What’s Happening? (32 page)

And what about the men who have been found doing erotic things with animals? Aren't these men in the Village, who constantly crave sex, the same as the sheep maulers?
she thought.
A woman is nothing but an animal to them, and
they in turn are only animals. And what they do could as readily be done with an animal. What would be the difference? Nothing but animals!
Rita shuddered with contempt.

Raoul Johnson was in the back of the cafe dancing. He was trying to catch the attention of a blonde girl who had just come in with her boyfriend.

Rita looked around the bar again. People were hanging from the bar, drinks in their hands. Others were sitting at the tables. They all looked sad, lonely, desolate. They repelled Rita and made her feel lousy and lonelier. They were trying to forget time, trying to forget life.

“I'm taking off,” Rita said abruptly, standing up. “I'm going to see if I still fit into my old bed. See you later.”

“So early?” asked Jeannie.

“What else is there to do … fuck?”

“Why not?” Jeannie said bluntly, half joking.

“'Cause I'm not an animal whore. I'm a woman … and that's just part of the deal, not the whole thing. I can walk and talk and think. Just because all these idiots can't—only understand sex—that's their problem, not mine.” Rita turned and walked out.

“Man, she got the damnedest mood on tonight. I guess she figures I'm a whore 'cause now she's been in love. What're you supposed to do, buy it on the corners? Sure, I guess I'd like to be in love, if that means finding one guy that I dig the end, and always have a ball, and not fight or anything. Where is he? I can't find him.”

“If you looked any place else but in bed you might find him,” Laura suggested.

“You're a regular hot shit, aren't you?”

“Come on, let's knock it off,” interposed Johnny. “How about another beer?”

“No, I don't want one,” said Jeannie, glaring at Laura. “I'm going to the back for a minute.” She walked toward the back. Raoul Johnson stopped her and they started talking.

“Rita is all mixed up, you know,” Johnny said to Laura.

“Yeah, I know. I think we should go over to the apartment and see what's happening.”

“Okay …”

They stood and started over toward Christopher Street.

24

Laura unlocked and swung open the apartment door. Lamps were aglow in the front room. In the middle room, only a dim night light above the covered tub was lit. Rita was not in sight. Laura and Johnny walked into the front room. On the couch was an open valise, half filled with clothes Rita had not yet unpacked after returning to the Village. On the floor in the center of the front room was the skirt which Rita had just been wearing. It lay in a heap along with the sweater she had been wearing. Her shoes were on the floor near the phonograph. There was a black mark above them on the wall where they had left their imprint after having been flung there. Long black stockings hung draped from the lampshade above the phonograph where they had caught after flying through the air.

“It looks like Rita did a strip,” remarked Johnny.

“You're not kidding.”

They twirled around simultaneously when they heard a scraping and bumping in the other rooms. They walked to the doorway between the front and middle room, looking toward the back room. Suddenly, the curtains parted and Rita stomped out of the bedroom, clad in panties and a bra, carrying a valise. She gaped, astonished by the two people standing in the doorway.

“Ooopps,” she exclaimed, pivoting around and rushing back into the bedroom, breaking into a loud laugh. “Why didn't you shout or something? I didn't even hear you come in.”

Laura was laughing too.

Johnny, embarrassed, just smiled.

“What's coming off here, besides all your clothes? What're you doing?” Laura asked.

Rita came out of the bedroom again, this time wearing a white slip. She carried the other valise to the front room and hoisted it onto the bed next to the one already open.

“I'm checking out,” she snapped determinedly, her face set hard. “I'm going to leave this God damn hell hole. I'm leaving tonight and just getting as far away as I can possibly get.”

“Where're you going?”

“I don't know. I don't give a God damn. I'm just getting out of this place. It doesn't matter where I go, what I do. I just want to be alone—brood for a while—maybe start again.”

“But Rita, what the hell happened? You just got back today. You didn't even finish unpacking.”

“What happened? You see what's happening right in front of you—all the time. Are you blind?”

Johnny was puzzled. “See what? …”

“See this God damn rotten Village for what it is—a rotten hole filled with rotten, lousy, sick people. I gotta get out,” she screamed tremulously. “I gotta … I gotta … gotta.” She covered her face with her hands, crying violently, sinking down into a slump in the armchair.

Laura dashed to her and bent over her consolingly.

“You all right, honey?”

“I'm all right—I'm all right,” Rita moaned in a cracked, spent voice, not raising her head.

“C'mon, … what's bugging you, baby?”

“What's bugging me is the fact that I woke up, that's what's bugging me. Before, I was dumb and happy-go-lucky; now I've had the misfortune to love somebody for a fleeting second—be loved—to taste the stream of life full strength, and now I'm unhappy—unhappy because it was good, because I liked it, because there's no love down here in this lousy Village. This is all a bunch of bullshit.” She was now screaming impatient anger at Laura and Johnny. “All these finks, dressing the way they do, talking their hip trash, they're afraid of life. They try to make themselves believe they don't need ordinary emotions, … they're above ordinary feelings. They try to rise above it, … but they protest too much.” Rita buried her head on her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Take it easy, baby.” Laura looked at Johnny and shook her head to indicate he shouldn't say anything.

“It's all a rotten bunch of shit,” Rita moaned, looking up at Laura. “All of these bastards are sick, … you know that? That's why they're here … because they're sick … because they're all running away. And they're so damned scared they can't even look back to see how far they've run. They just keep getting further and further away. They're in their own little world, and, like they say, … it's way out. So far out that they've left all their sense behind them.” Rita bit her lips to check her tears. She grew pensive, unconsciously rubbing the upholstery on the arm of the chair as she stared at the wall. “What happened? Nothing happened! Not tonight, anyway … It's been happening right along—to me. I've changed. I'm not the same anymore. But the Village is. It's the same now as it was ten years ago, and it'll be the same forty years from now. They've been sick here for years. It's nothing new; it's been here all the time—no new beat generation. They should'a come down here. They would'a found the beat ones twenty-five years ago. It's all phony and rotten, and none of it means anything. They're all only lonely and mixed up and sad, trying to lose themselves, trying just to cover themselves over with the streets down here, and hope that the lousy world that rejected them, that doesn't love them, doesn't uncover them to hurt them any more. But not me … not me.” Her face shattered into tears again. “I'm through … through with this shit. You just can't run from it.…”

Rita stood suddenly and walked to the bedroom. Johnny and Laura watched her go out of the room, then looked at each other questioningly. Rita returned carrying a pile of clothing which she began to fling lustily into the open valises.

“Where you going?”

“I don't know. I'm just going. I'm giving this place back to the couks who had it before—and if they want their twenty-four pounds of pot back, they can have it.” Her voice strained with the effort of heaving her clothes into the valises.

“But you gotta go somewhere. Do you have any money? I've got some extra from my job.”

“Thanks baby, thanks,” she tried to smile gratefully but her smile was more a grimace. “I won't need any money. I don't need anything—just breathing space. Thanks anyway.” She stopped packing and looked deeply into Laura's eyes. Sadness and loneliness pervaded her features. She closed her eyes and began to weep silently, her body throbbing softly. She lowered herself into the chair, her head sinking to the arm rest, Laura lifted Rita's throbbing head, sat on the arm of the chair and rested Rita's head on her lap.

“Come on, baby … Take it easy.”

Rita moaned. She began to cry uncontrollably, whining and muttering and cursing intermixed.

“I never loved anybody … never … never in my life …” Her words, hardly intelligible, were released in spasms of pain and lamentation. “… Except Marc …” She groaned painfully. “Marc … oh, Marc, baby, … I never loved … anyone but you … Never … never … never … no one but you …” She beat her hands into Laura's lap, screaming into her skirt.

Laura accepted the blows, whispering words of comfort to Rita, but Rita didn't hear.

“He went away … He went away because he … thought I didn't love him … He couldn't believe I loved … him. He was too … frightened to love me back, … afraid I'd turn out to be like the rest … of this selfish world …” She gasped convulsively. Her crying became deeper, more soulful, more painful. She gripped the cushion of the chair and crushed it against her face as if to press her rage and sorrow into that mute, absorbing cloth and cotton. She remained with the pillow on her face for many seconds as she tried to control herself. Her weeping was replaced by a throaty rattle. She looked up. Her eyes were two red ovals slit out of her face. They were deep and dark, surrounded by redness.

“Johnny, boil some water for tea,” suggested Laura.

“Sure, sure thing.”

Silent steps carried him into the kitchen. Tinny clatter accompanied the pots out of the closet, disturbing the hushed, breathless room.

“He didn't believe me … He didn't believe me …” she pleaded to Laura. She shrieked mournfully, piercing the apartment with the ominous dread of a funeral parlor just before the casket is sealed.

“Come on now, honey, try not to cry. Marc'll be back, you know that.”

“He'll never be back … never … never, nev … er …” Rita's words disappeared into chilling moans. She was exhausted, out of breath now, just gasping out her words. She twisted and sat back in the chair, still sobbing, her eyes glassy and shiny, as she stared ahead unseeingly.

“The water's boiling,” said Johnny.

“Come on, have a cup of tea.”

Laura helped Rita to stand. They both walked into the middle room. Johnny poured tea into the Chinese teacups.

“Here, have some nice tea,” Laura said, handing a filled cup to Rita.

“Thanks,” Rita whispered wearily. She sat on a pillow at the low table.

“Try not to think about it.”

“I can't help it. I just can't help it.” Her head shook slowly from side to side as she stared at the floor. Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, reflecting the lamplight. She sipped at her tea but it wouldn't go down.

Laura sat on another pillow watching Rita. Johnny stood propped against the covered tub. They both drank their tea, not speaking, smiling comfortingly when Rita occasionally raised her head.

Rita stood abruptly. She put down the tea and ran into the bedroom. Muffled, heart-rending weeping filtered from the bedroom.

Laura and Johnny remained still, quiet. The weeping continued for a long time. Later, it grew softer, then there was silence.

After a while, Rita walked slowly, dazedly, from the bedroom, looking about the middle room as she walked. In the front room, she found her nylon stockings. She sat on the side of the couch and began to slip them on. Laura and Johnny had followed her and stood watching. Rita was not crying now. Her face was calm, blank, determined.

“I'm going,” she said finally. “I'm fed up with this place.” She lifted her slip and fastened the garters to her stocking thoughtlessly.

“Where you going, honey?” asked Laura.

“I don't know, I don't care. I'm just leaving this place. I'm getting out … out … anywhere.” She fastened the other stocking.

“But you don't have any money. How're you going to get along?”

“I'll go home, I guess. I'll go to that other rotten hole and stay there for a while until I can get some money to get out on my own. I think I know where to go from here. I have to get there by myself now. This Village isn't a crutch, it's a conglomeration of cripples.” Rita stood shakily. “I'm glad I still have some of my old clothes left. I don't even want to see these Village things again.” She picked up the clothes that she had taken off. Suddenly, anger flared in her face. “I don't want to see them again … Never … never …” She tossed the clothes about the room with all her violent anger. “Never … never … never,” she wailed no louder than a whisper, her voice becoming a muffled rasping. She grabbed the long black stockings from the lamp and pulled at them with all her strength until their very strands began to come apart. “Never … never … never,” she screamed hoarsely. “I never want to see any part of this place again.” Her voice was coarse and cracking and hurt the ears.

Just as suddenly as it had come, her anger left her. She stood bewildered, feeling her emotions disappear into exhaustion and hopelessness. She picked a skirt from the bed and slipped it over her head.

“When I have some money, I'll leave that hell hole of a home and start some place else. Some place's got to be different. It can't all be like this.” She slipped the jacket of her suit on. “It just can't.” She looked to Laura and suddenly her determination faded. She put her hands to her face and sank on the edge of the chair, throbbing silently.