What’s Happening? (20 page)

Rita, walked into the front room and stood by the side of the phonograph, next to the window, near the two tourists. She glanced over and noticed them staring at her.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. “You just get here?”

“Yeah,” replied the taller of the two, his insides jumping nervously with excitement. They were at a party in the Village, and the excitement of anticipated madness was overtaking them. The guys on the block where they hung out would die with envy when they told them; they'd tell them how brave they were and what a screwy bunch of jerks were at the party—how some goof was drawing a picture of some broad—she wasn't bad either—and another guy that looked like he hadn't eaten in years was drawing, and all the faggots, and the niggers. They envisioned each girl as a nymphomaniac, and each of the guys seemed a weird combination of queer, artist, and lover. Each of the movements of the Villagers were altered and vivified and intensified in the tourists' imaginations.

“I've never seen you two before,” Rita remarked with friendly curiosity. “You live around here?”
They could
, she thought,
even if they dressed as they do. They might be new
.

“Yeah,… yeah,… we live over on the East Side though.” The tall, skinny one lied, smirking naughtily, pleased with himself for his quick thinking. His eyes snapped down hungrily to Rita's bust and then, feeling conspicuous, began to search the floor innocently. He pretended something was wrong with his shoe. He bent his knee, scratched his foot, and glanced self-consciously at Rita again.

“Oh? Over by Cooper Union?”

“Yeah,” replied the other fellow, a pleading look on his dark, diffident face, “over by Cooper Union. Nice party you've got here.” He pointed his beer can at the room and the people. He was smiling, wanting Rita to like him.

“Yeah, … it's not bad,” she said, “but we don't have enough to drink. We're starting to run out.”

The skinny fellow's eyes darted quickly to the side, enveloping the package of beer protectively. His eyebrows grouped thoughtfully. “Here, … have one of our beers.” He offered hesitantly, realizing he and his friend had only three each.

The skinny fellow was tall, with an ostrich-like appearance. Perhaps it was the way he acted that really caused him to resemble an ostrich. He was nervous, quick moving, like the ostrich—an unsure person who didn't do anything daring on his own, acting only when forced to, or when it was safe. His furtive, nervous glances and the obscene way he laughed indicated he not only interpreted the Village as being a licentious place; all life was like that for him. He was sure sordidness and evil and hot times existed everywhere and he was looking for them. He gave the impression of dirtiness, of sneakiness. He was the kind of guy who thinks all women are burlesque queens, or just the same as burlesque queens, only not in show business. He'll probably expect his wife to bump and grind for him on his wedding night, before they get down to do the
dirty
deed. Sometimes you feel sorry for people like that because they're weak and unsure, but sometimes you hate them because they're sneaky and dirty.

“Thanks.” Rita smiled as she took the beer.

The skinny fellow looked at his buddy with a signal of success. He smiled a thrilled little wince of a smile. The second fellow winked boldly to show Skinny he was with him.

“Here, I'll open it for you,” the dark fellow offered. He took a can opener and pulled the end up until the point punctured the can and a little burst of air came out. He made another hole on the other side.

“Thanks,” said Rita. “I'll tell you what. The guys have been drinking a new drink tonight. It makes the beer last longer. Wait a minute.”

The two watched Rita walk to the middle room, reach under the sink and walk back with a bottle of coke.

“What are you going to do with the coke?” asked Skinny.

“Mix it half and half with the beer.”

He grimaced. “What kind of a crazy drink is that?”

“What's crazy? It makes the beer last longer. Besides, three of these and you don't care what's happening. You can drink anything.” She laughed hilariously.

The two guys laughed too. Skinny's laugh stopped short. He was all for Rita not knowing what was happening. He winked at his friend.

Rita snared three paper cups from the top of the bookcase. The dark fellow mixed the beer and coke, pouring both simultaneously.

The two fellows drank the first sip warily.

“Hey, this is good,” exclaimed Skinny.

“Sure. Just 'cause you never tried it before doesn't mean it can't be.” She drank more of her drink.

“This your place?” the dark fellow inquired.

“Yes.” Rita sipped from the cup. She nodded, not really for any reason save that she was a little drunk.

“Nice place.” The dark fellow nodded too, looking around. He nodded his head to assure her of his good thoughts of her home. He was very serious and sincere. His movements were quick, and he watched people after he did something, to see if they noticed him, to see if they would mock him. It made one nervous to watch his nervousness.

A howl burst from the bedroom. The tall colored fellow who had been looking for beer earlier, came laughing, running, and jumping out of the bedroom, stopping at the end of a jump in the center of the middle room.

“Good grief,” he shouted laughingly to the whole apartment. “Who is that mother fucker in there.” He indicated the bedroom over his shoulder. A deep-throated laugh gripped his body, doubling him over. Many people ran to the door of the bedroom. Inside, the red-headed artist who had been drawing Jeannie was talking to the two couples lying on the bed as he drew one of the girls.

“Certainly,” he continued to jabber rapidly, not noticing the crowd at the door. “The most important thing is to bring the balance between the smooth fine lines and the thick hard lines that you can find if you look very carefully at my drawings. See … that's the most important thing. It gives a very special, weird effect. And yet, underneath, the meaning, the warmth, … the depth comes through.” He was talking, or rather chattering almost insanely, to no one in particular about nothing intelligible. The speed with which he spoke varied with the rate at which he drew, according to the stroke that he was putting on the paper. He slowed when he came to a difficult line, and when he was drawing quickly, easily, his voice became a chattering, rapid drone. The gaunt bedraggled scarecrow sauntered through the crowd and watched for a moment, a pouting frown on his face.

“Frank, … give me the green pen. This one has no more ink,” the scarecrow said gravely to the red head. “Besides I think I need a little green in my drawing.” In his hand was the drawing he had been working on. It was a mass of red lines—nothing more—intertwining, crossing, spiraling, zigzagging aimlessly across the paper.

Frank stopped drawing and slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a box of pens, but the one he wanted wasn't there. He put his hand into the outside breast pocket and pulled out two brushes and a Japanese bamboo pen. He opened the pen, fitted the top on the back of the pen body, and jabbed a couple of lines on the side of the page on which he was working.

“Here. What's the matter with the other pen?”

“I don't know,” the scarecrow said gravely, as if pens were beneath him and he was loathe to speak of them. As he spoke, his eyes were either closed or rose to the ceiling. He spoke with the deep-throatedness of a man deciding the fate of the world.

The redhead looked to his model and began to draw again. The tall colored fellow who had first run out of the room came back and stood next to the redhead. He was still laughing, watching.

“What was that you said about the thin lines, man,” the Negro asked laughingly, looking at the crowd.

“I was saying that the thin lines have to blend …” The redhead began to drone again aimlessly.

Many of the people who had rushed to see the attraction rejoined the rest of the party which hadn't bothered answering the colored fellow's call.

Jeannie sat on the floor in the front room, next to a dark-haired white fellow who was sitting on the edge of his chair, bending toward her, talking. He put his arms out and caressed her head. She put her head against the side of his leg while he stroked her hair.

“Who's that?” the skinny tourist asked Rita. He was interested in what was happening, and what he thought was going to happen, considering the proximity of Jeannie and the fellow on the chair. Skinny's eyes gleamed evilly and he wrinkled his nose. He was almost giggling with delight.

“A friend of Jeannie's,” Rita answered phlegmatically. “What's your names?”

“Paul … Paul Macklin,” said the skinny fellow slowly, making it up as he pronounced it. This is Johnny Rivers.”

The dark tourist looked at her pleadingly again.

“Hello,” said Rita by way of greeting, the way people always greet someone they've spoken with for a long time while not actually knowing their name. Men often shake hands at this point, even though they may have been speaking together for hours.

One of the male guests returned to the apartment from the outside hall. He had been to the toilet in the hall. He stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his eyes half closed from alcohol, his bottom jaw jutting out involuntarily. His lips pursed fleshily together in surveyance. He just stood, swaying slightly, staring angrily at Jeannie and the guy stroking her head. He stomped over to a chair and pulled his coat from the back of it. Someone sitting on the chair was unwittingly sitting on the sleeve. The drunk swung his arms, yanking the coat, and the sleeve was pulled from under the rear end of the scarecrow artist.

“I beg your pardon,” complained the scarecrow indignantly, looking up with surprise. He stared for a moment, then eased back into the chair, gazing at the opposite wall, his eyes resuming their half-closed position.

The drunk put his coat on and made his way toward the door. Jeannie stood and ran over to him.

“Where you going, honey?” She grabbed his arm.

“I'm going, that's all. What the hell is this? I stand around and watch some guy pawing you.” His head jiggled involuntarily.

“Oh, come on, silly. I was just sitting talking.”

“Well, go ahead back and talk.”

“Don't go yet,” Jeannie pleaded. “Stay!”

She grasped his arm and turned him around toward the party again. They walked to the couch and sat down together. Jeannie still held his arm and now she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Frankie and Jim Panar were still sitting on the floor, drinking beer under the window in the front room.

“What the hell is that chick doing?” Frankie asked, referring to Jeannie.

“ I don't know. Looks to me like she's playing games.”

“Yeah, lots of them.” The two men sat and drank, dispassionately watching Jeannie leaning on the shoulder of the drunk.

The tall Negro from the bedroom now wandered into the front room and looked around. He saw Jeannie and signalled to her with a jerk of his head. The drunk on whose shoulder she was leaning was facing the other way so that he didn't see the colored fellow. Jeannie excused herself tactfully and walked into the middle room. The colored fellow pulled Jeannie aside and started talking. The fellow who had been stroking Jeannie's hair when she sat on the floor next to his chair now stood up angrily.

“God damn bullshit, … that's what,” he exclaimed loudly, looking around the room for something. He fell back into his seat. He was still looking around the room from his seated position when Jeannie, hearing his loud complaint, rushed over to him.

“What's the matter, baby?” she asked solicitously.

“Nothing. I'm just tired of your bullshit. Where's my coat?”

On the couch, Jeannie's other erstwhile lover just sat and watched the scene, completely detached by his drunkenness.

“Come on, … don't go,” Jeannie urged the fellow in the chair.

“Shut up! Where's my coat?” He squinted around the room. He pulled himself to the edge of the chair to see better.

“Is this it?” Jeannie asked, picking up the sleeve of a coat hung on the back of the chair on which the fellow was sitting. She afforded him a glimpse of the sleeve, then dropped it and unconcernedly walked back to the couch.

“Yeah, … that's it … Gimme,” he said as he pulled the coat angrily from around the back of the chair. He had trouble getting one of the sleeves over his arm. Finally, he thrust his arm desperately, angrily, through the armhole. The sleeve straightened out and his arm slid through.

“So long … I'll see you around,” he called out generally as he swayingly made his way to the door. He banged against the tub on the way out, knocking a couple of glasses off the top. He stopped, looked poutingly at the fallen glasses for a moment, then waved his hands at them. The motion caused him to stagger backwards. He caught his balance and walked out the door.

Jeannie looked at Rita and shrugged uncaringly. Then she sat on the couch again and rested her head on the shoulder of her friend sitting there, having completely forgotten the colored fellow.

“I like these old apartments,” exclaimed the scarecrow, standing limply in the center of the front room. He extended one hand toward the ceiling, clutching a can of beer with the other. “They've got something … These apartments they give you today, you pay a fortune for them,… and the ceilings …” He grimaced, bringing his hand down to a level just over his head. “No room …” He shook his head disgustedly, then walked to the tub and began shaking the abandoned beer cans, hoping for one with some fluid still inside. Now and again he would raise a can to his lips and let the few dregs of beer drip into his mouth. “Fine vintage, … fine vintage,” he announced seriously. But the vintage in one can wasn't so fine; he spit ashes and cigarette butts out of his mouth.