Chapter 5

He didn’t think a white man getting laid in an all-black neighborhood would be so tough. The walls were thin, and he heard murmuring next door. It may have been the college girl with some other guy, he wasn’t sure. He was sure as hell drunk, though, after chasing Claude Carolina through the East Village streets, and when he turned on the lights upon entering his Newark apartment in the middle of the night, the brief thrill of pleading his case to a young, talented poet withered in the stuffy air that smelled familiar and at the same time all too rotten.

He hated being home. The funky air of his apartment along with the newspapers strewn about his coffee table and lime green sofa only made him want to seal this deal with Breakthrough Books as soon as possible. But he was lucky that night. He hid a bottle of scotch under the kitchen sink behind tall bottles of disinfectants he never used. If he picked the wrong bottle, he could very well have wound up dead.

He turned on all the lights and inspected each of them. In the hardest place to reach he found his bottle of scotch, half-empty and warm. And what was so wrong with celebrating instead of letting his meager surroundings damper his newfound excitement? Nothing wrong with it at all. He had forgotten to load the ice tray and drank the stuff straight. He envisioned a day when he would flee New Jersey for good and return to Boston perhaps, maybe even to Cape Cod where he spent his college summers. He wanted success to return quickly, but he knew to pace himself and play the role of a successful poet in front of Claude.

He hardly remembered what it was like to be successful. He dressed sloppily and showered once every two or three days. He’d have to change. His apartment would have to be as neat and tidy as the old South Orange place. He would have to recondition his mind into accepting more structure and a little of that old school discipline. A clean apartment would clear his mind, but not tonight. Tonight it was his turn. For the first time in a very long while, he decreed a celebration to be held. He reveled in his victory and played a couple of his old albums from back in his hippie days, the stuff that fed the soul. He swallowed inane amounts of scotch just to keep up with the good vibe going. He caught the big fish, harpooned the big whale, and suddenly life looked much sweeter. Once again he would be the talk of the town and rub Amanda’s nose in the gold bar of shit he just crapped, and he didn’t miss Amanda as much as he resented her. He wanted to get even, and yet he craved her body, craved it like a newborn craves a nipple.

And the yearning to have Amanda’s body on top of his suddenly transformed into a yearning to have any woman’s body on top of his. The girl next door came to mind again. Her soft skin had just the right amount of baby fat, and he could easily lose himself in her body. Yet he was too drunk to stand straight, and instead of knocking on her door at three in the morning, he had an even better idea. He had a couple hundred bucks in his wallet from the night at the slam, so why shouldn’t he call an escort for the evening? He also needed a little more booze, preferably some beer, which would make his inebriation just right. He never used a call girl before, but if these damn women wouldn’t shut him out all the time, there wouldn’t be a need for any call girl, or booze even.

Preston demanded to know in the blur of his vision why the hell women didn’t put out like they used to. He remembered it being so easy, a Manhattan orgy only a phone call away, and ever since that damned Don Bluestein cut him off, he couldn’t even get a sniff of it. Maybe the women saw already that he only wanted sex. They somehow knew this beforehand, as though they operated a secret switchboard somewhere at the center of the earth, and they blackballed him from the long list of losers who thought they deserved to get laid each year. He didn’t consider himself an ugly man or diseased in any way. Nor did he think of himself as morally uncouth. People get laid by call girls all the time, and yes, the normal folk tend to demonize trading money for sex, but really, couples make that essential trade every day, through the institution of marriage. How different is marriage really from paying a call girl for a one-night stand? And when you’re married you don’t even get laid—once a week tops after you go shoe shopping with your wife or thrill her with something so thoughtful that it mysteriously boggles the psyche and overworks the one brain cell operating in the masculine mind. Some things just didn’t make sense to him. He used to be so worldly and oft-brilliant, but now he just hoped he got laid before his mind disintegrated. He considered this aiming high. And through Preston’s drunken and imaginary debate with the opposite sex, he found himself staunchly defending his position with such thoughts as: ‘it’s the divine right of man to get laid on a regular basis, and if not with full service, then at least with a blow job.’ He imagined pontificating this to a crowd somewhere, most likely in the old Soviet Union, where they bury him under a heap of flowers and build statues and monuments and wave flags in his honor. If only having sex could be as easy as having a glass of water. Not in Newark, no sir. But for one night he’d take the risk and phone in a request.

He had a copy of a glossy weekly they distributed to Newark inhabitants for free. The magazine advertised bars, strip joints, and night clubs, and in the back they had a section for tattoos, body piercings, massages with happy endings, and finally the escort services. There’s a first for everything, although he hesitated before making the call. He hadn’t been to church for several years, it seemed. He went once or twice with Amanda in South Orange, and he suddenly remembered an absurdly large crucifix that hung on the back wall of the church. Suddenly this heavy wooden object came to life and chased him down narrow passageways if only to root out lust and allow him to sleep off these illicit inclinations. Preston believed the world so absurd and meaningless that it had to be followed with something greater, and within his own moral calculus he determined that calling an escort service would damage his chances of making it in the afterworld. It would also damage his chances of making it in this one.

He had a sense that the truly great poets, the ones he had always admired, usually made it with the grace of God at their backs. Yes, he wanted success badly, and he found a service of strictly Asian women ready to give him the best head he ever had. He even imagined her petite frame writhing on top of his body, but to commit the act would mean to sour his future and even ruin things with Claude Carolina, his only link to that future. By the time he sprawled out on his sofa for sleep, the big heavy crucifix chasing him made him impotent. A half-bottle of warm scotch served as a lackluster substitute, the needle of his turntable skipping on the thin paper-center of the record, the entire fantasy shot to hell because of that one heavenly symbol. How lame and terrible. And of course it was Amanda who had insisted they attend services in South Orange in the first place. The celebration left him unsatisfied. No call girl, no more scotch left, nothing to do but wait until morning.

Morning found him sprawled out on the lime green sofa, his body supine, and a pool of sweat and saliva filling the thin space between his cheek and the vinyl of the sofa cushion. He didn’t remember it, but he had somehow pulled out the wad of paper with Claude Carolina’s phone number on it the night before and clenched it in his palm. His head felt like someone crushed it open with a mallet, the pain sinking deep into the brain, as though a heavy stone had been sealed within his skull. He tried to make sense of the number, unraveling the damp wad of inkblot, but to no avail. He would have to sit around and wait until Claude Carolina called him, which may have been fitting since he gave him the window of opportunity and not the other way around. But when the call didn’t come, he searched for the phone book. No number listed. Not a trace of the guy in information either.

He couldn’t wait any longer. The hot sun blared into his living room. Pedestrians on the street yelled at each other a couple of floors below. Only a jar of old mayonnaise in the fridge along with a bruised apple in a grocery bag separated him from the real breakfast across the street, a fast food joint which, if he hurried, would serve him eggs, sausage, and cheese all in a compact muffin for real cheap. Lately, that had been his primary source of nutrition—fast, warm, compact, and deadly. He put on his clothes and stumbled down the steps of the apartment building.

Once at the fast food joint he ate three of those egg sandwiches and washed them down with a tiny carton of orange juice that cost more than the three sandwiches combined. He brushed his hands through his hair in order to look presentable, and the sandwiches took care of the overwhelming stench of stale scotch on his breath which seemed to emanate from every pore of his body. He didn’t know how long he could live this way, eating fast food, drinking at all hours, watching afternoon soap operas, waiting for some unruly God to deliver him from the ghetto, but somehow, amidst the seamless tables and chairs of the restaurant, he couldn’t deny that he had been shown the ghetto for good poetic purpose, as though the poets before him, laughing their asses off in the heavens, demanded that he be shown the error of his ways and learn to live just as ordinary people lived.

The men and children surrounding him were simple people. They respected their food, their skin black. They wore faded-flannel work shirts, olive-green muscle tees, and truck-stop caps off-kilter. They handled their Styrofoam cups of coffee as though the beans were picked and shipped to their doorstep. They cradled their food delicately before chewing it. Their children played with the plastic action figures that came with their kid-sized meals.

The raggedy diners found comfort and solace in their awkward deliverance to the bottom, and not once did they shirk their responsibilities. These were the same people who defended the country, worked long hours at the beer plant near the airport, set up shops that never made a profit, cleaned the toilets, hurried to their second jobs on evenings and weekends, and then collapsed in their beds sober like stones if only to do the same thing all over again the next day. While they sometimes shouted in broad daylight, they never broke down in the middle of their breakfast sandwiches. Somehow they avoided holding everyone in the place hostage. They were neither happy nor sad, only ponderous, unable to articulate their deep desire to possess what most others took for granted. Oddly enough, even though he was the only white man on the block, or in the neighborhood for that matter, Preston also felt like one of them. He sensed that their bitterness, at one time pronounced and palpable, turned inward and approached a quiet stoicism, even an inanition, that crippled whatever anger stirred within them. They expected less of themselves, demanded less of others, and toiled eighty hours a week to see the natural cheeriness of their children before that too was sucked away by the lack of space, people living on top of each other, plumes of noxious smoke from nearby factories obscuring the azure of the sky, jet planes flying close overhead, bus engines surging after every stop, sirens screaming, fire trucks blaring, if only to keep what they secretly loathed intact and safe from irreparable change. It just about pushed Preston over the cliff, until one of the little girls eating with her blue-collar father hobbled over, smiled, and gave him the action figure she played with.

“I’m feeling sick today,” said Preston to the little girl, her cartoonish jump-suit a bit oversized for her small, dark frame.

She covered her mouth and giggled and hobbled back to her father and younger sister who thought nothing of it. Preston moved the arms and legs of the action figure so that the thing lay flat on his tray. Bashfully the little girl turned around a couple of times to see if he played with her toy. To her delight, Preston moved the action figure into the air to simulate its flight into outer-space. The little girl giggled, and to Preston’s own astonishment, so did he.

When he got home, he found a message from Claude Carolina on his machine. His heart leapt when Claude left his number. Despite his impatience, things were moving in the right direction. Preston quickly returned the call. Claude’s mother answered the phone, and she yelled out Claude’s name into the deep of the house. Then there was shuffling in the background.

“Hello,” said Claude on the other end. He sounded like he just woke up.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Preston Whitcomb. From last night.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Can you meet me for lunch?”

“No, not today. I’m not feeling too good.”

“Me neither, but you felt good enough to call me just ten minutes ago, right?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“I want to start right away. There’s not a minute to waste.”

“Can we do this another time? I didn’t want to meet right this minute, damn it.”

“No, it can’t wait. The sooner we get the ball rolling, the better.”

“And you’re paying for lunch. You know that, right?”

“Yes. I’ll take care of lunch. All you have to do is show up. You should meet me here in Newark.”

“I don’t have a car, man. You have to come to South Orange.”

“I don’t have a car either. I mean, I don’t have a car today. It’s in the shop.”

“So take the train from Penn Station. I can’t get into Newark. I’ll meet you at South Orange station.”

“How’s two o’clock?”

“Make it three, and you got yourself a deal.”

“Okay, three o’clock,” said Preston. “Don’t be late. I’ll meet you on the platform.”

“Yeah, the platform. I’ll see you there.”

Preston hated the idea of taking the train to see him, but he didn’t own a car, and he was better off not showing him where he lived. Reluctantly, he poured change out of an old coffee can and hoped it would be enough for the fare. He showered and dressed in the same old business suit he wore for the dinner with Don Bluestein, and the suit itself was tight around the waist and shoulders. If he bent over or flexed his arms he would have torn the thing in two, so he moved around the apartment carefully, huffing and sweating while searching for his wallet and keys.

The pants of his suit slid below his fattening stomach, prompting him to hike them up every few minutes, the belt line creasing and folding over itself. Bending down to tie his shoes, Preston removed his jacket and unbuttoned his pants, his brand-new belly getting in the way of an act that had at one time been easy, and just when he was ready to leave, his pants were so tight that he had to run to the bathroom to relieve himself.

In all, it took him about an hour to leave the apartment with his suit on, and he rushed to the train station by bus even though he could have walked the entire way. He figured that walking around with a nice suit on would only invite unruly attention, so he used the slow, antiquated bus system to his advantage.

It took him about five minutes to get to the station, and in the warmth and the mugginess he strolled along the edge of the train platform waiting for the Northeast Corridor Line heading west from Manhattan. A nice-looking woman, dressed professionally, waited near him, and she gasped every time one of his shoes lingered over the tracks. Preston became a target for being pushed over the edge by some deranged madman. For her sake he stopped walking so close to the edge of the platform and found a cool shade to wait under.

He considered making a play for the woman, but when he spotted a ring on her finger, he backed off. He couldn’t imagine having a relationship with someone more successful than he. He didn’t have the energy to talk to her or make interesting conversation, as though a giant wall blocked his neurons from the thrill of meeting someone new. He was satisfied not knowing anyone. Only an ounce of fear that he may indeed fade away and be forgotten as a human being prevented him from forgetting people altogether. The fear of talking sometimes agitated him.

He mused that without Claude Carolina and the deal with Breakthrough Books he would have never left his apartment. There was really no reason to leave. Keeping to himself was better than getting a job. Dealing with others was the hell to avoid, and he had no problem running from people’s curiosities, their nightmares, their attitudes, their likes and dislikes, their sensitivities. Actually it was the ideation of meeting interesting people, more than the labor it took to meet real people, that proved to be more pleasurable. The idea of sleeping with the woman near him on the platform was more attractive to him than sticking his hand out and actually meeting her for the first time. A form of dementia, he mused, but a form that worked for him, and if he were not careful, a form that would be the end of him.

When the train arrived he stepped into an air-conditioned car and wondered what was so wrong with him. The basics of being a social human being had eluded him. He thought people either wanted money or else wanted to justify their own strangeness in some way. They all wanted something out of him, some trade that was uniquely unfair, some position of advantage over him, or maybe even laughter at his own expense, as though everyone in the train car sought the pleasure of ridiculing him—him of all people—for doing nothing but drinking scotch and taking up space. They looked at him like some kind of anomaly—too grotesque to approach, too regular to pay attention to. He imagined how he must have looked: nearing obesity, perhaps, or just plain sloppy or smelly, no prospect for a woman in the entire farcical city. Sex was easy for most liars in the city but not for misfits who had the audacity to tell truths. Hollow and vacant, he stood in the middle of the train car by the sliding doors.

He leaned against the plexiglass shield that separated the seated passengers from the loners standing. A train conductor in blue uniform collected tickets. This man somehow made a living collecting these scraps of paper. It made him wonder why he was so privileged to do nothing at all. Take away a man’s work, and you take away his manhood. And yet poets seemingly emasculated themselves for verse. How insane! The many who stumbled before him—Keats, Shelly, Byron—how miserably they failed in life. How terrible their lives. Dead at early ages, and for what? For whom?

Who really gave a shit?

He spotted a young man and a woman holding hands. The young girl lifted her blouse to expose a reptilian tattoo dancing across her back, and they writhed in their seat together like two horny playthings finding pleasure in each other’s skin, the two of them trading tongues in the middle of the fucking train car, her skin soft and supple, and maybe Preston could find a young woman willing to do that with him, if only his suit didn’t constrict his rib cage and the buttons of his shirt didn’t pop out of their holes.

Another man closed a real estate deal on his cell phone. A few others read the sports pages. The Jets lost to the Redskins, the summer gradually leading to an uncertain autumn. In a few months it would be winter, and while he refused to spend money on new clothes, he understood that something must change, as though he fell through the thin ice somewhere and lost the will to tread water. But where else could he watch two beautiful people necking? He had an urge to touch the girl’s back, trace the black lines of her tattoo, take comfort in her seductive, feline smile, as though she were a naughty child playing house. Preston couldn’t understand why it was so difficult, and he looked upon the two with envy, hoping that the girl showed even more of her back.

The South Orange stop came quickly, and he waited on a platform above the main avenue that cut through the middle of town. A wind breezed through his jacket. The warm humidity and the fat hugging his face encouraged a nervous and sickly sweat that probably tasted like alcohol. And coming up the stairwell near the end of the platform was a young, strong black man.

Claude Carolina looked different from the night before, his body more chiseled, his dress more mature. He wore black jeans and a long, loose-fitting silk shirt that ran to his thighs. He was devilishly handsome, and if it weren’t for his intensity, he could have had any young girl he wanted. Now all Preston had to do was make this brash young street poet a poet of the academy.

They shook hands. Claude’s grip was firm and dry. Instead of looking him in the eye, Preston focused on the bridge of Claude’s nose. Eye contact had always been too awkward for him.

“There’s a diner downstairs,” said Claude, smiling. “The food’s alright.”

“I’m glad you could meet with me.”

They took seats in the outdoor dining area downstairs, and a waiter unobtrusively served them ice water. Claude ordered a soda, and Preston was tempted to order a beer, but he remembered that he must be serious with Claude. He didn’t want to fuck things up. Strangely, though, Preston didn’t see him only in terms of what he could deliver. Preston respected him, not so much his talents, but respected him as a person. He liked that he hid his anger and resentment like a separate personality that came out only when the spotlight shined over him. Otherwise he seemed like a very agreeable young man.

“First, we learn,” said Preston.

“Learn?”

“That’s right. We need to get you caught up.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, what I mean is that you need to go to college.”

“Not if I’m paying for it,” laughed Claude.

“We’ll work out the details later, but for now I want you to take classes with a good friend of mine who’s also a poet. A good one too.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Amanda Larson. Ever heard of her?”

“No.”

“Of course I’ll have to clear this with her, but Amanda teaches over at Seton Hall.”

“Yeah, I know Seton Hall.”

“Good. Amanda will guide you in the right direction. I want you to audit her classes.”

“Audit?”

“Yes. Take classes without credit.”

“I know what it means, it’s just that I thought I’d enroll at the university first. You’ll pay the tuition, right?”

“Not yet. That will come soon. But first I want you to immerse yourself in poetry and try your hand at some.”

“I have tons of poetry already.”

“Yes, but I want you to learn other forms, styles, and subject matter.”

“I want something in writing.”

“What in writing?”

“This arrangement. I want it in writing.”

“I’ll get you something in writing. For now I want you to audit these classes.”

“What’s a class gonna teach me?”

“Ever heard of Maya Angelou?”

“Everyone’s heard of Maya Angelou, man. My stuff is better than that.”

“Oh, really? Have you ever read ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings?’”

“‘I Know’—what?”

“Listen,” sighed Preston, “you have to read and learn this material. I know your style is different from the rest. I know you’re good, but remember— poetry on the page is different from poetry recited aloud. You already know how to speak verse, I just want you to be able to write it and have it understood by poetry readers.”

“A mass audience.”

“Exactly. Right now it’s a lot of flash and hot-tempered oration. Remember the basketball metaphor?”

“I don’t follow basketball,” said Claude.

“I know you don’t. But you do notice how the NBA is importing all their stars from Europe, right?”

“A lot of names no one can pronounce.”

“Yes, and do you know why they’re importing talent these days? Because the talent in the U.S. has forgotten the fundamentals. It’s all money and flash, and ego, and in-your-face noise, slam dunks, and who shatters the back of the glass first.”

“Do they still do that?”

“It doesn’t matter. All I know is that it makes for great entertainment, but over in Europe that have better players, because they stick to the fundamentals of the game.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“What I told you last night. You need to learn the fundamentals of poetry to have a better game. Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, Etheridge Knight, hell, even Phyllis Wheatley.”

“Phyllis who?”

“These poets were your predecessors, and I haven’t even begun to mention the white poets yet.”

“You mean I have to read white poets too?”

“In my opinion, and in the opinion of Breakthrough Books, yes, this is a must. Think of it as a job.”

“That could put a serious dent in my style, man.”

“I know it will. And that does worry me.”

“Scares the shit out of me.”

“It’s for the best. In my heart I know it’s for the best.”

“I don’t know about this. It’s a big leap. It’s like I’m jumping off a bridge.”

“Or learning how to fly. Depends on how you look at it. And remember, the only requirement is that you show up for class. I’ll hear about it if you don’t. It will terminate our agreement. You’ll hand in work just like everyone else. You’ll participate just like everyone else. If you don’t take it seriously, we can’t move forward.”

“I want something in writing.”

“You’ll get it. I have to make a phone call, that’s all. But we must start you right away. You’ll be reading Robert Frost by next week.”

“‘And miles to go before I sleep.’”

“Yes,” smiled Preston. “Walt Whitman too.”

“And all this to get on television,” said Claude, shaking his head. “What about spoken word?”

“What about it?”

“I can still do that, right?”

“Oh, you mean the slams. Just so long as it doesn’t interfere with your poetry class.”

“Because you know I have to go to Chicago pretty soon.”

“Frankly, Claude, I don’t think you should go.”

“It won’t interfere with class.”

“Yes it will. You shouldn’t be competing, because you’ll lose focus. We’re on a tight schedule here.”

“But you just said—”

“Forget what I said. Think of this as a job. What you do on weekends is your own business, but during the weekday you’re working.”

They ordered food finally, and Preston felt good about laying out the ground rules first. Having Claude work with Amanda had always been in the back of his mind, and suddenly the tough task of asking Amanda for the favor worried him. He didn’t think it would be a problem. What are old friends for?

He hadn’t talked to Amanda in two years, and Claude provided the opportunity to rekindle an old flame. They had lost contact. Their friendship had faded. But he figured she’d be happy to see him, happy to help him out of a jam. Their marriage may have been a failure, and yes, he envied her success, but he never stopped considering her as a friend or even a colleague. And Claude was smart too. Amanda would love to have him in class. He believed it would work.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Claude.

“What’s that?”

“How come there are no poets on television?”

“Well, the series will start soon. You’ll be working with some of the finest.”

“I’ll be like a crossover artist.”

“Yes. Kind of like crossing over, but you’ll maintain your individuality. You’re a slam poet at heart, y’know.”

“I guess some things have to change.”

“Now you’re talking. Let me speak to Amanda on Monday. I’ll call you on Tuesday. You should begin working with her right away. You live in South Orange, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then Seton Hall is just a couple of miles down the road. Y’know I used to live in South Orange.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“Strange. I’ve always liked it here.”

“And you live in Newark now? That’s a real change, man. What’s a guy like you doing in Newark?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Must be that yuppie element movin’ in, huh?”

“Something like that.”

Truth was, he hated being in South Orange again. He had too many memories of Amanda and his attempts to produce something great. He aimed hard for it, and his ambitions shot him in the foot. Only a fool would give up his marriage to pursue better diction. And now he paired himself with this black prince who knew nothing about his world. Why, of all people, did he have to stoop to what Breakthrough Books wanted? They asked him to stoop, and he stooped. What else did they want from him, he asked while staring at Claude, sweat running down his face. Can’t a man look at someone else and still have thoughts about something entirely different? He knew Claude was just a moneymaker for Breakthrough. And he did like the guy, and Claude did open himself up to the possibility that there may have been other forms of poetry and other talents who were indeed white and worthy of his attention, only that Preston, once he thought about it, didn’t want Claude to buy into the scheme so easily. Preston mused how wonderful it would be if someone stood up to these publishing houses. Call it rebellion. Call it pent-up anger, but he knew that the money-making machine played with both of their lives, toyed with them, and Breakthrough couldn’t care less if Preston refused their sadistic proposal to train a young puppet for the big show or not. As a mentor he was expendable. It was show business, a great show filled with untalented know-nothings. Preston understood that this young, ripe black man served the interests of their entire organism. Claude was just another poet being trained by a literary factory.