Dorothy on the Rocks (15 page)

Sitting across from me is a bland-looking man in his late forties with dirty blond hair. He's wearing a beige nylon jacket with coffee stains down the front. He's staring at me staring at him. He looks vaguely familiar, like maybe we dated way back when, or met at a party and smoked a joint together and discussed Nietzsche for a few hours. All I remember about Nietzsche is that he said God was dead, but he didn't really mean God was dead or something like that, but now Nietzsche is dead and if he was wrong I bet Nietzsche had some explaining to do when he got to the pearly gates: “I am really, really sorry God, but I really, really thought you were dead.” A large black woman with dyed orange dreadlocks moves between Mr. Beige and me, straining to read the poster about the Harlem Museum above his head. She gets off at Fifty-ninth Street. Mr. Beige is starting to drool.

Someone a few seats down curses at a Macy's shopping bag. The train stops in the tunnel between Seventy-ninth and Eighty-sixth Street. A garbled voice comes on the PA system saying something about a delay.

A man perched on a small pushcart comes rolling down the aisle. His body is severed at the waist. I give him a quarter and he
rolls on. He is amazingly adept at maneuvering through the car. And there it is—evolution and adaptation—the human condition. We loose some gills, get some lungs, loose the tail, get better balance, start to walk, lose legs, get wheels. Get old, get wrinkles, and get cosmetic surgery.

The train starts to move again. Mr. Beige puts his fingers in his ears and barks like a Chihuahua, which illustrates evolution can work both ways.

We finally arrive at Eighty-sixth Street. I get off. I hate riding the local; it gives me too much time to think. I stop at Lou's Deli for a beer. I walk over to Riverside Park and sit on a bench facing the New Jersey skyline. People are out walking their dogs. A golden retriever comes over and sits on my foot. I pat his head and he licks my hand, then his owner whistles and he trots off without a backward glance. Dogs are so fickle.

I sit and watch the sunset behind the New Jersey skyline. The world looks flat from here and only as big as I can see, like a giant finite piece of real estate. As I watch the sun set, I imagine it being lowered down on a system of pulleys by a beefy stagehand with a cigarette poking out of his mouth. Then the nighttime canvas is prepared. The stage manager cues “Night!” and the canvas is unfurled across the sky like it has been every night for millions of years.

There is no message from my young friend Jack on my phone machine when I get home. There is one from Brian O'Connor. We worked together in summer stock ten years ago. We did
Boeing Boeing,
a play about an airline pilot who dates lots of stewardesses,
and on one fateful weekend he and the stewardesses all end up in the same apartment with about seven different doors. It's a traditional farce. I played the Swedish “stew” who kept getting shoved into the bathroom while wearing a pair of men's pajamas, just the top—no bottoms.

“Mags,
It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World
is playing at the Thalia tonight at 7:45. Do you want to join me? It'll be fun,” he says. God, I could sure use some fun.

An hour later I'm sitting with Brian in the Thalia Theatre on Ninety-third Street. We're sharing a large popcorn. And we have smuggled in some beers. The movie starts.

“This is great, isn't it? They just don't make movies like this anymore,” Brian whispers as the opening credits scroll across the screen.

“Yeah,” I agree, and settle down in my seat. The minute Jimmy Durante kicks the bucket down the hill and Ethel Merman climbs into the back of her son-in-law's convertible I start crying uncontrollably and continue for the rest of the movie.

“It's one of the best comedies of all time, and you were crying through the entire movie. That's a symptom of something,” Brian says as we leave the theater.

“Do you think?” I say and hook my arm through his. Brian is a good friend. He's the universal brother. He knows when to listen, and he knows when to put an arm around your shoulder and say, “Get over yourself.” He grew up in a large Irish Catholic family in Long Island.

We buy a couple more beers and a bag of Fritos and walk over to the war monument on Riverside Drive.

“Something is wrong with you,” Brian says, twisting the top
off his beer bottle. “Slapstick comedy is funny. Your censors are off. You need help.”

“It struck me as so sad,” I say. “All those people looking so desperately for the hidden treasure.” We sit and drink our beer and munch our chips. The city night hums with traffic and snippets of passing conversations. Dogs bark, horns honk.

“I'm worried about you, Mags. That movie is funny, even Peter Falk is funny in it,” Brian says, finishing off the last of his beer. “Are you in therapy?”

“Not right now, I'm taking a break. My last therapist kept dozing off during my sessions and then she moved to Michigan.”

“Well, you need to talk to someone. Call mine. His name is George. He's great. Tell him you cried through
It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World —
he'll probably see you immediately. This is an emergency. Geez, Mags, it's so funny and you cried and sniffled through the whole damn thing. I gotta run,” he says, checking his watch. “I'm meeting some friends downtown. Want to come along?”

“No, I think I'll pass. Thanks, Brian.” I give him a hug.

“Call George—I'll get you his phone number—and for Christ's sake, get a grip.” I walk him to the subway stop on Eighty-sixth Street, we hug again and then Brian disappears down the stairwell.

I should call George. Brian is insightful about these things and, besides, there is a great deal of mental illness in his family so he knows the symptoms. I stop at the Dublin House and sit at the bar. I order a scotch on the rocks. The Dublin has a big old jukebox with the same tunes it's had since 1979. I put in a quarter and select the Eagles' “Tequila Sunrise.”

I sit back down at the bar.

“Another shot?” the bartender asks.

“Sure, hit me again,” I say.

“Put that on my tab.” A man at the end of the bar picks up his drink and approaches.

“Will you let me buy you a drink?” he asks.

“Sure, why not?”

“You look familiar. I've been sitting down there wondering where I know you from and then I realized you're—”

“Nurse Mom—”

“Yes, on the cough syrup commercials.” He smiles. “Wow, that's right.”

“I don't think they're still running, are they? I mean they didn't renew the cycle. Have you seen it recently?” I ask. My interest is piqued because sometimes commercials go off the network, but a smaller market picks it up, and it can be running somewhere and you don't know it and nobody tells and you aren't getting paid.

“Well, maybe not for a while. But you are definitely Nurse Mom.”

“I am indeed.”

“You must have made a fortune.”

“No, not really. I did all right for while, paid off my credit cards, but now I'm back to the same old grind, picking up nickels and dimes off the sidewalk. The commercial business is a harsh mistress.”

He laughs at this. I think he's trying to ingratiate himself. Maybe he's hoping for some sample cough syrup.

“I'm Sam,” he says, flashing a smile.

“Mags.”

“Want to dance?”

“Right here in the bar?” My left eyebrow arches up to my hairline.

“Sure.” Sam puts his arm around my waist and helps me off the barstool. I need help because in a short time I have ingested several beers and four scotches on a relatively empty stomach.

I put my head on his shoulder as he maneuvers me slowly through the box step. Sam is wearing English Leather. It's about the only aftershave I recognize, that and Old Spice, which my older brother always wore until his second wife introduced him to Ralph Lauren Eau de Toilette for men. Sam's shoulder is comfortable. I close my eyes but open them quickly, as I'm drunk enough that my head spins when they're shut. Shit, I haven't had any scotch since the park incident. I haven't wanted to chance it. Just beer. But now here I am again—in the arms of a strange man with my head spinning. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. My tired and true mantra kicks in.

“Are you all right?” Sam asks.

“Fine, but I think I better get going.”

“Come on. Have one for the road. Then I'll see you home.”

“No, I just live a few blocks from here.”

“Then you have to have a nightcap before you go.”

The smell of English Leather mixed with all the scotch sloshing around in my belly seduces me into the haze of bygone days when I was on the homecoming court in high school and dating Denny Spangler and all was right with the world.

“All right, one more for the road.” I drop my head back onto Sam's shoulder and momentarily drift off as we sway to the music.

I come to abruptly when Sam shakes me.

“Mags?”

“What?”

“I think you passed out for a minute or two.”

“Possibly,” I say in my thick, throaty, late-night voice. “I got to go.”

“I'll walk you,” Sam offers.

“No, I'm fine.” I grab my bag and head as directly to the door as I can. “See you,” I say.

“Right,” says Sam.

“And thanks for the drink, buckaroo,” I toss over my shoulder as I make my exit. God, I'm good at exits.

When I wake up the next morning, my head is pounding and I feel like I have cat hair growing on my tongue. I try to focus. I'm pretty sure it's Friday, and I think it's still June, and I'm in my own bed. All right. That's good for starters. I switch on the radio next to my bed. I dial to 1010 WINS. Their slogan is, “You give us twenty-two minutes and we'll give you the world.” Seems so easy. Right now it's Lisa, with traffic and weather on the 10s. The midtown tunnel is jammed, the FDR Drive is slow, and the George Washington Bridge is backed up due to a two-car collision on the lower level, but the skies are blue and the temperature is seventy-eight with only 20 percent humidity. And it's 10:50 a.m.

I get up and head for the bathroom. My left knee throbs. It is scraped and bruised. I look in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy and my wrist hurts. There are more scrapes on the palms of my hands. I must have fallen. I light a cigarette and put on water for coffee. I sit and smoke, looking out the window. My apartment is in the back of the building so I look out on a little courtyard.
Old Mrs. Vianey, who lives in 3E, is sitting on a bench reading the paper.

I remember being at the Dublin House and then I left, I guess. I don't remember getting home. The kettle whistles. I pour the water through the drip coffee cone. My mind locks for a minute. It's not the first time I have stood and tried to reconstruct what happened the night before. Usually it comes back to me. I'm sure it will. I must have fallen on my way home, no big deal. I put my coffee on the edge of the sink and turn on the shower. I get in. I keep the cigarette in my hand and hold it outside the shower curtain. I cock my head back and let the hot water hit my face full blast. I take a couple of deep breaths, then poke my head out of the shower curtain and take a drag on the cigarette. I repeat this a few times, and then drop the cigarette butt in the sink. I get the coffee and place it on the soap dish in the shower stall. I turn around and the shower caresses my back, I cradle the coffee cup in my hands, sipping slowly, then I place it back in the soap dish and drop down to my knees and let the water pour over me.

I wonder how “old Mrs. Vianey” got to be old. How did she make it through? She must have been young once and then not—I don't know if I'm going to survive this middle passage. Maybe I should ask her. Maybe I should sit in the courtyard with her and let her tell me how to negotiate this part of my life, because right now I don't have a clue. And Brian's right—I have lost my sense of humor. Nothing is funny. I feel scared and alone most of the time, and strangely comfortable in the discomfort. Will I ever learn to be myself and feel safe? No funny hats, no gingham pinafores or pigtail wigs, no script? Is it too late to learn? I close my eyes and press the palms of my hands together. “Help me,” I pray
into that void between regret and resolve as the hot water washes over my body. “Please help me.”

I eventually get up off my knees, wash my hair and shave my legs. Starting today I'm going to take better care of myself. I'll take my vitamins and I'll eat broccoli and I'll vacuum my apartment and I'll clean Bixby's litter box and I'll go over all my songs for my club date and I'll pay my bills and . . . I won't drink. Not even a beer.

Life is good, I remind myself as I dry off. I make another cup of coffee and pull Bixby up on my lap and hug him to my chest.

“You're a good kitty. You're my good kitty.” Bixby curls up in my arms and purrs. The phone rings. It's Dee-Honey.

“Hi, honey.” Her standard greeting leaps from the phone. “I'm going to change the pickup time to three o'clock instead of two. Gloria has an audition, and you know I always try to accommodate that. It just means we'll get there a little later.”

“Pickup time?” I ask.

“Maggie, we're going to up to the Cape to do
Cinderella.
You're playing Tilliebelle. I'm sure I gave you the dates.”

“Oh yeah, sure. I'm just waking up. Don't listen to me.” I find my bag and look through it for my day planner. My God, I'm living in some kind of perpetual purgatory, I think as I rifle through my things.

“So we're set. It's three instead of two,” Dee says.

“I'll see you then,” I say. “The usual corner?”

“Yes, Ninety-sixth Street on the northwest corner. Are you all right, dear?”