I was heading to my old stomping grounds, when I saw this very very pretty lady. She was, well, pretty, and she was walking the opposite direction. I spun to watch her shimmy off. I checked my watch to see if I had time for such a dalliance, and, since I had no watch, decided I did.
"Hey, there," I said, rushing to keep pace with this babe and a half.
She said nothing to me. She looked straight ahead, giving me no credit whatsoever for existing.
"My name's Arnie," I said, "What's yours?"
She must not have heard me.
"Hey," I said, "What would it take for you to get to know me?"
She stopped for a minute, took her sunglasses from off of her head, and onto her eyes, gave me a blackened look, and said, "A partial lobotomy and a sex change."
As she sped off, I said, "When these are done, where will I reach you?"
This sort of thing would never have happened in the olden days. I used to live the charmed life, with things always going my way. I used to be the Jolly Rogers, and the babes, among others, would adore me.
That was before Pittsburgh. A lot of things were before Pittsburgh.
"Hell," I said, "I don't have time for this."
I had a luncheon appointment at the Good Food Diner, one that I did not want to miss.
"Is it that bad?" I asked.
"Oh, Arnie," Steve replied emphatically, putting down his Blue Kiwi Shake. "You wouldn't believe!"
"I can't sleep, the house is a mess, my schedule's all messed up, the dishes never get washed -- not that there's any food left to put on them -- there's an unconscionable smell everywhere, and a constant sense of shame, of guilt, of repressed suicidal tendencies --"
I drank my water "How long's John been staying?"
"Two weeks!" Steve yelled, just as Gigi came with Steve's double order of fries. The cuisine at the Good Food Diner, while not living up to the name, was copious indeed, and I was sure Steve would barely notice if I ate, say, all of his food.
I nibbled at a fry. Agitated Steve didn't seem to mind.
"And in addition," Steve added, "He snores."
"This is news?"
"I never dreamed it would be so consuming. So, there I am, at my Masterboard, working on this autobiographical essay on the death of romance in the 20th Century, when I suddenly suspect that issue is irrelevant, because the apocalypse is nigh."
"Nigh," I said with raised eyebrows.
"Nigh," Gigi repeated as she passed with Steve's shake refill.
"Nigh," Steve acknowledged, "It's a humming machine of destruction, an alien doomsday device sent to us, to annihilate all we hold dear. A loud, braying high-pitched whine that allows no thoughts but brief bytes along the lines of 'My brain is shrinking' and 'I am curious tofu'."
"Which is, in reality, John snoring."
Steve, wild-eyed, picked up his shake. "You've heard this story before?"
"Go on."
"It's John snoring," Steve sullenly anticlimaxed, "So, to soothe my nerves, I put on a pot of tea, to which I'd add brandy or rat poison, whichever struck my fancy, when, to the rhythm of my whistling kettle, John's shattering sounds become even louder!"
"Louder even than the apocalypse?" I asked.
"Nigh unto the apocalypse," GiGi corrected.
"In a daze of confusion," Steve continued, "I stumble over to my floral couch --"
"-- Which presently doubles as John's bed --"
" -- Exactly. And, not really thinking straight, I think about waking him, think about shoving him, think about putting on an Egbert Horseback album, when I notice the hand holding my hissing kettle is tipping over, drops of boiling liquid are spurting out, and I'm dangerously close to..."
"Watering your house guest."
Steve nodded solemnly. "It was just then I noticed I had to meet you for lunch."
I chomped on a handful of fries. "So it's a good thing we had these plans, right?"
"Yep," Steve said, gumming at his non-alcoholic milkyshake, "I'd've been cleaning melted John off my couch for months."
"Is that anyway to talk about your room-mate?" GiGi said.
I grinned. It was good to be back. Listening to Steve rant in eternal bitterness oer the inequities of the world while the world ignored him brought back so many fond memories of bygone years. It made me feel good to be alive. I was grateful for Steve being available this day, if only to bitch.
"You about done with that shake?" I asked.
Steve threw his shake my way, and defended himself to our waitress. "He's not my room-mate! He's only crashing until he gets on his feet!"
I chided. "Don't talk that way. You'll be common-law in just seven years."
"Oh," Steve turned back to me, grabbing his blue cup back, "When a friend comes to the door, pitifully crying that he needs a place to stay, you're supposed to just leave him there on the street?"
"Anything else here?" GiGi Malmsteen said, realizing that Steve, while still amusing, was only going to get louder and more upset at this level of ribbing. The Good Food Diner got little enough business as it was, we didn't need to do anything to augment said deficiencies.
"We done here?" I looked askance at Steve. I'd graciously invited him to dine with me so he'd offer to pay. Things'd been tight for me since Pittsburgh.
"I think I've had enough," Steve said, getting up. "I'm about ready to face John again."
"I'll walk you home," I said, heading for the door before anyone could make me pay. Steve'd cover it, I was sure. I waited for him outside.
Grumblingly putting his wallet away, Steve closed the door to the chimes of GiGi saying, "Come again!"
Where else would we go?
"He just appeared on my door out of the blue!" Steve continued, as we crossed the street. "I hadn't seen him for five weeks, after our Baltimore trip."
I shrugged, ungloved hands in pockets. "Been longer for me. I was still out of town then."
"Everyone's always going out of town," Steve said, "Pol to Germany, John and me to Baltimore, you God knows where, Bart spending how much time in Ithaca. It's a sign, Arnie. People are more self-absorbed, or something."
"Mm-hmm," I sipped the last of Steve's doggie-bagged Blue Kiwi Shake, "So to combat this, you offered John a place to lay his weary head as long as he needed one."
Steve turned his head to me, not slowing his pace one iota. "You're mocking me."
"Name of the game," I said, "Stevey-boy, you want to be nice, be compassionate, be a sucker -- whatever -- that's your cup of OJ. But you gotta expect abuse. I mean, you can't fairly complain about John when you're busy clothing, sheltering and defending him."
Steve stopped and stared at me, eyes full of contorted rage as he tried to refute my points. Of course, it was useless, and slowly, the energy drained from him, and he dropped his head down, down, down. Steve was hanging pretty low.
"John's never going to leave, is he?"
I put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Not if he can help it," I said, pushing Steve toward his front door. "Go."
I really wanted to go in with Steve. I couldn't wait to see how Steve and John were cohabitating. Steve's not normally the cleanest of sorts, but his kind of home pales before the chaos that John always creates. And, of course, it would be fun to see the mortally abused look on Steve's face as John performed some of his typically annoying character traits, like eating with his mouth open, leaving lights on, and breathing.
Unfortunately, I had places to go.
"Mr. Rogers," the short manager looked down on me, "Why do you want to live here at Unicorn Projects?"
I looked slowly around the 5 x 5' room that would be my dining room, living room, entertainment center, kitchen and, God help me, bathroom, if I would be accepted. The walls were a dingy gray, and the mouse hole seemed to double as a window. The entire tour of the apartment took me, even with stalling, twelve seconds.
"Mr. Yolen," I said, waving luxuriously, "Who could resist an apartment Unicorn Projects?"
He smiled, somehow, without lips or eyes, or any humor. His mouth moved without otherwise changing his dour countenance. "Yes, well," he said, "Please complete this application, and we'll let you know right away if you will join our happy family."
Walking through the huge building, I'd seen other members of the Unicorn family. Happy they weren't.
"Thanks," I said, as I accepted the proffered application, "Just give me a minute to fill this out."
I filled in my name, which was not much of a problem, but after that, things got a little hectic. They asked where I was living. I was tempted to put down 714 Union -- the address of Unicorn Projects -- but decided to go with my present residence at the Y. I didn't think that would serve me all that well. The form also wanted to know my present employer. So did I. My yearly income, too, was a matter of great curiosity to all concerned.
I put as much honest information as I could on the form, and followed up with what couldn't be traced. Pittsburgh hadn't dulled all my senses entirely.
"Yes," Bald little Mr. Yolen said, taking the paper from my hand. "We'll get back to you promptly."
"Of that," I said, heading for the door, "I have no doubt."
I also had no doubt that I would never see that apartment again.
I had nothing else to do for the next hour, so I headed back to Steve's place. After Steve rang the front door, a silly little thought crossed my mind. Wouldn't it be wild if we could build up a Moon's Edge apartment? I thought about it as the elevator carried me to nine. Steve and John were already living together, and I needed a place to stay. Maybe I could fit into Steve's space. It was a snug apartment, especially with his girlfriend always around, but it could be fun. It could be like the old days, back when we used to do sleep-overs. I'd see if there was a way to broach the subject to Steve, I decided, as the elevator doors slid open.
"Prepare yourself for hell," I said, walking to Steve's apartment. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I grasped the handle and entered. It looked like they'd been raising fertilizer in this bachelor pad. Papers, clothes, and unhuman-looking growths were strewn about the place. Wax and soda bottles covered Steve's pride, his antique Kiwi Masterboard computer, at the kitchen table. The refrigerator was opened, and, from this angle, cleaned out. In one spot, I thought I saw the floor, and, despite it being historically rugless, I could swear the ground was blue. Some newly placed ceramic, or an original life-form? A pizza that looked Paleolithic lay next to the couch. A man who looked pathetic lay on it.
"Hey, Arnie," Steve said with a sigh. "Welcome to the end of all things."
"Nice place you got here," I said with the chipperest of grins, "Got room for another?"
"You're joking," he said, getting up, kicking the sewing machine as he walked up to me. "Like I don't have enough to worry about with this creature."
I moved to meet Steve in the middle of the living room. "And where is our little friend now?" I asked.
Steve put his fingers through his long, luxurious black hair, "Well, he was asleep a minute ago. Hopefully, your ringing the bell has woken him up."
"You want him awake?"
"Better than hearing him snore. He decided to take a nap in my room while we were out to lunch. It's the last straw, Arnie. I put an eviction notice over his face. When he wakes up, he'll read it, take a hint, and get out of my life forever."
And then there would be an open space in Chez Steve. It wouldn't be as much fun as a Moon's Edge Compound, but probably a lot more sanitary. A small, subtle smile crossed my face.
Off-stage, I heard a scream. It was piercing, powerful, dangerous. It was cavernous. It was pain and helpless fury incarnate: John.
Suddenly, whining, moping, tearing out hair and magazines in the wet spot of this maelstrom the stubby hairy beast appeared, in a polka-dotted robe that was thankfully far too large for him.
"Aiieeee!" John, bellowed.
I nudged Steve, "I guess he woke up."
"Do tell," He said, watching John circle the apartment, knocking down a lamp and unsettling a pile of cassettes. And I had thought there was no more damage to be done to the apartment.
Steve rushed to his roomie and slapped him. John stopped speeding around the room to look at his host. "What, John?"
"Did you see this?" John cried, threw a tear-washed tabloid at Steve. The Weekly Retorter, one of the City's yellow journal rags. Not an especially respected source of news, and an indispensable addition to any bachelor pad. I always try to have a subscription, just for laughs. Since Pittsburgh, I've been buying them at the newsstand.
"I bought it, " Steve said tiredly, "I even put it over your face to suffocate you. You didn't happen to read the note I attached to it, did you?"
"Page 38!" John called, rapidly turning pages to show Steve whatever it was in question.
"Evidently, he didn't read my note." Steve said to me. I nodded in agreement.
John held the paper in shaking hands, then threw it at Steve. Then, he bent over, head down, and loudly wept.
Steve tapped his foot quickly as he searched out the page. I wondered at how he had gotten so tolerant of such fools. The only answer I could come to was years of practice.
"Page 38," Steve looked at John the crumpled mess, "Found it. And?"
John looked up, a tear or two dribbling down his stubbly reddened cheeks. "The picture, man, the picture!"
Steve looked down, muttering "Make sense," and then saw the picture. Coming up right behind Steve, I saw John watching us look at the black and white photograph of some heavy metalloid with a cute chick. His hair was half a foot above his head, and he had on a real smooth leather jacket. She wore a black vest over a white t-shirt, and had real short butch hair. It was only a photograph, but the girl seemed to have a certain sense of motivation about her. She was not some model or groupie, fawning over the superstar.
"Ana Male and some lusty babe," Steve said, and looked down at our plump friend. "Why do we care?"
"You care." I corrected. Steve turned back to me for a second, then returned attention to John.
John snapped out of his anguish for a tenth of an instant. "Hi, Arnie. What brings you here?"
"Haven't seen you in a while," I said, "Maybe I missed you."
Maybe I lied.
"That's so sweet," John said, putting one hand over his heart, and one hand pointed at the paper, "That's Janine!"
Steve nodded, reading the blurb. "Yep. 'Ana Male, leader of Zoo, seen with off-broadyway actress Janine Beedy.' Again I say, so what?"
"What does she see in him?"
"What does an actress see in a world-famous rock star?" I ventured, "Let me think..."
"Oh, he's not world famous," Steve said.
"He's done three world tours in the last year," I answered, "All sold out."
"How could she be dating him so soon?" John wailed.
"What is he talking about?" Steve and I said to each other. Then Steve added, "If you're talking sense, John, let someone know, so we can nod appropriately."
John of course, had virtually forgotten about us. He was busy in his own illusory world, where he goes when reality gets too colorful for him.
"I mean, I know she's a responsible adult, and all," He mused, "But I would have thought that it would take at least a few years to get over someone like me."
"Meaning...?" Steve said.
"Janine and I only broke up two weeks ago."
I looked at the picture again. Reality check. This Janine Beedy was a looker. And, evidently, had done something with her life, to be recognized in the Retorter, yellow rag that it was. It made sense for a starlet to be with someone like the leader of Zoo. She wasn't the typical bimbo type: she looked clever, together, though certainly very pretty. Thus...
"No way were you ever with her." I said at John. Steve was chuckling at the very thought.
"Steve," John said, "You almost met her. Remember, when I got back from Baltimore."
Steve's fingers snapped. "That actress who bailed you out from Baltimore State?"
"Baltimore's not a state," I corrected.
"Whatever."
John said, "We were gonna have lunch --"
"-- But she mysteriously disappeared right before I got there." Steve was skeptical.
"You remember."
"I remember when John promised us front row seats to the Sly and the Family Stallone show," I offered.
"Had to wait 'til the security went home to see that front row," Put in Steve. He was snorting. Steve knew he could trust John as far as a cannon could throw him.
"You were late, Steve. She had an appointment with her agent."
Steve had a far-away look. He wasn't quite with us in his apartment, and, state that it was in, who could blame him? He was gone, though, busy reviewing the past. "And that was the last I saw of you for five weeks."
"I was busy being in love."
Something strange entered Steve's eye. Acceptance? Insanity? Understanding?
Gullibility.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Steve asked.
"Get outta town," said I, to Steve, "You believe him?"
"Well," Steve volleyed back, "why wasn't John in touch for so long?"
"He found new people to harass? He lost our phone numbers? He took a hint? He was in the middle of another grand delusion? He got lost? I dunno, Steve; who cares? Believing John is the way to madness."
"Normally, I'd agree," John said, "But this time he happens to be telling the truth."
"Maybe," Steve asserted, then, without looking, promptly smacked John. "Don't speak in the third person. Bad for the case."
I shook my head. I was having trouble with the scene here. I'd be as enthusiastic as the next guy to find out that my bud John had a torrid affair with a celebrity, but I'd need hard cold facts to back it up. This running on faith thing was hard for me to swallow.
"Got anything to drink?" I asked my host.
Steve turned to John, who ventured, "Water's in the tap."
"I'm outta here," I said, "I'll be at the office, if you need me."
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