Hating Olivia, page 20
replacing dead lightbulbs, and swabbing the decks of the Arch’s headquarters. If you couldn’t exactly call these folks happy, you certainly had to say they were a family. Booze and junk, as Livy had begun pointing out, were thicker than blood.
All this was quite fascinating to her. Our lives were downright boring and dull by comparison. And there were more where Duke Johnston and Jack Brady came from—real flesh-and-blood characters who’d had it tough in life, who knew personally what it was like to travel to hell and back. (Not like me. Not like me at all.) Livy realized and admitted that she’d had it wrong all these years. The salt of the earth were the ones to be admired, not the children of privilege, not the precious artists, not the rich and famous.
Well, thank God, I told her, that you’ve finally seen the error of your ways.
46.
From time to time I received brief letters from the literary agency asking me to remain patient, as my novel was still in circulation and getting the book to the right editors for a thorough read generally took a great deal of time. Not to worry, the notes assured me, things were happening. Quite courteous of them, I thought. I could hang on all right as long as things were happening….
As for Olivia Aphrodite, she was a new woman. The names of her coworkers were all I ever heard around the apartment now. It was the Arch this, the Arch that—nothing else held the least interest for her.
Even more time passed with no word on The Old Cossack. Up and down Bloomfield Avenue the gaudy dressings of Christmas began to appear. The world was entirely red and green and silver. HAPPY HOLIDAYS banners were wrapped around the streetlamps and draped over the telephone lines. For displaced souls like me, the pressure created by the birthday of Jesus Christ was too much. Here I was, barely making it, and now I was supposed to run out and buy gifts for everyone I knew. It was ridiculous. All I wanted—all I’d ever wanted—was to be left alone in a room with my manuscripts and guitar and cigarettes, and once in a while a good bottle. Holidays and the like brought out the worst in the losers and the lost, which was why the season always left me feeling morbidly depressed. I would have preferred to hit the road, but in my beat-up, dejected state of mind, I wasn’t up to it, especially without a wad of cash or a car, neither of which I had.
There was going to be a big holiday party, Livy announced, and I was invited through the generosity of the good folks at the Arch.
This came as a major surprise. “Sure you want me there? I wouldn’t want to invade your turf, you know.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care what you do. If you want to come, then come. If you don’t, forget about it. I’m not going to beg you to do anything.”
Part of me was curious. The festivities were held in the gymnasium of an old public schoolhouse where the Arch was headquartered. There were streamers billowing from the rafters and tables brimming with appetizers like miniature hot dogs, wedges of cheese, and dried-out shrimp. The centerpiece of the room was a huge Douglas fir tree decked out in blinking lights, dangling ornamental balls, and shiny tinsel. In every corner stood clusters of men and women sipping the nonalcoholic punch. As always, Livy was dressed for the kill, tonight in a whorehouse-lavender sarong that squeezed her tight and like-colored pumps. She introduced me to a couple of people, then disappeared into the crowd.
I mumbled a few words, but the conversation was awkward and stilted. I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable suspicion that these people knew a lot more about me than they were letting on.
The absence of booze made me jittery. I’d filled a flask with Cutty and tucked it into the deep inside pocket of my peacoat before leaving the apartment, but I hadn’t cracked into it yet. You never want to be stranded at a social function of any kind without alcohol—it’s like being on a beach without sand. But for these disciples of the Program, alcohol was poison, out of the question, and you weren’t going to find a drop within miles. Shit—you couldn’t even joke about the stuff.
I was slouching by myself in a corner when I heard a gruff “You must be Max.”
The voice was a dead monotone. I turned. He was big, 215, 225, dirty blond. Seedy-looking. A deep, angry scar that had been badly sutured ran in a jagged crescent from his Adam’s apple to the lobe of his right ear. He sported an unevenly trimmed mustache and a pair of gray overalls.
“Okay, I admit it. What did I do, officer?”
He didn’t laugh. Either he didn’t get the joke or he had no sense of humor.
“I’m Duke Johnston.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
His dull blue eyes showed a flash of life. “No kiddin'?”
“No kidding.”
That was pretty much all he had to say. He didn’t stick his mitt out to shake. Instead, he grunted and stood there gawking at me like a tranquilized gorilla. After a few clumsy seconds, he lumbered away.
Ten minutes later he reappeared on the floor dressed as Santa Claus and handed out gifts to the kiddies. At that point I decided I’d had enough—Johnston had to be the saddest Old Saint Nick I’d ever laid eyes on. I went outside, leaned against the building in the frosty December air, screwed the top off my flask, and waited for Livy.
This Johnston dude has a thing for you, doesn’t he?” I said to Livy when we got back to the apartment.
She flushed and turned away. “You’re out of your mind.” “I don’t think so. It was written all over him. He was scoping the both of us like a fucking vulture.”
“So what do you care if somebody else admires me?” “At least you admit it…. ”
“Get off my back, Max! For four years I’ve put up with your crap, listening to you rant and rave about everything and everybody you hate, pretending you’re a genius, sucking the lifeblood out of me like a leech! At least Duke Johnston can take care of himself! At least he can hold down a job and pay his own rent! He may not be a millionaire or famous, but he doesn’t have a pretentious artistic bone in his body, thank God! He knows how to make a decision! To him life is black or white, right or wrong, not all anguish and torture—and books! So leave him alone, too, would you!”
“So now you’re defending this hunk of shit…. ”
“And don’t call him names! Duke’s a man’s man. Maybe that’s what I should have had from the beginning.”
“Oh, is that so? Tell me more.”
“I’m not going to explain anything to you, Max. You and I have wasted too much time talking. Talk talk talk, that’s all you ever do. I’ve had enough of your talking and books and philosophy. I don’t even want to have to think anymore.”
“Just be sure you don’t bring any more crabs home, Liv.”
“Go to hell, Max!”
“I’m already there, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Just like in the early days, strange things began happening. When the telephone rang, I’d pick it up and hear nobody at the other end. Livy was gone all hours, which she blamed on overtime at her job. The refrigerator was always empty, but since I lived on cigarettes and coffee and Livy never ate a meal at home, there seemed no point in stocking it.
The little old lady who lived in the apartment beneath us moved out and a new couple moved in. They were noisy as elephants when they did, cursing and hollering, smacking into the walls with their furniture, cranking up the volume on their music. Taking possession of 4C was a party that went on all day and half the night.
The next morning I was jolted awake by the blast of a horn—a trumpet or cornet—traveling up through the floorboards. Fuck my ass—I’d never heard anything so loud in my entire life. I yanked on my jeans, checked under the bed, and went downstairs to investigate.
It was the new tenant, all right. When I rapped on the door, he refused at first to answer. Instead he went on blowing his brains out as if his life depended on it. I banged again. No dice.
I stomped back upstairs and tried to eat breakfast. The new neighbor was still serenading the heavens. What made the clamor all the more unbearable was that bugle boy was completely devoid of musical ability. He was capable of nothing but flat belches and farts that bore no resemblance to melody and hadn’t an ounce of rhythm. It wasn’t pop, it wasn’t jazz, it wasn’t improv, it wasn’t anything. A two-year-old child who’d never touched an instrument could have done better. After a few hours of the shit, I thought I’d go bonkers. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t read, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t sleep. When I picked up my ax and strummed, I couldn’t hear a single note I produced.
When Satchmo finally clamped the lid on his session, I went back down the stairs and pounded on his door again. This time he opened up.
“Yeah? Whadya want?”
I checked him out. A lug with a forehead that was nothing but thick black eyebrows that met in the middle. No light shining in his bovine eyes. He scratched his puffy, naked belly as he looked me over. I tried to peek over his shoulder for a glimpse of the girlfriend. Apparently she was smarter than I was—she’d gone out, probably to work.
“Your trumpet playing is driving me fucking insane.” There was no point in mincing words.
“I gotta practice. I don’t practice, I don’t work.”
“You here every day?”
“Yup. All day long. Just me and my horn.”
“You don’t have a job or anything like that?”
“Nope. Only money I earn is when I get a gig.”
“Haven’t been working much lately, have you?”
He took the jibe head-on. “Nope. That’s why I gotta practice.” Just like I thought—dense.
I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? I wanted to punch the guy’s lights out, but what would it have accomplished? Besides, I was still recovering from my last brawl. I had the feeling it would be useless to politely request that he lower the volume. Fuming, I turned around and climbed back up to 5C.
From that moment onward, it was total war. Whenever Maynard Ferguson’s asshole started to blow, I had no choice but to retaliate. I was the ugly American, he was Hirohito after Pearl Harbor. I dribbled a basketball on the floor. I donned my old factory boots and hopped up and down like a jumping jack on a pogo stick. When I tuckered myself out, I flipped the stereo speakers facedown on the bare floorboards, threw some early Stones or Zeppelin on the turntable, and maxed out the volume.
But nothing deterred the lummox. When I ran out of ideas, I called the cops.
“If he plays his trumpet or whatever the hell it is between the hours of six A.M. and ten p.m., there’s not a thing we can do. The city ordinance reads ‘no unnecessary noise between the hours of ten P.M. and six A.M.,’ “ said the desk sergeant.
“You wouldn’t consider that kind of racket a disturbance of the peace?”
“Not according to the letter of the law, it ain’t. Look, I feel bad for you, sir, but…. ”
My only chance at a legal recourse was gone. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to last.
47.
The telephone buzzed at nine thirty in the morning. It was my boss at the motel, Billy Stankowski.
“Don’t bother coming in today, Max.”
“What’s up, Billy? You giving me a vacation day?”
I was trying to make Billy laugh. Guys like me never rate vacation days.
“Very funny, Max. No. No vacation day. We’re going to have to let you go, man. I’m sorry.”
“Shit. … What the hell did I do wrong?”
“It was the little things, Max. Especially the coming in late all the time. This place that has to be run like a Swiss watch. I mean, you’re okay, but not good enough.”
The job itself I didn’t give a damn for. It was the paycheck I couldn’t do without. That paltry two-fifty a week was the only thing that allowed me to feel anything close to a human being these days. Without an income of some sort, I was fucked all over again, at the complete mercy of my wild woman.
“I’ll change, Billy, I swear. I’ll get on the bus even earlier.” Naturally he’d caught wind that Livy had taken the wheels away.
“Too late, Max. We already got somebody else. See, it was the other stuff, too. When that crazy girlfriend of yours cuts your dick off by telephone, it’s embarrassing for the customers, know what I mean? And we can’t make a habit of letting you sleep in the vacant rooms overnight without paying. Max, you’re a good guy and all, but your personal life is more than I can handle.”
“I can’t deny it’s a fucking mess, Billy. The truth is it’s more than I can handle.”
“Want some advice?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“You’re probably not gonna like it.”
“Well, everybody else has tried. You may as well take your shot.”
“Unload her, man. The sooner, the better.”
“You don’t get it, Billy. That’s because you sleep in a bed of roses with Marilyn.”
“Sorry, Max. Look at it this way. At least you’ll be able to collect unemployment benefits.”
He had something there. A decent guy. Billy Stankowski was the only man I never hated for firing me.
Listening in an impotent rage to the shitty horn player in the apartment below for hours on end was what my life had finally come down to. I had no strength left to fight back; it simply consumed too much psychic energy. Short of assaulting the guy, there was nothing I could do to stop him from making noise. Somehow it didn’t seem to be worth going to jail over. The dude had me licked. Join the queue.
Livy didn’t give a damn at all about the situation since she was never around. As a matter of fact, whenever we did run into each other, she seemed increasingly preoccupied.
“Max, let’s go for a walk.”
Another spring was closing in on us that day in April she rushed in all out of breath. “You mean like now?”
Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were ablaze. She was standing just inside the door, vibrating. “Sure … what’s the big rush?”
“It’s just … I have something to say to you, and maybe if we get out of here it’ll be … easier.”
Why couldn’t she just speak her piece right there in the breakfast nook? I grabbed my jacket and went along with her anyway. We were at the park entrance when she opened up. Red-breasted robins were stabbing at worms in the rolling lawn. The tulips were bursting into bloom. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which was an unreal shade of blue. Somewhere in the country they were playing baseball.
“Max … Max, you have to admit it’s not working out between us. It hasn’t worked out between us in a long, long time. We need to be away from each other.”
It was the first and only time in all these years she hadn’t made that same request in a state of extreme rage, so I knew this time was different. Besides, what she was saying was the truth. There wasn’t even any point in arguing with her.
I didn’t know what the hell I was feeling: rage, panic, anticipation. My gut pitched. It was the break I’d been waiting for.
“I gotta buy a car first,” I mumbled, mostly to myself.
“It’s okay. Use your unemployment money to get a clunker. As soon as you sell your book, you’ll be rolling in the green.”
“Right…. ”
Knowing Livy, there was a man in the wings. I couldn’t be 100 percent sure, but I had the feeling I knew who it was.
She couldn’t even look at me. “Then it’s set?” she asked with more softness in her voice than I’d heard in months.
“Yeah.”
I sucked in the fresh air and tried to look on the positive side: at least I wouldn’t have to listen to Dizzy fucking Gillespie anymore.
48.
After scouring the used-car ads I turned up a ten-year-old Rambler Ambassador with eighty-five thousand miles for $350. Not bad. Livy lent me the Nova to drive out to Livingston for a looksee. The owner was a jelly-bellied suburban papa jumpy as a cat in heat to get the vehicle off his hands. He grinned and fidgeted while we stood in the driveway. The sweat rolled off his greasy face in big droplets. “I’m telling you, this baby really treated me nice…. ” He patted the flaking battleship-gray hood. The vehicle was a dinosaur one step from the junkyard. I took it for a test spin with him sitting beside me, jabbering about its merits the whole time. The transmission slipped a little and the rear panel of the passenger’s side had been punched in, but I was assured that those things were nothing a couple of minor repairs couldn’t cure. On the other hand, the air conditioner was powerful, the heater worked, and the brakes were almost new. I knew the real score—that eighty-five thousand miles was a fairy tale, and at a few hundred smackers I couldn’t expect a Bentley. Back in his driveway we haggled a little. I worked the guy down to two-fifty, but he wouldn’t go a penny lower. He signed over the certificate of ownership, and the beast was mine….
This was my plan. A new job first, then a place to crash. I spent all day on the phone, trying to line up interviews. Getting a pad was going to be tough without a steady source of income. If I couldn’t come up with something, I’d have to settle for a flophouse or the big YMCA in Montfleur. I didn’t fancy bunking with the fruits and mental cases, but when you had nothing, clean sheets were better than the street.
Livy was frantic for me to go. As soon as I agreed to vacate the premises, she was up to her old tricks. For three straight days and nights she failed to put in an appearance at the apartment on Roseland Avenue. When she finally did show, it was to exchange a load of dirty laundry for a few clean outfits. Dressed in jeans and sweater she looked damned fine. Her spirits were upbeat, the highest they’d been since our early days. There was an electric excitement in her limbs, born of the confidence and optimism of someone about to embark on a new adventure. Offhandedly I asked her what she’d been up to, but she was slippery. All she wanted to know was when I planned to split for good.
“As soon as I find somewhere to go. Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.”
