What’s Happening? (10 page)

“Working. What else is there?”

“You still in that play at the Orchard Players Theatre?” Rita asked.

“Mmph, … that lousy show split the scene after two performances.”

“No kidding?” Ronnie chuckled.

“Anything else coming up?”

“Not that I heard of.” Juanita looked up and studied something outside the shop. Ronnie and Rita twisted to see what she was looking at.

Josh Minot was outside, pressing his face against the front glass, a spume of steam marking the window just beneath his nose. His hand against the window shaded his eyes from the bright sun as he scanned the shop.

Rita tapped on the window. Josh looked down and saw the two of them at the table. A smile spread across his face. He turned and walked through the first set of doors into a glass vestibule. He wore a yellow, rough-textured Tyrolean hat with the brim down all around and a vari-colored feather stuck in its band, tight black pants, and a soft natural-colored suede jacket with a belt. A tiny gold major clef pierced Josh's ear lobe.

“Hey, baby, how you doin? Hiya Ronnie. What's happening that's exciting, babies?”

“Usual—nothing. Sit down, man.” Ronnie removed his feet from the chair.

Josh hesitated, looking inquisitively at Ronnie. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the chair.

“You kidding me, man?”

“Sorry, man. Like I didn't know you were wearing your spun-gold pants.”

“They're not spun gold, man, but I like
my
pants clean.”

“What's that supposed to mean, Dad?”

“Oh, come on,” Rita injected with a slight chuckle to break the tension. Josh glared at Ronnie. He turned to Rita and his face softened.

“You go to class today?”

“Yeah, I just got finished. How did you know? Hey, did you see Jeannie?”

“No, man. Like I haven't seen her in weeks. Where she been hibernating?”

“Oh, she's kind of tied up lately. Going Uptown with some guys from her office.”

“Wow, I mean, like really gone these days, hanh?” Josh exclaimed with mock enthusiasm. “Stepping out with that very swinging Madison Avenue bunch, hanh? I hear a girl's gotta watch herself with them, like they sweep you right off your feet with Guy Lombardo music and that kind of jazz.”

“Yeah, man,” Ronnie added, “that's really going. I hear those cats with their three-button uniforms really know the know, you know? Like they swing the end—mad cats.”

“You're right, that's the way I heard it,” Rita chimed in. “I hear they're real hip.”

Josh grimaced, dismissing the ludicrous subject. “What's happening tonight—anything?”

“Nothing much,” Ronnie shrugged, “unless there's a party going. You know of anything?”

“No, I haven't seen anyone all day. I guess I'll drop in at Pandora's Box.”

“What's to do there but drink coffee?”

“Something'll turn up.”

“You want anything, Josh?” the waitress asked.

“Nothing you sell here, baby.”

Her face tightened into a stern stare.

“No,” he corrected himself awkwardly, “I'll just be squatting a minute, and like I really don't want to spring for the price of a coffee.”

Juanita smirked and returned to the back of the shop.

The three sat silently at the table. The entire shop was silent save for the soft music. The espresso machine hissed impatiently.

“I hear you got yourself a job, Josh?”

“Yeah Ron, me and Anna, my partner, we're dancing at this little cafe up on the West Side in the twenties.

“Hey, that's great. I didn't know that.”

“Yeah, we've been there two weeks.”

“Does it include waiting tables?”

Josh glared at Ronnie, then glanced to Rita who was watching him.

“Once in a while we help out—when they're really busy.”

Josh studied the other two for their reaction.

Ronnie frowned.

“What the hell man, … at least
I'm
working.”

Neither Ronnie nor Rita spoke.

Josh looked up and saw a girl he knew outside the shop. He stood, grabbed his coat, and ran to the door.

“See you, gang,” he called over his shoulder as he pushed open the first door. “Hey, Dolores,” he called, running out to meet the girl, putting his jacket on in the street.

Ronnie and Rita watched them through the window.

“Who the hell needs that kind of a job? I'm an actor, man, not a waiter,” Ronnie remarked, not turning his gaze from Josh outside.

“I'm hip, but at least he's getting experience. He has a chance to be what he wants—even if he's waiting tables.”

“Who needs it?”

“Most of us—me.”

“Not me, baby, not that bad. I've got my pride.”

Puffs of smoke escaped Josh's mouth as he spoke to the girl outside. Frankie, a young Mexican, approached the shop. He stopped and motioned a greeting to Josh. He then turned and walked through the doors, hesitated, then walked toward Ronnie and Rita. He was short and wiry, with a springy-fast look to his frame. This was accented by a bouncing skip in his walk. He seemed to be hopping on the tips of his toes for people to see him better. Under his chin a small triangular patch of shadow followed the shape of his muscular jaw.

“Hi, boys and girls,” he waved, “what's up? What's happening?”

He put books down, removed his jacket, put it over the back of the chair Josh had just vacated, and walked to the back.

There was a large vertical supporting beam in the middle of the room. A bulletin board was nailed to it. Frankie read the posters announcing the local events and the signs indicating the available actors and actresses and their phone numbers, the models and their numbers, and clothes or books or furniture for sale. As he read he started into a shuffling tap dance. When he stopped reading and dancing, he made his way back toward the table. Juanita, the waitress, walking toward the back, passed him in the aisle.

“Get me a cup of espresso when you get a chance, will you, baby?”

“Okay.”

“Say, Ronnie,” Frankie called, walking to the front again, “do you want to make it to a flick tonight?”

“Which flick is that, man?”

“You know, the one at the Plaza Theatre. The new Italian flick with Vittorio de Sica.”

“No, man. No bread. I haven't been working lately. Besides, like I'm not worthy to mingle with the great people outside the wall. I'll catch it when it comes down here, … and save some loot besides.”

Frankie chuckled patronizingly. “Don't hold your breath while you're waiting.”

“Don't worry, baby. I parcel out my gasps very sparingly to say the least. Never know when I may need an extra one.”

They studied each other.

“What's with the shadow under the chin, Frankie?” Rita asked, interrupting the incipient dispute.

“My womb broom, baby,” he said smilingly, glad she had noticed. “You know, one of these chicks at school asked me what it was. I told her it was a womb broom, … and, man, … she flipped. I mean, she thought I was off my rocker to speak, like, so nasty, you know?” He chuckled. “You know, some of these chicks that just got down here are the squarest you've ever seen. Like they're nowhere. I'm trying to give them a few pointers though.” He smiled slyly.

“Say listen,” said Rita standing. “I'm going to split out of here. I want to get a little chow for supper and I have to find Laura. Like she's got the bread with which we buy the bread which we will break this eventide.” She put on her scarf and coat. “Here's a quarter. Pay for my coffee, will you.”

“How about paying for me?” Ronnie suggested.

She laughed. “See you guys later.”

“Yeah, we'll be around. We'll find something.” Frankie assured her.

“You gonna be at Pandora's tonight?”

“Yeah, we'll be there.”

“Crazy. See you later.” She smiled and went through the doorway.

Ronnie and Frankie followed her with their eyes through the glass side of the compartment between the two doors and out into the street.

“You been making it with her?” Frankie asked, both of them watching until she disappeared down the street.

“Not yet, man, … but I'm working on it.” Ronnie nodded approvingly. “She'd be kind of nice, you know.”

“Yeah, man, … like I'm hip. What's the story with her?”

“It's there, man, it's there. You just can't rush these things, you know.”

“I know it's there, man,” Frankie acknowledged, “and I'm not in a hurry. I've got plenty of time and nothing better to do. I'll fit her into my schedule one of these days.”

“Yeah, … like I'm hip you're so busy you need a schedule to keep track of them.”

“Don't be too sure, man. I do all right.”

“Okay, baby, okay.”

“I'm going to split.” Frankie was a bit annoyed with Ronnie.

“Yeah, me too. These places depress the hell out of me in the afternoon. They're all like a vacuum, … devoid, nothing … you know? Juanita!”

Juanita was in the back. She stood on her toes, peering over the coffee machine.

“I'll leave the money for you here,” Ronnie called, putting some change on the table. “Take it slow, hanh.”

“What else?”

7

The Village was wind-ripped and very cold. The wind withdrew from the canyons of the streets to lurk cunningly at the edge of every corner. Thence, it slashed forcefully, whistlingly, unexpectedly at exposed faces and ears and hands. Its chilling fingers reached through the heaviest clothing, freezing the defenseless wearers. The few people on the street walked quickly, leaning down into the wind, holding their coats close about themselves, their faces turned from the wind.

Rita, Jeannie, and Laura quickly descended the steps leading from Pandora's Box, “the coffee shop with an aroma.” Tom and Stan, fellows the girls had just met over coffee, followed just behind them. Tom was of average height, wiry. His hair was parted and combed slick. Stan was tall and broad with curly, black hair. The five of them, caught up in the Village's nocturnal wandering, turned toward Johnson's. The frigid wind felt its way into their coats. It froze Rita's face into excruciating numbness. Her forehead ached as if many little wires were stretched across, agonizingly cutting into the skin. She began to stride faster.

“Come on, girls, let's move a little faster. Come on,” Rita urged Stan and Tom, “you're buying!” All the girls laughed. So did Stan and Tom.

“These chicks are all right,” Tom commented to Stan as they moved to catch up to the girls. “Hands off that Rita.”

“Cool, man,” Stan agreed readily. “I dig that Jeannie, you know? She swings all right. But listen, let's not spring for too much in Johnson's. You know, Dad, like this pocket hasn't much in it, and like the rent is due soon.”

“A couple of beers, what the hell?” He smiled as they now caught up to the girls.

“C'mon, woman,” Stan snapped with sham imperiousness, gripping Jeannie's arm to physically urge her to speed her steps. “It's rather chilly out here tonight.”

The five reached Johnson's. A bare bulb over the door cast a denuding white glare into the darkness of Minetta Lane. Stan ducked his head under the canopy, pushed open the door, and they entered.

Johnson's was a narrow cafe. The people at the bar and at the tables were immersed in a dim, yellow, murkiness. The jaundiced haze emanated from dim, yellow bulbs burning in an occasional socket of the octopus-armed chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The bulbs and chandeliers were coated with a thick fuzz of dust. (Many Village bars, noted for quaint dustiness, retain their aged atmosphere with a flit gun and a mixture of oil and vacuum-cleaner dust.) Calypso music filtered through the thick air.

The wooden bar was parallel to the wall on the right side. Small, round tables lined the left side. The floor was coated with sawdust. The bar extended only half the length of the cafe; beyond were more tables, rest rooms, and a jukebox. From the jukebox, dim red, blue, and yellow alternately beamed up the walls and across the ceiling. The rest rooms were marked
hombres
and
muchachas
. From a hamburger grill against the back wall, greasy smoke swirled up to an exhaust fan in the wall. A door next to the grill led to a garden in the rear which was used as an outdoor cafe during the summer.

The atmosphere in the cafe was splashed with all varieties of color from a confusion of decoration. A huge snake skin stretched across the wall behind the entire length of the bar; a picture of a middle-aged man with glasses, inscribed “to Bill from Dad” was tacked to the men's room door; all sizes and colors of bottles hung from strings tied to pipes near the ceiling; travel posters from all over the world, torn for a casual effect, were pasted to the walls and ceiling—so were bullfight posters, photographs, composites of actors who frequented the place, caricatures of others, weird paintings by customers, old hats, stuffed fish, African masks, a bullfighter's cape, banderillas, rifles, foils, fake hands, maracas, brassieres, a torn jacket, a bullwhip, a baseball bat, and a kiddies car in the shape of an aerial bomb marked “Sputnik.” These decorations were always being altered. If one had not been to Johnson's for a time, one would find many new
objets d'art
casually increasing the confusion.

It was hard to know if Johnson's was an authentically casual cafe with weird decor, or a place contrivedly casual and weird. Once the decorations were hung, it was difficult to say. Only time distinguishes the genuine from the phony. The genuine is the flexible, self-determining, self-complementing predecessor, while imitation only follows dogmatically, without understanding or reason, save that this is the way the original was fashioned. It is far easier to know if a person is a phony than if a place is. A place must be taken at face value, but a phony person, once he speaks, can hardly sustain the false impression he attempts to convey. A picture is said to be worth a thousand words, but a person, with a few words, can expose his hidden background so disastrously that the picture that had existed disappears into nothingness. With people, a few spoken words are worth a thousand pictures. Places, however, do reflect their owners, … and Johnson was a phony.