"Debbie, don't you EVER hang up the phone on me AGAIN," Juan's rage reached into the telephone wires through furiously clenched teeth.
"I...DIDN'T...hang up on you. Why do you want to know?" Debbie's uncertain voice responded in terror. She slammed the phone down on the bed, stormed out of the room.
"I don't have to put up with this fucking shit!" Her scream sprang forth from the loaded tension of the office, frozen in politeness all day long.
"Debbie, who just answered the phone?" he had demanded.
"I...I don't know...a friend."
"Debbie!! Why are you lying to me?! Who answered the phone?!"
"Why...do I have to tell you?" she screamed desperately.
"Who is in the apartment with you? Debbie, you better tell me who." He warned her ominously.
"I have to go...I have something burning," she whispered and fled into the pantry, dropping the receiver on teh bed. And then he called back.
Maxine picked up the phone and began to "reason" with the paranoid psychotic.
"Juan! I was afraid! I didn't want you to know I was here. I thought you didn't like me!" She cried in desperation. "Nicole should be home in half an hour. She went to get something to eat. Chinese food."
"Black jeans and flat shoes," she said. Juan always asked questions. What was she wearing when she left? You don't know? You saw her leave and you don't remember what she was wearing? You don't remember what time she left?
"She just got home from work. She doesn't want to fight with anybody. No, I'll take care of her. It isn't worth it."
Debbie hid in the other bedroom. But the one-sided conversation chilled her. What did he mean, he would take care of her? Why had she answered the phone?
And now, here on the Upper West Side where things were uncertain and where she felt far away from home, strangely, for nowhere else in the city did she have that feeling, here, his threats seemed more real. Or wsa it unreal, she thought, in her dazed state of mind. She felt alone, separate from these ordinary people who walked the sidewalks and crossed the streets beside her.
The Musuem of Natural History loomed large and mysterious as it rose through the mist. Stark curling tree branches etched the sky.
Could someone have followed her on the crosstown bus? Was someone following her now? Could he pay someone to do that? Maybe she was already being watched by his several corrupt friends who had remained in the city. Did they know who Scott was? Would they, worse yet, "take care of" him?
"He couldn't really do anything, could he?" she had questioned Nicole that night of the telephone conversation, over hot chocolate and bagels at Wolf's Delicatessen. Cotton snow rose up from the windowsill where giant candy canes had been posted.
"Oh, that's nothing," Nicole had said. "You don't know..." she warned, her beautiful face tense and grave.
How she wished Scott could protect her now...as they walked down the mysterious streets of the Upper West Side, the bold splashy storefronts and cafes collectively forming a lime green, purple, coral, peach and aqua streetscape. She tilted her head to look up at Scott. He stared back in silence. He noted her new wave haircut, one side cut shorter than the other, the coral lipstick and matching sweater pulled over the short green ruffled skirt. She had changed since her first day in the office, but innocence remained in her blue eyes. She clung to his arm, shivering slightly from the cold as block after block of Italian designer boutiques appeared. Tall mannequins in lime green jackets and popsicle pink micro mini skirts held their poses on a bare stage, alluring behind glass. Groups of foreign students walked alongside them, exploring the strange world of the Upper West Side and all it had to offer them, dark-haired, sporting black leather jackets, as they strolled by brightly costumed window display after display. "Take care of me," she said to him. He pulled her into an alcove outside a closed restaurant and leaned way down, wordlessly, to kiss her. She paused at the corner. The sign blinked "Walk" but she did not see it. She looked to a place no one else could see, not the strangers here beside her, not the people in the restaurants today, not even anyone else on the crowded sidewalks in the entire city.
0520D
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
ARRIVING HOME
She arrived home from the office Christmas party to hear accusing shouts rising from the back bedroom.
Oh, no, she thought, now we'll be kicked out for sure.
"Don't you believe in God? You don't believe you're a child of God?!" Liza boldly sat on Juan's bed.
"Yes. But God agrees that I should have power."
This guy is warped, thought Debbie. She walked into the living room where the Nazi sword lay, under glass, on a red bandana emblazoned with the symbolic swastika. Just trying to be obnoxious, she had thought.
"The ************ are against them," Lori had told her.
"Are they?" Debbie naively asked. Lori became suddenly vague.
Debbie admired how Liza could march in there and sit on their bed. She was obviously winning the argument to Juan's frustration and rage.
"Let's torture you, Liza, and see how long you believe in your God," he countered. He stalked into the pantry.
"Hey! You can do anything you want. I'm going to Heaven!" Liza exclaimed, growing excited.
"Debbie, don't you believe that some races are superior to others?"
"No," she said.
He flung his hands in the air, jerked them around and stomped away from her.
So, that's it, Debbie thought. A woman could not disagree with him.
"I'm a Child of God!" Liza insisted from the back bedroom. "He is my Lord!"
"I care about you!" she went on.
"Well, I care about you, too," Juan replied uncomfortably.
"Well, hey. We all love each other! Praise the Lord!" She shouted feverishly.
"Liza, you have to get out. I need my privacy."
She knocked on the door.
"You know, no matter what happened, I want you to know I still like you, even if we don't agree." She lingered in the bedroom doorway. "I just want you to know I still care about you."
"OK, Liza. OK."
"I really still like you even though we don't agree. OK, I just wanted you to know that." She showed no sign of leaving.
Denise Hickey
ALL THAT GLITTERS
# 0521D
Oh, no, she thought, now we'll be kicked out for sure.
"Don't you believe in God? You don't believe you're a child of God?!" Liza boldly sat on Juan's bed.
"Yes. But God agrees that I should have power."
This guy is warped, thought Debbie. She walked into the living room where the Nazi sword lay, under glass, on a red bandana emblazoned with the symbolic swastika. Just trying to be obnoxious, she had thought.
"The ************ are against them," Lori had told her.
"Are they?" Debbie naively asked. Lori became suddenly vague.
Debbie admired how Liza could march in there and sit on their bed. She was obviously winning the argument to Juan's frustration and rage.
"Let's torture you, Liza, and see how long you believe in your God," he countered. He stalked into the pantry.
"Hey! You can do anything you want. I'm going to Heaven!" Liza exclaimed, growing excited.
"Debbie, don't you believe that some races are superior to others?"
"No," she said.
He flung his hands in the air, jerked them around and stomped away from her.
So, that's it, Debbie thought. A woman could not disagree with him.
"I'm a Child of God!" Liza insisted from the back bedroom. "He is my Lord!"
"I care about you!" she went on.
"Well, I care about you, too," Juan replied uncomfortably.
"Well, hey. We all love each other! Praise the Lord!" She shouted feverishly.
"Liza, you have to get out. I need my privacy."
She knocked on the door.
"You know, no matter what happened, I want you to know I still like you, even if we don't agree." She lingered in the bedroom doorway. "I just want you to know I still care about you."
"OK, Liza. OK."
"I really still like you even though we don't agree. OK, I just wanted you to know that." She showed no sign of leaving.
Denise Hickey
ALL THAT GLITTERS
# 0521D
CHRISTMAS PARTY
"How many roommates do you have?" Scott asked in amazement.
They sat among their comrades from the office at the department's Christmas party, just an informal shindig at a Mexican bar after work Thursday afternoon.
"I live with ******' nephew," Debbie replied with a wry smile.
Scott looked up suddenly. He had spilled the entire contents of his drink into his lap. Now it was his turn to smirk in embarrassment as Debbie lifted a towel up to him.
"Thanks," he said, unable to meet her gaze. A look of dread crossed his youthful face.
"Scott, you said you wanted to go out for coffee with us!" A horrible shriek intruded upon their polite conversation.
Debbie turned in her chair and gave her female co-worker one dirty look of hatred, scrunching up her face and narrowing her blue eyes.
"I've been pulled," he said. He stood up. He slipped his hand loosely through hers in an open gesture. But she squeezed it tightly, then let go.
"We'll have to go out sometime," he said.
"Definitely," seh nodded. Go out, sometime?? She wanted to marry him.
They sat among their comrades from the office at the department's Christmas party, just an informal shindig at a Mexican bar after work Thursday afternoon.
"I live with ******' nephew," Debbie replied with a wry smile.
Scott looked up suddenly. He had spilled the entire contents of his drink into his lap. Now it was his turn to smirk in embarrassment as Debbie lifted a towel up to him.
"Thanks," he said, unable to meet her gaze. A look of dread crossed his youthful face.
"Scott, you said you wanted to go out for coffee with us!" A horrible shriek intruded upon their polite conversation.
Debbie turned in her chair and gave her female co-worker one dirty look of hatred, scrunching up her face and narrowing her blue eyes.
"I've been pulled," he said. He stood up. He slipped his hand loosely through hers in an open gesture. But she squeezed it tightly, then let go.
"We'll have to go out sometime," he said.
"Definitely," seh nodded. Go out, sometime?? She wanted to marry him.
PENTHOUSE FOURTEEN
PENTHOUSE FOURTEEN
("Some Politcal Scandal"...)
"I wonder what's going on. I'd love to know!"
"I don't know, but it's definitely more than what we think," Debbie said cryptically.
Lori was willing to settle for the mundanely obvious reasons. Nicole probably needed the spending money every month for her fabulous wardrobe. Black boots up to the knees, did you see that? A short, shooort mini skirt, she said to Debbie one night after Nicole had left with Juan.
"No, they don't need the money for that," Debbie said. They were the new owners of a painting they bought at auction last week which cost over $200,000, Juan had made perfectly clear. No, it wasn't that. But what could it be? Some big political scandal that was probably over her head anyway. Meetings and such with his Uncle ******, Former Prime Minister of the ***********, no doubt.
0843D
The more things change, the more they remain the same! (To you, Lynne! Are you reading this? If you are....Honeeey, see you at the beeaaaach!)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
DESTINATION: PANAMA CITY
A giant inflated pink flamingo hung over Debbie's and Lori's heads as they gossipped about their old college roommates. Debbie clutched the edge of the bar, a sheet of glass under which postcards of Miami and Daytona Beach were placed.
Above the long, horizontal mirror across the bar was a road sign. Had it been in its appropriate setting, it would have been pointing out one of the postcard destinations to crazed college kids en route to their Spring Break. That was it. The theme of the bar: not paradise or Florida or beach souvenir shop, but an all-out tribute to the American tradition called Spring Break.
Tourist shop souvenirs were everywhere. A stuffed alligator balanced on a row of select bottles of domestic and imported beer. There were seashells combed from the very beaches, more road signs, ornate drinking mugs, and a giant green 'gator suspended over the dining area.
A swizzle stick with a blue shark rose out of Debbie's pineapple flavored drink. A fancy mermaid rested in Lori's fizz. The bright colors and plastic souvenirs made for a flamboyant, happy ambiance.
"This is my kind of place," Debbie giggled. She considered herself overdressed, in an aquamarine clingy skirt and turquoise beads. She actually fit into the picture rather well. Lori appeared even more skinny than usual in fitted jeans and a belted over-size pink top.
Debbie looked to her left. Someone had taken the bar stool next to her and was talking to her. He had dark uncombed hair and a small mustache.
His tee shirt and jeans suggested a friendly attitude, a casual lifestyle.
"You should try this," he suggested. He held up an ornate mug.
"What is it?" she asked.
He pronounced a word that had a wild, tropical, fun sound to Debbie.
"We have to order that," Debbie turned to Lori.
"What is it?" Lori asked disinterestedly.
"Oh, I don't know. Bahamarama or something like that. Let's get it." Her fellow bar mate had friends and they introduced each other, making rounds with comrades and drinks. It turned out they were visiting from Vancouver as part of a grad school project.
"What's it like?"
"Vancouver? Oh, it's great. Beautiful there."
"Washington, right?"
"No, Canada."
"Oooh, I never met someone from there before."
One of the quieter of the trio had cornered Lori. He looked a little like Phil Collins.
"What books have you read? Did you ever read The Catcher in the Rye?"
Lori froze. An avid reader she was not.
"Yeah, in high school," she sneered. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The scholar did not notice. He merely desired an intelligent conversation with an attractive girl. Or with the guys, it did not matter. As long as the conversation had substance.
Lori attempted to snub his inquiries but the intellectual was not deterred. He wanted to know all of the books she had read, what she thought of them.
Mark was 25. Someone her mental age for a change, Debbie thought. She liked to have fun, loved it, in fact, but sometimes a conversation needed depth. She could not tolerate meaningless small talk, gibberish that went on for hours and hours, especially with Lori. Yes, it was nearly impossible to have a normal conversation with her roommate. Often she would say anything to get a conversation started, revealing things she shouldn't have, to avoid the awkward silences that were such a big part of their "friendship." Friendship was not quite right. She never introduced Lori as her friend, but as her roommate.
"Mark, John, Steve, this is Lori, my roommate." The word, friend inexplicably stuck in her throat. But Mark and Steve were good company tonight.
They took turns refilling their ornate mugs and then it was time to close the bar. You cold not tell the bar was closed, though, because the lights were already on. Christmas in July. They walked out the door, under the anachronistic Christmas lights into the warm summer night.
Lori turned to take the waiting bus downtown. No doubt, her token was already in her hand, Debbie thought.
"Wanna share a cab? We're staying at NYU."
"We're going to the Village, too. Let's go!" and before Lori could protest, Debbie had jumped into the cab with the boys.
Steve, who had been low-key all evening, was starting to show signs of unrest. He revealed an enthusiasm for New York. His tall lanky appearance and punk haircut gave him the look of a would-be rock star.
"It's a lot different. It's great!" he said. He appeared restless, as if he were about to leap out of the cab in search of all the other exciting places that lay in wait throughout the city.
"It's different, all right," Debbie spoke up. "It can be fun but then, there's the subway."
She launched into an imitation of a typical passenger on the grimy underground train she took daily to work.
"Somebody please help me! My children are dying! My mother's an alchoholic and my father's starving!" She screamed. Then she burst out laughing.
"Stop. We can't take it," one of the boys cut in.
Then Lori started. "There's this man with flippers for arms and no legs. He plays the drums. I see him everywhere. He haunts me."
"Ugh. Can't take it." Mark put his hands over his ears.
"No, can't handle it," someone else said.
They divided the cab fare and piled out of the cab onto Second Avenue. There was a colorful Mexican food place and that dinosaur bar {Continental Divide} {sic} But they chose a place with a theatrical theme, complete with a pair of thespian masks on the walls and a wierd cast of waiters. Wierd to out-of-towners, normal to New York.
The quiet one named John was still trying to have his share of intellectual conversation with Lori. He stared intently at her as he pounced upon a new theory. Debbie lent an ear out of curiosity.
Now the other guys had gotten involved in the coveted conversation. It had something to do with biology and genetics and creating the perfect species.
"This is really interesting," Lori said.
"Ugh. Save it for later," Debbie said. She hated these useless, opinionated conversations. It was too late, or rather too early in the morning for their deep thoughts.
Steve, who had been quiet for a while, was suddenly coming to life, now that it was twilight. He was getting a little too loud and obnoxious, like a college freshman who has been introduced to beer.
Debbie's head was throbbing and she was starving, but not for nachos and red sauce.
Finally, they all agreed to call and have dinner tomorrow night, before returning to Vancouver.
DENISE HICKEY
Summer of 1987
The East Village
# 0658D
Above the long, horizontal mirror across the bar was a road sign. Had it been in its appropriate setting, it would have been pointing out one of the postcard destinations to crazed college kids en route to their Spring Break. That was it. The theme of the bar: not paradise or Florida or beach souvenir shop, but an all-out tribute to the American tradition called Spring Break.
Tourist shop souvenirs were everywhere. A stuffed alligator balanced on a row of select bottles of domestic and imported beer. There were seashells combed from the very beaches, more road signs, ornate drinking mugs, and a giant green 'gator suspended over the dining area.
A swizzle stick with a blue shark rose out of Debbie's pineapple flavored drink. A fancy mermaid rested in Lori's fizz. The bright colors and plastic souvenirs made for a flamboyant, happy ambiance.
"This is my kind of place," Debbie giggled. She considered herself overdressed, in an aquamarine clingy skirt and turquoise beads. She actually fit into the picture rather well. Lori appeared even more skinny than usual in fitted jeans and a belted over-size pink top.
Debbie looked to her left. Someone had taken the bar stool next to her and was talking to her. He had dark uncombed hair and a small mustache.
His tee shirt and jeans suggested a friendly attitude, a casual lifestyle.
"You should try this," he suggested. He held up an ornate mug.
"What is it?" she asked.
He pronounced a word that had a wild, tropical, fun sound to Debbie.
"We have to order that," Debbie turned to Lori.
"What is it?" Lori asked disinterestedly.
"Oh, I don't know. Bahamarama or something like that. Let's get it." Her fellow bar mate had friends and they introduced each other, making rounds with comrades and drinks. It turned out they were visiting from Vancouver as part of a grad school project.
"What's it like?"
"Vancouver? Oh, it's great. Beautiful there."
"Washington, right?"
"No, Canada."
"Oooh, I never met someone from there before."
One of the quieter of the trio had cornered Lori. He looked a little like Phil Collins.
"What books have you read? Did you ever read The Catcher in the Rye?"
Lori froze. An avid reader she was not.
"Yeah, in high school," she sneered. She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. The scholar did not notice. He merely desired an intelligent conversation with an attractive girl. Or with the guys, it did not matter. As long as the conversation had substance.
Lori attempted to snub his inquiries but the intellectual was not deterred. He wanted to know all of the books she had read, what she thought of them.
Mark was 25. Someone her mental age for a change, Debbie thought. She liked to have fun, loved it, in fact, but sometimes a conversation needed depth. She could not tolerate meaningless small talk, gibberish that went on for hours and hours, especially with Lori. Yes, it was nearly impossible to have a normal conversation with her roommate. Often she would say anything to get a conversation started, revealing things she shouldn't have, to avoid the awkward silences that were such a big part of their "friendship." Friendship was not quite right. She never introduced Lori as her friend, but as her roommate.
"Mark, John, Steve, this is Lori, my roommate." The word, friend inexplicably stuck in her throat. But Mark and Steve were good company tonight.
They took turns refilling their ornate mugs and then it was time to close the bar. You cold not tell the bar was closed, though, because the lights were already on. Christmas in July. They walked out the door, under the anachronistic Christmas lights into the warm summer night.
Lori turned to take the waiting bus downtown. No doubt, her token was already in her hand, Debbie thought.
"Wanna share a cab? We're staying at NYU."
"We're going to the Village, too. Let's go!" and before Lori could protest, Debbie had jumped into the cab with the boys.
Steve, who had been low-key all evening, was starting to show signs of unrest. He revealed an enthusiasm for New York. His tall lanky appearance and punk haircut gave him the look of a would-be rock star.
"It's a lot different. It's great!" he said. He appeared restless, as if he were about to leap out of the cab in search of all the other exciting places that lay in wait throughout the city.
"It's different, all right," Debbie spoke up. "It can be fun but then, there's the subway."
She launched into an imitation of a typical passenger on the grimy underground train she took daily to work.
"Somebody please help me! My children are dying! My mother's an alchoholic and my father's starving!" She screamed. Then she burst out laughing.
"Stop. We can't take it," one of the boys cut in.
Then Lori started. "There's this man with flippers for arms and no legs. He plays the drums. I see him everywhere. He haunts me."
"Ugh. Can't take it." Mark put his hands over his ears.
"No, can't handle it," someone else said.
They divided the cab fare and piled out of the cab onto Second Avenue. There was a colorful Mexican food place and that dinosaur bar {Continental Divide} {sic} But they chose a place with a theatrical theme, complete with a pair of thespian masks on the walls and a wierd cast of waiters. Wierd to out-of-towners, normal to New York.
The quiet one named John was still trying to have his share of intellectual conversation with Lori. He stared intently at her as he pounced upon a new theory. Debbie lent an ear out of curiosity.
Now the other guys had gotten involved in the coveted conversation. It had something to do with biology and genetics and creating the perfect species.
"This is really interesting," Lori said.
"Ugh. Save it for later," Debbie said. She hated these useless, opinionated conversations. It was too late, or rather too early in the morning for their deep thoughts.
Steve, who had been quiet for a while, was suddenly coming to life, now that it was twilight. He was getting a little too loud and obnoxious, like a college freshman who has been introduced to beer.
Debbie's head was throbbing and she was starving, but not for nachos and red sauce.
Finally, they all agreed to call and have dinner tomorrow night, before returning to Vancouver.
DENISE HICKEY
Summer of 1987
The East Village
# 0658D
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
THE RETURN
"So, what's up?" came the booming voice.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his hands as they tapped her desk, his shirt as he approached her. She had refused to look at him as she heard his heavy, reassuring footsteps rounding the corner by her desk.
Now she looked up to face him in surprise. Her lips parted, her blue eyes widened.
"Not much," she said shyly. She smiled.
"Not much?" His face lit up slightly, causing him to look more boyish than ever. The sandy blond hair, the suit, she took it all in as he stood there, facing her. She could not help but like the confident way he had just stepped right up to her desk, disregarding any possibility of rejection. How she wanted to snub him, to give him an ice cold answer, but she couldn't do it! He certainly was cute, outfitted with his blazer, which of course, did not make him look any older. Why, he looked younger with the jacket on!
What was there about a simple blazer that transformed the men who owned them? She had noticed it with all the young men in the office. They roamed the building in shirt and tie, but when it was time for a meeting across town or if they were leaving the office for lunch, the gray blazers were donned, zap. It glorified the man who wore it. The cute became sophisticated, the average became handsome, the young became experienced. She did not know quite what to make of it.
She also did not know what to make of this thing with her boss. Was something really going on? Was it just inside the office? Was it harmless flirting or a mad passionate affair, illicit liaisons sneaked in between the signing of contracts, sumptuous lunches for two, expertly timed so that Scott always left fifteen minutes earlier than she, and returned a deliberate fifteen minutes after her boss returned. Was it a long-time crush that Scott had had ever since that November day her boss was hired, three years ago? Was it only harmless flirting after all, or was Scott really as "flabbergasted" and "befuddled" as he said.
She had looked forward to his return from Europe that Monday morning. Whether an especially good weekend spent camping in Connecticut with her old college roommates, or the sultry summer sun, had lightened her mood as well as her hair, she was eager to see him again. Her hands were shaking. As she stood at the fax machine, dialing the number and inserting the paper, her legs wobbled. She waited for the beep. He was chatting with someone in the office behind her, but she would not look back.
She turned to ask the office manager for a number she needed. She looked up and there was Scott, towering over her.
He gazed down upon her with the longing of someone who has been away for a long time and has spent time thinking about someone he has not seen in a long time. He dreamily took in her suntanned face and radiant blue eyes; her hair bright from the summer sun since he had left.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hiiiii, Debbieeee," he rolled her name slowly over his tongue, as if in the same way he would have liked his hands to slide over her body, as she drifted past him.
0767D
Summer 88
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his hands as they tapped her desk, his shirt as he approached her. She had refused to look at him as she heard his heavy, reassuring footsteps rounding the corner by her desk.
Now she looked up to face him in surprise. Her lips parted, her blue eyes widened.
"Not much," she said shyly. She smiled.
"Not much?" His face lit up slightly, causing him to look more boyish than ever. The sandy blond hair, the suit, she took it all in as he stood there, facing her. She could not help but like the confident way he had just stepped right up to her desk, disregarding any possibility of rejection. How she wanted to snub him, to give him an ice cold answer, but she couldn't do it! He certainly was cute, outfitted with his blazer, which of course, did not make him look any older. Why, he looked younger with the jacket on!
What was there about a simple blazer that transformed the men who owned them? She had noticed it with all the young men in the office. They roamed the building in shirt and tie, but when it was time for a meeting across town or if they were leaving the office for lunch, the gray blazers were donned, zap. It glorified the man who wore it. The cute became sophisticated, the average became handsome, the young became experienced. She did not know quite what to make of it.
She also did not know what to make of this thing with her boss. Was something really going on? Was it just inside the office? Was it harmless flirting or a mad passionate affair, illicit liaisons sneaked in between the signing of contracts, sumptuous lunches for two, expertly timed so that Scott always left fifteen minutes earlier than she, and returned a deliberate fifteen minutes after her boss returned. Was it a long-time crush that Scott had had ever since that November day her boss was hired, three years ago? Was it only harmless flirting after all, or was Scott really as "flabbergasted" and "befuddled" as he said.
She had looked forward to his return from Europe that Monday morning. Whether an especially good weekend spent camping in Connecticut with her old college roommates, or the sultry summer sun, had lightened her mood as well as her hair, she was eager to see him again. Her hands were shaking. As she stood at the fax machine, dialing the number and inserting the paper, her legs wobbled. She waited for the beep. He was chatting with someone in the office behind her, but she would not look back.
She turned to ask the office manager for a number she needed. She looked up and there was Scott, towering over her.
He gazed down upon her with the longing of someone who has been away for a long time and has spent time thinking about someone he has not seen in a long time. He dreamily took in her suntanned face and radiant blue eyes; her hair bright from the summer sun since he had left.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hiiiii, Debbieeee," he rolled her name slowly over his tongue, as if in the same way he would have liked his hands to slide over her body, as she drifted past him.
0767D
Summer 88
Monday, July 19, 2010
AFTERMATH
It was Monday night. Debbie perched on the fire escape stairs outside the window as Lola lay sprawled on the floor, reading about diets. To their relief, Lori had not come home last night but would be arriving shortly.
"Play it cool," Lola warned. Stroling through the fields of Central Park, they had purged themselves of their newly shared hatred, as if ringing out a sopping wet sponge, seething with poison. Once during the improvised excercise class that Lola and Lori had shared, they had cried out in capricious frenzy: "Punch her! Punch her! Punch her!" Arms circling overhead, up, around, forward and down.
The door lock clicked. The sound of a key turning in its triple lock filled the studio apartment.
The door opened.
Lori's naturally tan face was white. She did not look at Lola or Debbie, but at the floor. Debbie suppressed a giggle.
"I missed you guys," Lori attempted.
Debbie turned to the counter and said nothing.
"How was your weekend?"
Debbie did not answer Lori's question.
"Oh, it was good. We found her an apartment and we went to Central Park," Lola supplied the answer.
"Really? Oh."
There was a long pause before anyone said anything..
"Oh, don't you look cute!" Debbie spoke. She referred to the red patent leather pumps, white stretch pants, red and white striped sweater, white button earrings, all perfectly coordinated.
"Did you go out this weekend?"
"Yep. Had a good time," was Debbie's terse yet jovial reply.
Denise Hickey
Summer of '87
The East Village
"Play it cool," Lola warned. Stroling through the fields of Central Park, they had purged themselves of their newly shared hatred, as if ringing out a sopping wet sponge, seething with poison. Once during the improvised excercise class that Lola and Lori had shared, they had cried out in capricious frenzy: "Punch her! Punch her! Punch her!" Arms circling overhead, up, around, forward and down.
The door lock clicked. The sound of a key turning in its triple lock filled the studio apartment.
The door opened.
Lori's naturally tan face was white. She did not look at Lola or Debbie, but at the floor. Debbie suppressed a giggle.
"I missed you guys," Lori attempted.
Debbie turned to the counter and said nothing.
"How was your weekend?"
Debbie did not answer Lori's question.
"Oh, it was good. We found her an apartment and we went to Central Park," Lola supplied the answer.
"Really? Oh."
There was a long pause before anyone said anything..
"Oh, don't you look cute!" Debbie spoke. She referred to the red patent leather pumps, white stretch pants, red and white striped sweater, white button earrings, all perfectly coordinated.
"Did you go out this weekend?"
"Yep. Had a good time," was Debbie's terse yet jovial reply.
Denise Hickey
Summer of '87
The East Village
Friday, July 16, 2010
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Tuesday, July 13, 2010
MAKING UP
She came home to find Lori packing. Her suitcase lay open and clothes lay in neat piles on the bed. Debbie had taken the express train instead of the local and it had brought her all the way down to Chinatown and she'd had to buy another token and take the uptown train which just happened to be slow this Friday night. Wasn't Lori supposed to leave tomorrow? What was Leslie doing here?
"Are you going home tonight? I thought it was tomorrow," Debbie interrogated sharply.
"Yes," Lori replied, emotionlessly as usual. She lifted a yellow tee top off the bed and laid it neatly in her suitcase. Leslie sat on the slate gray flannel bedsheets in the studio apartment.
"I thought you were leaving tomorrow! That's what you said this morning. Now I have nobody to go out with!"
"Debbie! You've got me! I'll be here tonight," Lola turned and exclaimed in surprise.
Lori packed methodically with not a word of explanation or apology while Debbie grumbled in fury, opening and closing her small blue suitcase where she stored her jewelry, refusing to look at her stoic roommate for fear she might ram her little suitcase over her little roommate's head.
Lori left.
Debbie watched as Lola sponged the counter, wisked the dishes away and reached into the cupboard for a glass, and she said nothing. She refused to reveal her opinion of Lola's bosom pal to her or anyone else.
She walked across the small studio apartment and climbed out the window onto the fire escape stairs. There she sat, studying the cyclists and skaters, peering at them from her perch in the East Village. Six stories down, Avenue A shot past their apartment, where noise, incredibly amplified and shrill, rose up from the streets, into the studio, all night long, all day, every day.
Some old man had his electric guitar plugged into something inside his green sedan and was cranking out a tune, just below her. The chords reverberated richly throughout the East Village.
"Smoke. Smoke sense," the smokers chanted on the street corner where A met Ninth. She could actually not hear them as they murmurred the subliminally seductive phrase beneath their breath, but she never-the-less knew what they were implying.
The familiar phrase, chanted every time she crossed the street, picked up her laundry, and bought milk at the 24-hour grocery store below her apartment, planted itself in her mind that first summer in New York.
She gazed across the street. There, in plain sight, was a fish market. She had never even noticed it before. She had been dying for fish and chips all summer.
She climbed back in.
Lola needed to use the phone. Debbie closed the window.
"Did you eat yet?" Lola asked. "Maybe we'll go out to dinner."
"No, I didn't eat yet. I don't know what I want."
"You can open the window now. David and I are supposed to do something, but not till late."
"Maybe I'll go home. I don't know what I should do."
"David's not coming over till late. I'll be here," Lola offered.
"Hey, I have some laundry. Can I put it with yours? I'll pay you," Lola promised.
"That's all right."
"No, I will. Where is that place you take it. How much is it usually?"
"Oh, that lady downstairs does it for three dollars in time for the next morning."
"Well, I need it tonight. I don't have any underwear left." And Lola handed her three dollars and they walked out with it.
"How does this look?" Lola sported an aqua half-top paired with satiny black tights.
"That's what I like about New York," she said. "I work hard to keep my body in shape so why can't I show it off? Besides, in Lexington, I hated it when they would say, 'Oh, she thinks she's a hot shit.'"
"Yeah, if you work that hard to keep in shape, then you should show it off," Debbie said agreeably.
"I don't know." Lola shrugged. And she took it off and changed into something else.
"Lori doesn't know it but she's going to let me borrow something tonight," Lola said vehemently.
"Yeah, she'll never know," Debbie assured her. She wasn't going to be a tattletale at any rate.
Lola switched into Lori's popsicle pink belted top over her own brand new faded Italian designer jeans.
"Should I wear this?" Debbie waved a huge black bow.
"Bows are for day. Your hair looks fine."
"Really? I don't think they are. They're more for night."
"Actually, bows are out," Lola said.
"Well, I like them," Debbie insisted.
Inside the Grassroots Cafe, on St. Mark's Place, the jukebox punched out a rock 'n' roll tune, reminiscent of college days in the rural reaches of Connecticut.
Debbie requested two lights and Lola dug into her purse.
"No, I've got it," Debbie slapped a few dollars on the dark wood surface of the bar. The damp cool smell of the bar precipitated the taste of cold acidic beer they would soon know.
"It's been a long summer...," Debbie started to say.
"I hate her...I.. HATE..her," Lola sputtered.
Debbie nodded drastically. "Know what she said to me? She said, 'It's obvious that you and Lola aren't hitting it off.' That's not what she told you, is it?" Debbie watched Lola's mouth open.
"No."
"I knew it," Debbie said.
"Know what she said? She told me you didn't want to live with me. I thought you hated me!"
Debbie shook her head. "Nope. I'm not surprised. Knew it."
"She said: Lola, Debbie does NOT want to live with you."
"Ah," Debbie said.
"And then, I was even meaner to you. The whole time I was in Europe in July, I thought about you. I don't know why I was so mean to you. I guess I was really scared because I was going to Europe alone. John was supposed to go with me. And then, I was even more mean after Lori told me you hated me!"
"Just forget about it," Debbie gestured with her hand, as if to brush away any residue of animosity that remained between them.
"No, really. Hit me!" Lola cried out refreshingly, holding out her arm.
Debbie made a half-hearted gesture, then stopped.
"Just forget about it."
"Let's make up!" Lola held up her outstretched arms.
The girls embraced like old buddies and all was absolved, forgiven, in the drunken camaraderie of the Grassroots Cafe.
"Are you going home tonight? I thought it was tomorrow," Debbie interrogated sharply.
"Yes," Lori replied, emotionlessly as usual. She lifted a yellow tee top off the bed and laid it neatly in her suitcase. Leslie sat on the slate gray flannel bedsheets in the studio apartment.
"I thought you were leaving tomorrow! That's what you said this morning. Now I have nobody to go out with!"
"Debbie! You've got me! I'll be here tonight," Lola turned and exclaimed in surprise.
Lori packed methodically with not a word of explanation or apology while Debbie grumbled in fury, opening and closing her small blue suitcase where she stored her jewelry, refusing to look at her stoic roommate for fear she might ram her little suitcase over her little roommate's head.
Lori left.
Debbie watched as Lola sponged the counter, wisked the dishes away and reached into the cupboard for a glass, and she said nothing. She refused to reveal her opinion of Lola's bosom pal to her or anyone else.
She walked across the small studio apartment and climbed out the window onto the fire escape stairs. There she sat, studying the cyclists and skaters, peering at them from her perch in the East Village. Six stories down, Avenue A shot past their apartment, where noise, incredibly amplified and shrill, rose up from the streets, into the studio, all night long, all day, every day.
Some old man had his electric guitar plugged into something inside his green sedan and was cranking out a tune, just below her. The chords reverberated richly throughout the East Village.
"Smoke. Smoke sense," the smokers chanted on the street corner where A met Ninth. She could actually not hear them as they murmurred the subliminally seductive phrase beneath their breath, but she never-the-less knew what they were implying.
The familiar phrase, chanted every time she crossed the street, picked up her laundry, and bought milk at the 24-hour grocery store below her apartment, planted itself in her mind that first summer in New York.
She gazed across the street. There, in plain sight, was a fish market. She had never even noticed it before. She had been dying for fish and chips all summer.
She climbed back in.
Lola needed to use the phone. Debbie closed the window.
"Did you eat yet?" Lola asked. "Maybe we'll go out to dinner."
"No, I didn't eat yet. I don't know what I want."
"You can open the window now. David and I are supposed to do something, but not till late."
"Maybe I'll go home. I don't know what I should do."
"David's not coming over till late. I'll be here," Lola offered.
"Hey, I have some laundry. Can I put it with yours? I'll pay you," Lola promised.
"That's all right."
"No, I will. Where is that place you take it. How much is it usually?"
"Oh, that lady downstairs does it for three dollars in time for the next morning."
"Well, I need it tonight. I don't have any underwear left." And Lola handed her three dollars and they walked out with it.
"How does this look?" Lola sported an aqua half-top paired with satiny black tights.
"That's what I like about New York," she said. "I work hard to keep my body in shape so why can't I show it off? Besides, in Lexington, I hated it when they would say, 'Oh, she thinks she's a hot shit.'"
"Yeah, if you work that hard to keep in shape, then you should show it off," Debbie said agreeably.
"I don't know." Lola shrugged. And she took it off and changed into something else.
"Lori doesn't know it but she's going to let me borrow something tonight," Lola said vehemently.
"Yeah, she'll never know," Debbie assured her. She wasn't going to be a tattletale at any rate.
Lola switched into Lori's popsicle pink belted top over her own brand new faded Italian designer jeans.
"Should I wear this?" Debbie waved a huge black bow.
"Bows are for day. Your hair looks fine."
"Really? I don't think they are. They're more for night."
"Actually, bows are out," Lola said.
"Well, I like them," Debbie insisted.
Inside the Grassroots Cafe, on St. Mark's Place, the jukebox punched out a rock 'n' roll tune, reminiscent of college days in the rural reaches of Connecticut.
Debbie requested two lights and Lola dug into her purse.
"No, I've got it," Debbie slapped a few dollars on the dark wood surface of the bar. The damp cool smell of the bar precipitated the taste of cold acidic beer they would soon know.
"It's been a long summer...," Debbie started to say.
"I hate her...I.. HATE..her," Lola sputtered.
Debbie nodded drastically. "Know what she said to me? She said, 'It's obvious that you and Lola aren't hitting it off.' That's not what she told you, is it?" Debbie watched Lola's mouth open.
"No."
"I knew it," Debbie said.
"Know what she said? She told me you didn't want to live with me. I thought you hated me!"
Debbie shook her head. "Nope. I'm not surprised. Knew it."
"She said: Lola, Debbie does NOT want to live with you."
"Ah," Debbie said.
"And then, I was even meaner to you. The whole time I was in Europe in July, I thought about you. I don't know why I was so mean to you. I guess I was really scared because I was going to Europe alone. John was supposed to go with me. And then, I was even more mean after Lori told me you hated me!"
"Just forget about it," Debbie gestured with her hand, as if to brush away any residue of animosity that remained between them.
"No, really. Hit me!" Lola cried out refreshingly, holding out her arm.
Debbie made a half-hearted gesture, then stopped.
"Just forget about it."
"Let's make up!" Lola held up her outstretched arms.
The girls embraced like old buddies and all was absolved, forgiven, in the drunken camaraderie of the Grassroots Cafe.
Monday, July 12, 2010
COMING SOON
COMING SOON More scenes from the East Village before moving on up to a piece of the sky on the Upper East Side -- and more troubles in love and luck in the corporate world of late 80s Manhattan!
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
LOLA
The sun streamed onto the shiny wood floor through the black wrought iron bars. The July morning sizzled with the summer heat, although it was only eight o'clock in the morning. Lola was doing stretches in the middle of the floor, her satiny legs in black tights, a wrinkled aqua tee shirt cut off just above her belly button. The music was slow, calm, seductive, aching, perfect for a summer morning. The drummer had jumped out the window the day before the concert, somewhere in New York City. Luther Vandross was a favorite of Lola's this summer. She carried the tape wherever she went, from the conservative streets of Lexington to the New York City heat and eventually, Europe.
Denise Hickey
Summer of 1987
The East Village
/0808D
Denise Hickey
Summer of 1987
The East Village
/0808D
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
THE SAINT
THE SAINT
(Does your mother know you live here?)
Lori was sporting what Debbie called the Bumblebee suit: pale yellow top over black and yellow striped mini. Debbie donned a black hair bow, black skirt and turquoise tank top. Crossing the street in front of them was a small band of native East Villagers. They sported varying combinations of the standard black tights, black skirt, black tank top, white tee shirt, black tank dress or possibly all five items.
"Think we'll fit in?" Debbie asked Lori. Everyone here wore black and white, it was so strange. She was just dying to get an East Village outfit before the summer was over.
"This must be it," Lori turned to the left and pointed to a long line. Her precision in regards to direction was stunningly accurate, every time. They were about to step in line when a horrible shriek rose out of nowhere.
"HELP ME!" a loud hoarse voice bellowed through the neighborhood, a shriek that could shatter the nerves of the most jaded East Villager.
Debbie jumped.
She and Lori turned around. There, approaching the long line to The Saint, was a little man, who stood all of five feet tall. He held out a can.
"Sorry," he apologized softly. "Can anybody help me out?" He chuckled sheepishly. He wore a huge sign over his chest, tied to another banner which draped over his back. Numerous messages had been spray painted, including: "Help the Homeless," "Peace," and other such messages.
Debbie and Lori turned away and entered the Saint. Passes were handed over as they gained entrance. They approached the bar. Lori purchased a small glass of orange juice for three dollars. They leaned against the bar.
Punk rock stars graced the interior of The Saint. Two tall slender girls walked by, holding hands. Shaved heads, white hair, black leather and chains permeated the decor. In the distance, Debbie spied a wire fence, Christmas lights, tinsel guarding the entrance to a private room.
A young man approached Lori. He looked all of fifteen years old.
"Now I know this has to be a pretty nice bar because you're here and I'm here. Right? Look, look at that," he said, pointing to the female couple. "We fit right in. This is a really nice place."
Debbie looked at Lori questionably, as if to ask, Should we ignore him? Or should we go along with him? Lori did not seem to mind the attention, when it was directed to her. He talked with her as if he had known her a long time. He had a friend with him, who looked cool and Italian to Debbie. A gold chain hung around his neck. He wore a yellow button-down shirt, the first two unbuttoned. He had short, dark hair, almost a crew cut.
"This is Stash," Mark introduced his friend.
What a cute name, Debbie thought. It must have shown in her face because Stash returned the smile.
"What do their mothers think when they come home?" Lori wondered.
"Look. Look at them." Mark and Stash boldly pointed at one oddity after another as each drifted by. Actually, they were the only oddity amidst shaved heads, black leather and accompanying chains.
Mark shouted at the two girls holding hands as they passed by, but they did not seem to hear.
"Oh, you like each other, huh? What's the matter?" he approached them. But they strolled past, hands clasped. Debbie could not stop laughing.
"Look. Look at that one." Stash was saying. "That looks like my old girlfriend. Look at her. She looks like my old girlfriend."
He worked on Wall Street and at 22, was a self-made business tycoon. He and a friend owned a small company. He had a 3.8 in college, no social life and quit finally, to go to work.
"Well, that's something you can be proud of," Debbie told him. He nodded enthusiastically.
"I'm a tycoon!" he said.
He kept glancing at her, taking in the black bow, the young face and his eyes squinted in adoration. She probably reminded him of an old girlfriend.
"I didn't even have time for a serious girlfriend in college."
"Neither did I. I never really had a serious relationship in college but I met different people," Debbie found herself confessing to this total stranger.
"Yeah, I bet you met a lot of them, too," Stash said softly to which she laughed in delight.
"Let's go upstairs," he said, and the four of them walked up the winding black staircase to a dome-shaped room filled with mist. The high dome resembled the sky, stretching infinitely above them. Colored lights punctured the mist, stars.
Stash danced enthusiastically to a familiar disco beat as Debbie accompanied him on the dance floor. She missed the numb feeling that alchohol gave her, the feeling she could do anything, especially dance it up all night. But she did not want to spend all her money on one or two drinks. So she spent none. What good was dancing without drinks?
Stash motioned her off the floor and said he had to meet a friend.
"I'll be around," he promised. "I'm everywhere!" And he left.
Mark looked as if he wanted to see Lori again. They were laughing and pointing to an emaciated Mick Jagger look-alike.
"He looks like he has AIDS," Lori said. He was moving his hip bone in a peculiar way and he looked in need of food, a nose job, and a haircut. His jaw jutted outward in the same way that his hip did, and he had red hair.
"Boy, is he ugly," Lori said. Mark was mimicking him.
"Oh, my God." Debbie said. She laughed. They decided they had had enough for one night. The three left.
"You don't live in the Alphabet, do you?!" Mark grew more alarmed as they stepped further and further downtown, into the East Village.
"If my mother knew I was here...she made me take the bus and made sure I had enough money to go back. I've never been this far down Third Avenue," he said.
"Can I have your number?" he asked Lori.
"I don't like to give out my number."
"I'm asking for your number because I will call you but I know you won't ever call me," Mark said.
Debbie jumped for a pen. Someone on the sidewalk lent her his. She scribbled Matt's number on the inside of a black matchbook with teh inscription, "The Saint" in gold lettering. She wanted to see Stuart again.
They reached their doorstep, passing the all night grocery. The odd fragrance of flowers mixed with fresh fruit and vegetables drifted to their noses. It was a smell that would linger in Debbie's mind long after they had moved from their studio apartment in the East Village.
A drunken man, his dark hair greasy, lay in an old overcoat on the front steps. The sickening smell of stale garbage, rotting banana peels and sour milk, overwhelmed them. Debbie clutched her stomach, overcome every morning as she left for work, the early morning smell greeting her before her day had even begun.
Once, Lori's friend had escorted them home. She had run into him in a club. "New York is a lonely city. You don't run into people you know here," she had once said. Every day since they had moved here, she met another old friend from college or her home town.
"Does your mother know you live here?" he demanded, mortified.
"I don't like to bring people here. It's embarrassing," Lori told Debbie later.
"So what?! It's embarrassing," Lori told Debbie later.
"So what?! It's not our fault," Debbie snapped.
They stepped over the sleeping bum, as Mark boarded the bus in front of their apartment, to the Upper East Side.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
More to come...
From a fire-damaged pre-war apartment in the East Village to an Upper East Side near penthouse floor; replete with psycho roomies and being watched by the FBI! -- Meanwhile struggling to find love and success in corporate New York in the late 1980s. FOLLOW Debbie! Click the Follow widget button thing! (the more things change, the more they remain the same -- to you, Lynne! See you at the beeeaaach -- in early August!) DRIVE SAFELY OR NOT AT ALL -- EVERYONE -- THIS WEEKEND. See "The Day" on Thursday, July 1st if you don't believe in CAUTION.
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