I Came Out for This? (22 page)

The problem was Kimba. She wasn't paying any attention to me and, in fact, was acting kind of mean. She was strutting around, not behaving with her customary understated charm but more like a barnyard rooster, and I have to admit she looked very cute with her surfer boy hair and this silky blue shirt with some cuff links that I
bought her during one of our shopping expeditions, and she had on some new jeans and new loafers and I don't even know why I noticed everything she had on, frankly, because I doubt that she noticed that I was there. Well, she did, because she blandly said that my tattoo was “nice,” and then she told me to stop hogging the chips and she put me down when I said Dee's group house kids should organize a rebellion, saying, “Are you going to lead it?” I didn't appreciate her making fun of me. I didn't mean what I said literally; I was just expressing anger over the cruel inadequacies of “the system.” I've always had a lot of respect for Kimba's intelligence. Not only is she one of the wittiest people I know, but she's an excellent problem-solver. She can solve any puzzle, build furniture from raw wood, install a toilet, and write impeccably (she's shown me a couple of her NASA reports and they are lucid and well-organized and not even bureaucratic-sounding). Her photography has won contests. I know all I can do is write, but she doesn't have to make me feel like an idiot when I open my mouth. I don't do that to her.

This is my problem lately. I focus on the negative. I never thought I had a negative attitude. With me, the glass was always half full. That's why I stuck with Terri for so long. If Kimba wants to be like that, so what? I can't expect my friends to be perfect. But instead of ignoring Kimba's behavior I let it bug the shit out of me while not enjoying Bette's joy over her girlfriend and Dee's sweet attentions and the vodka punch and the delicious homemade dishes and Dee's sandwich fixings with
REAL
mayonnaise—I'm talking about Hellman's, which is the
only acceptable kind to a Jewish girl, and you know what? That's one thing that Kimba doesn't do right. She buys this ridiculous mayonnaise, I don't even remember the kind. It's some sort of off-brand shit and when I saw it in her refrigerator I screamed. She imitates me screaming, and in fact goes into this whole “Joanna” routine of my ejecting the mayonnaise from the fridge and trying to dump it in the trash, and I have to admit it's hilarious. That's another thing she does. She's a brilliant mimic. I'm a terrible mimic. I'm funny, but I'm not a good mimic.

Why am I going on and on about Kimba? Why did I let her get to me like that? I even left the potluck early, while the party was in full swing, and I walked home and those awful new tenants, the two thugs and their crackhead girlfriend, were standing in the hall when I went upstairs and I said, “Hey, kids, how ya doin'?” just to
connect
with somebody, and they looked at me as though I was a cop and one of them grunted. That happened just an hour ago and I'm thinking of tossing a Molotov cocktail in their room.

Maybe I'll call Kimba and leave a message on her answering machine. But I hate her. What am I going to say? “I hate you?” That wouldn't make me feel any better. Maybe I'll ask her if she wants to go to American City Diner for a hamburger tomorrow. I'm dying to tell her about Cherry Hill and the judge. But what if she won't go? What if she doesn't even call back?

I'll just sit here and hate myself. I can't think of anything else to do right now, except maybe go to the Reeves building and sit on the sidewalk eating a Subway sandwich.
But Judge Holmes is not bothering much with her magisterial duties these days, and I would end up going before some schmuck who would make me do community service for the rest of my life.

March 2001

I've been staying at Nicky's for the past three days, waiting to see if I can move back into my burned-up building. And no, I never gave in to my urge to throw a Molotov cocktail in the street people's room. The street people wrecked the building themselves. Those morons.

Last Wednesday afternoon, the thug boys, the crackhead girl, and the two white junkie sisters tied up Gerald in the upstairs bathroom and said that if he didn't give them all his money they would set fire to the building. I had just come home and was passing the bathroom and the door was closed, and I heard Gerald yell in his queeny voice, “Don't you understand? My money is tied up!” And one of the thugs said, “No,
YOU
are tied up!” and Gerald said, “I mean I don't have any liquid assets,” and I heard the crackhead girl scream, “Shut up, motherfucker! We don't care about your liquid asses! Just tell us where the money is!” Then I heard one of the junkie girls say, “Yeah, we need it to send to our families,” and her sister said, “Hush, Joleen.” I was standing there, wondering what the hell to do. Then Gerald said, “Please put that gasoline can away and untie me. We'll work something out.”
And the second thug said, “Fuck all that! Tell us where your bank card or money is or we turn you into toast.”

I ran to Jerome's room and found him lying placidly on his bed. “Those scumbags have tied up Gerald in the bathroom and are trying to rob him!” I yelled. “They're threatening to burn down the building!”

“I got nothin' to do with those fools,” Jerome said, looking at the TV instead of me. I realized with a shock that he had probably masterminded the whole thing. “I'm gonna call the cops,” I said. “Those people are desperate. What if they set fire to the building and we all burn up?”

“There's a fire escape right outside,” Jerome said. “We ain't gonna burn up. Anyway, they ain't gonna set no fire.”

“How do you know?”

“'Cause they ain't.” He probably told them to just use the gasoline can to threaten Gerald. But then I heard a splashing sound and ran out and saw one of the white girls pouring gasoline over the carpet. “What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed. Jerome got up off his bed as though he was responding to a call to dinner and went into the hall. “What I tell you?” he said. He walked up to the junkie and pulled the gas can out of her hands. “Fuck you, Jerome!” she said. Jerome went to the bathroom and I trotted behind. We found the two thugs, the crackhead, and the second white girl in there with poor Gerald, who was lying on his back in the bathtub, all tied up with rope.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” screamed Gerald. “How can you do this to me?”

“Y'all shouldn't have thrown me out,” Jerome said. I wasn't aware that Gerald had evicted Jerome, who seemed
to have a steady supply of income, but then Jerome said, “You know you liked it.”

“You were having sex with
Gerald?
” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Jerome drawled with a hint of a smile. “The boy had the time of his life.”

“God!” I said. “You fuck Gerald right on top of fucking Nicky and the whole rest of the world? You're unbelievable.”

“Nicky is my heart,” Jerome said. “Gerald is my slave boy.”

“I hate you, Jerome!” Gerald shrieked. “You are a horrible man! I want you to untie me this instant!”

“Shut up, motherfucker!” the crackhead said.

“Be quiet, Tee Tee,” said one of the thugs, and looked at Jerome for instructions.

“Untie him,” Jerome said, and one of the thugs started to untie the knots that bound Gerald, and suddenly there was a woosh! The hallway was on fire, and the junkie girl came to the bathroom door with a grin on her face, and I realized that she was demented. “Burn, house! Burn, house! Burn, burn, burn!” she yelled, waving a book of matches. Fortunately there was a fire escape outside the bathroom, and we all got out of there, including Gerald, who wasn't tied very securely. The junkie fire setter didn't want to go and her sister pleaded with her, “Come on, Joleen, come
on
!”, but Joleen just stood there with that crazy grin and the sister screamed, “She's mental, she doesn't know what she's doing,” and finally Jerome picked her up and carried her like a sack of potatoes onto the fire escape and pushed her down ahead of him.

We were the only ones on the second floor of the
house, and everyone on the first floor got out safely. It was a miracle that no one was hurt or killed. Thank God Johnny and Guillermo were out visiting Guillermo's family in Wheaton. The fire department came immediately, but the second floor of the building was extensively damaged. My place, which was at the corner of the hall, was intact except for some smoke damage, but the smell in there was pretty bad.

Nicky insisted that I stay with him in his beautiful brick two-story house on upper 16
^th
Street. Nicky has been living by himself ever since his veterinarian boyfriend left and said he hates living alone and he gave me the whole second floor, which he never uses. Jerome has come here a couple times and banged on the door and begged Nicky to let him in so he could “explain what happened,” and Nicky refuses to let him in, but then he goes into his room and cries. Then he comes out and pops a couple of his headache pills.

I know Nicky can use a good friend and I should have moved in with him months ago, when the all those street people started appearing in the building. But I can't let go of anything. I get attached to people and places and even after they go bad I cling to them for dear life. I'm one of those Jews who would have refused to leave Nazi Germany. I would have been running around yelling, “Visa, Schmeeza! I'm not going anywhere! My family has been here for 200 years! Don't listen to Uncle Moishe with his crazy stories! Someone dropped him on his head when he was three years old!” On and on, all the way to the showers.

March in DC, and spring has come in like a lamb. I'm out of the building for good, because Gerald is repairing it and then selling it and moving to Australia to become a ranch hand. I laughed when I heard that, but somehow it seemed right. After his humiliation in the bathtub, Gerald is going to reclaim his manhood. I wish him all the best.

On Sunday, movers are going to transport my stuff here to Nicky's. Dr. Bobb said maybe I should store it and give Nicky some time to know if he really wants me to stay, but Nicky said not to listen to “that crazy man” (spoken with sugary affection), and insisted that I stay here as long as I want.

Yesterday Kimba called and Nicky told her what happened and she came over with a big bowl of homemade spaghetti. She hugged me and said she's so, so sorry. The three of us ate dinner and then we played scrabble in Nicky's cozy living room. Afterwards Nicky went into his room to call his friends and Kimba and I went out on his porch, where it was warm and breezy. Kimba and I sat on the swing, and I put my arm around her, and we
listened to the rustle of the trees and the cars going by.

“Were you pissed at me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You didn't ask me to go out with you after New Year's Eve,” she said.

“I did,” I said. Then I remembered. “Well, I was going to. But then Terri called and I told you, and you seemed so irritated, and then
you
didn't call
me
.”

“I heard you went out with Dee.”

“Did you not want me to go out with Dee?”

Kimba looked at me, her face about an inch from mine. “I did not want you to go out with Dee,” she said. I thought she was going to kiss me, but she didn't. She just turned away and kept looking out onto the leafy, light-splashed street.

April 2001

I'm happy because I love Kimba. Do you have to love someone to be happy? I know that loving someone doesn't
make
you happy. I wasn't happy when I loved Terri because she didn't love me. But Kimba loves me. She collects things from the woods and gives them to me. She bought me a necklace and a bicycle. She cooks spaghetti and meatballs for me and she baked a cherry pie for me, Billy boy, Billy boy. She smells like apricots. She makes me laugh all day long.

We laugh while we're having sex. Is that normal? I never laughed while having sex, except with Cherry Hill, when we played nurse-patient. But I laugh harder with Kimba, even when I'm coming. She indulges me in this Judge Holmes sex game, in which she “does” Judge Holmes, ordering me to do this or that, and it's amazing how accurate her imitation is considering that she's never even met Louise. I have a better time with Kimba than I've ever had with anyone in my life.

Nicky said I should consider this place my home. He said there's plenty of room and even if he gets a boyfriend I can still live here. I'm paying the same rent that I
paid Gerald for a large bedroom, a smaller room that I use for reading and writing, and a bathroom. The bedroom has an upper porch, which overlooks beautiful 16
^th
Street. The late-afternoon sun splashes in around the time that I go to work, and in the morning I can enjoy the sunny back patio, which faces east. Nicky and I share the kitchen and living room, and he has his own large bedroom and a study where he often does his legal work, which he's trying to catch up on since all the distractions of the past few months.

It's nice that Kimba and Nicky are friends, because he heartily approves of her staying over here on weekends. (I spend a couple nights over at her place during the week, because she has to get up early on weekdays.) Kimba is turning me into a pig with her big breakfasts—eggs and sausage and English muffins and sometimes she even throws in a steak.