What’s Happening? (6 page)

“You didn't take a check,” called the girl behind the counter. “Hey …”

The butch ignored her and walked toward the back room.

“You didn't take your coat check,” the checkroom girl yelled again.

The butch sat at a booth with her fems. The coat-check girl's eyes widened with anger at the public affront. She threw open the door of the coat room and swooped into the back room, butch's coat in her hand.

“Here …,” she yelled throwing the coat high into the air.

The coat floated upward, downward, landing on the floor at the feet of its owner, who jumped with surprise. The butch glared at the checkroom girl, then bent forward and picked up the coat, putting it on a chair next to her. She continued to glare at the coat-check girl, who in turn stared boldly back. It was a standoff. The checkroom girl pivoted and walked back to the checkroom.

“Hey, Omar …,” a tall Negro yelled as he stood next to one of the tables on the bar side of the partition.

Omar was another Negro, sitting dead drunk at the table, his head resting on the table top. Omar's arms hung limply from his shoulders, his hands touching the sawdusted floor. He wore a western-type hat, the wide brim bent beneath his inert head. Long strands of hair stuck out from under the sweat band. He wore boots, and his pants were tucked inside them.

“Hey Omar,” his friend yelled again, pounding the drunk on the back to wake him. “Come on, man, … you can't pull a sick in here, … come on.”

Omar picked up his head from the table. It moved slowly through the air to an upright position, continued backward and bounced against the partition with a dull thud. A long whisp of hair hung down the center of his face and touched his nose. He forced his eyelids open half way but they struggled to close again. Two little circles of blue peered out dully, unfocused. Omar glimpsed at his friend, tried a feeble smile, then the eyelids clamped down again.

“Hey, come on …” Omar's friend started to pound Omar's chest. It sounded as if he were pounding a side of dead beef. “Come on, man … come on.” He became annoyed and hit Omar harder. Omar's body started to ease forward; the weight of his head came into force again. His head crashed solidly and bounced on the table top. “Come on now, man.” He put his hands under Omar's armpits, lifting him on to his feet. Omar stood erect, his friend balancing his swaying body, then pushing Omar toward the door.

The coat-check girl was talking to a woman about thirty-five years old, dressed in men's clothing, with a streak of silver dyed into the front of her man-styled hair. They watched unconcerned as the two men stumbled out. The friend dragged Omar down the steps and pushed him toward Eighth Street and coffee. The Lesbians at the checkroom turned and continued their conversation.

Laura was now dancing in the back room with another girl. Her dancing partner, Lucille, who was called Lou, danced Laura toward the jukebox. Suddenly, Laura was pulled behind the jukebox on the opposite side of the drapes shielding the women's rest room. Lou encircled her arms around Laura's waist, pulled Laura close, and leaned forward to kiss her. Laura jerked her head back. Lucille was persistent, following Laura's head with her own, trying to find Laura's lips. Finally, she grasped Laura's head between her two hands and pressed her lips against the small mouth. Laura stared perplexedly, terrified, over Lucille's shoulder. She suffered Lucille's arms, not knowing what to do, not sure if she should rebuff her. After all, someone cared for, desired her. Even this was better than the hollow emptiness.

“Hey, man, that Laura really swings after all. See her swapping spit with Lucille back there,” Billie remarked, watching Laura and Lucille from the bar. “She's a pretty fair chick, you know what I mean, … a little mousy, but nice.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” said Phil half joking. “I'll cut you into little pieces if you start that kind of crap.” Phil, Billie and Frank laughed together. The music ended and Laura and Lucille walked back toward the bar.

“Hey you … You little bitch,” Tony the bouncer yelled loudly at Laura as she returned to the bar. “You know you shouldn't be making out in here, don't you?” he said loudly, menacing her by thrusting his head close to hers and staring into her face.

“So …?” she asked nervously.

“So?” he asked imperiously. He enjoyed picking on her because she became so frightened and nervous. A butch would have punched him in the mouth if Tony had done that to her … but Laura shrank away. “Well, if you wanna stay here now you gotta give me a blow job. You're a blower, ain't you?” Tony said, smiling viciously, looking around for popular approval.

“You rotten bastard. Fuck you,” yelped Laura defensively, edging away from him.

“Come on, you little blower.” He grabbed her hand. “Here …” He put her hand on his manliness.

She stood frozen with terror and surprise, then squeezed him hard where it hurt.

“Aughhhh,” he bellowed with intense pain. “You little bastard whore.” He lashed his fist against the left side of her head above the ear.

Laura fell back against the wall. She stood still, her eyes bulging with terror, her hands feeling for the wall behind her. She was like a trapped cat, studying her attacker, thinking furiously of escape. As he approached her, she slid cautiously along the wall to the door, bolting down the steps just as he kicked at her. Whimpering, she ran down the street, and rounded the corner into Minetta Lane.

“Rotten son-of-a-bitch,” she murmured through tears as she strode quickly through the unlit lane toward the light of the Avenue of the Americas. She passed under the canopy of Raoul Johnson's bar. Someone tapped a coin on the window from inside. She stopped and peered through the window. A friend waved to her to enter. Frightened and alone, unable to go home, she entered the bar.

“Hi, Laura,” said the blond fellow who had tapped on the window. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. “What's happening?”

“I don't know, … nothing,” said Laura with a weak, resigned shrug. She sat on a stool, looking blandly over his shoulder at the wall.

“I thought we were going to get together one of these days … What's the matter? We'll go to the movies or something.”

“Okay, … one of these days.” She wasn't really paying attention to what he said. She looked at her friend with the pathetic look of a lost puppy, holding the side of her head, tears still streaking her face.

“What happened?”

“Oh, I got kicked out of the Lisa.”

“How? What happened?”

“The bouncer called me something and wanted me to do something … and I told him to F himself … and he punched me.”

“Oh, that's real nice. You hang out in all the best spots, don't you?”

She looked at him guiltily. His admonition only presaged the annoyance that Rita and Jeannie would display when Laura told them.

“Hey Laura,” a tall curly-haired fellow in the back called. Laura looked to the back, then at her disapproving friend.

“I'll be right back,” she said, escaping toward the back. She sat on a stool next to the fellow who had called. He was a tall, thin fellow named George.

“Whatta ya been doin', baby?” he asked with affected, one-uplifted-brow casualness.

“Nothin' …”

“Listen, I got some smokes that'll make you fly. Whatta ya say you and me go to my pad and have a ball?”

Laura made a face of disapproval. George chuckled and began to explain what kicks it would be. He bought her a beer. After many minutes she stood, turned, and shook her head all the while walking back to the front of the bar. George stared after her, shrugging disappointedly.

“What do you call right back?” asked the blond fellow. “Like you were gone for days.”

Laura smiled weakly out of the side of her mouth and half shrugged. Sammy the bartender put down a beer for her.

“Hey … don't you even say hello?”

She looked up at Sammy. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sammy …” She wrinkled an excuse for a smile. “I didn't see you. What's the beer for?”

“Your buddy bought it for you.” He jerked his thumb at the blond.

Laura looked to the blond and flickered a smile. She appreciated his thoughtfulness. She didn't even know his name. They had met at a party, but she had never found out his name, and now she felt badly about asking him what it was. He stood taller than she, watching her. She became flustered and sipped her beer, looking around, still pressing a hand to the side of her head.

Josh Minot, Jeannie's shaven-headed friend pushed the door open and walked into Johnson's.

“Josh!” Laura called to him, half lifting her arm to wave.

“Hi, Laura,” he said walking over to her, “where'd you go? Like everybody was worried about you.” He looked over her head at the people seated around the room. She noticed his lack of interest.

“Just for a walk,” she said unimportantly. “Is that other fellow still at the apartment?”

“No, everybody split for their own pad. I'll see you later,” he said, seeing a friend in the back of the bar.

Laura turned quickly to her blond friend.

“I'll be right back.” She put down her drink.

“Hey, don't go, baby, the night's just beginning.”

Laura dashed out of the cafe and started to run. She ran across the Avenue of the Americas, up Fourth Street, and across Sheridan Square to Christopher Street. Out of breath, she walked very fast the rest of the way to the house and dashed up the stairs two by two. Cautiously, she opened the door of the apartment. The V of light cutting through the darkness revealed only one figure on Jeannie's bed. Laura walked in slowly and quietly and shut the door. She peered through the slits in the curtain until her eyes made out the lone figure in bed. Rita was asleep, her arm stretched out across Laura's side of the bed. Laura walked into the room, undressed quickly and slid into bed, curling up to keep warm. Laura lay her head across Rita's arm, cuddled close to her warmth, and fell asleep.

4

The warmth within her family's house could not penetrate the cold fear trembling within Rita. She was nervous; a queasy feeling rushed from her gnawing stomach into her dry throat. It was as if she were in some unknown, horrible place wherein ominous dread dwelt and from which she wished to fly. In the rose-print-papered room that had been hers, she sat before the plush scallop-shaped mirror of the dressing table brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. This room, still reserved for her, brought back many memories. She looked at the reflection of the room in the mirror—at the bed, at the chair upon which the small dolls her father had once bought for her sat silently, at the white window curtains she had helped Mother sew, although Rita had really contributed merely occasional distraction. This nostalgia should have made Rita feel as if she belonged here. These surroundings were luxurious and nice, and yet they stirred up memories of intense adolescent violence, of seething tension and disagreements. Rita returned her attention to brushing her hair.

The aroma of the meal being prepared rose to greet her. It was a thick, warm, inviting aroma, … yet it added to the chill of fear within Rita. Her fear was increased by the apprehension of the scene she was sure would start at dinner. One always did.

Why had she come? she pondered. Why did she bother, when each visit only set off additional misunderstanding and hostility? She had returned because she wanted to be part of them; she wanted to belong to her family, she admitted to herself reluctantly. Not that she wanted to be a part of their socially dictated society, but that she wanted to be part of a warm, loving unit where the stress of the world would be forgotten in velvety, warm love. She insisted on being a whole part though, an individual part, not an undistinguished lump contributing only passive existence to the mass.

Rita conjured up the scene during the course of the meal when Father or Mother would begin preaching of the evils of the Village and of the disapproval that all good, honest, respected persons had for such a place and those who lived there. Rita's parents couldn't understand why a nice girl like she lived there. Hadn't they given her everything she could have desired—clothes, toys, vacations—things comparable to that which children of only the
best
families received?
“She'll come around,”
she continued, conjuring up their thoughts and words.
“She'll come around to our way of thinking when she realizes all the good things that our existence has in comparison to the degradation of the Village.” They want to assure themselves, perhaps to fill their lives with other vague dreams instead of stark reality
, she interjected to herself. Something shall go wrong, something has to happen to upset the entire evening, Rita assured herself. She wished that just this once things could be different.

“Rita!” Mother called from the kitchen downstairs. It was that familiar, prolonged call that grated against Rita's mind. It wasn't just a call, it was a yell—and yet it was more than a yell. It was a demand, an order. It manifested a complete disregard of Rita's integrity and privacy. But more than this, the reason it chilled Rita to the bone, Mother's yell was prompted by laziness. Mother strained her throat to obviate the necessity of walking. Rita had learned to despise people who yelled—lazy, slovenly people who would rather tear out their lungs with screams than walk ten feet and talk quietly like human beings. Rita avoided these sorts of people because they were actually dead, although frighteningly alive-looking. It was the foolish, unwilling-to-accept-difficulties approach to reality which this yelling manifested that most angered Rita.

Mother yelled Rita's name again.

Rita brushed her hair more furiously, concentrating on each stroke, on the hand movement, on the quality of the hair. She wanted her mother to scream her lungs out …
Scream, scream, scream, you dumb witch
, Rita prayed inside herself, her head pounding with rage,
scream till your throat is sore and aching … till you can no longer talk or even whisper
…
till you die
…
then perhaps you'll realize what it's all about
. … She gritted her teeth.