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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Manhattan Trio
by Holly Rennick (address withheld)
***
Three stories about New York City. "Skyline Silhouette"
about waiting it out with your brother; "Central Park
Conception Association" about elocution for civic
concerns; and "Village YW" about moving ahead with your
friend. (FF, inc, 1st)
***
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Three stories about New York, New York,
the Gotham we love to hate, but excitedly fork over
$72.00 for the Gray Line Tour.
***
"Skyline Silhouette" about waiting it out with your
brother,
"Central Park Conception Association" about elocution
for civic concerns, and
"Village YW" about moving ahead with your friend.
That $72.00 sounds a little pricey? That's because New
York City loves suckers. The Staten Island Ferry's in
line with my literary income. The Museum of Modern Art
is free on Friday evenings. The Fragrance Foundation
Museum never costs a penny. When Garth Brooks
performed for free in Central Park, 749,000 locals
hoped their neighbors wouldn't see them. Only 1,000
tourists knew how to push their way into the throng.
My kind of town, even if I don't live there.
SKYLINE SILHOUETTE
Claim: The City's birth rate increased dramatically
nine months after the Blackout of 1965.
Fact: Maternity records showed no statistically-
significant difference from five previous years.
As noted in the New York Times, the conception
perception "is evidently pleasing to many people to
fantasize that when people are trapped by some
immobilizing event which deprives them of their usual
activities, most will turn to copulation."
November 9, 1965
I wasn't going to be caught in the holiday crowds again
this year. After school, I'd been to Macys to buy Dad a
vest. Of course we don't actually celebrate Christmas,
just the tree part. Hanukkah has the menorah and
everything, but the presents are just symbolic. Anyway,
Jesus was a Jew, too.
People not from the City think we go to places like
Times Square. Its winos, hookers and tourists. My
friends basically like W. 34th. They have nicer things.
Dad was still at work and Mom was at some Long Island
event about endangered species. New Yorkers can really
get into things like birds that nest where we dump
garbage.
I thought that we'd just blown a fuse, something the
super could look at. Without ironing, there's no way I
could wear my blue pullover to school tomorrow and I
needed that top to go with my black skirt, the one that
rolls up at the waist.
"Holy shit! Look out there." It was David, two years
older and about five years behind in social skills He
wears whatever. He motioned me to the living room, our
formal showplace favored by Mom's relatives.
There was the skyline of apartment buildings against
the Hudson. Something was wrong, but the obvious didn't
click.
"There's no lights!"
I looked again and of course he was right.
"Holy shit," David's way of emphasis. "No power."
Windows were dark all the way to the river.
I was glad to have been back in our flat. Not much in
the City daunted me by day, but with evening, my street
sense kicks in. A 15-year-old wouldn't want to be on
some stalled subway with a bunch of Haitians.
"So whatta' we do?" I'd not dealt with such an
impossibility before. If Dad couldn't get a taxi, he'd
be at least an hour, maybe longer. Who knew where Mom
was? Like they expected us to run this place in the
dark?
"I guess we stay here," my brother's surprisingly sound
advice. "Con Ed'll fix it."
There really wasn't much to do except look out the
window. Lots of cars below and occasional lights in
other buildings, sometimes moving along a floor as
someone with a flashlight opened doors.
At least the phone still worked and Dad called pretty
quickly, concerned that we might not be there. Mom had
tried, but couldn't get through, so had called his
office. Wherever her train had stopped was close to a
motel, so she was OK. Dad was figuring that his office
might look a little tempting to someone realizing the
alarm was out, so maybe he'd stay there until things
got sorted out.
We'd be OK. Keep the deadbolt set.
By 6:30, it had been an hour. I found some crackers and
peanut butter. David used his flashlight to make some
Tang. The high-rises, sun now on their far side, were
shadowed as if cut from the black paper of a photograph
album.
By 8:00, it was truly weird. Dark buildings. Flickers
of light. But people outside still moving almost
normally. Taxi horns.
I'd never before seen high-rise silhouettes, I
realized.
I wasn't scared, just watchful. How long until they
fixed this? David's transistor radio said things were
under control, but it might be tomorrow.
By 9:00, we're weren't sleepy, but couldn't think of
much else to do but go to bed. But my room was totally
black and even when I took in a candle, it looked
black. I'd stay in the living room where at least we
had a window.
I'd not have expected David to decide the same, but
what could I say? It was conversational to call him a
coward ("You too scared to ask Ruth out?"), but I
wasn't about to question his fortitude now. Sure, we'd
both sleep out there so if the other noticed anything,
we could hear.
We lugged out pillows and blankets and claimed our
domains on the rug, an expensive one from some foreign
country. Undressing was no problem, as it was dark, so
I slipped into my yellow nightgown, the one with the
lace trim.
"Night, Miriam," as he settled down
"Night, David. Maybe no school tomorrow, you think?"
"We have a home game," the basketball player in him. He
was fun to watch and I liked hearing girls say that he
was good.
Two hours later I was still awake. They should have
fixed this thing by now. Maybe it was some sort of
sabotage. Maybe somebody had got past our doorman, into
our hall, was testing our door. I could sort of hear
what might be that sort of sound.
"You asleep?" I whispered. Maybe we could talk about
something. Plus scare away anyone who might be out
there.
"Not yet," his voice not the least bit sleepy.
"Want to come over here? Maybe it will seem less
weird." Fact was, if there were somebody in the hall,
I'd want to know exactly where my brother was.
He must have been thinking of me, as he pulled his
bedding beside mine.
"You cold?" I could tell he was looking at me, but I
couldn't really see his face.
"Not really. Just a little," I admitted and I scooted
against him. He really wasn't a mean guy or anything.
OK for a brother, I supposed.
It was more comfy than being by myself.
A little later he sat up, pulled up the side of a
bedcover wedged between us and lay back down. The side
of my arm told me he was in a tee-shirt.
"That OK?"
"It's better," I agreed.
"You sure?"
"Just don't steal my pillow."
Did I doze? I'm not sure, but I was aware when he
slipped his wrist around my front.
I wasn't sure why he did it and I wasn't sure why I let
him. It wasn't as if he were actually touching me, by
gown being on, but I knew when he again moved his hand.
At first it was just on the bottom of my ribcage. Then
it was just against the bottom side of my boob. Not
really on it.
But then he was higher, wrapping my breast through the
cotton.
But it was just so easy to lie there, pretending it was
pretend.
Of course I knew he shouldn't. but I didn't mind even
when he slid a finger over my nipple, hard like a baby
thimble.
"David?" letting him continue. "You probably
shouldn't." I don't know why I whispered.
"It's 'cause there's no electricity. Nobody will know,"
he suggested as explanation.
I let him find my other side. "You won't tell? I mean
your friends or anything?"
"Promise," finding my nightgown buttons and opening the
neckline.
"No, don't," but tempered it with, "not that way."
"Then you do it."
He was right about the "nobody will know," I told
myself, sitting up and pulling my gown up. I knew he
couldn't see a thing, but once topless, knew that he
actually could. I hoped that he thought I was pretty,
even if I wasn't that big.
He surprised me when he lay me back on the rug and
stripped me of my panties. But what could I do? Nobody
else was around and I could hardly go running into the
elevator because it wouldn't be working. We were just
messing around, the two of us, anyway.
Never having been naked with a boy, maybe it should
have been strange, but it was exciting when his
fingertips brushed against my hair.
Did he want to have sex, I wondered? Maybe, or he
wouldn't be touching me down there.
Did I? Well, not exactly, I didn't think. But so many
of my friends had done it, or at least almost done it,
so why shouldn't I think about it, too? I'd given it
lots of thought, actually, and figured I was old
enough, at least. Maybe after going to a really fun
concert or something.
My brother just hadn't been part of my imagination.
But then, who'd have thought that we'd be without
electricity? That's when the rapists would come out.
Probably lots of girls tonight were even getting raped
by their brothers, I wondered?
But it was so hard to remember all the stuff about rape
protection when someone's rubbing your pubic hair and
you're getting wet.
Somehow I knew to raise my knees and put my hands
behind my head. It didn't make any sense in a rape, I
realized. It was just how I wanted to be, so his finger
would feel nicer.
I closed my eyes while he disrobed and when I opened,
he was kneeling between my knees, light from the sky
showing the paleness of his penis angled upward. It had
never occurred to me that the sky, just the sky, could
be light at night.
I lifted my hips, crab-like, to meet him. I just knew
how.
We said nothing as he inched forward, the head of his
penis to me, then working it in, little by little. It
was bigger than I was, but didn't hurt.
His being inside me didn't make me not a virgin, I
decided. It was how we moved together. I knew how to
climax a shit-load better just by myself, of course,
but it was fun having somebody to do it with.
The folks were both home next morning, but we didn't
have school. Mom didn't look at the rug and Cassie must
have cleaned up any evidence. Cassie wouldn't tell,
though. Negroes know, even when they're old.
Within the week, I got rubbers at the clinic for street
people. The nurse wanted to charge me, but I knew that
they were free if you said you couldn't pay. David hid
them in his top drawer, but I'd monitored his hiding
places forever, so I knew the first time that one
disappeared not related to me. His business, but I
wished I'd known in advance and could have poked a hole
in it. Slut bitches! So smart because they were almost
graduated!
In August, David showed me a Newsday that said there
were more babies born nine months after the blackout,
but a couple of days later the Times reported that the
data showed nothing.
"I wasn't worried, David. You never get pregnant the
first time."
He nodded.
"And since then, we've been really careful."
July 13, 1977
Had David not been come over, maybe I'd have done
something stupid, like trying to leave my apartment. At
27, sometimes you're not as smart as when you were 15.
But he'd come over right away so I'd not be barricaded
in my flat alone. It wasn't that my neighbors wouldn't
have helped me out, but sometimes you don't know.
Rapists wait for such opportunities.
David showed up, still in his suit, lugging a bag from
the deli. "Mario's working by flashlight, selling
everything he's got. You like that Greek potato salad
and I figured we'd want some hunks of cheese."
"I've got some wine," I offered. "We'll have a picnic
in the kitchen."
"And tell ghost stories," he added. "Wooooo!"
And right then I knew that I wanted to feel scared. It
had been so long ago that it hardly seemed like who we
were today. But I still remembered how I'd been scared
of the blackout until he'd found my nipple.
Why not just say it? It wasn't like before, when we'd
not known. He'd come to have sex with me. I wanted him
to. We both knew as soon as the blackout hit that we
had to make love.
"Twelve years, right? They probably don't even have 15-
year old virgins anymore," me being flippant.
At least he didn't skirt around the reference. "We
can't make it a regular thing again, Miriam. It would
just screw up our lives."
I giggled in the dusk. "If you won't screw it up, who
will?"
"Blame it on Con Ed. Seduced by a sexy skyline
silhouette," thinking literarily.
We were without power until the next afternoon. I
wasn't on the pill, too dangerous, I'd read, so had to
find my diaphragm. They say to re-jell and replace
securely between penetrations, but I forgot.
One of my latter orgasms was probably what worked my
protection a little loose.
But for the blackout, I'd probably never have gotten to
be a mother.
Mom was distraught about not knowing about the father,
but at least she wasn't the first of her friends with
daughters in that situation. "Things are just so
different, these days." My tale about meeting the guy
at a club, I'm sure she found sordid, but not enough to
let it go. It's hard being a Jewish daughter sometimes.
Not even 30, I was fabulously successful in her eyes
("Do you know what she makes for one episode?") and I'd
surely engage a registered nanny to tend to the details
of motherhood for which I'd not have time.
Probably she'd have to devote a good bit of her
remaining days to raising her grandchild, Mom sighed.
She'd need to turn one of her bedrooms into a nursery.
Maybe my old room, but then where'd I sleep when I
visited? Did I have any idea what carpentry cost, these
days?
"Mom, all I need to do is catch a cab back to my own
place," but she'd hear none of that.
Actually, her real concern was lineage. "At least your
mother deserves to know a little about the background
of the father, Miriam!" She'd spout my father-a-
scoundrel story to her friends, but she guessed that I
knew exactly.
It wasn't that hard to put her at ease. "The thing is
with a guy, Mom, you know absolutely if he's Jewish. In
bed, if you know what I mean."
"Well, anymore lots of goys are, too."
"His grandfather was a rabbi."
"And so was yours," with due respect. "So maybe ours
will be one, too. If he's a boy, of course."
Hey, Mom. They also have women rabbis these days, but I
didn't say it.
David's fiancé, Rebekah, was like the sister I'd never
had. Getting carried away was what dating's about.
Losing track of the guy afterwards was how some things
just went. My due date, April 15, she didn't connect
with the blackout. Her date wasn't that long afterward
and there was so much to do for the wedding.
It goes with the Hebrew thing that if a girl's knocked
up, no dad in sight, her brother steps in as the kid's
father figure. We're big on fathers and David never
missed an opportunity to execute his responsibility.
"The thing is," testing me," I'll just give her pretty
stamps. I'll bet she'll love Togo butterflies!"
"You have to wait till she can lick them."
"No, I can tell from her eyes."
I looked around. Clear. "Genetic?"
"Must be."
My little Sarah fit right with her cousin when we'd get
together. They look a lot alike.
August 14, 2003
It was shortly after 4:00 and I was wrapping up the
draft of another chapter, racing to type the key
elements as the plot jelled. American women don't want
to be Jewish, but they love reading about it. Drafting
is the fun part, seeing the words stream. Then it gets
slow, laboring to fill in the blanks, make things mesh.
Then it gets really slow, trying for phrases that both
set the tone and pepper the detail. Then it gets
really, really slow, waiting for my agent. Then it gets
fast again.
At least there were a few minutes warning. Power plants
were failing all the way up into Canada. An old timer
at this sort of inconvenience, I unboxed candles while
I telephoned.
"Hey David. Got the news on?"
"Yeah, a biggie," sounding a bit cautious on his part.
"Sarah's in Syracuse and I'm sure she doesn't have a
flashlight."
"I think she'll manage without you."
A man never understands a mother-daughter relationship,
but I let it go. "So, you coming over? We always said."
"What'll I tell Rebekah?"
I knew he'd come. "Maybe that your sister got this 1776
stamp on a letter today. Picture of George Washington.
They forgot to cancel it. Might be valuable. Really,
though. That you're checking on your neurotic sibling
or something."
"It's been a while, Miriam."
"That's why I do yoga. Helps the joints. That plus
celery oil." Me and Jane Fonda. Me and Tina Turner. Who
says you can't stay fit? It's just that sometimes you
get a little behind.
"At least we won't have to worry about a baby," I added
so we'd not change the subject.
"Hold on! The last time you said that..."
"Was 25 years ago and sometimes a girl gets surprised,"
I finished. "You got candles?" to change the subject. I
just had the expensive kind.
"I got everything we'll need. The skyline's going to
silhouette so great!"
Of course, he'd be seeing more of the ceiling after I
got my way.
END OF STORY 1
CENTRAL PARK CONCEPTION ASSOCIATION
It's easy to see Central Park from the top of the
Empire State Building. Fifth to Eighth Ave., 59th to
110th St., the bobble-topped contrast to the concrete
of Manhattan. The park's free but the view costs
$11.00.
Following is the President's Address at the Annual
Meeting and Funfest of the Central Park Conception
Association held in the Ladies Pavilion.
Hello! Hello! Hello? Is this thing on? Oh, I see. Hello
friends and fellow members. [Diminishing chatter in the
first rows.]
I'm delighted for such a turn out! Probably some folks
find it odd that we'd have our meeting at 9:00 on a
Friday night. But as we know, a lovely summer evening
awaits us! [A few titters.]
But before we disperse to our Funfest, though, I'd just
like to share a few words. [Resumption of light
chatter.]
We couldn't be doing this without our sister
organization, the Central Park Conservancy. It took
them three years to remove the graffiti. So if you see
some kid with a spray can, tell him about the Park
Department's recreational programs, open to all. He'll
help take care of the place then. ["Or we'll waste
him," from a wag in the back, to disapproving looks
from some of the better dressed ladies.]
And let's not forget to pick up after ourselves. No
Coney Island white fish for the crows to pinch. [A
pause for mirth, or perhaps more accurately, a pause
for the hope of reaction.]
And this year we're more than honored to have with us
Mohammad Kenyatta, representative from His Honor, the
Mayor. His Honor is rocking at Gracie Mansion, but we
all know he'd rather be rolling with us in the Park.
["So why doesn't he pick up some garbage, too," from a
fellow with his hat on backwards.]
And let's give a hand to Lt. Randy Escoveda, Central
Park Precinct. Stand up, Lieutenant. [Polite clapping.]
In four years we've seen rapes drop from 11 to 1,
robberies from 204 to 89 and assaults from 37 to 30.
Let's give another hand for the men and women in blue!
[Appreciative compliance.]
But stay on your feet a minute, Lieutenant. What say
you be a little less vigilant about, "No person shall,
in a public place, engage in any act of lewdness,
including but not limited to sexual intercourse,
fellatio, cunnilingus or masturbation." Why, none of us
would be here if you caught everybody! [Laughter,
including that of the Lieutenant.]
Just kidding, sir. We truly appreciate how NYPD is
making Central Park safe, especially above 72nd.
And a very special welcome to this year's "Twice
Qualified" inductees! As the certificate says, "Both
having been conceived and having conceived in Central
Park." Let's give these special folks a big hand. [Duly
directed to several in the reserved seating.]
And don't we love the weekends! No cars! Just find a
quiet place (And we all have our favorites, right,
folks?), do it the way the Pope says and start shopping
for a baby buggy. [Good natured reaction, no clerical
collars nor habits in attendance.]
Speaking of weekends, how many of you have been visited
by a Frisbee, right at the big moment? And had the kid
pop his head over the shrubbery, looking for it? [A few
laughs. A few mutters.]
Our park's visited by more than 20,000,000 people each
year. That's 10,000,000 men and 10,000,000 women. If
five percent of the pretty little missies have a little
fun and their odds are about a half percent (that's for
you fertile young things), that's 50,000 babies! Boy,
we're going to need the whole North Meadow to meet!
[Shuffling of chairs, audience beginning to ignore its
leader's address.]
You seniors remember Robert Moses, our great Parks
Commissioner back when baseball was the Yankees,
Dodgers and Giants? ["We love them Mets," a lone
protest from the back.]
Well, you know who loved him best? The dry-cleaning
establishment! Yes, the dry-cleaning establishment! All
those young ladies with grass stains on the back of
their rayon blouses! [Contrived laughter from a few.]
And listen up! Here's where we don't get the
appreciation we deserve, folks. Territorially, the
Metropolitan Museum of Art is part of us, just like the
ice rinks. And where in the Big Apple are there more
pictures of frolicking folks, more than Times Square,
even? In our museum! So don't tell us we're not
highbrow! We're a classical art form! [Pleased
laughter.]
And don't we love the street musicians with their open
cases? Some of those artists could probably play at
Kennedy Center! Next one you pass, flip him a buck and
ask for, "Roll me ooo-ver. Roll me ooo-ver. Roll me
over in the clover and do it again." [A derisive "Send
him to Kennedy Center, too," drawing more claps than
the speech.]
Well we know why we came, don't we? Because it's a time
to get together, meet new friends, even. This place is
big enough, New York enough for all of us. We've got
843 acres, and (let me check my notes on this) if we
get, say, 4 by 8 apiece, we could go for 1,200,000
conceptions! [General cheers.]
Of course, that would include up here by my podium!
[Crowd again begins to get restless.]
But seriously, back when we started doing it here in
1873, we didn't know as much as now about differences.
Now we're more aware, and the fact is, we know that for
some of us, it's not about conception at all. Won't
work. [Several bravos and a few inclusive nods.]
So maybe our name's even a bit dated. [Cries of
protest, No, No!]
But Central Park's also about tradition and tradition's
what keeps a great city great. [Cheers from the same
voices.]
As your President, elected to represent you, I'll stand
firm. We'll not be called the Central Park Copulation
Association. [Applause from most of the listeners;
injured silence from a few.]
And while I'm on the subject, let's make it clear to
the Lieutenant that while the Association defends our
right to enjoy Central Park with whomever we choose,
including undocumented workers, we're not about to let
our zoo become a place for things that aren't right.
[Embarrassed silence and a few coughs.]
So let's make tonight something special, something well
done, something on which we can look back with pride.
["Throw da bum out! We didn't pay for some friggin'
pervert speech!"]
And Mrs. C.F. Yang here says to remind you of the
Stanton Island Ferry Conception Association meeting
next month. Another very fine sister association.
["Give them lezzies a real fuck and they'd be cured!"]
Lt. Escoveda? Could you kindly remove that gentleman
from our gathering. He's disturbing the peace, I
believe. ["I've got my rights!" General row begins. Lt.
Escoveda looks worried.]
So thank all of you for your continuing support. We
couldn't be a Conception Association without your help.
END OF STORY 2
VILLAGE YW
Steph had memorized the brochure. In a jungle as huge
as would be New York, a girl needed a place like the
Greenwich Village YWCA. Of course she knew that
"village" meant something different, but the word gave
the flavor of humanness. The "CA" didn't really mean
much, not like it would in Iowa, but "YW" at least
hinted of people like herself. Des Moines wasn't
hicksville, but to get anywhere on the stage, you
really needed to be in New York.
When the taxi dropped her, she at least recognized the
entrance. Maybe they featured the front door on the
brochure to tell Iowa girls they'd at least found it.
And two weeks there, her feet tired, Steph still
thought a lot about Iowa, people who said "Hi," didn't
push, didn't even know about the subway map.
She knew a lot about the map, avenues vs. streets,
lobbies, high heels on escalators. Nobody was just
going to sign you. In some of the girls and guys (She'd
no idea if they were actually homosexual, but surely,
they must be?) occupying the plastic chairs in the
waiting rooms, she could see dreams already fading. But
in others there was a doggedness, what would make the
difference.
Working at Dunkin' Donuts was part of it, too. Acting
leads didn't take all day (or even any of some days)
and income helps persistence. Actually, Steph realized,
staying occupied was a big part of survival. That, plus
old fashioned luck. Lots of actresses were nobodies
until, say, they happened to stumble into some two-bit
part in a show that closed after three performances,
but maybe they met somebody else who knew of another
audition. Nothing worked the way Iowans would assume.
The Village YW (appending "CA" being a give-away that
you were a tourist) was a bed, wardrobe, dresser, chair
and table, sized for solitaire. Toilet and shower down
the hall. No overnight visitors, but that wasn't an
issue. Don't cook in the rooms, teapots and hotplates
overlooked. Clean and safe. Fair enough weekly rate.
She earned more at Dunkin' Donuts than she would have
back home, she wrote to her mom.
It was pretty lonely though. Washington Square was a
nice place to sit until it started to get dark. The
pigeons would come right up.
*****
There was a black girl waiting by the bathroom. More or
less Steph's lanky build; more or less Steph's age.
"I'll just be a minute, hun," the girl apologized.
"Have to brush my teeth."
"I'm not exactly in a hurry," admitted Steph. Strange
how the black girl said it; nobody apologizes for
anything around here.
The black girl looked at Steph more closely and
crinkled her eyes. "Did maybe I sell you an egg salad
sandwich yesterday?"
Steph looked back. She had bought an egg salad
yesterday. The girl behind the deli counter (and she
was black, that Steph remembered) had asked if she
wanted anything to drink and Steph had wondered if she
maybe could have a water? The girl had probably seen
her glance at the prices. When she brought the tray,
there was a coffee. "'Bout time to clean the pot,
anyway." Drinking it (it was hot and strong), Steph
realized that the coffee tasted so Manhattan.
"That was you?"
The other flashed her teeth, too white to ever need
brushing. "Guez so. Us niggas alls look da same to you
honkeys."
Steph stepped back.
"Oh, honey!" in perfect English, the other bouncing her
fingers off the shoulder of Steph's bathrobe. "You
should have seen your eyes," now laughing, but then
sobering. "I mean... Oh, shit! That's not funny at all,
is it? Saying 'nigga' and 'honkey'."
Steph didn't know what to say, but didn't want to be
rude.
The other continued. "You're new, right? Two weeks here
and I'm an asshole. Sorry. Really. My name's Jessie,"
extending her hand, toothbrush still in it.
"Steph. From Iowa." She took the hand. "Yeah, I'm sort
of new. I thought maybe I'd see if there's any way for
someone like me to get a job acting, you know, just
little parts, or maybe even dancing. I'm just looking,
though."
"No shit, girl!" the black girl still holding her hand.
"That's why I left Fargo. No use for me there, 'cept
dancing with pasties." A grin, then her face taking a
conspirital turn. "And so here we meet in this place to
cat-fight for the walk-on." Then she grinned again,
"But no problem for two like us, 'causes they already
know if they want black or white. What's your name
again?"
"Steph."
"From Iowa. Jessie, from even further."
Steph nodded as the bathroom door opened.
"So you come to the deli some more, you hear? Can't
have the directors thinking you might die of
malnutrition half way through a production."
In two weeks, Steph had never told anybody but
receptionists that she was hoping to work on stage.
******
Steph knew it was hardly fair, Jessie loading her tray
with extra cheese slices, ham, whatever was handy. But
Jessie rightly noted that as fun as it would be for
Steph to slip her a dozen éclairs, they couldn't really
stay in shape if they ate them.
The two had their bench by the arch where they'd meet.
It was so much better to be sitting by someone.
Sometimes, if Jessie were tired, she'd stretch out on
the bench, her head on Steph's lap. Steph could trail
her fingers through the nappy hair and nobody in
Washington Square paid the least bit of attention.
Probably Jessie would think a white girl's hair was
really boring.
Jessie was probably the better dancer, at least knew a
lot more about it, but Steph had a bit more acting
background. It was at least fun talking about it.
"You know, honey," (Steph liked hearing her friend call
her that), "it probably doesn't matter what we can do
if we fuck enough of them, but that's not how we're
going to make it, right?"
Steph hadn't really considered that option, but hearing
it from Jessie, she knew she wouldn't.
Jessie's ghetto blaster ("Makes me not want to be a
darkie, carrying this thing around.") they took to the
YW basement and worked out. Jessie's leotards did
little to mask her nipples, but she didn't care.
"Shoot," noticing Steph's glance, "That's why we pay
the big bucks to the YW, so we don't have a bunch of
oglers. Now the thing is, honkey ho, is to wiggle your
fruit."
"Your whole problem," Steph corrected her. "Where we're
going, we don't want melons," making Jessie lose her
beat.
"Wha sista, den you be da strawberry and I's da
blackberry."
*****
The key, they'd tell each other, is to not give up.
"This place is full of losers. What's one more?" an
evening after Steph saw her name vaporize from a
callback list on 43rd St.
"Shit fire, girl! We ain' no losers!"
"Don't say, ain't."
"Wha I cain jus say bout whateva I like, whitey girl
who hardla neva turned no trick!"
The two laughed till they'd not a wiggle left within
them.
"Wha you talk like dat?" Steph attempted the drawl.
"Because sometimes the Harlem shows call for Aunt
Jemima."
"Then you better eat lots of donuts, mammy."
"But they want us to be African Americans on Broadway."
*****
The YW lounge was for playing rummy or watching TV if
someone else hadn't claimed the channel. There were
lots of channels. More channels in New York than
smiles.
Steph even told Jessie that she'd not ever had a black
friend before. The ones in Des Moines live in different
neighborhoods.
Jessie nodded. Up in Fargo, she hardly had a black
friend either, and laughed until Steph got it.
That was the first time they kissed, right there in the
YW, supposedly watching a movie, talking about black
friends.
It was just a quick kiss, what friends might do when
they realize why friendship's important. In New York
City, you can kiss who you want to.
Steph liked doing their workouts, getting sweaty. She'd
thought going without her bra might make her sore, but
maybe she was toughening up a little. They'd go arm on
shoulder and practice high kicks.
"Strawberry and blackberry," would laugh Jessie after
they stopped.
Their rooms were hardly large enough for an extra
chair, but Steph would haul hers down to Jessie's and
the two would pretend a tea party, usually featuring
Munchkins. Jessie would tell her to eat more chocolates
so she'd the Moonwalk right. Michael Jackson's
formerly-chocolate, Steph challenged.
They'd just been sitting across the little table. She'd
watched Jessie change from her jogging suit to her
shorts and jersey. Jessie's nipples were erect with the
sudden air. The black of her panties made her legs
bronze.
When Jessie leaned to pop a Munchkin in Steph's mouth,
Steph leaned too, letting her friend work the sweet
against her lips.
In your friend's room, Steph decided, you can kiss a
Munchkin as long as you want to. She'd locked her own
room's door and no one would know where she was.
"Your feet as tired as mine, honey?"
Removing Jessie's jersey was Steph's doing, yet none of
Steph's execution. Her hands just knew. Steph had never
touched another's breast in fondness.
First Steph's sweater, then her bra, came off as well.
"Strawberry pies," Jessie said without guile before
turning off the light and guiding each of Steph's
breasts to her mouth.
Steph said nothing as Jessie pulled off her own shorts
and then unfastened Steph's skirt, letting it fall to
her feet.
Jessie's bed was like hers, institutional, solid.
Together, they scarcely dented the mattress.
Body against body, Jessie was silent, working her
stomach against Steph's. Steph didn't know why she
wanted Jessie doing what she was doing, but she knew it
was right together, trying to push into Jessie the way
that Jessie was pushing into her. Their hands were
locked around the back of each other's heads.
"Steph, honey?" Jessie broke their kiss. Was her friend
crying, Steph wondered? Not sad crying. A girl cry.
"What?" again cradling Jessie's breast.
"Do so something for me."
"Sure, Jessie. Anything."
Her only black friend (only friend at all, actually) at
first didn't continue, but then rolled to level their
eyes. "Fuck me."
Steph looked, trying to read her. "Fuck you?"
"Make love to me. You know, inside me. Just once."
Steph swallowed. More than anything she wanted to make
love. But?
"Jessie, you know we can't. I can't, I mean."
Jessie put Steph's hand on her panties and Steph could
feel the fuzz beneath.
"Just do what feels right. It's OK."
The black hand guided the white one to where Steph
could feel moistness. "Please."
Steph felt her own fingers drawn against soft
irregularities within the oily smoothness, pressed
against a minute firmness.
"I want you to," leading Steph lower.
Steph did what felt right, her white forefinger
slipping into the ebony velvet. Jessie was her
blackberry.
Steph made love preciously, hunger subdued for the
sweetness of savor.
Jessie squeezed her, then rocked against her and then
began to arch and fall with a sinuosity only a dancer
might know. Steph watched her eyes open wide, loose
focus and then close.
As Jessie's climax subsided, her frame almost quietly
pressed to Steph's, Steph kissed her forehead, tasting
the rivulets of sweat.
Long afterwards, a time of quiescent union, Steph
wondered, "It was OK?"
Jessie kissed her back.
"I mean," clarified Steph, "we're not really that type,
or anything."
"No," agreed her friend. "We're just alone in this
place and now we're not alone."
"Jessie?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's take off our panties."
"I'd like that," the pair helping each other.
"Maybe we didn't come here to get famous or anything,
you think? Maybe we came here just to be friends."
"Like chocolate and marshmallow."
"I'm glad," lying on Jessie's black chest, a hand on
each black breast.
"Me too, honey," wrapping her black legs around the
woman on top.
"So was I Ok? Really?"
"Feel how your flaxy hair is mushed up with my wiry
stuff? Both of us wet like? Really."
"Know what, Jessie?" Steph knew something more, even.
"We'll both get auditions next week. Thing's work out
sometimes."
And they do.
END OF STORY 3
HOLLY ON THE WEB
Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll
repair that which is salvageable on
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native
language.
You can contact me via the site's message form, that
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.
I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same.
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more
cleanly.
Holly
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Kristen's collection - Directory 29