“That’s reassuring.”
“You both like jazz. Talk about music. On second thought, don’t.”
He left the shop at six. It was a warm afternoon, the buses were crowded; he decided to walk. The weather had been fine for days. The sky was blue, the air was reasonably clean, and he had no reason to feel uneasy.
Nevertheless, the uneasiness began as soon as he stepped out of Lindner’s front door and it intensified with every step he took.
At first he dismissed it. He’d been through some novel experiences in the last few months and a little paranoia, at this stage, was perhaps not too surprising. But he couldn’t dismiss the uneasiness or the thoughts it provoked, memories he had neglected: of the tunnel, of the machine bugs, of their warning.
He recalled the rubble in the sub-basement of the building near Tompkins Square. Someone had been there before him, someone dangerous. But Tom had passed that way safely, and his anonymity would be guaranteed in a city as vast as New York—wouldn’t it?
He told himself so. Nevertheless, as he walked east on Eighth toward Millstein’s shabby East Village neighborhood, his vague anxiety resolved into a solid conviction that he was being followed. He paused across the street from Millstein’s tenement building and turned back. Puerto Rican women moved between the stoops and storefronts; three children crossed the street at a fight. There were two Anglos visible: a large, pale woman steering a baby stroller and a middle-aged man with a brown paper bag tucked under his arm. So who in this tableau was stalking him?
Probably no one. Bad case of coffee nerves, Tom thought. And maybe a little guilt. Guilt about what he’d left behind. Guilt about what he’d found. Guilt about falling in love in this strange place.
He stepped off the curb and into the path of an oncoming cab. The driver leaned into his horn and swerved left, passing him by inches, UNIDENTIFIED MAN KILLED ON CITY STREET—maybe that was history, too.
After some nervous overtures they adjourned to Stanley’s, where Millstein drank and relaxed.
They talked about music in spite of Joyce’s warning. It turned out Millstein had been an avid jazz fan since he arrived here, “a callow youth from Brooklyn,” at the end of the forties. He was an old Village hand; he’d met Kerouac once or twice—an observation which plunged Tom into one more “time travel” epiphany. Giants had walked here, he thought. “Though of course,” Millstein added, “that scene is long dead.”
Joyce mentioned her friend Susan. Susan had written another letter from the South, where she was getting death threats because of her affiliation with the SNCC. One enterprising recidivist had delivered a neatly wrapped package of horse manure to the door of her motel room.
Millstein shrugged. “Everybody’s too political. It’s tiresome. I’m tired of protest songs, Joyce.”
“And I’m tired of passive pseudo-Zen navel-gazing,” Joyce said. “There’s a world out there.”
“A world run by men in limousines who don’t much listen to music. As far as the world is concerned, guitar playing is a minor-league activity.”
Joyce inspected the depths of her beer. “Maybe Susan’s right, then. I should be doing something more direct.”
“Like what? Freedom riding? Picketing? Essentially, you know, it’s still guitar playing. It’ll be tolerated as long as it serves some purpose among the powerful—federalism, in the present instance. And tidied up when they’re done with it.”
“That’s about the most cynical thing I’ve heard you say, Lawrence. Which covers some territory. Didn’t Gandhi make a remark about ‘speaking truth to power’?”
“Power doesn’t give a flying fuck, Joyce. That should be obvious.”
“So what’s the alternative?”
“Il faut cultiver notre jardin. Or write a poem.”
“Like Ginsberg? Ferlinghetti? That’s pretty political stuff.”
“You miss the point. They’re saying, here’s the ugliness, and here’s my revulsion—and here’s the mystery buried in it.”
“Mystery?”
“Beauty, if you like.”
“Making art out of junk,” Joyce interpreted. “You could say that.”
“While people starve? While people are beaten?”
“Before I starve,” Millstein said. “Before I’m beaten. Yes, I’ll make these beautiful objects.”
“And the world is better for it?”
“The world is more beautiful for it.”
“You sound like the Parks Commission.” She turned to Tom. “How about you? Do you believe in poetry or politics?”
“Never gave much thought to either one,” Tom said.
“Behold,” Lawrence said. “The Noble Savage.”
Tom considered the question. “I suppose you do what you have to. But we’re all pretty much impotent in the long run. I don’t make national policy. At most, I vote. When it’s convenient. Henry Kissinger doesn’t drop in and say, ‘Hey, Tom, what about this China thing?’ ”
Millstein looked up from his drink. “Who the hell is Henry Kissinger?”
Joyce was a little drunk and very intense, frowning at him across the table. “You’re saying we don’t make a difference?”
“Maybe some people make a difference. Martin Luther King, maybe. Khrushchev. Kennedy.”
“People whose names begin with K,” Millstein supplied.
“But not us,” Joyce insisted. “We don’t make a difference. Is that what you mean?”
“Christ, Joyce, I don’t know what I mean. I’m not a philosopher.”
“No. You’re not a repairman, either.” She shook her head. “I wish I knew what the hell you were.”
“There’s your mistake,” Millstein said. “Dear Joyce. Next time you go to bed with somebody, make sure you’re formally introduced.”
Millstein drank until he loved the world. This was his plan. He told them so. “It doesn’t always work. Well, you know that. But sometimes. Drink until the world is lovable. Good advice.” The evening wore on.
They parted around midnight, on the sidewalk, Avenue B. Millstein braced himself against Tom’s breastbone. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, about before. I was an asshole!”
“It’s okay,” Tom said.
Millstein looked at Joyce. “You be good to her, Tom.”
“I will. Of course I will.”
“She doesn’t know why we love her and hate her. But it’s for the same reason, of course. Because she’s this … this pocket of faith. She believes in virtue! She comes to this city and sings songs about courage. My God! She has the courage of a saint. It’s her element. Even her vices are meticulous. She’s not merely good in bed, she’s good—in bed!”
“Shut up,” Joyce said. “Lawrence, you shit! Everybody can hear you.”
Millstein turned to her and took her face between his hands, drunkenly but gently. “This is not an insult, dear. We love you because you’re better than we are. But we’re jealous of your goodness and we will scour it out of you if we possibly can.”
“Go home, Lawrence.”
He wheeled away. “Good night!”
“Good night,” Tom said. But it didn’t feel like such a good night. It was hot. It was dark. He was sweating.
He walked home with Joyce leaning into his shoulder. She was still somewhat drunk; he was somewhat less so. The conversation had made her sad. She paused under a streetlight and looked at him mournfully.
She said, “You’re not immortal anymore!”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, no! When you came here, Tom, you were immortal. I was sure of it. The way you walked. The way you looked at everything. Like this was all some fine, wonderful place where nothing could hurt you. I thought you must be immortal—the only explanation.”