Chapter 3

On the next day Noble woke up just in time for the noon meeting. He had slept in his clothes, actually Shylock’s clothes, and he groomed himself in the rearview mirror. Although he was generally disheveled in appearance, he looked better than previous mornings. Being clean was a novel experience. The attitude of cleanliness carried the day, and he hoped it would endure. He made plans to call Alexandra immediately after the nooner, but as he approached the church he was surprised and shocked to see Alexandra sitting on the wide steps.

His heart jumped. He wasn’t about to spoil this opportunity. He tried playing it cool and calm, but he couldn’t hide the anxiety which pushed him from the edge of the supermarket to the entranceway of the church. He clenched his fists several times. He took long deep breaths, as her attendance was totally unexpected. He would be the hero or the goat, and in his mind he heard a thunderous applause, as though a small universe howled inside his brain. He had an inkling as to how his Higher Power operated. The Higher Power had given him a small taste of His omnipotence, and naturally Noble’s head exploded into an anxiety which pushed him closer to the woman who conversed with no one else.

She waved innocently, as though she had been waiting for him. A bead of sweat trickled from his brow. Calm and cool. He couldn’t resist turning on what little charm he stored away for special occasions. This was the first of these occasions.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he exclaimed, almost a shout which drew attention from the light gathering.

“Yeah,” she said, “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“No work today?”

“It’s my day off,” she laughed. “As a matter of fact, I’ve had many days off lately,” a lilt in her voice.

“It’s my day off too. Well, that’s not altogether true. Most of the time I’m working at home. Ain’t it a dandy what modern technology can do these days?”

He wished he didn’t sound like such a farmhand, but Alexandra giggled anyway. He took a seat next to her and smoked. She also lit up, and Noble performed an award-winning rendition of the young wealthy businessman and alcoholic, a man who wasn’t bound to any petty schedule. He traveled the world making business deals in Osaka, teleconferencing with his associates in Hong Kong (despite the Asian contagion), and he was doing fine money-wise. His pleasant, cautious manner made it seem this way.

“You’re awfully young to be living in the Heights,” she remarked.

“Is that unusual?” as he imagined how he looked to her.

“Well, when the mean age is over fifty, I think that would constitute a very peculiar living arrangement.”

A touch of Waspachick snobbery in her tone, the hidden code of Waspachick’s elite. Too much television helped him here. He commanded the role as the understudy who gets his big break by poisoning the lead. The Stanislavsky Method. How would it feel losing a billion in equity and still having a couple billion to do nothing but attend AA meetings and ski Aspen? And of course there’s all those fall fundraisers for the museums one never sets foot in. He determined the summer was meant for, yes, his summer home in East Hampton. But he played it cool. The rich and successful hide their wealth as skillfully as they exploit the worker.

“Well, I don’t always stay here,” said Noble. “I go away a lot, but meetings tie me to this town. One gets so bored in this tiny village,” he said as urbanely as possible.

“Yeah, our family goes away once in a while. At least once in the summertime.”

It begged the question: “Where do you go normally?”

“We have a place in Hilton Head. My dad loves golfing there, so we always make the trip. I’m going in July.”

He had no idea where Hilton Head was and didn’t care. He commanded the flow of discourse, edging her out with movie-mogulish East Hampton and his beach house.

“So you live with your family up in the Heights?” hoping to seal the victory before being nabbed.

“I live with my boyfriend.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s thirty-five. But the relationship is dissolving really quickly. It’s so tough living with someone who drinks constantly.”

“Maybe you should move out,” hinting she should move in with him.

“I’m thinking about it. My sobriety has to come first. I know that now. Everyone in the program has been helpful. I’m more confused than I ever was. It all came crashing down. I really hit my bottom, and I’m only twenty-three. I really fucked up my life this time. My family doesn’t trust me. It got so bad, and my boyfriend doesn’t understand, no one seems to understand me.”

“Believe me,” consoled Noble, “the first days are always rough, but you’ll rise above it,” and he used Smilin’ Willy’s rub of the shoulder. He hadn’t touched a woman’s body for several years. He was sexually aroused.

“What makes you so sure?” as she looked into his eyes.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we who live in the Heights have an old saying: ‘We live in the Heights for a good reason.’”

She looked perplexed and said: “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” smiled Noble. “It’s tough in the beginning. We all had to go through it. Each and every one of us. Soon we’ll both look back on this and marvel at how far we’ve come. Just wait it out. One day at a time. Use the people in these rooms. You should call me too. If I’m not there, my assistant will take a message. Be strong, and slowly the miracle will take shape. You have to trust this program.”

“Noble?” she asked dolefully, “You want to get some coffee after the meeting? I know you’re probably busy and all, but I can use some company this afternoon.”

Noble paused. He remembered Harry’s words: ‘Alcoholics take hostages.’

“I had an appointment for this afternoon, and my car’s in the shop, but I’m sure I can make it to the diner, but you’re driving, since I walked here.”

“Deal,” she smiled sweetly, and they went inside the shady congregation hall.

Mostly old-timers attended the meeting. Milo led. Ivan was missing in action, and the meeting commenced somberly. It gave Noble time, not necessarily to plan his next move, but to assess the magnitude of his deception. He remembered his own formula: the imagination without conscience leads to a nightmare. This was indirectly related to his deceit. He had become absorbed in his role, and he would tread carefully. He knew where this was leading. The look she gave him, her sweet, blue-green, captivating eyes inviting him into her confusion, as though they validated his own decrepit, deplorable existence. No matter the success of this scheme, he made a promise under the heavens that someday he would let her know of his dishonesty. He didn’t believe, however, that he would get very far anyway. She needed a friend, not another lover who resembled, at least in status, the boyfriend she lived with already. Again, he jumped far ahead, assuming they would make love in the town park at the stroke of midnight when the sniveling police officer made his rounds. The look she offered convinced him that an affair would soon commence. He was certain of it, only, these delicious prospects were tainted from the outset; a relationship based on a preposterous fabrication. How he got himself into these situations he wasn’t sure, but if the love of another woman were the ultimate achievement, a heavenly and sublime gift, then wouldn’t he have to lie and cheat and steal and plunder in order to achieve this love? Wouldn’t the man have to fight, even kill to arrive at this love? Hyperbole again, but Noble had never loved before.

His feelings towards Alexandra certainly resembled it. He loved her from the first day she rejected him. He loved her when she walked into these sober rooms. He loved her when she cried, he loved her as she sat across from him, listening to the old, toothless drunk who talked of God and His everlasting presence. Love ought to elevate consciousness, he thought, but he was ashamed of himself. He needed her, but not this way. He had gone on for too long denying love. He used to think the word a farce, a scam, a fraud, a menace, a twisted falsehood. But in the congregation room, he had a shot at this same elusive concept which every Waspachick North-ender took for granted. Perhaps he should throw in the towel and forget about Alexandra, avoid her at all costs, return to his self-imposed exile in the Oldsmobile and compose the tired rants of rebellion, frustration, melancholy, and self-pity. He could have easily continued these rants against the oppressive world, but he reasoned that once a lonely man is touched by this condition, he may never return. ‘Grab it when it comes your way,’ he thought. Escape was no longer necessary. He found the end of his journey in Alexandra’s visage.

“Tsk, Tsk, Tsk. And you were doing so well,” he heard behind him.

“He had it goin’ for him, and he shot it straight to hell.”

The apparitions in the congregation hall. He thought he had won them over through his diligent practice of program principles, but they were clearly disappointed.

“What the hell do you want me to do?” fired Noble lividly.

“Take it easy,” said the idol, “but you’ve really crossed the line this time.”

The idol pointed to Alexandra and asked: “Is that what you want? To ruin the woman? She asks for your friendship, and you blow it up into a question of ‘love?’ Lemme tell you something. Love is a lie if you proceed like this.”

“You’re settin’ yourself up for the big fall,” said the mechanic. “All those months of hard work, and in the end you’ll break her heart.”

These words resonated. In a small way, however, he felt superior because of this possibility, the idea that he would break a woman’s heart, instead of her breaking his. This fed into the manhood motif, that men must break hearts in order to remain men, and the women to remain women. It’s been this way for centuries, and to turn all sweet and sensitive would deny his ego and his prospects for love.

“We’ve warned you,’ said the idol, and they disappeared.

Their anger usually took on these short visitations as opposed to their long, drawn out, and supportive discussions. Noble was thankful they vanished when they did. It was inappropriate of them to trample upon his ego which had never seen this much inflation. And he looked to Alexandra, her blonde hair flaxen and parted to the side, her face slim and supple, her nose a cute little button, and her body the epitome of all he had longed for. She would have never pegged him for a man of the Heights, that mythical place to which a Southerner never traveled but only heard about, and the reason for never discussing this area of Waspachick before was due to Noble’s total inaccessibility to this area. His imagination, it seemed, also had limits, and by involving the Heights in his scheme he was near certain of obtaining the prize. He couldn’t forego the opportunity to walk with this woman along the strip, showing her to the saleswoman who had ignored him earlier.

“My car is in the shop, so thanks for driving,” said Noble as he slid into the leather seat of her sports coupe. Impressive. Fully equipped with digital CD player and other accouterments. Noble made sure not to rave about the car. He kept quiet, his eyes popping from his skull, a sweet fragrance wondering from Alexandra’s limbs as they sped towards East Waspachick.

He could have driven with her for hours, the top down, a groovin’ tune on the radio, the breeze tousling her hair, the hum of the engine, and the beauty of this one woman who not long ago seemed unattainable. But this was not a dream, but the pressing reality begging him to stay cool and composed before cracking.

Holding the door would seem too romantic. He forewent this impulse, because technically this wasn’t a date, merely a meeting of two addicted personalities. Even the waitress served him with more pluck. And soon they were sipping coffee and chain-smoking such that a detox from the diner would soon prove necessary,

“How long have you been in Waspachick, Noble?” she asked.

“Oh only a short time. I just bought the house a couple of months ago. I needed a break from business, and of course the alcohol. Have you been in town long?”

“Not too long. I was up at college in Boston, but alcohol and drugs, y’know, I had to leave the whole party scene. I’m glad I left it. It was something I really needed to do, and some of the things I did up there were just outrageously terrible.”

“Well, you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t plan to, but some of the things I did will forever haunt me.”

“Where did you go?”

“Terrible places, absolutely terrible, it was a nightmare...”

“I meant to college.”

“Oh, Radcliffe, but I hardly spent much time there. Most of the time I was in the bar, or in someone’s apartment doing lines.”

“Cocaine?”

“I’m a certifiable coke-head, but don’t mention that to anyone.”

“I won’t, don’t worry. I’m a good keeper of secrets, and besides, all of us went through rough times. That’s our disease. We always want more and more. It’s not uncommon to be cross-addicted.”

“Yeah,” she said again with a touch of Waspachick urbanity, “but I hear that most alcoholics don’t want druggies invading their meetings.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I think you underestimate people in the program. Just don’t drink or drug and go to meetings. Keep it simple.”

“Well, I keep my substance abuse to myself, unless of course, I trust someone enough to tell them.”

“You can trust me,” declared Noble. “I know what it’s like.”

“What’s your story?”

“I went to school in,” not Harvard but the other one, “in New Haven for a little bit. Got my bachelor’s and my business degree.”

“Yale?’

“Yes. Spent a lot of years up in New Haven. Got my degree in the I.B.M. program.”

“I.B.M. program?”

“International Business Management, and then I started my own company which does work for other financial firms, contracts, litigation, foreign investment, that sort of thing,”

“You must have traveled a great deal.”

“Tokyo, London, Paris, Bar Harbor...”

“Maine?”

“We had an office up there. A clearing house so to speak, but I don’t want to weigh you down with all the technical jargon. It’s basically a worldwide, long-term capital investment firm. It’s going quite well, although I’m seriously considering leaving and pursuing what I’m most interested in.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Music. I’m thinking about pursuing my music full-time.”

He knew he won her with this admission. The wealthy business man leaving his work for the artist’s life. She smiled and said:

“I once dated a guitar player.”

Noble knew this well and hoped she wouldn’t recognize him from the night long ago. It seemed years ago, but they were both drunk, and he quickly spoke of his artistic ambitions. The more he veered towards honesty, the better.

“I play the guitar myself,” he smiled, “and I’ve been practicing hard, really hard, and I’ve been composing some of my own music.”

Her features glowed with renewed interest. He discovered he really didn’t have to lie, her blue eyes shining and radiating like a child unwrapping a Christmas gift. Their eyes met, but Noble quickly turned away. A real man would stare into the endless blue of her irises, but he stared into his cold coffee instead. The signals were overt, their chemistry colliding, and he had to make a move, but how?

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Do you like playing the guitar, or do you love playing it? Do you really have a passion for it?”

Truthfully, over the last few nights he enjoyed playing, and this was an extraordinary occurrence. Prior to Alexandra, however, he despised the process. Sure, he had a passion for it, but the act of creation itself taxed the mind so heavily that a practice session received a satisfactory evaluation if he didn’t destroy the instrument on the pavement. A low threshold.

“I love it, and I hate it,” he said.

“Which means you take it seriously. It’s the mark of a true artist.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Believe me, I’ve known a lot of talented musicians, and they all say the same thing. Most of them can’t stand it, especially the composers. It drives them looney.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I know you’re coming from the financial world, so you’re not too experienced in the ways of the artist, but most people I know love their art passionately and at the same time hate it.”

“I’ve hated it. I wonder why I even continue.”

“Because you’re in tune with the frustrations of creation. It’s never easy. When you first begin, sure it’s wonderful, but over time, the frustration factor increases. Why do you think most artists commit suicide, or resort to drugs and alcohol? How do I know this? Because I’ve dated many artists. I dated a painter once who worked for years painting his canvases black, pure black, and afterwards he’d slice the canvas apart with a butcher’s knife. This was a guy who had his own show in SoHo.”

“I knew the process was tough, but I can’t fathom a guy ripping apart his paintings.”

“Imagine sleeping with the guy? That was an experience in itself,” she laughed.

Noble melted in his seat.

“I take it you know many artists?” he asked.

“Painters, sculptors, musicians mostly,” she said, “and they all reached a similar fate. It was either a slow suicide or a quick one. They all boozed, snorted, injected, you name it. That’s why I had to leave the whole scene. After dropping out of college, I lived with a friend in SoHo, and then I saw it all- the drugs, the sex, the alcohol. That’s what they do, and they end up like Basquiat, all of them Basquiats waiting to happen, and they don’t care, because it’s fashionable for them. They don’t see what they’re doing to themselves, but if they do it artistically, hey, they don’t care.”

“Please go on.”

“Not much more to say about it. I could have died in that apartment. The only thing I know about high ceilings after that adventure is that I could have hung from one.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“Oh, don’t. I’ve come to terms with the things I’ve done, and they’re not pretty.”

“One day you will enjoy an artist’s work from a sober point of view,” said Noble. “Sometimes I miss the insanity, but if we don’t change, we ultimately die. I can’t go back to that old way of life. Believe me, you’ll one day learn to appreciate sobriety. Your life is much more...”

“Boring, lifeless, insipid?”

“It seems that way at first, but believe me. It gets better.”

“I’d love to see some of the stuff I saw when I was totally whacked out,” she looked into his eyes again.

“You can. Give it time. Everything seems boring now, but you’ll learn how to appreciate those things to a phenomenal degree.”

“I’ve got an idea,” she said primly, folding her hands and sitting up straight, “why don’t we see an exhibition this afternoon?”

“Where?”

“I know of this gallery in SoHo. We can make it before closing.”

“Alexandra, I mean, I hardly know you. We just got here, and as the program instructs, we should avoid people, places, and things. It’s not a good idea to visit your old haunts. I know that I can’t, because it will lead to a drink.”

“I don’t wanna go by myself,” she pouted.

She was obviously set on going, and Noble hadn’t seen Manhattan for many years, and his upper lip twitched, his mask crumbling. He should have avoided her, but the thought of leaving Waspachick behind thrilled him and made her even more attractive. An escapade with a deity. How could he turn this down? But first he must play the part of dutiful alcoholic.

“Alexandra, I think you want that old life back. How many days do you have?”

“Three, maybe four.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“But I’d be going with someone who’s sober, and it would reinforce our sobriety. Believe me Noble, if you’re a serious artist you have to familiarize yourself with other artists. There’s nothing in Waspachick except commuters and suburbanites. We can’t isolate ourselves from art which is what SoHo’s all about. C’mon? We’ll be back in time for dinner.”

They rode along the highway with the top down and the music grinding and thumping lucidly through the digitized stereo. He had never heard this strain of music before. It reflected Alexandra’s acquired tastes, these outlandish, foreign instrumentals which bespoke of an artistry much higher than his own traditionalist bedrock. The affluent musicologists must have found merit in its oddity, its careless, formless movements pushing it further into obscurity, the type of tune which is never played on the major radio stations, an eclectic, technological mesh only the city-dweller could tolerate. But as they glided closer to the city, he vaguely understood how this music found a niche. He compared it to the Manhattan skyline, for example, which towered futuristically above them. Less was more, these steel and glass structures refracting the sun’s iridescence. Every nook and cranny of horizon was occupied. The helicopters and airplanes streaked across the azure, the cars inched towards the tollbooths, a chaos which achieved a mysterious order by an invisible hand governing the populace.

“There’s nothing like the city,” said Alexandra, her hand on the gear stick. “Anything from Waspachick is culture shock,” she said knowingly. “Just keep an open mind about SoHo.”

They flew down the Henry Hudson parkway, then the trafficky West Side Highway into the slanting streets of Greenwich Village. The city never stopped or ended. It was in perpetual motion and expanding like a gassy nebula. Everyone moved and made noise as though powered by a glowing furnace at the center of the earth. The livery services, the pedestrians walking dogs or waiting at bus stops, the traffic lights, and the street merchants unwound his provincial perspective. He couldn’t handle the onslaught of liberation. Every pedestrian represented a complexity which overstimulated his perceptions. He had thought himself so important, but at these sights he grasped the interrelatedness of the construction men jack-hammering an avenue, a popular song wafting from a car interior, and an old woman caning herself across an intersection.

As they journeyed farther South, it got downright bizarre. They parked in a garage and walked into the thicket of SoHo. He likened it to landing on a forbidden planet, the life forms clad in black, a neighborhood where a business suit was inappropriate, and the women in particular looking alike, sounding alike, rushing from gallery to gallery, he presumed. Even SoHo was not immune to look-a-likes. The uniform of black, bell-bottomed stretch pants with high platform shoes ruled the inhabitants like an artistic ordinance. Nevertheless the blackness designated them as cultured and lofty, and Noble appreciated their commitment to the artistic ideal, this anything-goes mentality as expressed through their collective fashions.

He knew, however, this entire scene may unsettle his artistic principles derived from hours upon hours of practice in the Oldsmobile. Maybe he was seeing too much. His mind was irreversibly altered. He had grown accustomed to his solitude, and no matter the innumerable insults he hurled at Waspachick, he at least knew it well enough to dislike it, to poke fun at it, to suffer from its haughtiness so he may one day exact a revenge. But his indoctrination into SoHo life, although perfunctory, challenged him: either enter with an open mind and allow the experience to change him and affect his music, or simply cling to his narrow-minded principles which translated into tormenting labor. Either way, he was confused, and his mind raced.

“I haven’t been here for six months,” said Alexandra.

“I don’t know what to think. Everyone’s so, well, active. It’s alive, this whole area is alive.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been to SoHo before?”

Noble almost forgot. He was a man of the world.

“It’s been a long time, that’s all. I haven’t been in this area for several years, and this is my first time sober.”

“I’m going to show you the inside of SoHo.”

“Remember, we have to stay sober.”

He wished he could have said this with more force.

“We’re not here to drink, Noble. We’re here to see some art, that’s all. You shouldn’t worry so much. You’re acting like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

She pressed his hand as they walked. They veered off Broadway and headed down Mercer Street, her hand still comforting his anxiety. They walked along the cobblestone street, passed the buildings of medium height. Narrow entranceways and enclaves led to artist studios. The block seemed reserved for painters and sculptors, even dancers. Each step brought him closer to those who toiled as he did. He held her hand tightly, and they came to a narrow doorway. They walked up the staircase and entered a gallery.

To his delight it was free of charge. He didn’t have a dime on him and would have hated explaining his pennilessness.

He couldn’t relax. Every one of his facial features, every step, every word had to win her, and so far the act worked, only that he was devoid of a personality, almost afraid to show it, for she may think him incompatible.

The gallery itself was situated in a vast space, almost vacant with enormous windows. On the walls were propped various pieces of amalgamated junk. The gallery played soft classical sonatas barely perceptible to his ears. The artwork seemed composed by the trash of civilization, compact and self-sufficient but exuding the complexity of an overwrought symphony.

“What do you think of this work, Noble?” asked Alexandra, probing his artistic depth.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “It’s quintessentially urban, but it achieves a contemplative stillness. It reflects somewhat what I’ve seen so far: the mechanization of our society. The piece lives and breathes, though it’s only mangled metal and industrial scrap. In a way it mocks itself by pretending to be living, when really it’s defunct.”

He was proud of his analysis, but Alexandra simply said: “Interesting,” as though she hid a more correct and learned interpretation. He didn’t press the matter but continued shuffling from one piece to the next pretending to identify deeply with each. When they came upon their fourth piece, they were interrupted by an ebullient voice from behind.

“Alexandra? Alexandra, is that you?”

Noble thought the woman beautiful. Dark rings circled her eyes. But he couldn’t handle two women at once. His strategy was tailored for one woman only.

“Natalie? Natalie how are you?” said Alexandra.

They pecked both cheeks, and Alexandra introduced him. The fates mandated a threesome for later in the evening. Once again he was aroused.

“Where have you been? Where’s Michael? I haven’t seen both of you in ages.”

“We’re living in New Jersey.”

“Arghhh, New Jersey?” she grimaced.

“Tell me about it,” agreed Alexandra. “At least I’m much healthier than before. Not so strung out.”

“Listen, you have to drop by tonight, really you must.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alexandra, “we do have to be getting back, and I have my friend with me. Noble, would you mind if we stopped by one of our old hang-outs? It won’t be for long.”

“Old hang-out?”

“It’s nothing. It’ll only take a few minutes. We’ll be in and out. Plus, you do want to see the inside of the art world, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Well, it’s done,” said her friend. “We’ll meet down the block in a couple of hours. It’ll give me time to straighten up around here.

“And we’ll have enough time to get a bite to eat,” said Alexandra cheerfully.

“How do you know her?” asked Noble as they studied an oversized installation by the same artist. More junk except on a wider scale.

“She’s a friend of a friend. We hung out a lot before I moved to New Jersey.”

Noble was suspicious, and how dare she introduce him as a ‘friend.’ This was the woman he planned to marry, and she hid her superiority with a clever grin, as though Noble were ignorant and oblivious to higher art forms, which he was.

In keeping with Shylock’s philosophy, he must assert his manhood to win her. Any woman who felt superior to the man would dump him and make love to another man who made her feel inferior. Basic Waspachick theory, but in no way could he assert his manhood on her turf. Her wider experience gave her the edge. He could have mentioned the beach house in East Hampton, but this would be a non-sequitur. He tried to say something smart about the installation.

“It represents the modern hassle of the industrial age,” he decalred.

“It’s a post-modern piece, Noble,” she retorted. “It borrows heavily from classicism and creates an object d’art which sternly criticizes its antecedents. And, by the way, these pieces aren’t defunct. They breathe life into a world where art is of a secondary, if not tertiary importance.”

So much for superiority.

“But let’s eat. What are you in the mood for?” she asked.