Blissful Interlude: J. G. ROTHBERG

  Blissful Interlude

  A Novel

  By J.G. Rothberg

  (Suggested For Mature Readers.)

  “Blissful Interlude” copyright (c) 2014 by J.G. Rothberg. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form whatsoever.

  The seasons in one's life are varied; there are times of death and mourning, and times of fearful expectations.

  There are seasons of innocence that joy compounds; our plates sometimes are plentiful, and other times devoid of anything to give us sustenance.

  Times,when light beams from within, and we are ensconced in the radiance of infinite possibilities, fulfilling desires; and times when darkness envelops and despair overtakes us, and we are undone.

  As for me, I believed we were on the cusp of an adventurous bus ride, but feared pietism would smash the lights of transcendence.

  In short, is what we ingest enriching and will it open us to superlative possibilities, or crush with subjugation? Are we competent to choose freedom from institutional bondage of marriage, restraints from religious oppression, freedom from state and ecclesiastic mumbo-jumbo?

  Yes. I wanted free love.

  Chapter One

  Most mornings, during these last months, even with a bright sun blistering through my curtain less windows, I tried blocking images of Mom's battle with her dementia which lasted more than three years. But these thought pictures persisted, coming on day after day like slow rolling stone. Pops passed away three years earlier from lung cancer, caused I suppose by heavy smoking and working in coal mines, much like Pop artist Andy Warhol's father, who had worked there too. I left Pittsburgh, for good after mom sank into total dementia and eventual death.

  Pittsburgh, where I was born and grew up, had become – especially during these years – deadening, and I craved a brand new beginning. My love life was weighted. Time was moving quickly. I had old boyfriends, and I had new boyfriends and boyfriends from high school. The men in their thirties, whom I had dated, were energetic; the men in their late forties I had met, showed yellowed teeth, and hairy knuckles. I wanted vivacity in my life's story. Often I would look up at the moon and scream about the joyless, lackluster guys I had gone to bed with.

  So, on my last birthday -- I celebrated my thirty-fourth year this past May 19, 1962, the day Marilyn Monroe in a sultry tight fitting dress sang “Happy Birthday Mr. President” to John F Kennedy at Madison Square Garden – I settled my affairs, and moved cross country to Hollywood.

  But unloading a houseful of belongings had been agonizing. I held on to two family photo albums, that mom tied together neatly with blue and yellow ribbons. That last day in Pittsburgh, I stood in my mother's bedroom, boxes packed and stacked and labeled, looking at my self in that oval mirror on her art deco vanity, and crying heavily. How could her life be reduced to old bloomers and bras, sweaters and scarfs, skirts and print house dresses? How does one give away these precious clothes, furniture, dishes, spoons; or toss these very items in the garbage? But I did what I believed I had to, tearfully, and with knots in my stomach. This was three months ago.

  This morning, while I sipped coffee, from mom's beloved brown mug, and ate waffles, with bright red strawberries, I noticed an item in the LA Herald that an Andy Warhol solo exhibit of his paintings opens tonight. I couldn't believe what I was reading. After all these years, a time to visit with my old friend Andy; to laugh with him, to schmooze, and to recall old times.

  Suddenly there was no possibility of going to work. I called my boss faking a bad cold, and I took the day off. I was glad of it. I am a window dresser at Bullock's department store, and I never liked my job, anyway.

  Oh, Andy remember how playful we were as children?

  I had last seen Andy fifteen years ago. He was in my classes at both elementary and high school. Andy is my age; his birthday is August 6. As childhood pals we lived two houses away from each other on Dawson Street, and always played together. We went to the movies most every Saturday afternoon, and collected glossies of movie stars. Over the years I've kept up with Andy's success as an artist, realizing he was hopelessly drawn to celebrity, and I suspected the art world gave him an entry point.

  I am also vulnerable to celebrity. Maybe the reason is that as children, Andy and I had devoured Modern Screen and Photoplay magazines and had carefully cut out pictures of Shirley Temple and Betty Grable, Humphrey Bogart and Clark Gable, imagining what their lives were and how we would fit in. Andy had especially loved his Shirley Temple photos, mimicking her expressions and making those faces at me: her wistful wide eyed look, her tongue licking her bottom lip, her smiles, her puckered little lips, with a tiny fingered raised in front. I had giggled. “Andy, but you don't have Shirley Temple's baby curls,” I had said. Andy had shrugged and continued smiling and tilting his head toward me.

  I still bring back memories of my early and teenage years with Andy. I recalled his slightly discolored skin, whitish blond flat hair, and those half-closed eyes. Back then, Andy was a mamma's boy, but so what. We had lots to laugh about; and often I had watched Andy draw pictures of flowers and animals.

  As for me, when I look in my mirror these days I see a brown haired, brown eyed, casually dressed female, not at all flamboyant or sloppy. Some would say casual chic.

  In this morning's state of euphoria I decided to pamper myself with a bubble bath. By one o'clock this afternoon, I was rolling my long brown hair up in curlers and experiencing a blissful feeling of anticipation.

  But a recollection of things past, a pregnancy when I was sixteen, and the baby I had given up and whom my parents had sold for adoption, jarred, and my mood quickly darkened. Oftentimes, I have nightmares recalling the birth, and a vision of the wrinkled, and pinkish skin of the newborn baby. The scene that has stuck most, was after my final pelvic push, when the baby had sprung head first and intact from my loins. The Demerol they had shot me with, befuddled my feelings, up and down and sideways, from giddiness to relief, to sadness and to fear, or vice versa. I never held the baby. He had been taken away from me by a starchy looking nurse wearing a white protective cover over her mouth and nostrils, and a white gown, herself with wrinkled skin, but from the wear and tear of aging. The quick turns she made with the newborn infant, her white shoes, click clacking on the antiseptically white tiled floor, haunted; that vision of her, moving swiftly away from me, never looking back at me, imprinted. It was as if my obstetrician – whose office was several miles from Dawson Street, where I could visit and never be recognized – passed that amylaceous looking nurse a bag full of groceries, and she ran, it seemed to me, like a marathon sprinter, clutching a stuffed brown bag out the door.

  Shaking my head with quick thrusts as if to empty my brain of this memory, I flicked the dial on the Zenith radio on the kitchen counter to KDAY and heard the d.j. screaming in a husky voice “Are you ready for cars, girls and surfing?”

  “Oh, yes, I like that sound, so very much,” I shouted at the radio. It was the right medicine for the moment. The Beach Boys, “Surfin Safari,” finally streamed. Come along (surfin') baby wait and see (surfin' safari). Yes I'm gonna (surfin') take you surfin' (surfin' safari) with me. I bounced to the rhythms and puffed on a rolled joint of not bad pot. Tonight, yes tonight with Andy, my life will turn around. Yes, I am sure of it.

  And, it was finally evening, this Monday the ninth of July, and I walked out into a hot, star filled night with tiny blue-white lights flickering in a vast inky sky. I wore my black faux-leather mini skirt over a black leotard, which plunged erotically and in a shapely manner. On to Irving Blum’s storefront Ferus Art Gallery in West Hollywood, I went. A half hour later, I stepped off the the bus on
La Cienega Boulevard.

  And when I walked into the gallery, what I saw was a complete surprise for my ideas about art; displayed on an entire white washed wall were thirty-two paintings of Andy Warhol’s mostly red and white Campbell's soup cans. The interior of the gallery was a wilderness of white, punctuated with paintings of red and white soup cans; soup cans, believe it or not. All the canvases were lined up in a row like thirty-two tin cans on shelves in a super market. “I don't know,” I mumbled. “Andy what have you done? Are your painting of soup cans, really art?”

  Crowds of engaging people mulled about. Everything at first seemed festive and cheerful. Above all, it was an event, Andy Warhol's first art exhibit ever. The gallery was brightly lit, and sounds of wistful chatter permeated the large room. But as I roamed I heard whispering and saw some head shaking, and some laughing; I even noticed one guy, very buttoned down, in a dark suit, black shoes, very east coast looking, scratch his head, and say, ”He's got to be kidding.” I smiled, trying to ingest all the meaning of the portraits of soup cans: the Clam chowder, the Beef broth, the Tomato Soup, the Cheddar Cheese, the Vegetable Soup, and more. I spent an energetic amount of time looking at the Tomato Soup Can painting. Both Andy's and my mom had big cans of these in our kitchens, and this soup in particular had been a mainstay of our diets as children.

  Soon enough I heard, “Hey, I’m Nick.” I tensed up. Maybe because I was euphoric at meeting up with Andy again, perplexed by seeing his paintings, and nostalgic about our earlier, often inseparable times together. Nick's was a come hither kind of voice, shooting goose pimples up and down my arm, pulling me away from what was becoming a blank stare at the Tomato Soup Can.

  And when I spun around, I saw this blond god, somewhere in his early thirties, in a pale blue shirt, tall, with a long face, cleft chin and movie star looks. Nick shot out his hand. Well, I almost fainted. I am defenseless when it comes to male spectacular beauty. Any time I encounter a hot guy, I will begin fantasizing about a fiery affair. I suppose everybody has some weakness against something, and Nick was my Achilles heel.

  “I’m Anna,” I said, modestly. “Anna Karena.” He placed both hands over mine and shook vigorously. I sucked in the warmth of his large hands, and the delicious scent of testosterone and his musky, but faint woodsy smell; and my body and soul were in overdrive.

  “Let me get us a drink,” he said. “I’ll get us some Iced Tea. I mean Long Island Iced Tea. With ice. Don’t move.”

  “Okay,” I smiled and watched Nick hustle off to the bar at the far side of the room. He wore the most delicious baggy blue pants, which highlighted his swagger, and the sexual gait of his movement. Truthfully, I was in a state of shock that Nick singled me out. What was his story? He was a living doll. For the next few moments I began moving forward and back a bit, letting others into boundaries Nick seemingly set up for me.

  When he returned with two tall glasses of Long Island Iced Tea, a lemon wedge perched on the rim of the glass, I asked,“Do you think soup cans are art? Really. Soup cans?”

  Nick stood directly in front of me, only inches away, paying no attention at all to any respectable distance for privacy. We both took a short sip of our drinks. Shaking his head up and down, he said.“People paid $100 for a painting from Andy. That’s arty.“

  Ooooh, my pulsating heart. This guy's looks are not to be believed. “Do you work for Andy?” I asked. I looked up at his glazed over watery blue eyes and wanted desperately to melt in his arms. Somehow, I was sure that Nick knew what his body can do, standing so well-poised, relaxed, so sure of his personality, so seemingly at ease with his beauty, and not at all like other men I had met: guys, either full of deception or putting on window dressing of some kind, making conversation with language that was constrained.

  Nick took his sweet time to answer my question about his association with Andy. He pressed his thick lips, leaned towards me, and with his finger wiped back a wisp of fallen hair on my forehead. “Yes, I work with Andy. Answer phones, help with canvases a little and the camera, keep the girls back in New York, happy,” Nick answered in a warm, low voice.

  “You mean fuck them,” I exclaimed. Oh my gosh. Immediately I thought, shame on you Anna, you naughty girl, using bad language in front of a person you barely know. The words shot out of my mouth, surprising even me. But I felt justified. I have been around, I have enjoyed playing the field, and this was the first time ever, I was so close to a gorgeous man.

  Nick howled, and grabbed me around my waist, squeezing hard, but affectionately. “Well, sometimes, yeah.” He looked squarely at me, with a broad smile, and then wiped his hand over his lips as if erasing his expression. “Mainly I hang out. Sometime just that.” Nick shrugged, and I sighed inwardly once more over his hot looks.

  “Yeah and flirt,” I said. “Where’s Andy, anyway. Waiting to make a grand entrance?”

  Nick, with an eyebrow raised, looked flummoxed for a second.“Naw. Andy’s in New York, working. He’s got some really great new ideas for his art.”

  “In New York? You mean ... he isn't here?” A cold shiver sped down my spine. I was so shocked. For the moment, I felt I turned into a stone statue. “I don't believe this. I was sure he'd be here for his exhibit,” I told Nick. “Well, that's silly, I know, but damn, I so wanted to see Andy.” And I let Nick know how close we were as children and teenagers in Pittsburgh. “It would be fifteen years of catching up with him,” I said. “We grew up together.”

  Nick was silent, at first, then parting those luscious lips as if in mid realization of something.. “You grew up with Andy Warhol?” he asked. Nick placed his hand on my shoulder, then tilting his head, scrutinizing me.

  “We played together, went to movies. He drew pictures for me. I was his pal, you could say.”

  He moved back, stood with his mouth slightly open. It was if I laid a bomb on him. “Why is that strange?” I finally asked.

  “Not strange,” he was shaking his head. “Just terrific. You know, Andy can be a mystery. He strikes different poses. I think to tease people.”

  “Yeah, in a way he was always like that,” I said, moving back slightly closer to Nick, also giving a couple of bohemian looking woman, colorless face, long, black unkempt hair with a young man guy in a pale green t-shirt, and a pack of Marlboro reds tucked in the sleeve of of shirt, a chance to pass. The guy sized up Nick, then turned to the woman and offered smokes, while saying stuff out of my hearing range. One of the woman sauntered over, asking Nick, “Are you a porn star or something?”

  Nick shook his head, no. The lady kept talking. “You know, palm reading is my family tradition,” she said, totally ignoring me, and grabbing Nick's hand and turning it over to run her slim fingers up and down the lines of his hand. “Please allow me to acknowledge what I see.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, in a possessive and angry tone. Here I am making headway with this beautiful guy, ready to lose my soul in his hands, while torturing myself about Andy being here tonight, and this … this … undernourished, flea bitten female, pushes her way in.

  “It's okay, Anna,” Nick said reassuringly, which led me to calm myself. “Let's see what she has to say.” Read her palm too,” he told the girl.

  “Tweetie. That is my name. Let me introduce you to my two companions, Ariel, and Frederica.”

  The two came over as beckoned. The boy, I would call a blond surfer looking guy, gleefully rubbed his hand slowly up and down Nick's arm, then pinched Nick's hip. Nick didn't flinch. When it was Frederica's moment, herself, tanned, short haired, athletic looking blonde, turne one cheek toward Nick for a kiss and then the other.

  Stoking Nick's palm with her skinny pinkish finger, Tweetie looked up , giving him with a broad smile. “I see you are a lover.” Then switching to another line in his palm, “A lover for many. And the many won't do you good. But wait.” Tweetie pulled back sharply. “Many disappointments have already grabbed you by the balls.”

  Nick gave Tweetie, what the hell are you talking abo
ut, look. I wondered about her nationality. Her syntax seemed disjointed. Was she translating in her head from another language? Smiling at him, Tweetie went on, “You are lonely as hell, Nick. Lonely on the inside.”

  “Hey thanks, Tweetie, I'll think about what you said.”

  But before Nick could finish his sentence Tweetie grabbed my hand, studied my palm for the time it took her to shake her head, maybe seven times. Suddenly she dropped my hand, pushed back on her heels, sweeping her hands through her long black hair. “I don't like what I see. I can't go on. You will not be satisfied with the man of your dreams. You'll always want more. We must go now,“ Tweetie concluded, while Ariel reached up and pecked Nick's cheek. I watched them leave, hearing a click-clack of Tweetie's heels, and Ariel's swaying hips, not an effeminate sway, at all, but a sexual sway. The Frederica's walk was nondescript, and I wondered if that told us something about who she is.

  “Nice meeting all of you, Nick said calmly. “Be sure to study Andy Warhol's paintings. If any catch your eye, I'm here to help.”

  “What was that all about,“ I said. And that guy … kissing and touching.”

  “No sweat, Anna. Let me explain something. When you're around artist, bohemians, intellectuals, writers, celebs, plain hangers on, you learn that one is either into ladies or guys. To put it more intelligently, dick or boobs. I'm into boobs, babe. Nothing to concern yourself with.”