Up Next: AFTERMATH

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.

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!

Up Next: MAKING UP

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

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.

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.