Not all intellectuals have been exiled from Manhattan by the exorbitant rents and last spring editors, writers, publishers, agents, actors, painters, and pundits gathered at a West Village triplex to celebrate a radical journalist’s safe return from the Libyan revolution. Anne’s tales of the rebels’ fight against Khadaffi’s regime had appeared in the Wall Street Journal and Weekly Standard and she was a hero in my eyes.
The first arrivals congregated in the basement kitchen. I was one of them. The Guatemalan maid poured rose champagne and red wine.
Our Saharan-tanned hostess was dressed in a sleek black dress complimenting her svelte figure. I congratulated her daring exploits with a paperback 1st edition of Jacqueline Susann’s VALLEY OF THE DOLLS.
“I love her.” Anne thanked me for the gift and swiftly swung her attention to the avalanche of guests descending the winding stairs. None were famous, although several had come close to achieving notoriety.
Within thirty minutes the kitchen was packed with smart people sounding smarter with each glass of wine. Conversation was nearly impossible with the rise tide of volume.
Years ago I would have glowed at the center of this cosmos.
Tonight I simply desired some quiet words, which wasn’t happening in the basement, and I ascended to the ground floor, where I ran into a friend’s ex-wife.
The 34 year-old brunette came from Boston. She asked after my family in Thailand.
“Everyone is good.” Angie was # 1 at her school and Fenway was a superstar. I missed them more than a heroin habit.
“You ever thought about having more kids?” Beth was teaching literature at NYU.
“My wife and I are done.” Two step-children made us six.
“What about another woman?”
“I’m faithful to my wife.”
“You have several kids. I want a baby before I’m too old. You ever think about being a donor.” Beth seemed so fragile in this desire.
“You will, but you deserve better than me or your husband.” I skated off this thin ice and introduced my friend’s ex-wife to a good-looking and single banker.
Her smile disguised the disbelief of happiness in her time.
I left the two to get acquainted and I descended from the kitchen’s mosh pit for another glass of wine. The maid was trapped by the counter. She’d never make it any higher to serve the other guests. I signaled for her to pass a bottle of wine to me. It was a Chablis.
The bell rang and I climbed the stairs to open the door to another onslaught of guests. They piled their coats and jackets on the sofas before filling the ever louder basement. Seeking the solace of silence I climbed to the second-floor and found a Laotian-French girl sitting with her Lebanese boyfriend.
The restauranteur was praising the wave of rebellion washing across the Middle East and a Wall Street banker proposed a toast to Democracy. My glass stayed at my side and I said, “This is less about Democracy than the struggle of the poor against the rich. No jobs, no food, no rights.”
“Well, here’s to the rich.” The Lebanese boyfriend drained his glass with a sneer twisting his lips. His aspiration to wealth was no sin in America, where everyone wanted to be a billionaire.
Back on the first floor I spoke with a pregnant literary agent.
She asked for advice from a father of four.
I only know what I know and said, “Don’t have a c-section. Let the baby sleep in the bed with you. Feed the baby breast milk as long as you can and quit working your job. Your baby is more important than any book.”
She thanked for this counsel and asked about my writing.
I raccounteured the outline to my book about hitching across America in 1974.
“Lesbian orgy in Big Sur, LSD on Black’s Beach, drinking moonshine with ex-cons on Route 66, ghosts in a haunted mountain house in Vermont, gay marines at a disco in San Diego. A tale of lost times.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“Maybe you’ll get to read it one day,” I said with a smile, even though I have abandoned any hopes of having my stories published in a book.
I was 58. Editors wanted young blood, who have a knack for tapping out fiction on their Blackberries. That person was not me and it was time to go home, but one the way out I was introduced by an English dandy to his friends as a man who had been thrown out of Thailand.
“Excuse me.” His comment bordered on slander and as a younger man I might have assaulted him in front of everyone, however AD had actually lent me $100 upon my return to the States and that money had helped my family.
That favor granted him liberty at my expense.
“Come on, everyone knows how the Thai police escorted you to the airport in chains.” The former child star lifted his head to laugh at this image and his friends regarded me with delight. I was a true criminal in their midst.
“That’s a funny story, but not even close to true,” I swiftly explained how the Thai police had treated me with absolute deference. “No chains, no dirty jail cell. They bought me dinner after I paid bail. The head detective said that he would protect me. Three months later I paid a $100 fine for international copyright infringement and the police were waiting outside to take me for drinks again. I’m persona grata in Thailand. By the way I’m paying off everyone who helped me back then. Here’s your c-note.”
The fop snatched the bill from my hand. He has two kids and they could use the money.
I left the room, as he recounted to his friends about the sordid details of wiring money via Western Union. AD was quite right about that. Western Union offices are drenched with the sadness of desperation and I haven’t been to one in ages.
The dB level downstairs was reaching a roar. I thanked my hostess and slipped out of the house.
Centuries ago Samuel Johnson said, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”
I wasn’t tired of life or New York. I simply wanted to get in my bed.
It wasn’t cold outside and I walked over to subway on West 4th Street. The A train was making local stops to Far Rockaway. Home in Fort Greene was less than 30 minutes away. I caught the next train. It was loud, but less so than the kitchen and I almost fell asleep. It was going to be good getting to bed.