What’s Happening? (14 page)

“I'm going out of mine too. But we can't here …”

“Let's get out of here then. Come on, let's go to my place. Come on …” He stood and took Rita's hand to help her stand.

She looked up, still retaining her seat. His eyes pleaded with hers, longing shining through grief and need.
Why can't I decide these things before they happen
, she asked herself,
instead of being thrown into a quagmire of confusion each time
. Impulsively, she stood and picked up her coat.

The metal strips on the edge of the steps resounded the descent of the two sets of feet to the remotest depths of the hallway. Suddenly the footfalls quieted. The lock in the front door clicked back into place.

8

Keys jingled in the silent hallway. A key turned in the lock of the front door of the apartment. The door swung open revealing one lamp in the front room still lit. The only sound from within was the monotonous circling of the phonograph needle on a spent record.

“Wonder where the hell Rita went in such a hurry? She didn't even turn the record off,” Jeannie exclaimed.

Stan entered the apartment behind her. “I don't know. Maybe they decided to go out and get some coffee.”

“Yeah, but like she could have shut off the machine or something.”

Jeannie selected another record and placed it on the turntable.

“We got this new record the other day. Josh Minot, … you know, the colored guy, light complexion, shaved head? He's a dancer? Somebody made a record of African drums and chants—and it's the end. Josh's picture is on the cover.” She handed the album cover to Stan. “You know Josh?”

Stan, now sitting on the couch, looked at the cover. On it, a dancing native was leaping before ritual fires, “I've seen this cat around. I don't know him though.”

“Oh, he's really a great dancer. I was up at one of those belly-dance places—in the West Twenties?” She looked at him inquisitively, patronizingly, wondering if Stan knew what she was talking about.

Stan nodded to indicate his awareness. “You think I'm square or something, baby?”

“Well anyway, of all people to run into, I saw Josh. He was dancing there—terrific.”

Jeannie placed a cigarette between her lips and handed Stan a matchbook. He looked wonderingly at the matches for a moment, then up at Jeannie. She watched him impatiently.

“Oh, … you want a light, hanh?” He struck a match.

“I wouldn't mind. I know it lasts longer this way, but the flavor isn't the same.” Jeannie studied Stan for a reaction to her remark. He only watched the flame lick the end of the cigarette. Her face smirked with displeasure at his unawareness.

“I think I'll take a cigarette, too.” Stan looked around for the package.

“There're some in my purse.”

Jeannie sat in a chair near the phonograph. She increased the volume and now the entire room vibrated with the sound of thundering drums and wailing people.

“Where the hell are they?” Stan inquired as he rummaged in her large leather handbag.

“I don't know. There's some Camels in that little jar on the table behind you. You probably don't like Parliament anyway.”

“Sure I do, man. I like the filters the end.” He smiled at his own pun. Jeannie remained straight-faced. “I have very expensive appetites too, you know,” he said, effecting a German accent.

“That's what I thought. Most people do when they're not paying for it.”

Stan's face froze into a question.

“If you're going to be broke cause I took one of your nails, like forget it. You know, like this isn't the last place in the world that has cigarettes, and like you're not the only chick in the world that has Parliament. Don't be so impressed with your little self.” His eyes were riveted upon her fiercely.

“Oh, come off it, will you? I'm kidding.”

“No, you come off it, off that jazz about Parliament and the rest of that crap. You know, like you're not doing me any favors at all, baby.”

“All right, for Christ's sake. You want to argue all night, or what? I mean, like forget it will you? I lost my other head for a minute … so?” She attempted a smile, waving her hand to indicate that what's been said has been said.

“I just get annoyed with people who give me bullshit. I don't like to listen to it anymore.”

“So forget about it. Let's stop talking about it.” She crossed the room and sat next to him on the couch.

“God damn it! I hate bullshit!” He sprang to his feet.

Jeannie stood up next to him, slipping her arm through his. “Come on, sit down. Can't you forget it … please?”

Stan sat down again. Jeannie sat next to him. She started to speak, but in mid-word, her head jerked forward, her eyes and mouth opened wide, her head quickly nodded again, and she sneezed.

“God bless you.”

She looked at him inquisitively. “You talk about God an awful lot. What are you, a priest or something?”

“What do you mean, am I a priest? 'Cause I say ‘God bless you,' I'm a priest?”

“Yeah. Only a frig-ass priest would ask some god to bless me. You don't really think somebody marked down a little blessing in a book for me, do you? One blessing for Jeannie Sorrent … from Stan. What's your last name? But what's the difference, God knows you. God knows everything, doesn't he?”

“Look, baby, all I said was ‘God bless you.' What are you trying to do, bug me tonight? I mean, like come off it, off the kick, will you? Yeah, I believe in God. I don't flip on the bit, I live it up, but I still believe in God, and like that, and like do you really mind? And will you stop bugging me? I mean, will ya?”

“Okay, Father, I'll stop bugging you; I don't want you to get excited. You might start doing penance in here for my soul. Do you whip yourself, or do you just wear a hair shirt? Let me see, do you wear a hair shirt?” She thrust an inquisitive hand between the buttons of Stan's shirt front. “No hair shirt, Father, but nice hair on your chest.” She smiled coyly, playfully rubbing his chest. “Even if you do say your prayers every night you have a nice chest.”

“I thought you were going to come off this bit, for Christ's sake.” His jaw muscles set firmly. “What the hell is with you?”

“I'm coming off it. I'm just teasing.”

She stood and walked to the kitchen. “You want a drink?”

Stan nodded stiffly.

“I can't reach the glasses; could you get them down for me, Stan?”

“Yeah, I'll get them.”

He walked into the kitchen and reached into the closet. He lifted one glass out. He stretched himself up on his tiptoes, his hand groping blindly for another glass on the top shelf. He found one and let himself down from his stretched position.

“What happened, no more ‘Father' anymore?” Annoyance was still etched on his face.

“You know I was only kidding you, don't you, Stan?” She moved close to him, pressed herself against him, her hands sliding up and down his back.

“What do I know if you were kidding or not?” He looked down into her face.

“Well, I was.” Jeannie moved her body in an almost imperceptible circular motion against him. “I just get annoyed at preachers. You know, like I don't dig God, and preachers are always trying to convert you, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, baby. I mean, like I'm not the most holy guy in the world, you know?”

“Come on, let's sit down and talk for a while.”

She pushed herself away from him and began mixing drinks. The music of the jungle flew up from the background, hollowly vibrating through the apartment again. Jeannie handed Stan a drink and took his free hand in hers, leading him to the couch in the front room. The screaming natives and pounding drums shuddered through the room. Jeannie lowered the volume. She turned.

“Do people come up to you and tell you that God exists, and that you should heed His word, and be righteous, and do all sorts of things or He'll be unhappy and hail fire and brimstone or sticky marshmallows on you? Do they?” she inquired, waving her drink in the air.

“Sometimes,” Stan nodded affirmatively.

“I hear that all the time, you know? It used to be worse. My father's a minister, you know? We're from West Virginia. So, he's got this little parish down there. I mean, that's all right; some people want something to believe in; they've got to have something they think is all-powerful, that can give them their wishes and prayers. This way, they can figure life's not so tough. Good things can happen just like that, out of the blue; it's just that you have to pray hard enough. And when nothing happens, they say God isn't pleased with them and they have to pray harder. Some people need a crutch, some vague hope of something good, something besides themselves to blame for their failures, you know?

“Sure,” Stan answered, “if they believe there is some god, they don't have to face the reality that one day there's the sleep of death, and then nothing. That's frightening, … death.”

“So's life. That's why they pray to God. God can give them the easy life, grant their wishes—all they've got to do is pray. That's easier than working hard, laboring, thinking—just pray. That's life made easy all over again. Just repeat the magic words. And my father, … he used to stuff that pray bit into me as if I was a sausage. He was always telling me I was the community's example, and I should be good and do this and that. I got tired of being an example! I just wanted to be me. That really shocked my old man. You're not supposed to just want to be yourself. As a matter of fact, you're supposed to beat into your breast that you're worthless, that you shouldn't enjoy anything—any pleasure is sinful. The lousier time you have in this rotten life, the better person you should feel.”

“Yeah, like I know how you feel.”

“Well, when I started acting up a bit—you know, I just wanted them to know I was there—the old man really got annoyed. When he got really annoyed, he punished me. Then I started to get angry. I was only a kid playing pranks; I didn't mean anything by it at first.”

She walked to the couch and sat down next to Stan.

“First they treat you like children,” she continued, “don't tell you anything, protect you from the truth and harshness of life. And then, all of a sudden, they don't treat you like kids any more. Overnight you're an adult. And then you're supposed to know everything, in one night—all the things they protected you from—suddenly, you're supposed to understand them, with no help from your parents … as if knowledge came in an apple on a tree. They don't feel any obligations, … all a kid has to do is eat the right apple.

“My old man didn't want to face the responsibility of raising children either. So he blamed it on me. Said it was me that wasn't pious or something. He was sure
he
was okay. He was saying all the right prayers. He couldn't figure it, but he knew it was me. And, by God, his righteous indignation was hailing fire and brimstone on this dumb little hick kid.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About two years. I mean I left there about two years ago. I went to college first. He thought that was the answer. It's amazing, you know, how many ready-made answers people can manufacture to take the sting out of life—the easy way out. They don't want to stop to think that you've gotta figure your way out of this life all by yourself.”

“That thinking stuff is no good,” Stan injected. “It ruins the country. Just do what you're told and everything'll be fine. When people start to think they bring up too many problems. Just open your vacuum-packed jar of life and you got all the answers. Don't think though.”

“That's it, that's it exactly. My father's vacuum-packed jar was called God, and he tried to stuff it down my throat. I kept asking him why. What a word—why? Terrific. All you have to do is ask
why
and you could stop the earth from turning.”

“You're not supposed to ask why. Just do it. Who are you to ask why, when everybody else does it without asking questions?”

“But I always asked why. And I never got the answer, just fire and brimstone. And after a while, I was sick of God and a stuffed throat, … and I told him. I said to my father, I don't believe in God. Not that I really didn't. I didn't know God, that's all. I wanted to understand the why about Him—not parrot. My father almost hemorrhaged. He couldn't believe that his sweet little daughter didn't believe in God. He was a failure, a disgrace. Not that he worried too much about me; he worried about how I'd affect his place in the community. He kept me hidden in a closet after that, at least until I left. But people still won't leave me alone. Even today, somebody will be saying something and then you mention that you don't believe in God—that's the way I am, … I have to say exactly what I think. But that's all you have to do, mention that you don't believe in God, and wow, like they won't leave you alone. They've got to convince you that there's a God. I say to them, I'll allow if you want to believe, but leave me be. But they insist that you believe in their ready-made answers, because if you can live without their answers, then maybe their answers are wrong, and it'd be too confusing for them to have to find other ready-made answers. They want to be right, even if they shut their eyes in order to believe it, even if they have to kill you to shut you up.”

She sipped her drink and sat quietly.

“God never did anything for me,” she blurted suddenly with annoyance. “I never saw Him. He never sent me a letter asking me to join His troop. I never even saw His picture. I've seen a lot of crap paintings. You know, the real nice ones, the ones with halos, and all the creeps looking to heaven and the birds and all that jazz. Like they're not even good paintings. Anyway, I don't know Him, and He don't know me. I really don't believe he exists.