Dorothy on the Rocks (23 page)

“I'm not going there, Mags, because I'm too happy to be out of my sickbed to let anything offend me. But, yes, I have money and, no, I didn't work for it in the traditional sense, but that doesn't mean the price of broccoli can't get my dander up. Okay?”

Patty and I have known each other for fifteen years. We met in a pottery class at the School of Visual Arts. I was there preparing for a role at the suggestion of Pauline Letts.

I had been cast as Hedda in
Hedda Gabler,
and I was so nervous because the part is huge and a classic and I was going to be doing it at a prestigious regional theater in Minnesota. Pauline and I were doing a
Peter Pan
together about a month before I was to leave town for the start of rehearsals and when I told her how nervous I was she told me to take a pottery class and forget about the acting and concentrate on the clay. I did and it helped and that's when I met Patty. She was six months pregnant and using the clay to prepare for her role as mother.

“I'm sorry. I'm a mess lately and, of course, you can complain about the price of broccoli. I can't believe how expensive toothpaste is; it's over three dollars a tube. I've gone back to using plain old Arm and Hammer baking soda.”

“I'm sorry too. You know it's my Achilles' heel,” Patty says. “And since I'm going to pay for our meal because I'm so filthy rich . . .”

“You don't have to, please,” I protest. “I won't let you, absolutely not.”

“I insist,” Patty says. “And for dessert I'm ordering us a round of napoleons and cappuccinos.”

We sit and gab for another hour. The napoleons are fantastic. We order seconds. I have been living on sugar for days. I might as well accept the fact that I'm going to weigh two hundred pounds by Thursday. Patty walks me to the subway.

“That was fun,” she says.

I give her a big hug. Screw the germs. Friends like Patty are worth the risk.

“A baby might be the right thing for you,” she says. “But remember, it's a long-term contract. Did you know Sarah is going to be fifteen next month?”

“That's amazing. I always think she's eight.”

“Well she's not. And we're all coming to your show,” Patty says as she waves and heads down Seventh Avenue.

I get the train uptown. The local stops at Times Square and the conductor announces it is going out of service.

Damn. Everyone grumbles and then exits to wait for the next train.

On the now-crowded platform a fellow is playing guitar and singing “Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay.” A large black woman is sitting on the bench with two huge Kmart bags at her feet. She starts scatting along with the guy on guitar. She has a drop-dead voice. For a moment I think it actually might be Aretha Franklin. A guy in a tie-dyed T-shirt starts whistling. A young black kid improvises the percussion section on top of a metal trash can. I catch Aretha's eye, she nods and invites me along for the ride. We sing an improvised counterpoint through the chorus. The guy on
guitar sings the last verse in a deep rumble of a voice and Aretha and I and the whistler back him up in a tight three-part harmony, and then the whole place starts to jive for the final chorus. The whistler takes eight bars followed by the trash-can percussionist, who whacks out a sixteen-bar riff that sets the whole platform rocking. It's Times Square, New York City—smack dab in the heart of the universe. Then the train pulls into the station, the tune ends, and we subway rockers disperse. Just the guitar player remains, sittin' on his dock of the bay.

When I get home, I get a call from Charles. “I have an opening this Sunday night. Come and see it. I think you'll love the work. It's a wonderful artist. She makes beaded tapestries. They're amazing.”

“Sounds lovely. What time?” I ask.

“Starts at eight but it doesn't get interesting until around ten. I'll see you then.”

Charles has lavish openings with lots of booze so I'll have to be careful. I check the clock. It's half past ten. Pretty soon I'll have a whole day without a cigarette or a drink. I feel like Bernadette, the patron saint of Lourdes.

I go to bed at midnight but I can't fall asleep. I think through the conversation I had with Patty about artificial insemination and the woman who had a baby at sixty. Pretty soon self-fertilization will be common practice. All you will need is a kit like over-the-counter early pregnancy tests. It will be an over-the-counter Get Yourself Pregnant Kit. It will be about the same size as a Lady Clairol hair coloring kit, but rather than the smiling model on the cover, there will be the smiling sperm donor and a list of his vital statistics.

Of course, they'll be available in a range of prices; the top end
being Ivy League graduates, movie stars, professional athletes, then white-collar workers, blue-collar workers, and, bargain basement, you guessed it, politicians and prison parolees.

Directions read: Take sperm and egg (check the refrigerator next to the frozen peas—remember you harvested these after seeing a special with Diane Sawyer). Place ingredients in plastic petri dish, like the ones from ninth-grade biology. Whoever thought those lab classes would actually be of use? “Warm to room temperature over Bunsen burner or, if a Bunsen burner is unavailable, substitute fondue warmer,” I say aloud to Bixby, who is kneading my right thigh with his paws. “Now carefully coax the sperm to swim toward the egg with the sterilized end of a straight pin; put on a little music. If the sperm seems reluctant, add an eyedropper of scotch or bourbon. Once the sperm has made contact and done its job, you'll know because the little sucker will turn on its side and fall asleep.” Bixby frowns at me and I scratch his ears.

“Take the customized turkey baster,” I continue, “and insert the mixture into the vagina with a gentle squeeze. And remember, the directions caution, this is a delicate procedure, so take your time, Bixby. Because what's the hurry? You have all the time in the world, which is exactly the point.”

Bixby nestles himself next to me and falls asleep (typical male response). I wonder if it will ever be possible to crossbreed species. Now there is a new frontier waiting for intrepid explorers. All right. That's it. Stop thinking.

I turn on the radio. The Yankees are playing San Diego in California so the game is only in the third inning. I fall asleep listening to the Bronx Bombers whip the San Diego Padres. I wake up and look at the clock. It's three a.m. Art Bell is talking to a caller from outer space or so the caller claims. I get up and
go to the bathroom. Then I shuffle along to the kitchen and get a lemon out of the refrigerator and suck it dry. It's over twenty-four hours since I've had any nicotine, and my brain is crying out for a fix. I wish I had a big wooden mallet that I could hit myself over the head with so I could pass out for a week and skip all this withdrawal. I go back to sleep until the phone awakens me at seven a.m. It's Sandy.

“We're just leaving for the airport,” she says. “I wanted to remind you. We'll be back on Sunday. There's plenty of dog food and you know about the antiseizure medication. Break up one pill in his food every day.”

“Right. That's great. Have a wonderful trip. I'll see you when you get back,” I say with as much perkiness as I can muster on four hours of sleep. Mr. Ed has been on the medication ever since he was hurt saving my life. His brain was swollen and the medication is preventative. I don't know how long he has to take it, but I do know I paid for it and his clinic bill as well. It was the least I could do. That and dog-sit whenever and wherever necessary for the rest of his life.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for about an hour. I'm afraid to make a cup of coffee because nothing is a stronger trigger for a cigarette than a cup of coffee. But without coffee I may never be able to function again. Maybe I should go out to the coffee shop on Columbus Avenue and get coffee and sit there and drink it because you can't smoke in the coffee shop. It would be like a demilitarized zone. That way I wouldn't have to chew my right hand off to keep it from picking up a cigarette.

I manage to get up and get out and walk up to Columbus Avenue without turning around and running to the deli on Amsterdam that has supplied me with nicotine ever since I moved into
the neighborhood. When I get to the coffee shop, I order a double espresso and sit at the counter that looks out on the street.

“Guess who?” a voice says as two hands are clamped over my eyes.

“I don't know, Harrison Ford?” I say.

“No. Come on. You can get it,” the mystery voice says.

“Javan?” I say, prying the hands off and turning around. “It's you. How are you? Long time no see.”

Javan Jones is an actor and a stand-up comic. We met in a production of
Carousel
in Boothbay, Maine, one summer and later shot a few commercials together. We had a lucrative Chef Boy-Ar-Dee that ran for years. And then I lost track of him for a while. He stopped doing commercials because his “type” went out of fashion. The industry works like that. One minute you're hot, hot, hot, and the next you can't even book a spot for a local carpet cleaner. I also heard via the grapevine that he ended up in drug rehab for a couple of months. He got straightened out and the last time I ran into him he was back doing stand-up.

“I'm hanging in. How are you?” he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a big hug. Javan is nice to hug and I linger for a second.

“How's Deb doing?” I ask, reluctantly stepping away.

“Oh, you haven't heard? We split up. About a year ago.”

“I'm sorry,” I say as sincerely as I can. I was never a big fan of Deb's. “Gosh, is it possible I haven't seen you in a year?”

“It's very possible. I've been on the road doing comedy clubs, working nonstop. I was opening for George Carlin for a while.”

“Wow. That's great.”

“Yeah, the money's decent, but the road gets pretty gruesome. I'm back in town for a month. I'm booked at the Comic Strip for the next week.”

“I'll have to come see you.”

“What are you up to? I see your commercial for Special K all the time. You must be rolling in dough, baby.”

“Not really. I'm doing okay. But the summer is dead. I've been doing children's theater.”

“That's fun. Hey, I've got to run,” Javan says, looking at his watch. “I have an audition in a half hour downtown. Come over to the Comic Strip. I'm doing the nine p.m. show every night starting Wednesday. Check it out. I'll buy you a drink. We'll catch up.”

“Sure.” We hug goodbye and off he goes. Javan and I had a fling the summer we did
Carousel.
I played Julie Jordan and he played Billy Bigelow and our characters fell in love and so did we, briefly. It's not unusual to fall for a costar; I've done it dozens of times. It's also not unusual to unfall the minute the show is over. It's summer stock romance and it happens a lot, especially when you're young; you learn to get over it. It was awkward for a while when we got back to New York because we were constantly running into each other at auditions.

Actually Javan was seeing someone before he went to Maine, and started seeing her again when he got back. The “her” was Deb, and that explains why I was never a fan. But eventually Javan and I booked the Chef Boy-Ar-Dee spot and made a lot of money and that bonded us in a positive way, so I forgot about the affair and Maine and Deb. Except now I remember because Javan looks great; and feels great; he has what is known in the pumping iron business as a good pair of pipes, and, let's face it, I'm lonely. I'm lonely without Jack and I'm lonely without my cigarettes. And I'm craving another diversion. Someone else might say I'm horny, but not me because I was raised Presbyterian, so I'll just say I'm craving a diversion.

I gaze out the window of the coffee shop. People are hustling up and down Columbus Avenue. Mothers with strollers, kids in shorts, men in summer suits, guys in work clothes, women in sling back heels, girls in midriff shirts, dogs on leashes, boys on tricycles, little girls with play strollers and dolls. Humanity, that divine comedy. My dad loved watching people. It was a pastime we often indulged in together. Saturday afternoons we would go downtown to Thompson's Bookstore and browse for a while, then get a coffee to go at Grounds & Beans on Hanover Street and sit on one of the benches in front of the First Presbyterian Church and watch the parade pass by.

My dad said people were like plants. You could tell by looking at someone if they were raised in the light or if they had been deprived and kept in the shadows. And how some people seemed to flourish and others had to struggle even if they had the exact same soil and nutrients. And there were always those poor plants that never seemed to take hold even if conditions were optimal, and then those hearty souls that grew and blossomed even if they landed in a pile of rocks. And while he mused and speculated and philosophized, he smoked and so did I. We smoked together and talked together and that's why I'm thinking about him now, because I'm lonely and I want to smoke and I miss my dad. I don't miss him all the time, I'm used to him being gone, but every so often I smell a certain blend of pipe tobacco or get a whiff of Old Spice aftershave or I sit and watch people and I remember him. Vividly. And the other thing I remember is that he died of lung cancer when he was fifty-seven. So, maybe I can make it one more day without a cigarette—one more day for Dad.

When I get home, I rummage through the kitchen drawer to
find Sandy's apartment keys, and then I go next door to visit Mr. Ed. He is napping on the couch.

“How about a walk, little guy? It's a nice day out. What do you say we go to the park?”

Ed's tail starts to wag like a metronome set to a fast three-four meter beat. I grab his leash and off we go. Ed beats me down the stairs by two flights, and when we get outside he runs to the corner with me hanging on for the ride. We get to the park and Ed starts his happy dog-sniffing dance. I let him off his leash when we get to the dog run next to the Great Lawn. About fifteen other dogs frolick in the fenced area. I sit on a bench and watch Mr. Ed socialize with his canine friends. A man sits down next to me and lights a cigarette.