What’s Happening? (25 page)

“Oh, … I've been around.”

They stood looking at each other, wordless and very conscious of their own presence and silence.

“Well, so long now,” said Laura turning to leave, not knowing what else to do. “Nice seeing you again.”

“Laura!” Johnny blurted out imploringly. He walked to her, his eyes looking into her's for a moment, then focusing on her forehead. He was still cast in the eerie green light from the bar sign. He wanted to say something; his lips moved, but stopped abruptly; his hand waved awkwardly in the air. “I just wanted to say … well, you know. I didn't mean anything … that last time … It's just …”

“That's all right,” said Laura, somewhat embarrassed at Johnny's embarrassment. “I don't care about that anymore.”

Johnny gnawed his lips nervously. He smiled weakly, half from embarrassment, half in friendliness. He watched her face.
She looks so scared, so lonely, so weak
, he thought. If only he weren't so scared, too.
Why don't I ask her to have coffee with me; she wont mind that. Maybe she would, though?
His imagination conjured up all sorts of refusals and embarrassing rejections or retorts from which he recoiled frightened.
What the hell.… She can only say no. I'll ask her to have coffee with me. I'll say, “Laura, do you think you.…” No, that's not right. “Would you like some coffee?” “Sure,” she'll tell me, “but not with you!” No. What the hell, I'll just ask her.…
The words began to slide up his throat like red-hot pellets. His mouth grew dry, and he felt his Adam's apple bob. He swallowed hard.
Damn Adam's apple
, he thought,
always bouncing like a jumping bean in my throat
. He felt more embarrassed because Laura was probably amused by his embarrassment. But he still wanted to ask her, now more than ever, and yet, now, now he felt more ashamed of himself because he couldn't get himself to ask.

“Well, … I've got to go now. I'll see you.” Laura again turned to leave.

“Laura!” he called, summoning his nerve more from impulse than volition.

“What?” she asked softly.

Johnny was caught and had to say what he wanted. But he found it almost impossible.

“What?” she asked again, nervously, impatiently.

Johnny walked over to her. “I wanted to buy you some coffee or something—unless you're busy. I mean, we could have it some other time if you want. But if you've got nothing else to do, I don't either, … and maybe we could have some coffee together.”

She studied his nervous face pleadingly looking into her nervous face. She too was sure her features revealed amusing nervousness.

“I guess we could,” she replied. She was surprised, and more than that, now that she realized fully that Johnny was asking her to go for coffee with him, pleased.

Johnny was relieved. He smiled weakly, thankfully.

“I don't know where to take you. I don't know much about the Village.”

“There's a little Italian coffee shop right next to Dani's. It's nice there—quiet.”

There was something pleasantly sincere about Johnny, Laura now thought. He wasn't trying to be a wise guy now. He was nervous, but warm and gentle too. He seemed to really want to go for coffee and be with her. And she wanted to go too, because he didn't have that look about him, the one that most people had, the hard look, the one that seemed to want to devour her, to step on her. Suddenly, he looked like a friend.

They walked to the Continental Espresso and entered.

The flicker of small candles encased in red glass cups atop each table gave a half-reddish, half-yellow hue to the walls and the faces of the people seated about the tables in the Continental. Small oval tables lined each side of the aisle that cut down the center of the shop. Classic-styled oil paintings, intermixed with contemporary photographs taken by local photographers—probably customers—hung on the walls. On one wall, a huge canvas of Moses and The Chosen People at the rock of gushing water hung in darkness. In one front corner of the shop was a large square, marble-topped table and an ornately carved bench of black wood with climbing flowers and angels' heads cut into it. Soft red cushions adorned the seat. Silken cords held the pillows on the seat and hung down the side of the bench, ending in fringed tassels.

No one was sitting at the large table. Johnny motioned Laura toward it. He indicated a seat facing the interior of the shop, and Laura sat down as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Johnny pushed her chair in from behind and sat down on the bench.

“I'm sorry,” he said, standing hurriedly. “Maybe you want to sit down on the bench?”

“No … no This is fine.”

They sat silently, watching the flame flickering on the walls and table. Johnny twisted himself toward the counter in the back, behind which a short, heavy man was making coffee. As he looked to the back, Johnny's eyes had passed quickly over Laura's face. He saw it only for a second, with the reddish tint on it. He saw her big eyes gazing intently, blankly at him. The man behind the counter saw Johnny and he smiled and bowed slightly so that Johnny would know he saw them. Johnny felt incapable of turning back to look at Laura, or even turning back to look at anything, feeling that his eyes would be drawn to see if Laura was looking at him, and he would seem foolish and obvious.

The man from behind the counter walked up the center aisle and over to their table. He had a friendly smile.

“
Buona sera
. What would you like to have?”

Johnny reached for the menu and looked at it for a moment.

“What are you going to have,” he asked Laura and then looked up. “Oh … I thought you had a menu,” he apologized handing the menu to her.

Without looking at the menu, she said she wanted coffee cappuccino. Johnny ordered the same. The man who was surely the owner of the shop went back to the counter. The espresso machine hissed in a sudden burst of effort.

“That was kind of a crazy night, that last time.” Johnny began to absently lift and close the hinged top of the sugar bowl. “My friend Paul was black and blue for two weeks.”

“Yeah, it was kind of crazy. And then you coming on like a crazy man yourself.”

Johnny didn't understand her words exactly, but he knew what she was referring to, and he was embarrassed. He looked down.

“Oh, don't worry about that. It's all been forgotten.”

The owner brought the two cups to their table.

“Anything else? We have some nice cheese. Pastry?”

“I don't want anything,” said Laura.

“Nothing for me either.”

The owner returned to his counter, leaving the two white cups steaming on the white table top.

“Well, let's have a toast,” Johnny said as jovially as possible.

“What to?”

“To us, I guess. To forget the last time.”

“Okay.” She raised her cup. Somehow she didn't feel nervous with Johnny. They just sat and didn't say much, but just being there, smiling occasionally was all that was needed. It said so much. She knew that Johnny felt the same way she did. Johnny was someone to whom her feelings wouldn't be foolish. She knew he wouldn't make fun of her. It was an overwhelming relief to be with someone like herself, someone who understood as she understood, who wouldn't belittle her. She felt strangely happy, goose pimply, as she looked at Johnny. She felt sort of giddy. She felt like jumping up and down and smiling. She could see herself in a green pasture running and skipping and humming, with the green grass under her feet and a big smile on her face.

Johnny put down his cup and they looked at each other and smiled simultaneously, spontaneously. They were big smiles, so big that they surprised themselves and each other. They were real smiles, ones they hadn't used in such a very long time. They were smiles of discovery, of relief, of realization, of happiness.

“Are you going anywhere after this?”

“I was going to Dani's—that's the place a couple of doors down—to meet a girl friend, … but I don't have to,” she added quickly. “I've had my coffee.”

Johnny smiled as she smiled. “Maybe you'd like to go to a late movie—if you don't have anything else to do?”

Her neck tingled. “Okay … That'd be nice,” she said, her eyes feeling aglow. She sat on the edge of her chair, her elbows on the table, and smiled her newly found warm smile at Johnny.

17

“Oh come on, do me a favor will you?” Rita implored as she and Jeannie walked downtown along the Avenue of the Americas.

“That God damn place is going to be packed tighter than …,” Jeannie chuckled. “Tight as hell anyway. And with all the lousy people I know, it must be pretty tight down there.”

“Look, we only have to go over for a minute; if he's not there, we'll cut right out. Come on.”

“No! I won't get caught in that mess. There'll be a million tourists there. Look at them.” Jeannie's arm indicated the throngs of people, obviously not from the Village, milling on the sidewalk ahead of them. “Jesus, how I hate this place on Friday and Saturday. Nothing but tourists and drunken sailors.”

Surrounding the girls were throngs of outsiders parading in their Uptown raiments, having descended en masse to have a wild time. Girls in twos and threes window-shopped, hoping to be picked up by some swinging Bohemians. Fellows from outside stood on the corners or traveled from bar to bar looking to pick up some wild Village chicks.

On Friday and Saturday nights the Village takes on a strange aspect. Many of the Villagers retreat to private haunts, leaving an insipid, deserted place to the invaders—leaving the Village a throbbing, lively, glaring, washed out place crowded with tourists milling in droves, looking for the excitement that they have scared off with their garish, sacreligious, meddling march. The only exciting thing in the Village when tourists are there is the thrilled reaction of the store owners and cafe keepers to the continuous ring of their cash registers.

Ahead of the girls, some soldiers stopped a fellow to ask directions. The fellow was dressed as a Villager. He turned and pointed toward Third Street; he was directing them to the strip joints. They probably had asked him where a soldier could have some fun. That was a hard question to answer, since the wild girls for whom the soldiers were looking didn't think of the soldiers as much fun—just tourists. The soldiers started toward the strip joints with a “whoop” of anticipation.

“Look at this place,” Jeannie said disgustedly. “And you want to go to Johnson's? You're out of your coukie mind! Even if Marc is there, what are you going to do, hang from the ceiling and hold hands?”

“Oh, stop being a crab apple and come on. It won't kill you. We're almost there now.” Rita increased her pace, taking hold of Jeannie's arm.

“Wait a minute,” objected Jeannie, shaking Rita off. They stood near the edge of the sidewalk facing each other. “Listen, I'm not going. You go ahead by yourself.”

“Hi, girls,” remarked a collegiately dressed fellow sitting in an open convertible which was parked at the curb. Two fellows were sitting in the car, “How about you two girls coming to a party. There's plenty to drink, and we'll have a lil' ol' ball.” The college boys looked them up and down.

“Take off and have your ball all by your lil' ol' square self,” Rita remarked curtly, turning away from the car.

“Now girls,” admonished the driver as he got out and skirted around the car to approach the girls. “That isn't nice. Really …” He strode next to them as they began walking away. “We have this apartment down on Hudson Street, and there's plenty of booze and music, and us. Come on.”

“You want to go, Rita?” Jeannie asked enthusiastically.

“No. You know where I'm going. You go ahead, if you want to. I'll see you later.”

“Oh, come on with me,” Jeannie insisted. “I don't want to go by myself.”

“Yeah, come on, Rita,” urged the other college boy who had driven the car to where the girls now stood. He leaned out the window. “What the hell, there're plenty more people there if that's what's bothering you. It's going to be a ball.” He used the word ball as if it were a special word from a foreign language.

“No, I've got somewhere to go. I'll see you later, if you're going,” Rita said to Jeannie.

“Sure she's going,” insisted the fellow standing next to them, putting his arm under Jeannie's and turning toward the car.

“Oh, okay,” Jeannie said, slightly annoyed at Rita. She walked to the car arm in arm with the college boy. “Let's go,” she smiled. “Boola, boola.”

The collegians laughed. The fellow in the car opened the door and let Jeannie slip into the back seat.

“So long,” called Jeannie smiling, waving, as the car sped off from the curb, disappearing down the Avenue.

Rita frowned, then crossed the street and walked quickly toward Johnson's. Somehow she had to go to Johnson's; a feeling inside told her Marc would be there. She wanted him to be there.

Across the street from Rita, sailors began yelping in an affected, feminine way.

“Yoo hoo … yoo hoo …”

One of them had rolled his pants to the knee and was holding one of his arms poised in the air, his hand hanging limply from the wrist, as his entire body, especially his hips and shoulders, snapped exaggeratedly as he walked. His friends were hysterical with laughter over their buddy's imitation of a faggot they thought they had just passed.

Rita walked more determinedly toward Johnson's. She thought it cruel for these sailors to torment someone they didn't know. But then, wasn't this society's normal reaction to something strange or different? If the strangeness or differentness is allowed to exist, is accepted, that from which it differs is not absolutely correct; society likes to be absolutely correct in order to abolish confusion, the need for thinking, even at the price of suppression. If the strangeness can be dismissed with a laugh, if a joke can be made of it, then somehow, psychologically, its threat is lessened. Homosexuality is a sickness, an affliction caused somewhere along the life path of an individual, frightening him into a state of terror, a state of fear so strong that, for need of human kindness and understanding, the person turns to the only path where protection and perhaps acceptance seems available. Where the humor in this affliction lies is hard to ascertain. For the most part, however, the laughter is hollow, the hatefulness too intense and unjustified to be merely a normal reaction of humor or dislike. Deep inside, the intense mocker or hater of homosexuals has a cold knot of fear, almost an overwhelming, consuming one, which is temporarily allayed by the ostentatious mocking of that thing which causes the chill.