Truths of the Heart (31 page)

He looked out to Lake Lansing. Tiny lights across the water played over
the rippled surface and, what else, he was reminded of van Gogh's night scenes.

Rachelle appeared, “There you are. Come, do you want something to drink,
eat?”

“Nothing to eat, thank you.”

“Something to drink then.” She took his arm, led him inside, and they went
to the bar. “Seth, this is my husband, Carl.”

Seth thought the inflection in her introduction was like yesterday's newspaper
and yep, Seth had been right. This was the slab of meat whom earlier he had
noticed eyeing him.

Carl lit a Kool King and blew smoke into the air.

Rachelle said, “Carl, this is Seth Trudow, a student of mine.”

Carl extended his bear paw right hand. They shook.

Seth perceived Carl's cologne to be a subtle mix of camphor oil and menthol.
And he's breaking my hand
. He released his grip and so did Carl.

Just then the doorbell chimed. Rachelle said, “Excuse me, you two
talk.”

Rachelle gone, a skinny male guest came to the bar and ordered bourbon/water
and a gin and tonic.

While Carl mixed, Seth quickly inventoried Carl's white silk shirt that
was unbuttoned to mid-chest and revealed, nestled in modest chest hair, a gold
medallion dangling from a thick gold chain.

Seth wondered if he might show a nipple soon.

Carl working on the drink order, Seth continued his inventory of him: about
the size of a doorway, Carl's hands seemed nervous like he had just killed
something and kicked it under the carpet. A Notre Dame ring looked like it grew
out the third finger on his right hand.

Another drink order placed, glass of Chablis from a plump female,
Seth's attention went to the football trophies, plaques, and pictures of Carl
displayed around the bar setting. While he surveyed the memorabilia, he noticed
Carl, getting a wine glass, pause to check his hair in the mirror behind the
bar.

Finished serving the drink to the female, Carl said to Seth “Whataya
drinking?”

“I'm okay.”

“You don't have a drink. You're not okay.”

“I don't drink.”

“What?”

“I don't drink.”

“Never trust a guy who doesn't drink.”

“So sorry.”

“Have a drink.”

“Okay, ginger ale.”

“`En what?”

“`En what?”

“What kind of booze you want in it?”

“None.”

“What?”

“None.”

Shaking his head, sucking his gums, Carl said, “So you're a student of
Z's, huh?”

“Yep.”

Handing him a ginger ale, Carl looked down at him. “So, what position you
play?”

“I'm sorry.”

“What position you play, football?”

“I don't play football.”

“Ya don't play football!”

“Nope, nor basketball, baseball, golf, none, don't have time.”

“Where ya been, boy?”

“In the desert looking for the right ball.”
What does an intelligent
vixen like Rachelle see in this narcissistic jackass?

Carl said, “You have big cajones?”

“Two, how 'bout you?”

Carl squinted his eyes, thought, then said, “You ever see me play?”

“With your cajones?”

“Wise ass. Football! Ever see me play football?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Jesus Christ, who is this guy?”

A couple arrived, Carl shook his head and filled their drink order.

In awe, Seth stayed. Others arrived at the bar and Carl, filling drink orders,
pointed out to a newly arrived couple a picture of himself throwing a pass.
“That was the touchdown throw, when we beat the piss out of the University of
Michigan, National Championship. Kicked their ass. I threw two touchdowns, ran
for sixty yards.”

Listening, Seth noted that Carl never passed a chance to view himself
in the mirror behind the bar. Seth also noted that he wore tan alligator
loafers and red, green, and gray Argyle socks.

Sure the feeling was mutual, Seth didn't like this slab of meat.

As the evening progressed it became evident to Seth that Carl thought
of Rachelle as his personal property. When he wasn't behind the bar, eyeing
himself, his hair, serving cocktails, drinking his drink with little finger
raised, his eyes, like beady rat eyes, followed Rachelle's every move. When she
spoke to other males, Carl strained to listen.

She should not be around this dross for several reasons. Top of the
list, he's an asshole.

Seth, not a social animal, especially at stand-around-lip-flapping
events, mostly listened while he made mental notes of people and surroundings.
He noticed T.S.Eliot, sitting on the spiral staircase, observed all.

But always Seth's attention drifted back to Rachelle: Posing, talking, smiling,
tall, slender, elegant, radiating waves, sipping white merlot, glancing his
way.

She's killing me. I can't stand it
.

He also noticed, Carl noticed.

At 8:30, Dr. Zannes turned the background music off, tapped her wine glass
and invited everyone to gather 'round. Simone Simone was about to confer words
of wisdom.

Ahhhs and ohhhs and people sat on the sofa, chairs, some sat on the
floor. Carl came from around the bar and sat on a barstool. Seth moved behind the
group and stood just inside the sliding glass doors.

Rachelle led Simone to a wing back chair that she had previously positioned
in the middle of the great room. She had also placed a floor-stand ashtray next
to the chair.

Rachelle spoke to the group: “Ladies and gentlemen, our guest needs no introduction,
I give you Simone Simone.”

Light applause as Simone sat.

Rachelle moved to where Seth stood. Seth noticed Carl looking their
way.

Simone to the light applause: “Deserved, deserved. Thank you, thank
you.

How are you all this evening? I thought I'd jump right out of the shoot
by reading a scene from my most recent work, 'Bangles, Bananas, and a Rosary
for Monsieur'.”

As she read the cast of characters, the Monsieur in the title being a gorilla,
Seth whispered to Rachelle, “I wonder if Monsieur takes Holy Communion?”

Rachelle tapped his hand and Seth noticed Carl get off his barstool and
walk toward them.

Towering beside Rachelle, he sipped his drink and eyeballed Seth.

Simone finished scene one to light applause, said: “So my dears, work goes
on. Work work work, furor scribendi! And now, what would you like to talk
about?”

No response from the audience, stark silence, Simone, wide-eyed, said, “What,
no questions?”

Finally a young female, “What do you do for recreation?”

“Ahhh, recreation, the spot on the dime, the hair in the milk, the dah
in the plus. My dear, there is no fiddle fart recreation time in the world of
art. You must be prepared to give all....”

Simone, noticing someone whispering, said, “First lesson in the school
of reality, dawlings, when I'm talking, shut up!”

“What's it like to be a successful writer, have fame?”

She smiled, took her pack of crumpled Chesterfields from a side pocket,
put one in her mouth, struck a safety match, lit up, fanned the match out,
dropped the match in the ash tray, and took a deep drag. Exhaling smoke,
“Second lesson in reality school, dawlings: fame is a whore.” She took another
quick drag, “Don't look so puzzled, dear ones, guano happens. Get used to it.
Roar of the critics, smell of the producers. Believe me, I know the difference.
(Puffs, inhales deeply, exhales) You see, pets, some of you have chosen to
sniff the fame dog's orifice but alas, that hound may or may not sniff you
back.” Exhales through her nose slowly and continues, “Some call it luck but luck
ain't no lady, dearies. You pay the price before, not after. No refunds, hot,
cold, in between, or on top. But, take heart, dear ones, there may be a chosen
one among you. A chosen one who shall crave it so bad she shall give her life
for it, enrich her mind for it, make ready all her being for it, and yes, if
need be, sell her soul for it. Nay, if push comes to shove, get on her knees
for it.” She looked over the rapt gathering. “Men not excluded.” She puffed.
“Dawlings, despite what you've been told, the oldest profession is not
lips-for-sale.”

Chuckles from the group.

“Anybody have an idea what the oldest profession might be?”

Hanging silence.

“Come come dawlings, don't be bashful.”

Chuckles.

A thoughtful pause, Simone looked around. “No thoughts on what this oldest
profession might be?”

Male speaks up: “Prostitution.”

Laughter.

Simone: “You're not listening, dearie, what did I just tell you? Love
for sale is not the oldest profession.”

Female: “Bartering for goods.”

“Close, but no foie gras.” Simone surveyed the students for another moment.
No response. “The original art dearies, unique to the human race, what was it,
hummmm?”

There still being no answer she exclaimed, “Acting darlings! The
theater! Reality's magic.” She took a puff, tipped her head, and blew smoke in
the air. “And who were the first actors?”

Pause, waiting. “Hint … a garden.” Pause. Again no response. “Come come,
you must know that one.”

Silence.

“Another hint, fig leaves.” Nothing forthcoming, she shouted, “Adam and
Eve for Christ's sake!”

She looked around, studied the puzzled faces, puffed, then prodded.
“And who wrote the script?”

A hand went up.

Simone: “This ain't no classroom sweetie. What's your name?”

“Polly Dancer.”

“So who wrote the script?”

“Norman Mailer.”

Laughter.

“God no! I'm talking before the Son … who wrote all this nonsense we're
so pleased to call reality. The one who painted, fiddled, breathed life into
the nostrils of the beast!” She paused, looked around, waiting, finally. “GOD!
dear ones. We hope anyway, or is it fear for the other galaxies, someone out
there might find us sleeping in the dark. Here we are, not there, clothed or
cloned, an audience of one in a sea of nothing. The word, the creation, the
beginning, from nothing into something, from dust to dust, nothing into all,
the blank page into Hamlet, the white canvas into the Mona Lisa, the ceiling
Sistine into the Creation of Man. The word, the script, the playwright, the
creator? Or is it all done by ad-libbing dolts, sniveling pap, sucking a hind
tit.”

She paused with a superior look to Polly Dancer, “Mailer, dear one,
thought he was the Son, but alas he was just a bad boy.” She rolled her eyes
and smiled.

Female: “What is art?”

Simone: “Well we know what it ain't.”

“What is that?”

“It's not an elephant dumping on stage.”

Laughter.

Male: “What about Satan?”

Simone pushed fingers through her hair. “Satan, dear one, is the lead
in your ass.” She lit a new cigarette. “Anyhuu,” she glanced at Carl, “Don't be
one looking in the mirror all the time. It's all an illusion.”

She took a long drag and raised her eyebrows and studied a young female
in the front row. “What is your name?”

“Nelly Snodgrass.”

“Dear dear. Anyhuu, did you have a question?”

“Weren't you an actress once, I mean before you began writing plays?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you switch to writing?”

“Let’s just say, when you're a beginning actress producers are
interested in your hips. Then you reach a stage, dear, or should I say age,
when, let's say, the producers are only interested in your lips, if you get my
drift.” Takes a puff. “Anyhuu, any other questions?”

“Did you ever write for the movies?”

Gushing. “God sake, get real, dearie. You think I'd send you for a skyhook?
Movies are forced, phony baloney looking through glass. Truth is on the stage.
The play is the thing, theater, the boards, forget that other shtick. You come
here, you say your lines, you exit. It ain't no bleeping movie where you can
cut and paste. Remember the lines, play the role, smell the guano, write the
scene, the scene! Movie acting is for spineless voyeurs, second chance
narcissistic runt wishers, five foot two look at me mom, playing with
themselves, smelling the director's acetate. Goddamn politicians are all movie
actors. Theater is truth, gather 'round the fire, dance and talk, sing to see
if Godot is real and pleased to come among us. Satan is here, sups with us,
walks with us, in the flesh.” She took a drag. “Anyhuu, get used to it,
dawlings. Shit-tong happens under the proscenium arch.”

She took a deep drag, flared her nostrils, and flipped ashes in the
stand tray. “The Greeks, read the Greeks, the Romans ... ah, and we can't
forget William. Who do you know that played Lady Macbeth at the Pittsburgh
Playhouse?”