He went to the kitchen cabinets and rummaged around, trying to find some aspirin. For a second, before turning, he could see the mangy Snowball, poised on top of the refrigerator. Then with a yowl the cat jumped, landing with four paws of open claws on his back.
Who's on First?
It is August and boring. Stash and I are going to play softball. It starts at ten o'clock at night. The week before, fed up with making jewelry, tired of the city heat and keeping house, I went home to visit my mother. While I was away, Stash attended the impromptu Friday night ball game, up under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. He was on a team called the Aliens. The other team was the Sphinxes. None of the teams was really organized—whoever showed up could play. Almost everyone on both teams was in the arts: painters, musicians, writers, filmmakers. Girls were playing, too; in fact, some of the players were so bad Stash felt it would be okay if I joined the next game.
"You sure you want to go?" Stash says from his customary place in front of the TV set. I'm getting dressed, braiding my hair so I can stuff it under a baseball cap with a picture of Pac-Man on the front.
"Yeah, I want to go," I say. "But I'll probably be lousy." I haven't played baseball since I was eight years old. Marie-Angela Montecardo hit me on purpose on the nose with the ball and I beat her up. Mrs. Rourke, the elderly gym teacher, forced me to apologize and made me sit out the rest of the game. Later on, my book bag accidentally fell out of my locker and hit Marie-Angela on the head as she was walking past. I was a fierce, if uncoordinated, child. But in third grade, Mrs. Rourke told me that some of the other children were complain- ing about me: I was too bossy. Is this what psychiatrists call a peak experience? Since that date, I've never really regained confidence, which strikes me as unfortunate.
Stash seems reluctant to get up and dress. He's watching the "Jerry Lewis Telethon." Sammy Davis, Jr., is singing a song about saving the children. "That is great," Stash says. "Man, I don't even want to go out, this show is so wild." While he watches TV he makes a sketch for one of his paintings. I look over his shoulder. Mighty Mouse is rescuing a bald, baby bird from the hands of a giant Japanese robot in a business suit. I don't know what the drawing means, but Stash is very successful at his work. Though we've only been living together a year, in that time we've traveled twice to Europe, for his shows. Earlier he took me to Haiti, where I was badly sunburned. Stash has a charismatic personality: he's authoritative and permissive, all at the same time. In other words, I can do whatever I want, as long as it's something he approves of. Or perhaps it's true, what he says, I need his approval because I'm willfully insecure, a wimp with a will to be one. Well, I've made up my mind in one way. If I ever get some kind of job security and/or marital security, I'm going to join the feminist movement.
Stash is standing in front of the TV, I have to peer around him to see. A child is giving a wheelchair demonstration. The wheelchair is motorized and crashes into Jerry's legs. "Turn that off, Stash," I say. "We'd better get going." For some reason the telethon—or maybe the impending ball game—is making me nervous. There are at least two more hours before it's over.
We take the E train up to Fifty-third and Third Avenue. Stash molests me on the subway platform—anyway, he grabs me around the waist and breathes heavily down the back of my neck. He knows this makes me squirm. "Take it easy," I say. "There are people leering." Stash is wearing a Crazy Eddie T-shirt and white cotton trousers with zippered pockets. They're stained with mustard from when we went to the Yankees' game two nights ago. Stash resembles a Polish/Italian/Samurai warrior, with his blond hair and Eastern European complexion. His ponytail hangs in back almost to his waist. He shaves once a week. One reason I was attracted to him in the first place was his dangerous appearance. Before I knew him, I thought he was a member of some motorcycle gang.
I'm not alone in this evaluation. I remember once, Stash hailed a taxi, which stopped; he ran across the street to get it. Just at that moment a woman got out of the cab. When she saw Stash, with his leather motorcycle jacket, his unshaven face, his Confederate Army soldier's cap, she jumped into the air, a look of terror on her face. It took several seconds for her to realize that Stash wasn't going to mug her—he just wanted her taxi. I subliminally enjoyed that: I like associating with such a frightening-looking person.
Underneath, however, Stash is actually quite gentle. He's said at times that it was very immature of me to have been attracted to his underworld qualities. This shows I wasn't looking for a real relationship. But I disagree; I've always felt that people's appearances don't necessarily have anything to do with their personality. Before we lived together, when Stash used to come to my apartment, I'd watch his behavior with Snowball, my cat. Even though it bothered Stash that Snowball didn't like to use the cat box, he was very good with her. He brushed her, bought her catnip. The only thing Stash insisted on was that while he was in my apartment the cat had to stay off the bed. Snowball bit him on the nose once, and he swatted her across the room. I could understand this, but before I moved in with him I had enough sense to give the cat away to my girlfriend.
At our stop we have to climb flight after flight of stairs to get to the street. The escalator is out of order. I'm not one of those girls who like to exercise. At the top of the stairs I'm out of breath. I don't know how I'll be able to play baseball, but I'm determined to try. This is the first time I've lived with a man; I want to be a good sport. Once I bought a book of advice to women about men, and the book told me to read the sports section of the newspaper every day. So far Stash hasn't proposed, although I can quote you the batting averages of the Yankees for the past season.
He takes my arm as we walk up Third Avenue. Cars rush by in the night, furious wasps smoked out of their hive. Though it's dark, the air is hot and dry. In the city at this time of year the people who are left take on a demonic appearance. Their faces are yellow and ghastly. The street toward York Avenue grows gloomier. A large luxury building cuts off the view, but when we cross the street I see the cars are heading up the ramp onto the bridge. The bridge, seen from street level, appears tremendous. I notice turrets and ramparts protrude from the side. Below the bridge is an alcove, hidden from the cars but visible to pedestrians. If things don't work out with Stash, maybe I'll take my stuff and live in that little hole. I'll furnish it with a battery-operated lamp, a worn chair from the street, all the luxuries of home. The idea seems cozy. "There's the field," Stash says, pointing.
We stop at the start of the cyclone fence and look out across the field. Above the field is the underbelly of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, ridged with steel girders, shored up in places with planks of wood, like the grille of some immense cage. It's studded in spots with brilliant arc lamps. A hot wind churns up the dust. The ball, covered with a fine brown silt, lies in a pile of empty boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken, beer cans, and torn newspapers.
Across the field grimy, fierce men—I don't recognize any of them—sock-sock the ball back and forth, faces stony as Aztecs. I feel like some actress who's walked onto the movie set without her script. Obviously I don't belong. Yet I'm not certain I feel any different when I'm at home, pretending that Stash and I are an old married couple. If I had stayed in tonight, by myself, I could have thought some more about the kinds of jewelry I want to design. The best idea I've had so far is to make pins and earrings out of reproductions of food. A plastic company will sell me an assortment of pastries—petits fours, éclairs, strawberry tarts—which I might put onto neck- laces and earring wires. Stash has said this idea is not unique enough. He's already seen, in some store, earrings in the shape of sushi and sashimi, with realistic rice, seaweed, and raw fish. He's a harsh critic, but usually he's right.