1956

Kathryn, Luke, and Starling are now all three in their early thirties, certainly sadder than they were at the age of five and six when they first met, if not also (in all cases) wiser. Kathryn and Richard have moved to Boston, where he is teaching at Harvard, but also so that he can be closer to his doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital. As might have been expected, Starling has moved out once again and is living by himself in a studio apartment in Spanish Harlem. Only Luke has remained stationary—he is still working as an editor at Farrar, Straus, and he is also still occupying the same apartment on Carmine Street in the Village that the three once shared; in fact, he has recently bought it. The threesome last saw each other in August, shortly before Kathryn and Richard moved away; now that Kathryn is gone, Luke and Starling see one another rarely, Only once in a very pink moon, as Starling puts it.

Starling’s existence has become, over time, increasingly depressed and depraved: he rarely bothers to go on auditions anymore, and he has had a difficult time holding onto any of a variety of jobs for very long, and so there have been a debilitating and demoralizing succession of them. Now all he does is stay out late partying most nights, drinking and smoking marijuana, and he has also just recently begun trading sex for money—not that he is walking the streets, but rather it is simply known, in certain circles of the neighborhood, that this still pretty if beginning to fade and now rougher-around-the-edges mulatto boy, is, as they say, willing; in short, he has developed something of a reputation, and a clientele.                                                   

Starling’s apartment is a shambles—cluttered, disorderly, and also dirty; it consists of one living/bed-room, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. Opposite the front door is the bed, a twin bed that is unmade; the floor is littered with trash, plates and wrappers of half-eaten food, shoes, clothing, empty liquor bottles, etcetera. On the wall over the bed in huge letters is a quote from Federico Garcia Lorca’s Poet in New York: “The boys lay inert in the cross of a yawn and stretched muscle.”

Wearing the same wine-colored dressing gown he has worn for years—it is now over ten years old, torn and tattered, Starling is lying in bed talking on the telephone, drinking whiskey on ice and chain smoking, one bare leg crossed over the other, nervously playing with the phone cord, twisting it endlessly, repeatedly, and constantly shaking his crossed leg.

I am just so sick and tired of everything, he is saying. His words are slurred. I need a rest, a break, you know? I guess I just need to get out of New York City for a while. But I am so sick and tired of myself, too, and how do I get a break from me? He laughs. You’re sick of me, too—that’s really funny! But seriously, how do you get rid of yourself—for a while? I’ve been trying to do that. Where do I go? He looks around the room. Where is there for me to go? I can’t go home anymore—that’s not an option. He sips his whiskey. I’m just so tired all the time. Tired of all the people, too—everybody; everywhere you go, there are so many people—seems like somebody’s behind every corner, every door, always somebody there, everywhere! And I’m tired of it; it takes a toll on you after awhile. He pauses to light a cigarette. And I’ve had it with the theater, too—with that world and all of the people in it: all the fakery and the glitter and the big egos running around. He sighs. You know I came here—it was ten years ago this fall—I came here with all of my little hopes and dreams; I know—just like everybody else, right? He puffs. And where are those dreams now? They’re gone. Up in smoke. He blows smoke. Gone with the wind. Torn and tattered, and…tarnished. I don’t even have them anymore; I don’t think I have any dreams left. It’s all about survival now, just getting from one day to the next, one foot in front of the other. But surviving for what? What am I living for, waiting for? He sighs. I feel like I’ve been running in circles for years. Just spinning my wheels, like one of those laboratory rats. An animal in a cage, pacing back and forth: Little not-even-Black Sambo running around in circles, chased by so many tigers. It’s like I’m just going through the paces, you know? But without any feeling. And I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know. I guess it’s just gotten me down, dragged me down, but not under—at least not yet anyway. He takes another sip from the glass. But New York just isn’t what I thought it would be; I thought I’d have a thousand opportunities, you know? Instead of having doors constantly slammed in my face simply because of the color of my skin. I do a few teleplays and then they tell me I’m over-exposed, that because of my special look, they say, I over-expose more quickly! And it’s all just so damn depressing. He puts out one cigarette and immediately lights another. Hey, that reminds me—did you read about what happened to Jimmy Baldwin recently? It was just like what happened to Luke and me that time at the San Remo. But this was James Baldwin! He wasn’t at the Remo, though, he was someplace else in the Village, maybe it was The White Horse. He pauses, thinking. No, now I remember, it was reported in the newspaper; it was at the Paddock. Anyway, Baldwin’s in there having a few drinks with a white man and two white women, friends of his, you know, and they’re drinking and talking and having a good ol’ time, but then some guys who’re also there, and drunk out of their minds, white guys, of course, they spot Baldwin and his friends and go over to their table, and then they just start yelling at them—‘what’s a nigger doing in here with white girls?’ That kind of thing. And then the next thing you know, it turns into a real fight and Baldwin gets beaten up pretty badly and has to go to the hospital. He gulps down the remainder of the whiskey in his glass. And if that’s what this country does to its own, I mean, Baldwin is one of the most celebrated writers in America today. This happened in New York, man. I mean, even the Village isn’t safe anymore. I guess this is what Luke was trying to tell me about McCarthy—how he’s poisoned everything. The word on the street is that these troublemakers were mostly Irish guys from the surrounding areas, and that it’s some kind of a territorial thing. Not that the reason really matters. He pauses to blow several smoke rings. Anyway, I heard that Baldwin went to Paris. Moved there for good. Maybe that’s what I need to do, too—move to Paris. Josephine Baker did it. Or at least maybe move to somewhere in Europe. He shakes his head. I don’t know. All I know is, I need something, and I need it soon. You know what I mean? I need it real fast. He snaps his fingers. Else I feel like I’m gonna jump out of my skin. He yawns and looks at the Lorca quote over his bed and recites it in a whisper: ‘The boys lay inert on the cross of a yawn and stretched muscle,’ he reads, then yawns again. So anyway, listen baby, what’re you doin’ tonight? You got any stuff or know anybody who’s got any? He crushes out his cigarette. Any kinda party goin’ on you happen to know about? He laughs. Maybe that’s what I need, a party, yeah, another party. He laughs again. I hear ya, baby. Partied out, huh? Pooped. Yeah, I think maybe I am, too. Maybe I should just stay in tonight and be quiet. He looks around the apartment. Clean up this dump. He laughs. How many times have you heard me say that, right? I know, I know. At least a hundred, right? He laughs again. I know—who am I kidding? I’ll be out there on the street in no time, looking around for something good, for something to happen, for some kind of a party—even if it’s just with one other person. But hey, sometimes that’s the best kind of party, you know? Just you and them and whatever happens. He lights another cigarette. For a while there I thought that maybe I’d found that other person. Someone special. No, not Luke—this was after Luke, at a time when I thought that there wasn’t anyone else for me and never would be. His name was Cole. Yep, that’s right, Cole, like cole slaw. He was hip baby, let me tell you. An actor. A Southern boy. Sweet—a real catch. And we were happy for a time, too (under his breath)—until I scared him away. And he was half and half, like me, so I can’t blame it on that. Sighs. No, I think it was just me and who I am; I’m always scaring people away, you know? He laughs. Luke? No, we hardly ever see each other anymore. Almost never. Sure I miss him. But the whole thing is just so fucked-up. He says he’s not a fairy and that’s that. And my response to him is, okay, fine, but I know you love me; I know you do—I know he does. So I don’t care what you call yourself, you can call yourself Ethel Merman or Truman Capote for all I care. Just get yourself on over here. But he won’t have it; he can’t, for whatever reason. And so now when we do get together, which is really only once in the pinkest of pink moons, when we do get together it’s just so damned uncomfortable, and I guess that’s probably my fault (he sighs), because I just can’t seem to let it go, to let him go, and so I push, which only makes him run in the opposite direction. There’ve been a couple of times over the years where I’ve seen him out on the street, he’s usually with somebody—a man or a woman, and he sees me, too, I know he does—but he pretends that he doesn’t. That really hurts. Like I’m invisible or something—the original Invisible Man. He sighs again, lights another cigarette. No, that’s just one more dream dashed. He lets out another big sigh. Yeah, I suppose I may as well just start getting myself ready to go out, huh? Might just as well face that thing, right? Because that’s what I’m gonna do anyway. That’s what I’ll do—eventually, whether it’s as soon as I hang up the phone, or later. I’ll be out there lookin’ around. He scans the room again. Ain’t no use staying in here, sitting around feeling sorry for myself, that’s for sure, right? He laughs. I don’t see no boys layin’ inert, yawnin’ and stretchin’ their muscles in here, do you, hon? At least not yet anyway, but the night is young, he laughs again. All right, sugar, I’m gonna go now. I’m gonna go and get myself ready to go out—hit the street, make the scene, what have you. I’ll talk to you another pretty evenin’. Bye-bye for now. 

ROBIN LIPPINCOTT is the author of two previous novels and a collection of short stories. His work has also appeared in The Paris Review, Fence, The New York Times Book Review, The Literary Review, and many other journals, as well as several anthologies, and he has been awarded fellowships to Yaddo and The MacDowell Colony. He teaches in the MFA Writing Program at Spalding University and at Harvard University. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.