I Loved You Wednesday (14 page)

Which takes me totally by surprise. Unprepared, this comes as a shot from nowhere, and I’m temporarily thrown.

“How do you do?” says Bradley, extending a very firm hand.

“Um ... Fine, thank you.” I start snapping out of it. “How do
you
do?”

“Very well, thank you,” says Bradley, very much in control.

“Bradley, this is Steven Butler.”

We exchange another round of “Hi!” and then, feeling somehow awkward for reasons I cannot explain, I turn to Chris, hoping she’ll pick up the ball from here.

Chris senses the awkwardness Bradley and I are experiencing and of course revels in it. Turning away from us and sitting down at the lighted mirror to remove her makeup, she casually says, “You fellows chat a bit while I get ready.” Spoken like the quintessential vamp.

So here I am, face to face with Chris’ Mr. Wonderful.

And I’ve got to hand it to him. The guy is cute.

The curly blond hair, the twisted smile, the laughing eyes, the craggy face, the assertive manner. It all works.

I hate him.

“Where you been?” he asks, pointing to my tan.

“Hmmmm?”
I ask innocently.

“The tan.” He points to my face again.

“Oh, that!” I touch my face as though I’d forgotten the tan was there. “Oh”—I casually shrug—”just spent the weekend with friends in Tahiti.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Steven,” scolds Chris from the makeup table.

“Just got back from Florida,” I say in more of an apologetic tone than I would have preferred.

“Really?” old blond curls responds. “Anywhere near Palm Beach?”

“Yes. Right
in
Palm Beach.”

“How funny. I recently spoke with friends there. Apparently it’s been a ghastly season.”

“Oh?”

“No
one
is down there.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Didn’t
you
notice the difference?”

“I have no point of comparison. It was my first time.”

“I see,” says Bradley, almost disappointed.

“Yeah. I was working there.”

“Working?” Bradley asks, puzzled, as though everyone knows the only thing to do in Palm Beach is play.

“Yes. Working in a show.”

Bradley’s face lights up with relief. “I see!” he says, releasing a short, casual laugh. “You show people are really something else.”

“Just what do you mean?” I ask, remaining calm, yet letting him in on the edge of hostility in my voice. Jesus, who’d have guessed we’d ever hit it off so well? Chris, no dummy, picks up the growing animosities and hurries to get out of her stage makeup and into a cute pants outfit. “I’m ready!” she announces, after a very few minutes, looking radiant.

I lock my luggage in Chris’ dressing room, and the threeof us walk all the way over to the West Village, to the producer’s apartment, for the opening-night party.

The aroma of marijuana is so thick as we enter this huge, darkly lit, jammed room I’m sure we’ll all get an immediate contact high. Two friends of the producer are sitting at a table in a corner rolling joints, assembly-line fashion, as if it were a Havana cigar factory.

There are four speakers around the room, a quad system blaring out the latest black sound. Those couples who can find room are dancing; others are finding air to breathe.

Chris, Bradley and I share a joint, and soon know the producer is a host with expensive tastes.

“Colombian!” says one of the stoned holy rollers at the table, beaming with pride. “Mixed with a little angel dust!”

Angel dust, for those of you out of touch with the drug culture, is a cute little something conjured up by a San Francisco teen-age druggist-genius who found that the right combination of mint leaves dipped in formaldehyde will get you very stoned at the modest price of the destruction of several hundred brain cells and the temporary relinquishing of reality.

But far be it from me to stop the carnival. Hell, everyone’s makin’ whoopee and smokin’ the dust and drinkin’ the booze and dancin’ the boogie and a guy in one corner is passing out Quaaludes to his friends and a couple in another corner are making out on a couch and a threesome in a third corner are sniffing cocaine and a foursome on the dance floor are stuffing poppers up their noses and does anyone remember when opening-night parties meant going to Sardi’s and having a couple of drinks while waiting for reviews?

Chris and Bradley squeeze their way through the people maze to the dance area, where they let loose.

I take a walk around the apartment and stop when someone behind me giggles “Hello!”

Turning, I find Wendy Chartoff, the girl I’d taken for coffee after the Sure audition.

“Hi!” I answer back excitedly, and we both hug and kissone another affectionately like old lost friends. Drugs certainly make it easier for people to get familiar fast.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Getting stoned. What else?”

“No. I mean who do you know?”

“Chris Canaday is a friend of mine. She’s in the show.”

“I know. She’s very good....I’m a friend of Marty Silvers,the producer.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s not here. Hates parties. He’s at some bar waiting to see what the papers say.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it doesn’t matter. If the papers like it, he’ll have no trouble raising the money to bring it uptown. If they hate it, it doesn’t matter because he’s so rich he’ll pay to transfer it uptown himself.”

“That’s good,” I say enthusiastically.

“Yeah. I think they’ve got a lot of good material.”

“Me too. How come you didn’t try out for it?”

“I was in Cleveland this past month doing
Summer and Smoke”

“Heavy!”

“Yeah. Heh-heh. Hey, is that a tan you’re wearing or the lighting in here?”

“Both.”

“Ahahahahahaha.”

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Are you kidding? I’m so stoned I’d laugh at a serious traffic accident.”

“Good for you. Want to dance?”

“If you can get us there.”

Wendy and I manage to hack our way to the dance floor where we cut the rug a spell. After that we find a small available couch and collapse. We remain fixed there, chatting and smoking a little over an hour, and watch as the party gets more crowded and less lively. I long ago lost sight of Chris and Bradley and don’t even know whether or not they’re still here.

“Look.” I finally throw in the towel. “I can only take so much partying at this level. I think we’ve peaked.”

“I agree.”

“Want to leave?”

“Sure.”

Stumbling through the crowd again, we search for our coats on the banister outside the apartment and leave.

After retrieving my luggage at the theater, Wendy and I head uptown to Chris’ apartment, where we pick up the dogs. Chris and I each have a spare key to the other’s place for situations like these.

Harry and Ruth spend five very frenetic minutes greeting me with yips and jumps. I gather their leashes, and Wendy and I take them home to my apartment, where she agrees to spend the night.

We have a really good time, too. A little odd, perhaps, in that she giggles and laughs whenever aroused, but I’m stoned enough to laugh along with her. I even pick up a little tip: Bursting into laughter just prior to orgasm is the best thing I’ve found for prolonging ejaculation.

Much later on, we’re fast asleep when the phone rings.

“Chris?” I answer groggily.

“Of course it’s Chris! Who’d you expect, Eleanor Roosevelt?”

“What is it?”

“Where the hell are you?” she shouts vigorously.

“Ssssssh!”
I whisper.

“Whadda ya mean,
Ssssssh?’

“I mean
Sssssssh.
There’s someone sleeping next to me.”

“Ruth?”

“Besides Ruth.”

“Harry?”

“Besides Harry.”

“Sounds awfully crowded.”

“It is.”

“Who is it?”

“Wendy,” I whisper.

“WENDY WHO?” Chris shouts.

“Let’s not go through that again.”

“Why did you leave without saying good-bye?”

“I looked all over for you. Figured you’d left.”

“We didn’t leave. In fact, we just got home.”

I look over at my digital. “Chris,” I whisper, trying to remain calm through my mounting impatience, “it’s five thirty in the morning. Why are you calling me?”

“Just thought you’d like to join us for breakfast, that’s all.”

“Breakfast at five thirty in the morning!?”

“Are you coming over or not? I have to know how big an omelet to make.”

“Make a small one. Count me out.”

“Why?”

“Are you crazy? How can you possibly ask me why? I can’t just jump out of bed and run over there. What am I supposed to do with Wendy?”

“Wendy
who?”

“Chris?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind if we talk about this tomorrow?”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Then later on tomorrow.”

“You know, Steve, I remember when you used to be fun.”

“Me too. Hey, how were the reviews?”

“Mixed to good. Marty came in with the papers about three this morning. They liked the music and thought the cast was talented, but knocked some of the skits. Marty said they weren’t money reviews but quotable enough to get us uptown.”

“Good. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Sure you won’t change your mind about breakfast?”

“No chance.”

“Okay, party pooper, see if you get invited to another of my notorious celebrity soirees!”

“God, I hope that’s a promise!”

“Good morning!”

“Good night!”

The following morning Wendy rises at eight, downs a quick cup of black coffee and sets out for a nine o’clock commercial call.

I leash up my brace of bulldogs and stroll through a light drizzle to Zabar’s. There I pick up an ounce of fresh caviar (seven dollars and fifty cents for God’s sake! But then Chris doesn’t open in a new play every night). The dogs and I walk over to Chris’ apartment on West Eighty-fifth Street, arriving a little before nine.

Revenge at last!

I ring the bell and wait several minutes until finally Chris wearily inquires, “Who is it?”

“The Cropsey Maniac!”

The door opens, and a very bleary-eyed young lady bearing a faint resemblance to Chris stands there in wrinkled flowered bathrobe and disheveled hair.

“Everybody up, UP, UP!” I pronounce, gleefully walking past her, into the kitchen.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” says Chris, more bitterly than I’d have thought possible.

“Come on, Chris, another day has dawned. Time to rise and shine. I was up and wanted to talk, so I came right over because I knew you’d understand. After all,” I add, imitating her, “what are good friends for?”

“My teeth are numb.”

“Too much cocaine? You must learn to go slow with the great white tooth powder.”

“I didn’t have any cocaine. My teeth are numb because I haven’t had any sleep.”

“Then let’s get out the Geritol and give this girl a boost. Look, I brought breakfast. . . . Caviar!” I exclaim, whipping out the tiny tin.

“How cosmopolitan.” Chris yawns. “I just finished breakfast.”

“Oh, right. Well, sit down and watch
me
eat.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I’ve got to get back to Bradley.”

“Where?”

“Still sleeping, if he’s lucky, in the bedroom.”

“I see. By the by, Ms. Canaday, can I ask you a small question?”

“Shoot.”

“What happened?”

“When?”

“Last time we spoke openly, you were all upset because he was a married man and it was all over unless he got rid of his wife.”

“That’s right.”

“What happened?”

“He got rid of his wife.”

“What?”

“Do you remember my telling you she was in Houston with her dying father and that’s why he was able to see so much of me?”

“I do.”

“Well, he died.”

“Her father?”

“Right. So she returned to Houston, and Bradley returned to me.”

“For how long?”

“Who knows?”