"Nobody's coining here in four days," I said.
"Why not?"
"I didn't mail the cards."
"Lie," she said. "I caught you in a lie. You hadn't read the cards so there was no reason not to mail them."
"I lied when I said I hadn't read them. But I'm telling the truth now. I read them. But I didn't mail them."
"You're too messed up to read."
"Okay, it's true I hadn't read them. But I suspected what was written on them. So I didn't mail them."
"Not even remotely convincing."
"I gave them away. There was a beggar over near Stanton Street. I gave him the post cards to sell for black bread and soup. The beggar then revealed himself to be a sixteenth-century English saint. Nigel of Chelsea. He gave me his credit card to use for thirty days without fear of criminal prosecution."
"I always know when you're lying regardless of what comes out of your mouth. You become very still. And your eyes get hard. You try to overpower the person you're lying to. When I lie I try to slip past like a little stream. But you, you're like Easter Island."
"Tell me who's showing up for the last party."
"Oh, everybody."
"Can you give me an example?"
"Oh, you know, everybody."
"Bright lights of the past. Is that it?"
"The neon creepies."
"Opel, shit."
"They're just folks, Bucky."
I slept with my head somewhere under her arm. When I woke up it was nearly dark. Opel never appeared peaceful in sleep. There were other times, certain expressions she made, when I could see exactly what she'd looked like at the age of ten; this funny child smiled out from the middle of her face. But in sleep she was faintly angry, twice her true age, laboring through dreams and panic, a menopausal line coursing down her jaw. Sleep drained her of impulsiveness and failed to replace it with some approximation of its opposite, serenity or resignation. Opel did not rest easily. She was a bed-fighter, kicking, angling for position, making carnivorous noises. The trance was a kindlier state for her. In the past we'd cruised together into various distorted modes and she never failed to evolve security from a chemical's endless suburbs. She belonged dead center in that ferocious calm; it steadied her as sleep never could. I woke her up now and made love with whatever strength I could summon, whatever bruising resolution, a fresh edge to body and mind, drawn from that walk in the wind, power-resurgent-now, teased by the feeling I might soon return to the sound outside. Her body gave me back the heat of sleep, responding slowly, no longer greedy in its freedoms, a body rising like bread, her loins poised, tongue at my ear, hand knuckling along my spine, and it was art we sought to shape, a moral form to master commerce, the bodies we were and the danger we needed, that of dredging each other's insufficiencies, touring the deepest holes. We rode an odd moment now, laughter back and forth, her eyes alert to love's delight, an instant only, then down to pelvic business, rack and pinion, the poet's word dropping off the page. Through the day Opel remained in bed, resting up (she said) for her mercantile encounter. I dialed numbers on the dead phone.
"Why is ecology so boring to read about?" she said.
"For the same reason destruction is such fun."
"Old magazines are pretty. Don't you think?"
"Sure, why not."
"This one says Spain is a land of contrast. I'll have to go there soon."
"It may not be timeless enough for you."
"Right now I need contrast. The eye gets tired as hell seeing the same surroundings. That's the second and final justification for travel as a matter of fact. To keep the eye interested."
"What's the first?" I said.
"To become a thing. I told you that."
"But is there any land that isn't a land of contrast?"
"I don't know. But Spain makes an outright claim. If you went somewhere where they didn't make the claim, you'd be taking a big chance. You might get there and find no contrast at all. No, it's definitely Spain. I'm going to Spain."
"Spain," I said into the phone. "Get me the Spain the tourist never sees."
"When are you getting out of here, Bucky? Don't you want to make some sounds? You haven't written anything, you haven't played, you haven't even hummed. What the hell, man."
"What the hell, man."
"You should be playing."
"You should be dealing," I said. "Where's your man? If your man doesn't show up, where are you then? You'll have to go back to Texas and manage your daddy's empire. You want to deal, that's dealing. Why'd you ever leave? Come up here in this freezing gray slush. Hang around in that little bed waiting for some long-time weird geek bureaucrat to drive up in his pimpmobile and knock on your door. It makes no sense."
"Could be you're right. But I know one thing. My eyes need contrast."
"Spain," I said into the phone.
Several days later people of various sorts appeared in the room. Some I knew; others were unknown to me. I sat in the bowl-shaped canvas chair. Opel led the celebrants around me. I nodded, blinked and occasionally touched another's jutting hand. I had little to say but was sure no one would mind. They already knew my voice. It was my presence they were eager to record, the simple picture of man-in-chair, a memory print to trade for other people's time. Slowly the room began to fill. It became obvious the original ten were intent on trebling. People spoke of where they lived, in what shamble of rooms or post-atomic street. Of their health, poor and poorer. Of bands of howling boys abroad in NoHo. Of distant spring on the banks of the East River, stoic picnickers watching bodies rise to the surface, braided in weed and pecked by idle fish. Someone mentioned the loft he'd just moved into, a large windy place, floors buckled and humped, no lights without a kite and key. Of teen-age wino communes. Tia Maria modeled (draped) for art students at Cooper Union. Chester Greenlee panhandled on Eighth Street, wearing a Mickey Mouse mask. Miss Mott lived alone on Mott Street, as in the past, called Miss Rivington, she'd lived on Rivington Street, and on Canal Street as Miss Canal. She was in her late sixties (it was speculated), a collector of Dad's Root Beer bottles and copies of the Wall Street Journal. 1 took a breath and then another. A man smoked a pipe, sitting with legs jauntily crossed, dressed in patched corduroy. The neon creepies chatted and wept, bad teeth, worse posture.
"This is the last party."
"Look, I'm wearing my forty-dollar chinchilla Luv Glove. It's a gesture. We need gestures today. People's stomachs are shrinking with fear. We need to wear each other's underwear. I issue this edict. Wear each other's underwear. It's a gesture of faith in each other. It's the end of fear."
"Oh God my head. Oh my whole mind. My limbs and extremities. Oh God my hair, my nails, my pores."
"I'm troubled by movie dreams. Glamorous faces appear and disappear. All the great names. I find it troubling for some reason. I wake up fearful and unsettled. The faces are sad. Maybe that's it. The sadness of great fame. The famous movie dead. Dead but not dead. That's why I'm unsettled maybe. Because they're unsettled. Dead but not really dead. Never really dead. The whole concept of movies is so fundamentally Egyptian. Movies are dreams. Pyramids. Great rivers of sleep. The great and the glamorous with their legendary sphinxlike profiles. I wake up trembling."
"This is the last party."
"I was all set to wear my sequined baby-doll nightie from Frederick's of Hollywood and come crashing out of a big freaky birthday cake. But I settled for the Luv Glove. Nobody makes gestures today. We're all scrunched up like piglets being born. Opel, mail me some underwear so I'll feel better. Yours and Bucky's. Lycra, mail Bucky your underwear, one or two things. It's a gesture of faith. People need each other. I issue this edict. A chain letter with underwear enclosed. Everybody who gets the letter mails one pair of underwear to the next name on the list. If nobody breaks the chain, we end up with sixty-four pairs of underwear each. Of and for the people. I'm pro-people. This is a people thing."