What’s Happening? (19 page)

Eating—sitting down in one place for an hour, three or four times a day, almost one day a week—at least eating took care of one day a week, and a person had only six other days to tolerate.

“Burger ready.”

Rita gave the burger to the customer. “Anything to drink with that?”

“Coffee,” the man said, chomping a huge bite out of the burger. He ate in big, smashing chews, his mouth agape, so one could see the ground food inside his mouth. Rita shuddered in disgust and walked away. She put a mug of coffee in front of him without looking at him and walked to where Laura and Jeannie were sitting.

“What were you doing back there?” Laura asked.

“Oh, just a couple of fellows talking about art.”

“What're we doing tonight?” Jeannie asked.

“I don't know. What's happening?”

“Nothing.”

“As usual.”

“Maybe we can scare up a party or something,” Jeannie suggested. “We gotta find something.”

“That'd be a cool idea. Who do we know that wants to have a party at their place?”

“Why don't we have one at our place,” suggested Laura. “We haven't had one in a long time.”

Rita and Jeannie looked at each other inquisitively.

“It's all right with me,” Rita said shrugging.

“Me too.”

“Well, crazy. We'll have a little blowout at our place. Wait a minute,” Rita said painfully, remembering something. “What are we going to drink? We only have a little vodka left.”

“We
had
a little vodka left.”

“So, … everybody brings a little to drink, and we supply the place,” Laura suggested, smiling hesitantly.

“Okay. If it's okay with them, it's okay with me.”

“Crazy. You two go home and put the breakables away. I'll be there as soon as I finish here.” They stood. Rita winked at them meaningfully.

“Okay. See you later,” Jeannie said casually. She and Laura ‘opened the door and left. Not having a bill, they didn't pay for the food, and this made living a little easier.

12

“Say, man, what's happening?” Frankie the Mexican asked Josh Minot when they met on Fourth Street. His inflection denoted true curiosity rather than casual greeting.

“I don't know, man. I think there's a blast coming off over at Jeannie and Laura's place.”

“Crazy. You going?”

“I don't know, man,” Josh regretted. “Like you gotta bring some juice 'cause they haven't much over there, and like I don't have much loot.”

“So let's swing over anyway; we'll split some beer.
I'm
no John D. either, you know.”

“Crazy. That's a cool idea.” Josh took some change from his pocket. “Here's mine. You buy the beer. I'll meet you in front of the place in about fifteen. I have a little errand first.”

“Okay, man.” Frankie smiled wryly. “What's her name?” Josh returned a sly smile, then began to walk toward the Avenue of the Americas.

“Hey, what's the address?”

“Eighty-seven Christopher,” Josh called, twisting back. He turned forward again and walked hurriedly away.

Frankie turned toward Sheridan Square and the delicatessen. Just then, Jim Panar stepped off the stoop leading up to Pandora's Box. He turned toward Frankie.

“Say, man, what's happening?”

“Nothing much. There's something going on over at eighty-seven Christopher if you want to go.”

“Eighty-seven Christopher? Whose place is that?”

“Laura's.”

Jim's forehead furrowed.

“You know Laura. Little skinny girl, always wearing pants and a boy's jacket.”

Jim shut his eyes, searching his memory for the girl that fit the description. He shook his head, unable to place her.

“You know Laura, man,” Frankie insisted. “We were talking to her one night at the art show on Sixth Avenue. Remember, she was with two other girls. She has short hair, … remember? You said she looked like the little Dutch Boy.”

“Yeah, yeah, … now I remember,” Jim exclaimed, shaking a finger in the air. “Over at her pad, man?”

“Yeah. Only thing is, you got to bring some drinking water over. You know?” Frankie ended abruptly, letting the statement speak for itself.

“Yeah, but like I'm a little low on scratch.”

“Listen, man, do what I'm doing. Like split a pack of beer with somebody.”

“That's pretty cool. How about I come in with you?”

“You better find somebody else. Josh is in on this six-pack already with me, and like we can't spread this brew out too thin. Man, like we can hardly get high unless we drink a gallon of it anyway. No sense springing for loot if we're not even going to get a bit high.” Frankie laughed.

“I dig, man. That's okay. I'll find somebody and bring him, or her, I hope, over. Like I'll see you there. Eighty-seven Christopher, hanh?”

“Right. Crazy. See you later.” Frankie continued toward the delicatessen.

Each of them walked in a different direction. As they passed people they knew, according to how friendly they were with that person, they'd mention the party and the address. When the time for the party arrived, more than thirty people were spreading news of a party among the wandering searchers of the Village streets.

“Come on in,” exploded from the front room, carrying across the span of the entire apartment.

Two fellows stood hesitantly in the doorway. A blast of music sailed out to them on air fragrant with smoke and beer and women's perfume. The entire panorama before them was alive—people were everywhere, all different people, jam-packed, wearing all colors of clothing, standing, sitting, drinking, talking, laughing—and behind all this was the hollow pounding of music.

“Come on in!” exploded more insistently.

The two stepped in, looking about warily. They were not dressed in the fashion of the Village, but in the fashion of the outside; they were tourists. Their clothing was the everyday Uptown styles seen in every store in the Uptown world, worn because they were accepted everywhere and no decisions or excuses had to be made for them—living made easy, made to order. The villagers run fast from this uniformity, showing in visible reality, by clinging to another, an off beat, conformity, their external distinctness, and, by inference, the internal.

The two fellows walked self-consciously through the mass of people in the middle room.

One of the female guests was squatting, digging in the refrigerator. She stood erect, hungrily sucking a whole tomato.

The two tourists stepped over the legs of a male guest who lay full length on the floor, smoking a cigarette. They made their way toward a vacant space in a corner of the front room. One of them carried a brown paper bag. As he placed it atop a low bookcase, beer cans clunked together.

Music blared from the phonograph next to the bookcase, filling the room with a rhythmic background din, accenting the atmosphere. The tourists looked about unfamiliarly at the people in the apartment.

One girl was dressed in a red dress, long black stockings, and black high heels. Her hair was black and long, outlining a thin drab face. She looked like a Charles Addam's character.

The two tourists had come from Louis', having learned of the party from a conversation overheard at the bar, deciding to attend though they knew no one, wanting to sample a mad Village party. They were party crashers, but at this party they were, to their surprise, most welcome.

As at many Village parties, whoever arrived was welcome; the more who arrived, the better the chances of a good party. It is the unknown and ever-different aspect of Village life, compared to the normal, routine, everyday sameness and drabness of life Uptown which makes the Village alive and exciting and alluring to the Villagers. People at the party may not even know whose party they're at, but they and their potential exuberance are welcome indeed.

The tourist with the bag uncovered a six-pack of beer, punctured two cans, handed one to his partner, and started to drink. They both leaned against the wall, their eyes absorbing the party.

The Villagers were spread all over the apartment. Some were drunk and tottering; others just sat quietly, others were loud, walking around, talking aimlessly and drinking. The room in which the two tourists were standing was jammed with people. Two men and a girl sat on the couch. One of the men was propped against the back of the couch, motionless, as if in a stupor. He stared straight ahead, immobile, his hands balancing a can of beer on his leg. Next to him sat a short, red-haired artist, frantically, tongue-bitingly drawing the face of the girl seated next to him. The girl had short black hair, and wore Bermuda shorts, a pair of dirty, beat-up tennis sneakers, and a sweater. It was Jeannie, in clothes that were a vestige of her college days.

Directly opposite the two tourists, a colored fellow slouched, abandoned to relaxation in his chair, his eyes closed, one hand clamped around a can of beer, a lit cigarette smoking between the fingers of his other hand.

On the floor, between the colored fellow's chair and the tourists, a homely blonde girl, in slacks, and a Negro fellow sat leaning against the wall, their legs bent in front of them, forming a tunnel, under which stood two cans of beer. The fellow offered the girl a cigarette. They lit up together and just sat, their backs against the wall, their heads thrown back in utter detachment from the rest of the party, puffing on their cigarettes occasionally, slowly detaching themselves from the rest of the world.

A shoeless girl draped in an orange cotton dress with a blue sash bound about her waist danced wildly in the center of the crowd with a white fellow wearing jeans and a faded green T-shirt. She kicked her leg and almost kicked the head of the colored guy sitting on the floor.

A fellow from the middle room staggered through the crowd and opened the window, leaning out to look at Christopher Street. He yelled drunkenly at some people walking in the street. He laughed, then threw an empty can out the window.

A tall colored fellow walked from the rear bedroom into the middle room. He was very dark, and very tall, and very thin. He had a supple, flexible, smooth dancer's body, except he bounced when he walked, as if he had springs in his heels. He wore slim clothes and dark glasses. He opened the refrigerator, bending from the waist, looking into the storage compartment. He stood erect, slamming the refrigerator door angrily, forlornly, looking around the room for some beer. He snatched a paper bag on the tub cover, but it was merely puffed up by things long past rather than things now present. His hands anticipated resistance, and the empty bag flew up easily, quickly in his hands. Its unexpected emptiness caused him to grimace, and he smashed the bag into a round ball and flung it under the sink. Several beer cans stood on the tub, a triangular black mark of opening on their tops. He started to shake them. His eyes widened with delighted discovery as he felt the weight of one can. He put it to his lips, tilting his head to drink, and happily walked back to the bedroom.

The girl who had been sucking the tomato opened the refrigerator again, searching around. She came up munching a slice of white bread.

In the back bedroom, there were six people. Besides the tall Negro fellow, there were two couples lying on the bed talking with Rita, who was standing. Josh Minot was lying next to a white girl he had just met. The other girl, also white, was lying next to a white fellow. The girls were from the Bronx and came to the Village almost every night. In their own neighborhood, they were considered real wild, racy chicks because of their Village association. The white fellow was a student at New York University.

A very skinny, gaunt fellow, dressed in unmatching pants and jacket, entered the bedroom. He was about six feet in height, and his hands hung to a point just above his knees. He looked cadaverous, and his tattered clothes made him resemble a scarecrow. His long thin fingers were clamped around a beer can like a claw. His face was smeared with disdainful acceptance of the party, as he viewed it from beneath half-closed eyelids. He was in another world. His lips moved in silent self-discussion. His thin, bony face surveyed the bedroom, his square jawbone protruding forward. He frowned, turned about, and left the bedroom, returning to the middle room. Rita followed him out and stood in the middle room looking around at her party.

On the roof, almost but not quite part of the party, sat Laura. She had left the party and climbed to the roof, feeling crowded and nervous, wanting fresh air and quiet. Now, bundled in a coat and sweater, a scarf around her head, she listened to the distant, removed voices of the people below. It was odd and fun. The voices and the things overheard were so out of place on the roof. They were parts played in a movie; they were unrealities, absurd unrealities that lost their meaning as they floated up to the skies. She was a spy, and she could see and hear them, but they could not see her. She leaned over the edge of the roof and saw the back of a man's head as he sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, just under the windowsill. She saw a man's legs walk past the window, and she saw feet pointed at the figure sitting under the window. The feet moved and another person sat down. Laura recognized the close-cropped, curly head of Frankie the Mexican. He had a funny-shaped head, she thought. It was sort of bony and bumpy in the back.

Jeannie was still posing for the red-haired artist. The gaunt scarecrow who had poked his head into the bedroom now sat next to the redhead and, with a pen dispensing red ink, drew on a piece of paper. The red-headed artist thrust his hand into his pocket. He withdrew a fresh drawing brush. He dunked his used brush in a glass of water—the ink turned the water black—shook the surplus water off the bristles, stuck it in his mouth, and wrung it out through tightly held lips as if he were pulling a shirt through a squeeze dryer. He placed the cleaned brush in his pocket, wiped his hand on the couch, and started to draw with the new brush.