What’s Happening? (13 page)

“It doesn't have any heat though.”

“With a place like this, man, I'd generate my own heat.”

Rita looked at him slyly out of the side of her eyes. He smiled a bit.

“How about a drink? I have some Vodka. That's about the only thing we have in the place.”

“Anything you got'll be fine …”

Rita reached up into the cupboard suspended from the wall above the covered tub. Tom sat on the sofa just inside the doorway of the front room. He watched her, and slowly, as if a vague screen had fallen from his eyes, he saw she was a woman. Oddly enough, he had not thought about it until this moment. Rita was a soft woman … he and she, boy and girl, here they were and he hadn't even thought about it before. He stood and walked into the middle room where Rita was mixing the drinks. He put his hands on her shoulders. Rita shuddered with surprise, then twirled to face him. He put his hands on her waist.

“Baby, I've been with you all night, and suddenly I realize that you're a woman, a lovely woman.”

“You mean, suddenly, like, we're alone, and like what the hell, hanh?” she asked indignantly. “Here's your drink.” She thrust the cold glass into his hand and walked into the front room, sitting on a chair between the front windows.

Tom sat across the room on the couch facing her. He was embarrassed. Rita stood and walked to the phonograph and started a record on its way around the spindle. Anita O'Day's singing rose into the room.

“I dig that Anita O'Day,” Tom said to start conversation again. “She really swings, doesn't she?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you ever hear her Honeysuckle Rose?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, come on, … come off it. I mean, what's the big bit? I'm sorry,” he said seriously, appealingly. “I thought we were grown-up people and all.”

“I thought you were too …”

“What's the bit?”

“Somebody ought to tell you that maybe a girl likes to … well, … she doesn't like to be … fucked,” Rita blurted out angrily.

Tom winced. “Wait a minute. I dig you.” His eyes were serious and he pleaded for her to believe him. There was an urgency in his appeal because he felt badly that he had hurt her. “You know, like, I think you're the greatest, and like that. I really do. Bricks don't fall on me to clue me in to people. I don't feel like jumping off the roof just right now, but man, like, I think you're really nice, and I like the way you talk, and walk …” A slight smile flickered on his mouth, “… and everything. Don't go getting all shook up or anything, baby. I mean, I didn't mean to shock you. I just put my hand on your waist. Besides, we're from the same town. We've got to stick together.” He smiled, trying to induce her to smile. “It's not that you're just any girl. I like being with you, you know, I think you're the greatest chick I've met in a long time. I mean that. Just because I thought about wanting you doesn't mean I don't dig you. I think it means I do; I do dig you … and what else is there?” He stared at her, trying to see if she understood and forgave.

Rita's hard, staring visage slowly wrinkled into a smile tinged with sadness.

“Yeah, we're from the same town.” She shook her head with a sudden reminiscent sadness as she stared into space above Tom's head.

Anita O'Day began singing Honeysuckle Rose, only it sounded like “honey suck a rose.”

“Boy, … I can't take that Brooklyn, man. What a hell hole,” she reflected, still looking over his head. Tom sat back and just looked across the room at her, relaxing a bit, feeling that she had understood. They commiserated silently.

“Where you from?” Tom asked.

“Who cares? Shit! Want another drink?”

“Sure. Sure thing. They must have given you a real rough time.”

She took his glass and walked to the kitchen.

“They did. They do.” Ice cubes clinked into the glasses. “Here's your drink.” She sat on the couch a bit away from him, staring across the room at the windows. “I want to be me, that's all. I want to go to acting class and show them I really know what I'm talking about, you know, that I'm really somebody … those dopey bastards,” she howled in an angry burst of hurt.

“Take it easy. They're not here now.”

He reached out and touched her hand and pressed it in his assuringly. She looked at his hand on hers, then to his eyes. She smiled slightly, thankful for his desire to help. She looked forward again. Tom leaned back, resting his drink on his stomach.

“Sometimes people don't understand how they twist their kids' insides, … even by just ignoring them,” he said, trying to show her he too understood, wanting her to feel better. “Parents can be so parental.”

“I don't know,” she said bewilderedly. “They still bug me. My old man tells me I'm a disgrace and he doesn't want his friends to see me looking the way I do, dressed the way I dress. Not that those sons-of-bitches don't look at me like they'd like to make it with me every time I see them. But he wouldn't tear into them for their lecherous gaping, … no, he'd be too embarrassed to embarrass his friends. Let them look. ‘Why do you have to be different?' “ she mimicked viciously. “And they can't understand when I insist I am different. You know, not like I'm great, … but only that I'm me! I tell them, ‘nobody else is named Rita Fisch.' That's my real name, but I use Rita Farren now. ‘Nobody else is named Rita Fisch and has you for a father and you for a mother and went to P.S. 116 and all the other things I've done in my few years. I am different, … not big deal, … but I am me … and that me is human, with a mind.'
They
are only human too, so why shouldn't I do the things I want instead of the things
they
want. When I talk to them like that, they look at me like I'm from Mars. Then they say, ‘pass the butter.' Man, … I can't stand those people … those dopey bastards …” Her eyes filled with tears that teetered on the brink of her eye sockets. “They just want to be numbers, … just numbers.” A clear droplet slid slowly down her cheek, leaving a path bathed through her make-up.

“Take it easy, baby. Calm down. Christ, … I won't bug you.” He twisted toward her. “Hold it.” He squeezed both her hands tightly, trying to calm her with understanding. He looked into her face, his eyes conveying sincerity. She gazed steadily back to him, her tears stopping.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of the phonograph needle recoursing over the end track of the record. Rita looked into Tom's eyes. They were steady and searching, deep, penetrating. They revealed that he knew what she was talking about, that he wanted her to know that he understood.
He knows, he understands
, she felt inside herself as she continued to look into his face.
He really understands
. Her hand wiped across her eyes. She felt wetness on the back of her hand. She smiled slightly. Her smile became more firm, more sure, as Tom smiled back softly. They continued to look at each other and smile. Finally, he freed her hands and stood to turn the record over. He turned one of the lamps off, so that only the light in the far corner picked out the objects in the room. From the other corner, the little red light of the record player stared out at Tom and Rita as they sat silently on the couch. Tom held his drink in his hand. Rita had a lit cigarette between her fingers.

“Want another drink?” Tom asked.

“No thanks.” She smiled gratefully.

Tom slipped an arm around Rita's shoulders; she leaned her head against him. They stared forward, not speaking for many minutes.

“I know how it is, baby,” Tom said softly. “I mean, I get that too, … only I've got a job, so like what can they say. That's the big thing with them. As long as I'm working, everything is great. I could be emptying sewers, or carrying the honey bucket, … they couldn't care less. As long as it's a job. They don't understand anything except everybody should have a job. Sure, maybe they had it rough when they were kids, or maybe that's the way things were then. They had to toe the line pretty much and work pretty hard to be accepted or something. But what the hell does that make me. That's all over … it's different now. I'm accepted! But they don't understand that. I'm only a kid compared to them, and I should understand them? That's like these jerks say, ‘when are you gonna find yourself?' Did you ever see a guy's lost watch find the guy? Anyway, I throw in a few bucks a week, and they think I'm a great son. Can you imagine? It doesn't matter if I'm there or not, just as long as someone has my name on a work sheet. This way they can face their friends.”

“Yeah. Well, I wanted to go to class, and, ahhh …,” she wailed hurt and hate.

Tom's arm around her shoulder hugged her tightly to hold her closer, more firmly to his understanding.

“They said they'd buy me a car and new clothes if I stayed,” she continued, “… not in so many words, you know, … but I had to stay and shape up to what they thought was proper, … proper! They were blackmailing me! They were trying to buy my respect. They didn't deserve it,” she rasped angrily. “I had to get away from there. It wasn't doing me any good.”

“You're right about that.” Tom's arm still held her tightly. She snuggled closer to him, pulling her legs up under herself. “You've got to be yourself,” he said, “and do the things you've got to do. If you're not yourself with your own things, … who are you? Why bother, you know? If you want to act, that's what you've got to do, but you have to work at it. A lot of these jerks that come down here slopping around the Village like slobs think it's just going to fall into their laps. I'm not putting anybody down or anything, that's their business. But they're just not going to make it. They're rebelling so much against the world they're not even willing to work for what they want. They're too busy being angry. Actually, they haven't the guts to face it. Sure, it's tough and cold, but you've got to stand on your own feet and fight for what you want. Nothing just happens.”

“You're not kidding. I work harder at acting than I ever did at anything in my life. It's a lot more work than talking about acting like some of the kids in school. And I'll make it too, I know I'll make it.”

“If you want it and you work for it, it's gotta come. If it's inside of you to make it, no matter what people do to try and stop it, it'll come out. The only thing in the world that can stop you is yourself.”

“I just know I'll be great. I just feel it.”

They were silent again. Tom leaned toward Rita, his lips touching her mouth. She twisted toward him, her arms grasping him. They embraced tightly. They parted and looked at each other. There was a softness, a gratefulness passing between their eyes. He kissed her again. It was pleasureful to kiss like this, Rita thought. It made one forget the coldness of other things. Suddenly, she broke away from him.

“Don't, Tom, let's not,” she said calmly, feeling the beginnings of a mutually understood warmth buiding up within her.

“Don't what, Rita? I just want to kiss you.”

“I know, I want to kiss you too. But there's more to it than that, you know that too.”

“I know, but why fight it, baby. I can't.”

“This isn't good for us. You know what I mean. You understand. We just met. Can't we leave it at that?”

He took his arms from around her and sat back on the couch. One hand fumbled with an ear. His jaw set hard.

“I know, … I know, … shit!” he burst angrily. “Why is the whole world like this. Every time you want something nice, meaningful, something else messes it up? You never get anything in this world but a lot of heartache and coldness. I don't mean you, you know,” he explained.

“I know.”

Tom stared across the room at the wall. Rita looked at him compassionately, now able to return his understanding. She suffered for herself as well as for him; for within her, there was the desire for warmth. However, there was also a feeling that revolted at the idea of promiscuity.
What a lousy mess of a life
, she thought to herself.

“I think maybe I'd better leave then.” He stood up.

Now he is leaving
. Rita was sitting on the couch alone.
Soon I will be completely alone
, she thought,
alone, alone, always alone
. She didn't know what to do now. Again the quandary—child or woman, woman or whore?
The world is but a series of decisions and life merely the outcome
. Confused, she reached out impulsively and touched his hand. He looked down. Her eyes were warm, sorrowful, confused, understanding. They gazed silently into each other's eyes for many moments. Tom sat. Rita lowered her eyes, remaining silent.

“Kiss me again,” she asked softly, not lifting her eyes.

Tom kissed her again. His mouth caressed her eyes, her cheeks, her neck.

“Oh, Tom, we shouldn't. You know, you're doing things to me.”

“You're doing many wonderful things to me too.”

“We can't, … not here. Stop,” she pleaded, now sorry she had not been strong enough to have let him walk out.

“Don't try to stop it, baby. It'll hurt even if we stop. It's good for us. It is …” His mouth caressed her neck.

She turned her head away from his kiss. “I know it's good, … and I want it to happen, but we can't …” She was breathing heavily now.

“Why not, baby? I want you so much. I'll be careful.”

Rita wedged her arms between Tom and herself, holding herself away from him.

“The other girls will be back soon, and I don't feel like putting on a show.”

Their eyes spoke love. She relented and his arms enfolded her again. She began to weep softly, half out of desperation, half out of desire. Tom felt her shaking with tears. He lifted her face and kissed her tears.

“Baby, we've just got to. We've got to. You've driven me out of my mind,” he pleaded.