Chapter 12

The valet fetched the Cadillac, and left it where the taxis lined up despite the business of a Friday evening. Joe tipped him well for the generous inconvenience. It took a good fifteen minutes before the rest of the group joined them. Manhattan Joe thought would be one place he would never mind waiting. The city never stopped thrilling him. People bustling. Even at night. World famous and breathtaking towers of concrete and steel looming nearby.

Wrapping his arms around Moe from behind, he kissed her neck. “I want to stay here,” he told her.

“I want you to stay.”

“But...”

“Grinnell.”

“Fuck Grinnell.”

“Joanne.”

He sighed. “She’s got Eddie. And the Monsters. And ... I’ve really got nothing for her to manage.”

“Yet.”

“A novelist doesn’t just spring out of nowhere like a rock star.”

“The novel’s pretty great already,” she said. “I think you just need to get deeper. I think that comes with experience. And you’ll get that way more here than you would in fucking Grinnell.”

“It is about small towns and big cities,” he reminded.

“But you’ve already spent your life in a small town,” she commented.

“There is that,” he chuckled.

“And your play’s fucking great, I think. It’s got that dreamy poetic thing still, but it’s gritty nevertheless. Shocking because of the juxtaposition. Kind of reminds me of Sam Shepard’s newer stuff.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“And Tennessee Williams’s poetry, except more Midwest twang rather than southern drawl.”

“And O’Neil?” he chuckled.

“More Albee I think. More restrained anger.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’d like to show it to some friends at NYU.”

“Sure.”

When the rest finally arrived, he drove them downtown. After dropping off Eddie and Cheryl in front of Nigella’s loft building, basically just across from their destination, CBGBs, Nigella had him find parking near Studio Rivbea instead of going in. They ended up a couple blocks away.

Like the other night, Rivers, Altschul and Holland were brilliant, and seeing the entire four songs made it more complete. Afterwards, upon introducing Mary to Sam along with her capability with a cello, he asked if their instruments might be available.

“Of course,” Nigella smiled. “And I got a cool bass I don’t even have to plug in. Oh, and I’m hoping Eddie will be here soon.”

It turned out to be perfect timing. They saw Eddie and Cheryl walking towards them when they exited the building. Joe offered to drive them the couple blocks, but they said they had it. He took the heaviest case. Mary’s. “How was it?” Eddie asked her.

“Amazing,” she grinned.

Strangely, the shy Mary sort of guided the improvisation when everyone settled in. Very plink, pluck and stroke. “Reminds me of the Art Ensemble,” said Sam.

“You ever listen to English improvisation?”

“Like Derek Bailey? Sure.”

He sat at the piano. An upright. Sometimes standing and playing its guts.

Only Cheryl didn’t join in. Sam fetched bongos for Joe. Moe sat at Altschul’s set of drums. He and Holland had left.

They played for over an hour. The last quarter, Sam brought out his flute. Sometimes they played staccato notes. Sometimes it flowed. Joe really enjoyed it. From the way Eddie grinned at times, and other times worked seriously on his guitar, making odd, discordant sounds, he obviously enjoyed it too.

A tired Sam Rivers called quits. Nigella hugged him. The rest of them shook his hand.

“Stay with me?” Nigella asked Moe and Joe.

They agreed, and Mary agreed to trust them with her cello. She went off with Eddie and Cheryl, Cheryl knowing the closest subway station to get them uptown.

Joe and company ended up too tired to play. Despite getting naked in Nigella’s double bed and its dimensions keeping then close together.

Joe awoke to the amazing feeling of having his cock sucked. “You’re awake.” Moe grinned, straddling it. “Juice on the bedside table.”

He drank down the cranberry juice while Moe sank down, sending his cock into wet heat. “Nige and I played discretely,” she explained, lifting and sinking slowly. “I managed to get her off before she led her roommates out of here for breakfast.”

“And I slept through that?”

She shrugged. “We used the bathroom. She had to clamp down on a towel when things got intense.”

“She didn’t do it for you?” he asked.

“We tribbed. Rubbed pussies together. Before I finished her with my tongue. And you always make me hot.”

“Back at you, beautiful.”

They kissed. And fucked. When things got more intense, Joe kept himself from going too deep with his hand, which also did duty rubbing her clit. Needing to gasp had her end the kiss, so he moved down to suckle her nipple, stopping a bouncing tit. The other hand adding pleasure to the other nipple only when she became chaotic riding him. A nibble. A pinch and twist. She stilled, letting out a tremulous gasp containing his name. He fucked up into her. Kept fucking her past the completion of her orgasm. Turned her over. Continued his hard fast barrage of thrusts. Her eyes watching him get off. Only about him. Then her eyes rolled up. “Fuck!” she exclaimed. He stilled on the edge of orgasm and let her interior flutters bring him over. Bliss.

“Fuck, Joe,” she murmured afterwards. He turned them so she lay atop him. “It just gets better.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” he chuckled quietly.

“So?” she asked.

“You know I have stuff to do at home.”

“And then?”

“I’ll let Grinnell know not to expect me.”

After a soft yet passionate kiss, she smiled. “There’s tons of workshops here. Otherwise you can take a year off. Establish residency. We can stay at my place. My dad’s place.”

“Might make it harder to establish residency.”

“Then we’ll get a place. Dad pays me a lot.”

“Except you’ll be in school.”

“I’m thinking about quitting.”

“Because of me?”

“Because I don’t see the point. I’m studying to be a writer? How much will that pan out? How many writers actually make a living?”

“I could say the same thing.”

“It’s different. Being a novelist is different. Academia can only make you better.”

“And not you?”

“Horror stories? It’s all imagination and atmosphere. And if you get degrees you can fall back on them, especially when you get published, which I know you will. You can teach.”

“You...”

“No. I’m actually interning in a way at my dad’s place. Copywriting. Dad gives me graphics for copy. We’re kind of keeping it close to the vest until he thinks I’m ready.”

“So he’s fine with your quitting?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t told him.”

“So it is about me.”

“No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. At first it was being a rocker, but that turned into a pipedream. And now, with the copywriting...”

“I just hope it doesn’t take away from your creative writing.”

“It won’t. It’s like I have to write those stories.”

“I completely understand,” he grinned. “But don’t let go of the possibility of making a career of it. It’s a genre thing. There’s always an audience.”

“But short stories?”

“Collections can do well, especially genre collections. And I think especially horror. Better for quick shocks.”

“But a novel would always do better.”

“The stories would be seeds. Growing interest. Bushes wetting appetites for that big tree.”

“How ... metaphoric,” she chuckled.

“Fuck you,” he chuckled too.

“Already done, and I’m not sure you’re ready for another,” she smirked, her hip rubbing against his flaccid penis.

“And I gotta piss,” he added, toppling her to the side and hurrying to the bathroom, her chuckles behind him.

“Nice ass,” she said.

She came into the bathroom at the end of his piss, bringing clothes. She wore a robe too small for her, making her sexy as hell. “The roommates have returned,” she said. “Want to take a shower?”

“Maybe a quick one.”

“Me too.”

They showered quickly, mostly to get the sweat and stickiness off. She left the bathroom in the sexy robe while he dressed. She had brought him fresh clothes.

Coffee awaited him. And eggs, bacon and toast in a takeout box.

“Thanks,” he said to Nigella, sitting at a counter that looked into a small kitchen.

“Figured you’d be hungry.”

“Starved, but that’s not what I mean.”

“I figured you two wanted time to yourselves.”

“We do, but you’re always welcome.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

Moe joined them wearing yesterday’s clothing. Just eggs and toast for her.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked. “Do we need to bring your dad back his car?”

“Too late for that,” Moe shrugged. “He’s staying in the city.”

“Your mother okay with that?”

“I’m not sure my parents are okay with anything,” she admitted.

He nodded. Understanding. Wondering if one or both had lovers on the side. Her mother certainly looked attractive enough. A MILF she would be called, though he didn’t want to fuck her. He much preferred her gorgeous and sexy and brilliant daughter.

“I’ll call the hotel,” he said. After three rings, Cheryl answered. “Can he call you back?” she said. “He’s kind of busy.”

Joe chuckled and gave her the number, luckily printed on the phone.

Five minutes later, Eddie called.

“Didn’t mean to hurry you,” Joe chuckled.

“Fuck you.”

“Plans?”

“I thought I’d go back to Washington Square Park and do some more busking. Mary’s gonna need her cello.”

“Nigella will want to join you.”

“Yeah. Cool. Meet you there in ... an hour?”

“Sure. I’ll bring the records and tapes. Check on Bleecker Bobs to see if he needs more.”

“Cool. See you.”

Being Saturday, others had the same idea. Nevertheless, Eddie found a spot. Beneath the arch. Joe brought Mary her cello. Nigella took out her new bass. Moe and Joe left them, promising to meet at Max’s much later to see Richard Lloyd. They had the entire day to themselves, which made them both happy.

“Ready to walk?” she asked him.

“To the ends of the earth,” he replied.

She chuckled. Not the most romantic response, but he chuckled too, even if he meant it.

“Let’s get rid of the fucking car,” she said, having taken forever to find a place to park.

“I thought you could show me around the village.”

“Good idea.”

They actually toured it with intention. Stopping off at her favorite record stores so he could unload product. They spent time at a larger one just north of Chinatown, shopping to the supposed bootleg tape. At least a couple patrons ended up buying it and/or the single. Joe asked a clerk about Derek Bailey, and he grabbed a nerdier one to help him. Joe ended up buying an album that featured him, another with Fred Frith, and a third by a guy he said played solo saxophone accompanied by creaking floorboards.

“Frith’s playing the Mudd Club,” he told Joe.

“When?” Joe asked.

“Tuesday.”

Joe looked at Moe. She smiled and nodded. “Cool,” he said. He’d be leaving the city early Wednesday. Like ungodly early. Who needs sleep?

After eating at her favorite Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, they headed to the East Village. A punk haven. He bought skinny black jeans at Trash and Vaudeville. Left a few singles and tapes at Manic Panic, the first punk store in New York. Then, as she had promised him way back at Grinnell, they went clothes diving at a couple used clothes stores. Her favorite actually had piles of stuff on the ground. She ended up with a ton of vintage clothes. He found a leather jacket that actually fit him. Nothing fancy. No million zippers and folded back lapels. It actually had cuffs, which made him think the last owner must have been his size. The cost was obscenely cheap. Maybe having to do with bulk sales or Moe being a favorite customer. The older bottle blonde couldn’t have grinned wider when they arrived. She and Moe hugged.

With the vast amount of clothing bought, they grabbed a cab on Second Avenue that brought them to her borrowed apartment. Tossing the clothing aside, they made love. Slow and loving. Only the climax had them go wild and fast. And cum simultaneously. Absolutely exquisite.

Another quick shared shower and she put on new clothes. A cute bowling shirt and an old-fashioned off black cotton skirt that went past her knees. They headed to the car parked not that far away.

“Probably not enough time for museums,” she pouted as they settled into the car.

“Tomorrow?”

“Sure. Let’s go back downtown then.”

They somehow found a spot in SOHO, and visited whatever gallery they came across, and discovered a divergence in taste. Hers went towards expressive objective art, the darker and more realistic the better. And probably from his time at the Walker near Joanne’s, and with the exception of his actual favorite artist being a German Expressionist, Kokoschka, he preferred abstract art, expressiveness in the application of paint rather than the subject matter. But, like with her growing enjoyment of freeform jazz via his explanation of how he enjoyed it, they shared what they liked about their preferences and found some give for each.

Eventually they made it to their destination. Lunas in Little Italy. They had to wait a while for a table in the small restaurant. To salve their hunger, she went off to grab some sweets at an Italian bakery. Yum. Lunas. Muscles. Double yum. Definitely worth the wait.

It had gotten late. They ended up keeping the car. Finding a spot three blocks away from Max’s Kansas City to park it. The foursome awaited them beneath the awning. Nigella waved off his apology. “You’re fine. Richard never gets the crowds he deserves.”

They went upstairs. The Jewish guy at the door kept counting money. Joe could see his pinned eyes. “He’s stealing some of the entrance,” Nigella told him afterwards.

They entered the long dark narrow club. Only recorded music played. The place was full enough for them to sit towards the back, sharing a table with other fans. Nigella greeted the sound guy just outside his booth like an old friend. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Disaster,” he said. “Richard’s off somewhere, and the opening band never showed up.”

Nigella jumped at the chance. “His band upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“Think I’d be allowed up there?”

“Ivan won’t care.”

“Come on,” she said to Joe.

They climbed more stairs. Backstage and Max’s offices she told him. “Hey,” she smiled at a disgruntled group of men. “Could I borrow some instruments?”

“Nige, right?” asked a tall blond man.

“Yeah.”

“Jim here?”

“I’m in a new band.”

The man looked at his comrades. They shrugged and nodded. “What you need?”

“A bass, a guitar and drumsticks? You guys did sound check.”

“Yeah. Richard took off afterwards. He was jonesing pretty badly.”

“Hopefully he’ll just get straight.”

“Yeah.”

Joe ended up with a bass in one hand and drumsticks in the other. Nigella carried a guitar.

They passed by the sound booth. The sound guy smirked and shrugged.

“Come on,” Joe said to Eddie. “You too,” to Moe, handing her the sticks.

“Fucking A,” said Eddie. They followed Nigella onto the stage.

Plugging in and turning on. Checking the mics. “We okay, Bob?” Nigella asked. They saw his thumb pointed up.

“I’m Eddie,” Eddie said. “And these are my Monsters.”

He strummed. A side of the single. They clicked in.

Five songs later, Nigella leaned against Joe. “Richard’s here. One more,” she said into the mic. The audience applauded rudely. They had responded to Eddie by and large, but they came to see Richard Lloyd, legendary guitarist of Television.

“Fuck you,” said Eddie, ripping forth a blues lick. “And your mothers.”

Howlin Wolf. Who Do You Love? A sort of Monsters anthem he and Joe jammed on early on. It fit, being about a monster. And it allowed Eddie to shine.

Well into a brilliant solo, Richard joined them, plugging in. Eddie nodded and finished the arc and let Richard take over. It became a twenty minute sparring match. Neither won. The audience did. They shared singing the song when it got back to it, and laughed when both guitars squealed in feedback in the end.

“Eddie Frank,” said Eddie, lifting his hand.

“Richard Lloyd.” Richard accepted the handshake.

“Nige said you do cool stuff with counterpoint.”

Richard shrugged.

They handed off instruments to his bandmates. “Thanks,” Joe said to the tall blonde bassist.

He also shrugged.

They settled into their seats. An excited Moe leaned over and kissed Joe. “That was amazing,” said Cheryl, the critic.

Richard wasn’t the best singer by any standard. And his lyrics sometimes made Joe cringe. But he threaded three guitars amazingly. And at least musically, he definitely knew how to construct a rock song. And his solos were absolutely brilliant. Maybe better than Eddie. His solo on “Field of Fire” gave Joe goosebumps.

Ivan, the guy at the door came over afterwards and handed Eddie an envelope. Before he could escape, Nigella grabbed his arm. “Wait. How much, Eddie?”

“A hundred.”

“How much are we supposed to get?” she asked Ivan.

“A quarter of the take, but you guys weren’t even advertised.”

“And if I tell the Deans you’ve been pocketing some of the door?”

“What are you talking about? Hey!”

Bob, the sound guy put a hand into Ivan’s pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “How much you want?” he asked Nigella.

“A quarter like he said. He needs his dope money.”

“Fuck you.”

Bob counted and extracted some for Nigella and a few bill for himself. “You’re Richard’s manager. You owe me,” he said.

“Whatever.”

“How do you want to split it?” she asked Eddie.

“However you want.”

“I did get us the gig.”

“And you’re definitely in the band,” he smiled.

“Your band,” she smiled back. “Three ways, and you two split the third,” she offered Moe and Joe.

“Sounds fair,” said Moe.

“A lot more than I expected coming in here,” Joe responded. They laughed.

“I’d love to get high, but I’m out,” said Eddie.

“Let me see what I can scrounge up,” said Nigella, opening her hand.

Eddie laughed and gave her back a couple twenties.

She went to the tall pretty boy, with long heavy metal hair, serving drinks He must have sent her downstairs. “Meet me under the awning,” she stopped to say.

Eddie caught the whiff of weed when they exited, and followed it a few steps uptown. He toked on the joint. Someone had a small pill bottle, not quite empty. He bought the contents and handed the bottle to the guy with a baggy of pot. The guy waved away Eddie’s money after filling the bottle. Eddie handed him a cassette.

Speaking of cassettes, Bob rushed out and handed Joe one. “I dubbed the show,” he exclaimed. “Your guy’s a rock star.”

“I know,” Joe smiled and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Just glad I caught you. Where’s Nige?”

“Looking to score some pot.”

He thought about it. “It’s late, but I might know a guy.”

Nigella came out shaking her head. “Maybe at an afterhours club,” she said.

“We’re good,” said Eddie. He raised his hand. “Have one. It’s Ecstasy.”

Five for six of them. “Don’t worry. I had mine,” Eddie grinned.

“You guys go ahead,” said Mary.

“It’s supposed to be a sweet high and relatively safe. Just one won’t hurt.”

He convinced her. They swallowed the pills dry.

“Just wish I had my one hitter.”

“I got some rolling papers,” Bob offered. “Come on in.”

“All of us?” he asked.

“Why not?”

They followed Bob back upstairs. Empty except employees putting stuff away and the band taking their equipment. And an older woman leaning over the bar snorting a long line of coke. “You guys want anything?” asked the pretty boy bartender. “Anything you want.”

“Gin and tonic?”

“No problem.”

The others ordered theirs. Mary ended the ordering with a tequila sunrise.

“Could you grab me a beer? For Eddie?” Joe asked.

“Best we got,” he said, handing him a Becks.

“Who’s the woman?” he asked him.

“Bobbie Roland.”