Chapter 17

After the WBAI performance, Moira finally talked to Joe when he came to help her with her drum kit. “When you’re done dropping off everyone, return my dad’s car to his garage. You’ll help me get my drums out and stored. Then we’re done.”

“You sure?” he asked.

“Snorting coke this morning? Shooting dope? Yeah, we’re done.”

“You really don’t love me.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m not a junkie. I’m not a coke head. I am experimenting.”

“I hate your experiments.”

“And I hate your demands. Doesn’t love have to have some kind of acceptance?”

“I’ve accepted your fucking around. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. I can’t be bound by your narrow morals.”

“Obviously.”

“How did you know about the coke?” he asked her.

“Joanne.”

“Why?”

“When I realized you were on smack. I told her. She told me. She’s worried. I don’t want to have to be.”

“Maybe she told you on purpose. To sew discord.”

“She’s welcome to you. But ... don’t punish her for it, even if it’s a game.”

“It’s not a game. It’s a need for her.”

“Just don’t make it an excuse.”

“You really don’t trust me.”

“Why should I? You could have avoided these things if you cared about me. And you can’t make the excuse that I didn’t talk to you.”

“Be on my best behavior? What happens if we live together? Am I to walk on egg shells for you?”

“It’s your actions. Not your words. You know we have always been able to talk about everything.”

“How about sneaking in when I’ve imbibed on one of your forbidden powders? Or avoiding you altogether.”

“I know what a junkie looks like. I just don’t want you to be one.”

“I told you. I’m just experimenting.”

“That’s how it always starts.”

“You don’t trust me to stop.”

“I don’t.”

“How did you know I shot up?”

“Nige. I can always tell when she’s high. And I knew she might encounter Jim. It made me sensitive to your telltale signs. The long sleeves. The dazed, happy look. The scratching of the nose.”

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“And you not denying it.”

For some reason, they laughed.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

“I love you, too. I guess we should have left things in Grinnell.”

“You haven’t enjoyed me here?”

“Mostly,” she smiled.

“So I guess I’m not moving here.”

“There’s still Cheryl.”

“True. And if I decided to live here?”

“We can still be friends.”

“Intimate friends?”

“Maybe.”

They’d been driving while they talked, with Nigella and Joanne in the back seat. They talked as well, with silences involving Nigella nodding off. Sometimes she nodded while they talked. He dropped the backseat duo off at the hotel, Joanne helping Nigella with her instruments. They’d be in Joanne’s room. Both her instruments and her.

“So what are you planning for the day?” Moe asked as they headed to her father’s condo.

“I thought I’d finish up typing things for Joanne.”

“You’re kidding? You’re in New York City visiting.”

“I just thought ... I’d hoped you’d be my guide.”

“And you’re in condition to work?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I’ll be your guide.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. But you’re not driving.”

“But I’m driving now.”

“And making me nervous, but you seem to be okay.”

“But not okay enough?”

“No.”

“To tell you the truth, I’d rather not drive.”

“Exactly as it should be if you stay here.”

After unloading the car and stashing her drums, they headed north by subway, the proverbial A train, to Harlem. The Apollo specifically.

Joe didn’t know what to expect. He had heard of the Harlem Renaissance which had been located pretty much in that area. And the riots and the ghettos. It was nice, actually. It had what looked like a golden temple in the same block. Some rich preacher’s. And next door to the famous theater, an amazing haberdashery. Some incredibly cool clothes and accessories. And some outlandish ones. Pimp style. He actually found a sports jacket somewhere in between. Fine black wool, but with red stitching. Overdone but somehow not in the least tacky. It actually fit. Almost as if tailored for him.

“A client who died,” the old gentleman informed him, “before he could pick it up. He was slim and tall like you.” Noticing the hundred dollar price tag made Joe resist. The haberdasher smiled. “You can have it for sixty. Not many get it.”

“How long have you had it?” he asked.

“Okay. Fifty,” he chuckled. Joe did too.

Joe ended up spending a hundred anyway, buying a really cool slim leather belt and black and crimson stitched socks, almost hose in the their transparency, his size, and a deep blue and charcoal horizontal striped thin tie that shouldn’t have worked but did.

“Come on,” Moe tugged on his arm when they left.

“A vintage store?” he asked.

She chuckled. “You know me too well.”

Joe stopped her when they saw the neighboring store. For women. With wigs in the window. They found an absurdly high white afro. Moe bought it for her friend. Forgiven Joe guessed.

Getting to the vintage store got them closer to the more ghetto side of Harlem. Black and brown faces studied them. Joe decided not to worry. Moe was fearless.

Moe dove in and surfaced with two incredible vintage dresses. One blue and one crimson. The owner claimed the red one had been owned by Billie Holiday. Somehow Moe managed to talk down the price anyway. Not the over the ankle black slip on boots with two inch heels, which, like the jacket he had just found and the leather one found in the East Village, surprised Moe when they fit perfectly. She had big feet for a woman. Kind of chunky the way old shoes would have been, the shape reminded him of army boots. Only weirdly elegant. Refusing to budge on the price, the owner made up for the lesser price of the dress.

Bags in hand, and a very happy Moe, they headed back to what to Joe seemed safer climes, and boarded a train at the same station they departed it. They took the C train north, then transferred south on the 1 to get to Columbia University. Again almost all darker faces waited with them at the transfer station. Again he questioned and quashed his fears.

Columbia impressed him far more than Stony Brook. He also knew he couldn’t afford it. Maybe scholarships for graduate school if he did well at Grinnell or wherever he went. Nevertheless he picked up information. Classes. Available scholarships and grants. They even talked to a representative of the Liberal Arts College. She actually sounded encouraging. Joe did have nearly a 4.0 GPA and impressive SAT scores and some relative success as a writer. He felt like she wanted him there. Of course he couldn’t matriculate immediately, but taking a year off, according to her, would not only not be a problem, but would actually improve his status, depending what he did in that year. What experience he gained. If he managed to publish more. He asked if proving independence might help separate him from his parent’s relative wealth, maybe just a step above middle class, but not enough to afford Columbia. She doubted that help. She reminded him that he actually knew how to write grants--he had told her what he did for Joanne-- and many of the student funds weren’t designed just for the poor, but for those who demonstrated outstanding promise.

When they left the interview, he shook his head. “Are you sure you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” Moe said, pulling him down for a kiss.

“You confuse me,” he said afterwards.

“I know,” she chuckled. She took his hand. They walked back to the train station.

“You write grants for Joanne?” she asked.

“And proposals. It started with me cleaning up her verbiage. Clarifying things. She’s smart, but not the best writer. Soon she gave me guidelines and research projects and had me create the proposals from scratch. Sort of reversing our jobs, with her doing the editing.”

“I bet you could get a job here doing the same thing. Like for a non-profit, or even some politician.”

“Like a secretary?”

“An executive secretary who actually is trusted to improve things for her boss.”

He chuckled. “A gender specific job.”

“Like a nurse,” she agreed. “A guy can’t get past being called a male nurse.”

“I guess it works both ways.”

“It definitely works both ways.”

They chatted on as easily as ever, making their way south on the train. They exited near her father’s condo, taking in Lincoln Center close up. The huge Chagals. The amazing Henry Moore in a reflecting pool.

Dropping the bags at the condo, Moe pulled him into her bedroom. She sucked him hard, then rode him on his lap. He turned them over and fucked her. She wanted it hard and he gave it to her. She didn’t last. She’d been horny. A quickie. He could have gone much longer, desensitized by the heroin. She watched him withdraw still erect.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yeah, unless...”

“I’m good,” she smiled, kissing him and his dick.

She needed to keep showing him her New York. They stopped at the dark and scary Dakota, less famous for Rosemarie’s Baby than for the moment outside it less than a year before where John Lennon had been shot. In the park nearby, impromptu memorials, graffiti and objects, would be replaced by Strawberry Fields in a couple years. It moved them to tears.

They crossed the park, her showing him the large meadow, the grandstand, and the little lake where people boated. They ate at the boat house. A salad for her. A hamburger for him.

On the other side, they ended up by the Met. He told her about his journey there. His little breakdown when he thought he lost her. She didn’t apologize. He didn’t expect her to.

Passing the Guggenheim added to the story. “Black,” she chuckled. “How appropriate.”

His goth lady in black.

It was too late to visit MOMA. At least the gallery. They shopped in the store. They had had an exhibit of German Expressionist art. He thought about buying the book, but instead chose a poster with a painting by his favorite artist of that group, Oskar Kokoschka. Another rolled up poster to add to his collection.

“Is the Whitney nearby?” he asked, and they managed to get there before they closed their store. The museum was partial to Edward Hopper, and he bought a poster not Nighthawks at the Diner.

They journeyed down Madison Avenue, stopping at the occasional overpriced fashion designer boutique. Nothing impressed them, so they grabbed a cab. Times Square. Joe had to see at least one Broadway show. Lining up at the half price TKTS kiosk, Moe asked what he wanted to see.

Looking at the signs, he decided, “Sophisticated Ladies.” He’d hoped to see some Sondheim, but there wasn’t any. Maybe a behind the scenes show like Chorus Line, but he doubted his experience would ever be anything like that. And somehow, with thier earlier adventure to Harlem, the choice seemed appropriate.

“Let me call my dad. He might get us better seats.”

Joe stayed in line while Moe went to a row of payphones.

By the time she returned, dashing through the exit, it was nearly his turn. He probably would have let the cute young southern couple behind him, awed by Yankeeland, ahead if necessary.

“We’re good,” she smiled, pulling him out of the line. “I had to wait for Daddy to call back,” she explained, “nearly having to kick some rude asshole in the balls to keep the phone.”

They headed down 42^nd Street to see the grimiest side of New York. Porn theaters. Adult paraphernalia and books and videos. Peep shows. Live sex supposedly. Dealers. Whores. The latter two to be avoided. It reminded him of a nuclear exploded version of his favorite blocks in Minneapolis. Hennepin east of 7^th Street. Both would be thoroughly revamped in the nineties. For good or bad. Joe truly believed a city needs to seep out slime somewhere.

They found a falafel shop a little west and uptown, at the edge of Hell’s Kitchen, before heading to the theater.

He loved the show. Just a review, but the talent and the songs were amazing. And they sat literally front and center. Her dad obviously has some clout. “He knows people,” she shrugged.

“Where to next?” she asked.

“Maybe I should call Joanne.”

“I called already. I figured she didn’t imagine us hanging out.”

“And I’d be freaking out again.”

“That too.”

“You could have invited her.”

“I did. She said this might be all the time we had for now or ... She’s really sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should stick with her. Be her Personal Assistant like you already are. Lord knows she seems to need you. She’s busy typing up what you fixed. And the new version of your poems. She going to mail them and the signed contract for your book tomorrow.”

“You think I should work with her for another year? Instead of going to school? I don’t think she even wants that.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask. You can always take classes at the University of Minnesota or something. Or ... there’s tons of theater groups in Minneapolis you told me. Maybe get your play done there or another one. And you can keep your eye on Eddie. Maybe protect him from Rachel or something.” They laughed. She continued, “I know you really want him to succeed, maybe despite himself. And then there’s Joanne’s kids.”

“Yeah. The girl’s starting kindergarten, which will help. But the boy...”

“You care about them.”

“I care about the family I guess. But what about us?”

“We’ll always have Grinnell,” she said in a bad Bogart imitation.

They chuckled.

“And this is our Casablanca?” he asked.

“X rated,” she smirked. “Although there’s no hot, self-righteous freedom fighter. Or maybe that’s me loving myself. But seriously, if you come here, like next year, and if we somehow get back together, I really think you need to grow up. Get those dangerous adventures out of your system. Maybe you think I overreact. But ... it’s because it worries me. You’re sensitive, Joe. Maybe you don’t want to feel so much.”

“You think I have an addictive personality.”

“I do. Just like I have,” she drew from her cigarette to illustrate.

“It’s why you avoid them like the plague and want me to avoid them.”

“Bingo.”

“Staten Island Ferry.” he said.

“What?”

“It’s where I want to go.”

“Leaves of Grass,” she smiled.

Nodding, he asked, “Unless you need to sleep.”

“I’m too young to sleep,” she smirked.

They took a cab to Battery Park. Gazed at the Statue of Liberty. Her high, lifted guiding light strong in the night. Continued to gaze at it as they cruised to Staten Island, along with gazing back at the Island of Manhattan. Also when they returned on the same ferry. It was beautiful, made more so by the beautiful woman beside him, embracing him while he embraced her.

They returned to her dad’s condo, saying a quick hi to him before swiftly moving to her room. Where they made love. Fucked. Maybe said goodbye, at least to their physical relationship. The heroin must have lingered somehow, because he didn’t cum until she did at least five times. She didn’t seem to mind. He certainly didn’t. It was like lingering on every moment of the most delicious meal ever for hours.

She nor he slept much. Talk woke them. WBAI actually. She had clothes at the apartment, so she showered and dressed while he made eggs and toast for them. Coffee. Made fresh orange juice from several oranges found in a large drawer in the large, fancy frosted silver refrigerator. Her father remained asleep. Executives have their privilege.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a kiss. Looking beautiful in her warm dampness.

He walked her to work. An embrace and kiss. Promising to see each other later. Then he walked Manhattan streets. Enjoying the sights and sounds. Even the smells. Even the impact of his feet on concrete. Weaving through pedestrian traffic like a ghost. Enjoying his last day there. Just being present. His mind essentially barren of thought.

Once he had enough, his legs and feet complaining, he entered the familiar hotel lobby and waited for the elevator, letting mother and father, sister and brother, siblings nearing their teens, the girl the youngest and smallest, exit it before he entered it. Tenth floor. Opened door. Collapsed on the bed, Joanne and Nigella cuddled a foot or so away.

He awoke to a beautiful face resting beside him.

“Hey,” he said.

“You okay?” Cheryl asked.

“Yeah. Just didn’t get much sleep.”

“I figured. You and Moe?”

“Said goodbye.”

“You’re not seeing her again?”

“I’m seeing her tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah. How was your day?”

“Hung out with the photographer, just to develop the film. Well, we fucked, but I let him know he wasn’t for me.”

“How did he take it?”

“Disappointed I guess.”

“Who can blame him?”

“Thanks. He did okay once I sucked him off. You seem to have given me better luck. I actually came pretty hard.”

“Good to hear,” he chuckled.

“You don’t care about me fucking around?”

“I care that you haven’t found the right guy.”

“I have though. You still trying to palm me off?”

“That was actually Moira’s idea. But it made sense.”

“Her being your soulmate and all.”

“Yeah. Nigella kind of confused me though.”

“I can imagine. Moe seems to be a confusing girl.”

“All girls are confusing.”

“Boys too.”

“Nah. They’re easy. You stroke them and they cum.”

“Dickheads.”

“Pretty much.”

“Can I get a demonstration?”

“Sure.”

He let her peel off his pants and underpants, which he napped in. She stroked his hardening flesh, then tasted it. “Moe?” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

She shrugged and continued sucking him.

“Let me taste you,” he said.

She smiled and removed her clothing. T-shirt and shorts and panties. No bra. He removed his shirt. She straddled his face. He didn’t think she showered either. He didn’t mind. He didn’t taste any remnant cum. Except for him, she insisted on condoms. Figured it’d help them last anyway. He liked the hints of sweat and urine in his pussy. It made the flavor more interesting. More complicated. More real. And it felt more like success when the juices he beckoned with his tongue took over.

Instead of the pleasure distracting them, it seemed to encourage more intensity. Faster strokes of lips across his glans. Harder laps of his tongue across her clit. And the moans. Until he brought her over, and her head lifted and she bayed her pleasure. Her hand squeezed hard, so any possible cum he might have had would have left him. There hadn’t been that urge.

When she recovered, she gently pulled on his side and his cock, and he got the message. Kneeling between her open legs as she lay on her back, he let her steer him in.

“Gentle,” she said.

He understood. She wanted this to last. She wanted him to make love to her. He sank in slowly, scraping as high as possible inside her. “Oh fuck, Joe,” she moaned. Amazingly, she sounded as if she might cum again.