The Ice Age (18 page)

We found the car again and headed over to Glorie's house, which was uptown a ways. This is where I was to be deposited. It took us fifteen minutes to find a parking spot. A taxi driver gave us the finger. Glorie came to the door in a pant suit and just stood there for a minute, looking at us. She looked more ordinary, less theatrical, without her clouds of smoke rising around her old body like vapors. Seeing her there squinting in the harsh sun on her doorstep, I was reminded of an old roadhouse bar at closing time, when a flash of fluorescent lights kills all the shadows; you realize the perceived ambience was a lie. But then she took a long filtered smoke in one hand, a dinged-up bejeweled lighter in the other, lit up, inhaled, exhaled, air kissed us, and waved us inside, as the old Glorie, the Glorie I remembered. She took my wrist and pulled me into this ornate bear cave of hers; I felt I didn't quite belong here, but was way too curious to turn back. I wondered how many times Gunther had visited, and what he'd done, what memories of his rest here among piles of papers, sketches, huge potted plants, peacock feathers, bookshelves packed to the ceiling, strolling cats, cobwebs, old carved couches, empty bird cages, the sound of wings flapping overhead. I trotted along behind her with Gunther at my heels, properly awe-struck. This place actually has pillars. Inside. It's palatial. If ever there was a head vampire, she is it. Vases, statues, paintings, a goddamn fountain, all as elegant as the hostess herself.

She had a room made up for me, complete with a teddy bear on the pillow. I guess she thought I needed a little TLC. There is a little too much pink in this room for my taste, but I really shouldn't complain. All in all, this Glorie is a class act. She's not a headcase like Gunther's other friends.

Gunther stayed the night, in his own room, of course. But he did stop by my room with a huge stack of high quality recycled typing paper. I made him promise to come and say goodbye to me in the morning. He did, and I sat up in bed and hugged him and cried. He cried too, but maybe just because tears can be contagious. I got up out of bed and watched him walking through the pillars. I heard him at the front door, thanking Glorie. His name was pounding in my head. ‘Gunther. Gunther!' I felt like screaming it like Stanley screamed ‘Stella' in A Streetcar Named Desire.

I spent the morning with Glorie, drinking tea and catching up. She certainly is well read. And well versed on a damn lot of things. What I guess you would call an interesting conversationalist. She pointed me toward a good bookstore. I went for a walk, and said I'd check it out. But I didn't, I just kept walking. Past the flashing billboards of Times Square, through the gray streets in shadow, with their mannequined windows and hurtling commuters. South, until I got to the grittier sections of town,
where the streets could talk to me.

I passed a wall of graffiti that said:

I am avenging absences

I AM AVENGING ABSENCES

I need someone as wounded as myself

I'm not sure how I came to be here, alone and insignificant. Most people my age walk around in gaggles of twittering friends. Or so it seems. I don't even want that. Can't remember if I ever had it. Or how I came to be by myself. I guess there is no one reason. It's a collection of things.

I waited on the corner of Bond Street, on the Bowery, for a truck to pass. It spluttered out smoke. It looked like the trail of its breath on a cold day. Right then it didn't seem to matter if I waited for this big animated truck to pass, or walked in front of it. I do just feel like wandering out into the traffic, there's no denying that. Sometimes I get so tired of all the stuff cluttering up my brain, it's a relief to feel I could be reduced to so many pounds of raw, jiggling flesh that could just go thud and stop.

Alphabet City was just as Gunther and I had left it. Full of junkies, walking with their sinking, measured steps, as if they were leaving tracks in the snow. So peaceful, so divine. I wanted to follow one and learn his secret.

I sent another message to Gunther. ‘Gunther,' I thought, ‘it's not what you've got for me, it's what I've got for you.' Because I have all this love left over, and nowhere to put it.

And he decided not to bite me after all. Silly Gunther. Pointless Gunther. Now I'll just have to find someone who will.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank everyone at Text Publishing, for their guidance, support and encouragement throughout the process of publishing my first book. For sharing the joy and nervous anticipation inherent in this process, Krissy Kneen.
The Ice Age
was chosen for the Pathways to Publication Masterclass at Varuna, The Writers' House. I'm grateful to everyone I encountered there, including my fellow authors; most notably Angela Meyer, for her undying enthusiasm for new writing, and Amy Jackson, for tolerating a frequently distracted writing partner, and for nudging
The Ice Age
in the direction of Text Publishing! Thanks of course to Peter Bishop, for everything he does for emerging writers, and for being the first person to love this book, and make me feel like an author.