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.
