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Uptown

I trudged through the snow. Mary was early, of course. Auden called everyone Mary, especially muscle-bound Michael whom he referred to as an angel from Montana.

We were at a reading of W.H. The traffic around Manhattan was completely at a standstill, and I couldn't remember if I was to be at St. John the Divine or St. Mark's.

Anyway, Auden was there. Michael was expecting me to be choleric but I was still my lovable shy self. Michael began to fidget because I was sitting next to a rather rabbinical soul whom Man Ray had painted, probably out of mercy.

This young man engaged me in conversation.

"Aren't you the playwright I saw at Shock Theatre in the middle of Wall Street?"

"Maybe. I do prefer it to the current schlock theater."

"I liked the reaction of the crowd when you impersonated a Dow chemical businessman giving his napalm orders to Vietnam."

Michael began moving in the wine and cheese line and interrupted us.

"This is my ex-professor, Sol."

"Michael, you know everybody..."

"It comes with the territory."

"But you're from Butte."

"Cowboys are in boys, especially," Sol chimed in, "when they look like Mike."

I couldn't help being impressed by Michael with his strikingly blond hair and perfect art model pose in this unfamiliar church.

Auden was drinking white wine.

"Mary, could you pass me the Montana cheese? Michael, say cheese."

Michael sparkles like an ad for a toothpaste commercial. I feel left out until W.H. begins to talk poetry.

All of a sudden outside in the blizzard a streaker could be seen.

"Sol, how long have you known Mike?"

"I helped him out last summer. He is really a country boy, you know. I helped him get that job at the Guggenheim."

"Sol, you're a mover."

"I helped you, too. Remember, I got that play on off-off-Broadway."

"Yeah, but you encouraged the entire cast from Hair to crash my party."

"You still stole the show."

I wanted to be with Michael alone but here he was shmoozing with Auden, who was entrenched at the smorgasbord. I didn't relish a fight, so I let Michael use his cheesecake charms to work his way uptown.

When we got home we decided to nap. Mike was tickled that W.H. inscribed on his Western hat, "To my lonesome self." I made a glass of tea, the way the Russians do, fed him some of Galina's caviar served at yesterday's Tea Room luncheon. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was Sol. I was afraid of that.

"Do you want to pose for me after class, Michael?"

"Michael has taken to bed."

"That won't prevent him from being in my class tomorrow. Can I talk to him or is he under lock and key?"

"There is the telephone."

Sol saw my anger. Yet he wouldn't give up his own fantasies. Drunken Sol pushes me away and goes up to Michael's bed, leaves about five hundred dollars and a note asking him to model tomorrow.

I knew Michael would go. He needed the money and Sol was a friend. But when I got a call from Mike in Paris two days after, I was mad as a hatter.

Michael came back with an acting contract and several fashion jobs. He took all his belongings with him. Later in the day he called an invited me to share his new place with Sol. Montana, come on! This was chutzpah, New York style. And could you believe it, I moved in, Sol after a week moved out, he got his fantasy fulfilled and Michael was the perfect model for his lecture and his book. I was ready for more shock theatre.

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