, which meant “fuck” in caveman, according to the guys in the band. One of the bands ended and I stood, swaying, next to Lise and a couple of other people. They gave me the sort of look that when drunk, you ignore, but the impression is there, the pointedness of it, and the next morning, while hungover, you can’t get it out of your head.

“Dylan went to a party in Silver Lake and had a great conversation with Thurston. His band might open up for them on a few dates during their next tour,” Lise said.

“That’s cool. That’s very cool,” said a hunched over, heavily tattooed guy next to her.

“Who’s Thurston?” I asked.

“Thurston
Moore
,” the guy said. His voice lingered on certain syllables and he swallowed others. It took me a minute to recognize the “accent,” but then I did: lockjaw. I’d met some other people from Darien or Greenwich with the same way of speaking.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Uh, Sonic Youth, dude?”

“I think I’ve heard of them.”

Everyone thought that was funny and laughed. Then they started talking about Drew Barrymore and I did know who that was, but I went to the bar instead and ordered another shot and a beer.

The next morning, Lise made coffee and brought it to bed. She snuggled against me and felt warm and smelled sweet with only a hint of staleness. I wanted to recoil. I felt vile.

“Thanks,” I croaked.

“You were pretty shitfaced last night.”

“Hell, yeah. Isn’t that the point of partying at a rock club?”

“Listen, Linda. A lot of my friends are into straight living. You know? The straight edge scene? No meat, no booze, no drugs. I mean, that shit can ruin people’s lives. It’s not partying. It’s just making bad choices.”

I looked at the pile of trampy clothes next to the bed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. But you might want to get your shit together.”

Six months went by and my life in Boston got shittier week by week. I had begged Ron to take me back, on my hands and knees. I don’t know what came over me. It was ugly. It freaked him out. But it didn’t freak me out. I was proud to be so vulnerable, so honest. And I was a bit relieved to have made that one final effort. I felt so lost without him and I still couldn’t get
myself off, not that I ever tried very hard. I just wanted him. Then I heard he had another girlfriend. It was the thing I feared the most, the thing I had obsessed over—did he have someone else? Did he?—and when I found out he did, it set me free even more than the begging on hands and knees. Now, this setting free was not a one note sort of freedom. First it set me free of eating properly and taking care of myself in any way. Then it freed me to cry for hours at a time every day or so for about three weeks. But then it freed me in other ways. A lightness. I bought tickets to Buenos Aires. I was going to teach English there. And freedom has its high, even if you never wanted to be free in the first place. I was going to miss Boston, where people still ate bacon, girls at rock clubs dressed like they were going to a Led Zeppelin concert in 1971, and hangovers were savored slowly in bed all weekend long. But I knew I had to leave because it was Ron’s town. That song, “It used to be his town, it used to be her town too,” had been haunting me for weeks. Someone always wins and it wasn’t going to be me. I was many things: young, hopeful, lacking cynicism, and unbeknownst to me, still able to adjust and change to all sorts of circumstances. But a winner I wasn’t. Before going to Buenos Aires, I decided to visit Lise.

Dylan was in town so there was going to be no sleeping in her bed. I got off the bus and took the subway downtown from Port Authority. The doorman called up and I was “Okayed,” so I took the elevator to her apartment. Lise and Dylan were
lounging in the living room. It was summer, and even though it was 7:00
P.M
., the light still shone through her impressive windows. I hugged Lise and then awkwardly hugged Dylan. I hadn’t seen him in ages.

“So, how’s it going, Dylan? How’s the band?”

“It’s going well, really well,” he said. He was quiet with me. He wasn’t quiet with everyone, this I knew. I felt a supreme lack of interest in me coming from him, and it was visceral, like he was a gay man who found women physically vile. Unfortunately, at that stage in my life, it made me pursue people all the harder. Like me! Like me! Find me interesting!

“Are you touring this fall?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah, we got a van all lined up. It’s gonna be tough. But it’ll be awesome, too.”

“Yo, Lise, check it out,” he said. “I forgot to show you what I picked up when I was out earlier.” He got up and walked out of the room.

Lise was lounging on her butterfly chair, her hair a brilliant white that elegantly framed her round head, her dress draping over her curves perfectly. She had one leg up on the side of the chair, which she kicked back and forth lazily. She gave me a look of excited anticipation and I returned it. Dylan was back in an instant, holding toilet paper.

“Look man, I lifted two rolls from the Kiev,” he said. The Kiev was a diner around the corner.

“You are awesome, dude!”

This was one of my lost moments. Stealing toilet paper from
a diner run by working class Polish immigrants? Then I smelled something funny.

“Do you guys smell that?”

“No. What do you smell?” said Lise.

“I think I smell smoke.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dylan.

We all listened to a song. He sounded angry and the music was very fast and you couldn’t hear the words at all. But it had real emotion. Mostly the emotion of anger, or that’s the impression it made on me, but it felt real, not forced or fake. When the song was done, I stood up. I was nervous.

“I smell smoke.” I walked to the door, and sure enough, right when I opened it, a fire alarm in the building sounded. The hall was smokey. We were on the twenty-first floor. I shut the door immediately.

“Oh, God, oh God,” said Lise.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. There was hysteria in my voice. Her apartment really smelled now. I could see smoke curling under the door. I walked nervously toward Lise and Dylan, who were standing silently. “Let’s go. Now.”

“The cats!” Lise said and went into the kitchen.

“Fuck the cats!” I screamed. And in that instant, I was full of regret.

Lise had grabbed two cat carriers from on top of the fridge. Tears moistened her round, round face. She stood there, shocked, confused. I grabbed one of the carriers from her and looked wildly about for a cat. I saw the big one, Dave,
and grabbed him by the back of his neck and shoved him into the carrier with a forcefulness I didn’t know I had.

“Stop! You’re hurting him!” Lise wailed.

“Dude,” Dylan said. “Not so rough.”

“Fuck you, you fucking eunuch!” I screamed at Dylan. “You’re just standing there, waiting for the staff to do everything!”

I dropped the carrier and looked about. Lise was holding Susie with the carrier in front of her and she was trying, and failing, to get the protesting cat in it.

“Come on, Susie, sweetie, that’s a good kitty,” she cooed.

I grabbed the cat like it was a sack of garbage and slammed it into the carrier, locking it.

“Let’s GO!” I screamed.

Dylan was holding Dave, and Lise held Susie. We opened the door and there was smoke everywhere. Collectively, we didn’t try the elevator. There were two sets of stairs and we went to the nearest one and opened the door. The smoke was white and thick and curled and moved. We ran down a flight, blinking, choking. Then we ran down another flight but the smoke was thicker and hurt our eyes, our lungs.

“Let’s try the other stairwell,” Dylan screamed over the fire alarm.

We exited on the nineteenth floor. The floor wasn’t as bad as the stairwell and the relief of it almost calmed us for one sweet moment. We ran to the other stairwell. This one was smokey, but not nearly as bad, not nearly. And so down we went, all the way to the ground floor and out and down the street, two
blocks, until we were sitting on a bench in a tiny New York City Park, dusk just falling around us.