What’s Happening? (15 page)

They sipped their drinks and gazed at each other silently. The beating music rose freely from the phonograph.

“How could He?” she pressed. “If a God existed, then the world wouldn't be the rotten filthy hole it is, and life would be a hell of a lot easier. I mean, what are we doing on this rotten piece of dust, … what?”

“I don't know, … to have a ball, no?”

“Well, who the hell is having a ball? It's all a bunch of shit, just like God is. You have a ball for ten minutes, and the rest of the time you're miserable, paying for it. What are we suffering for—to prove how good we are, so we can go to heaven and be with God; or how bad we are, so He'll know we don't deserve heaven and we go to hell? That doesn't even figure, you know? If God wanted us to be with Him, we'd be there now, not here, trying to prove something that doesn't even mean anything.”

Stan looked at her with silent, absorbed interest.

“I mean what does it prove,” she continued. “Everybody is morally neutral when they're born, not good or bad, but morally neutral. And God put us here so we can prove ourselves? What kind of crazy shit is that? He shouldn't have to test anything. He'd know what the outcome was going to be. Not that he'd direct it, but we're born in a certain environment—sometimes a good clean, healthy one, sometimes a filthy hole of an environment—and all of us are influenced by that environment. We can only expand within the limit of our experience. When its squalid and seamy, when kids go hungry to bed, there'll be a lot of people stealing—money, love—people with below-par morals. They have to be that way to eat regularly. And when there's an environment where it's easy to be good—perhaps money, or comfort, or just plain love and peace—the child is influenced by that. And when you grow older you do things according to the influences you've had. If somebody's been in a poor environment, he may do rotten things and not even consider them rotten. They're just everyday occurences in his way of life. He doesn't do it to be evil, just to be good really. Even a murderer murders because he thinks good for him will come out of it. So here you're supposed to have God putting the neutral humans on the earth, in an environment that influences either to be bad or good. And when you die, God is going to condemn you because you were bad, because you did something you didn't know enough not to do—something you probably weren't even aware of? What bullshit that is! If He does exist He's almost forcing you to hell or heaven. God wouldn't do that, God would be so much bigger than that, so much more kind, merciful—if he existed! But there's no one who is kind existing. You've got to shift for yourself and make the best of this life. It doesn't prove a God damn thing, except it's a pain in the ass, and it's miserable. This earth could be a great place except for the rotten people that treat you like shit. God is a bunch of shit that somebody cooked up, because we're here and we can't do anything about it anyway. Half the people don't even become intelligent enough to know God, … so what'll He do? Save them anyway because they're simple?

Both of them leaned back on the couch, thinking of the masses of adoring people. Neither spoke. The music from the phonograph heedlessly rose and beat and swayed, and the Africans wailed.

Stan brooded pensively. Now he looked at Jeannie, just staring at her. He nodded his head slowly, continuing to look at her. She turned. They gazed intently into each other's eyes. Stan put down his drink.

“Come over here and stop all the talking.”

She moved toward him. He reached out and pulled her even closer.

“Hey,… don't you know God doesn't like things like little boys and little girls doing this sort of thing.” She laughed.

“Come on, will you, knock it off.” He held her tightly in his arms and kissed her. Her arms swung around his shoulders. She held herself against him tightly.

“But God won't like it,” she said breaking away, gasping slightly.

“But if there isn't any God like you say, then He don't know about it.” Stan bit her neck lightly.

They kissed again. They leaned over and lay next to each other on the couch. Stan tangled one of his legs between Jeannie's legs.

“But if there is?” she injected breaking away.

“We don't know for sure, … and like let's not waste the night finding out.”

They kissed more firmly and actively. Their bodies began to pulsate. Stan picked her up in his arms and walked toward the room in the back.

“This the bedroom in here?”

“Yes, … but I sleep on the couch.” She was cradled in his arms. “We'd better stay out here. Laura and Rita will be home soon.” She kissed his ear, caressing it with her tongue as he carried her to the front room.

Stan stood over the couch. He kissed Jeannie, still holding her in his arms. They kissed long, passionately, and as they kissed, Stan sank to his knees on the couch. He lowered Jeannie onto the couch and lay next to her.

The whirling monotonous “zzchh” of the completely played record soon filled the room. Two people breathed deeply in the darkness, moving actively, ignoring the record.

9

The shadows in Johnson's were not as dense as they had been earlier in the evening. Laura was alone as she returned from a walk to Dani's. She stood in the doorway, closing the door behind her by leaning against it. She blew on her cold hands as she studied the wilting shadows, hoping she knew one of them, wanting to talk to someone. She was feeling abandoned and alone again. Silently, she wished that she didn't mind being alone. She wished she could become accustomed to it.

“Hi, Sammy.”

“Hi, Laura.” Sammy was behind the bar drying glasses. “How're you doin'?”

“All right.” Her words were snappy, monosyllabic. She feared saying anything too long, involved, or loud, afraid someone might hit her, or make fun of her, or in some way make her feel foolish. “Rita or Jeannie come back?”

“Naw. They were here with two cats before—you know, you were with them. But I haven't seen them since they split about an hour ago.”

“Ohh, … Thanks.”

She sank even further into her feeling of being abandoned. Now she couldn't even return to the apartment for fear of again intruding awkwardly on Jeannie or Rita. None of her friends were standing at the bar. She spied Gene leaning against the jukebox in the rear. Except for the whites of his eyes and a white scar across his left cheek, his opaque, ebony complexion blended into the dimness of the cafe. The scar gave him a savage, brutal appearance. No friend he, Gene reminded Laura of a Nazi, or some other such barbarian. Gene was cruel—vicious mouthed and sarcastic. He was always mocking and deprecating everything around him.

Laura walked toward the back; even Gene's contempt was more acceptable than aloneness. Around Gene's neck, from a leather thong, hung an uneven-shaped medallion of intertwined silver fingers.

The Villagers, throwing off the robes of Uptown's oppressors, taking up those of the Village, inundate themselves in a stream or mores and tastes as muddy and beclouded as the one abandoned. The garb, the mannerisms, the ways of speaking, the ideals, the pictures to see, the books that are a must, the beards, the women's long, flowing, styleless hair fall into conventional Village patterns. The world of the outside is replaced by a world banded by other frenzied conventions. The Villagers have only run a short way, and now stand waving their fist at the cold oppressor, resenting and rejecting every aspect of the outside world. But they have not run fast enough, nor straight enough, nor long enough to get away from themselves. They are the same inside; they are only garbed differently.

Laura walked to the back and sat on a stool by the end of the bar. She twisted on the swivel seat until she faced the jukebox and Gene. He stared at her coldly, not speaking a word. His arms were folded on his chest. Laura too was wordless, she from apprehension. She became self-conscious.

“Hi, Gene. How're you?” she said finally.

“I'm okay, baby.” Only his lips moved, and they slightly. “How's yourself?”

“Okay. Where've you been lately? I haven't seen you in a while.”

“I been workin' my way through the A.A.” Still he did not move or smile.

“You're a real card tonight, Gene.” She tried to chuckle.

His face remained stone. Laura stopped chuckling. Nervousness began to mount within her.

“Always, baby, … you know that.”

Gene enjoyed being cruel to Laura. It bolstered his feelings of power to viciously taunt a weak, helpless person. It made up for his own inadequacy.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” she replied. “I'm going to get a job tomorrow, you know? I think … I'm supposed to go to the employment agency tomorrow.”

“Crazy …” His eyes bored into her face, purposely trying to outstare her. Laura was a pushover. “Lend me five bucks when you get your first pay check, okay, baby? I'm broke lately.”

“Hey …” she quipped, a vague smile on her face, trying to capture the humorous note she didn't feel. “I didn't even get it yet. Take it easy, hanh?”

“How's everything these days over at the Club Lisa?” he asked insinuatingly.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said hesitantly, dropping her vague smile. “I haven't been there in a while.”

“What's the matter, baby, lose your taste for the girls?” He chuckled.

Laura frowned guiltily as her dark life was layed bare.

“I just figured to cut that crap out,” she explained. “It's crazy stuff. I don't even know how I got mixed up with that shit.” Laura's honesty was painful to her. She felt incapable of successful lies, however, and detection, she knew, could be more painful.

“What are you doing now, hanging in Santo's with the gay boys, the fags?”

“No, … I been trying to get my head back on right.” Her voice was very soft, almost inaudible. “Rita and Jeannie have been helping me … and like that, you know? I've been listening to them, and they put the Lisa down real bad. So, … I don't go.”

“You got two great advisors there, baby.”

“It's better than nobody,” she snapped in defense. “Better than everybody that ever tried before … supposed to have tried anyway.”

Gene shrugged unconcernedly.

“Hi, Laura. Hi Gene,” said Dick, one of the guys who always hung around in Johnson's. “How're all the good people in Johnson's tonight?” He smiled, revealing crooked, pointed teeth. His face was thin and sharp-featured, rat-like.

“Hi, Dick,” said Laura, glad to change the subject of conversation.

“Dick … how's the boy?” Gene slapped him hard on the back.

“Okay. What's happening, man?”

“Nothin'. You?”

“Ehh …” Dick shrugged.

“You guys want anything to drink?” asked Raoul Johnson, walking to their end of the bar. With no women around to interest him, Raoul was catering to his other love—money.

“Yeah, I'll take a beer,” Dick said, smiling his thin smile.

Raoul pulled a bottle of beer from the cooler.

“What's happening?” Raoul asked.

“Nothin'.”

They were all silent. Raoul leaned forward, his elbows on the bar. Dick sucked his beer out of the bottle. The others looked around the cafe. The other patrons were murmuring quietly. Gene glanced at Laura, then slowly smiled a leering, secret smile.

“I was just telling Laura that the word's gotten around that she gives a mean blow job,” Gene remarked to the other two men. “I mean, I heard when she goes down, like she really goes down.” He watched from the side of his eyes to see if he had hit his mark. He had. Laura began to squirm on her seat.

“Is that right?” Raoul asked, accepting a part in the jibe, noticing Laura's discomfort.

“I heard the same thing myself,” Dick chimed in. “Is that the truth, Laura?”

“That's a hell of a nasty thing to say about me,” Laura complained mildly, calmly, knowing they purposely taunted her, wanting her to be terrified. “No, sir, man, that's one thing I'd never do. Not me.” She held onto the bottom of the stool with both hands.

“I heard you did it great. What the hell, there's nothing wrong with doing something and doing it well.” Gene sneered, discontent with her calmness. “Isn't that right, Dick?”

“Sure is …” Dick was a superb agreer. He reveled in being considered part of a theory, part of a group, part of anything. “And you should share your talent with the rest of the world. You know, like maybe you can take the three of us on.” He leered. His eyes slid to the corner of their sockets to see the reaction of Gene and Raoul. His forced smile rippled into a genuine smile of relief as the others laughed. He threw his head back, his mouth wide, chaotic noises escaping.

“You bastards. That's rotten, filthy rotten.” The crude rib began to shatter Laura's forced composure. She wanted them to stop, but she didn't know exactly how to stop them without saying something childish at which they would laugh, or something sarcastic at which they would become angry. She was surrounded and trapped.

“You look like you could do a real great job,” Raoul snickered. His supercilious, professional-Negro air was coming through. He enjoyed taunting this little white ragamuffin. “Let's see you open your mouth. Come on. Open.”

“You guys are terrible. What a thing to say to me.” She began to tremble inside. “I never did that, never, agghh …” Her head shuddered in revulsion.

“Think you could handle this?” asked Raoul, who had gone to the other end of the bar and brought back something under his apron. “Think you could handle this?” He revealed a long piece of rubber hose that had been painted flesh color to resemble the male organ. “What do you think?” He dangled the rubber hose in front of Laura.

“Yow … Get that thing out of here,” she screamed, pushing back on her stool in alarm. The stool fell backwards. She screamed again as she fell.