Meeting

Meeting

He was lonely.

His loneliness clutched him so tightly he forgot to sneer at the jostling crowd along Broadway. He didn’t notice the young man standing on the corner of Forty-Fifth gaze at him with obscene flutterings of his eyes. He was aware only of the deep hollow ache inside that came with the knowledge that he would wander alone again through the city.

That city.

Its trademark was its coldness. Brusquely it passed you by, winking at you with its garish neon eyes, screaming with its thousand Saturday night voices. It pushed you hurriedly along the sidewalks, beckoned you into gloomy bars that feigned fellowship, and at three o’clock eased you firmly out the door, anxious to click its adding machine brain. Were you worth the nod it had given you? Did your seven dollars pay for the clammy hand it had laid briefly on your shoulder?

He felt sick.

Reeling past the autumn-tinged people who skitted along like dry leaves, he felt tears rising. Through the wetness in his eyes, the lights became a blur. He rounded the corner at Forty-Sixth and leaned against a wall, weary, fighting the need to cry.

A figure in blue nudged him.

“Okay Mac, what’s your story?”

“Nothing.” He began to move away.

“I’m askin’ a question, what’re you doin’?”

“Nothing, officer, I just felt a little dizzy, that’s all, just stopped to catch my breath.”

“Sure, sure, startin’ a little early on the booze, eh?”

The feeling of oppression was too great. “Look, I told you, I got dizzy, that’s all.”

A crowd of lewd grinning heads had appeared to watch the downfall of one of the wretched ones.

“Well, well, a fighter, eh? Get the hell on your way before I use the stick on your fat mouth, and don’t let me see you on my street again tonight!”

He almost ran.

Onto Broadway again, moving through the sea of blank faces. He turned down Forty-Ninth, hating himself for the habit that brought him here week after week. A long row of bars blinked at him. Only the names above the doors made one different from another. In the weeks and months which had made him a regular customer, he had never seen anyone look up at the names of the bars. He could concern himself with that type of detail because he didn’t have anything else to do. He let himself be swallowed into a doorway.

The thing that bothered him most about bars was the soft dull lighting. Dirt on the glasses, dust on the stools, makeup on the women, colors of the whiskey, all melted into the light until a barmaid’s face looked like scotch and wine looked like dust. He was grateful to find his usual stool at the end of the bar empty.

The ritual began.

A heavy barmaid leaned toward him before he settled. Another girl stood next to him wanting to check his coat. He felt the familiar feeling of being ambushed. He firmly and abruptly sent the hatcheck girl away and ordered a drink. The barmaid didn’t try to hide her disappointment with the five-dollar bill he placed on the bar. He smiled grimly to himself, knowing he had made two enemies.

The word was out about him now. He knew the hatcheck girl was telling another girl at the other end about the stiff that just walked in. The barmaid was telling the bartender about him while she mixed his drink. The bartender was looking at him in the dimness and now recognizing him. And then the bartender was putting him in a certain category for the benefit of the girls.

He’s a creep, comes in here every week, and stays until closing time. He’s good for maybe seven, eight bucks. Never checks his coat. Never buys the girls a drink. Maybe if he’s in a real low mood or if he’s high, you can push him a little. But keep your eye on him, he’s a weirdo. Just comes in here and broods most of the time. A real creep.

So he was marked for tonight and for all time until he checked his coat or bought one of the girls a drink or spent more than seven dollars. Until then he was ignored as much as possible.

He brooded now and withdrew within himself to play his torturous game of self-pity. Shoulders slumped, his sighs coming heavier, he wished for something to happen to break the monotony of the night. To have one night different. He wished harder, squeezing his eyes shut.

The girl came hesitantly through the door, sorrow on her plain face. No one noticed her until she stood next to the man sitting on the end stool. Nervously she bumped his stool and he came out of his reverie with a jerk. He was astonished at what he saw in her face; that same look he had seen so many times in his mirror.

She was lonely!

The scraping noise of the stool brought the bartender. His look was one of utter disgust.

“We don’t serve unescorted women here.”

He almost jumped onto the bar in his attempt to hold onto the possibility of change in his life.

In a voice he did not recognize as his own, he blurted, “She’s with me!”

“What?” the bartender shouted, scowling.

“I said she’s with me,” he said, calm but firm. “She came here to meet me.”

The bartender looked at the girl suspiciously. “You gonna drink, or what?”

“Yes,” he interrupted, defiant, pulling out the stool for her. “She’ll have the same as me.”

The girl sat there hypnotized. The bartender shot one final hard glance at them and walked away, muttering orders to the barmaid.

He looked at her desperately.

“I had to do that so you’d be able to have a drink,” he said low. “I don’t think it’s right for them to refuse to serve you if you want a drink. You look like you need a drink.”

She was suddenly alert. “I’m not drunk!”

“I didn’t say that,” he said quickly. “But if you want to come in here for one or two, they shouldn’t refuse you just because you’re alone. Lots of people are alone.” He looked at her closer. “I’m alone.”

“I shouldn’t have come in here,” she said, half-rising.

“Wait!” he cried. “The barmaid is bringing your drink. You don’t have to talk to me or anything, but you might as well have your drink.”

She fumbled in her purse but he quickly pushed his money forward and the barmaid scooped it up and was gone.

“I’ll pay myself,” she said.

“Look, for god's sake, let me pay. They’ll know you’re not with me.”

“Then I’ll give you the money,” she insisted.

He gave her an exasperated look. “It’s on me, no strings attached. I was just trying to be friendly because you looked a little low.”

She glanced at him quickly.

“I mean, everyone gets a little low. I feel kind of low myself tonight. I told you no strings attached. I’m not going to do anything. You don’t have to talk to me. Just have a drink or two then we’ll leave together and I’ll go my way, you go yours.”

He realized he hadn’t talked so much in a long while. He’d even forgotten his usual shyness. She was staring at him, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Why are you leaving when I leave?”

“To show them we’re together. But I won’t follow you, don’t worry, I’ll just go to another bar.”

“But why?”

He blushed. “I come here a lot, and if they see you leave without me---”

She looked away. “I’m sorry I caused you embarrassment.”

“No, no, you didn’t, it’s just that---they don’t have any reason to know about us. It’s none of their business.”

She looked up. He smiled. Their eyes traded frustration, bitterness, empty dreams. Two of a kind. Both knew this. Each could guess how the other’s life had unfolded until now. Each saw the other wander through the dimly lit city at night, or weeping as the radio played after midnight blues, or lying in bed fully clothed staring at a new dawn of one more lonely day. Eating alone, sleeping alone, being alone. Alone. No words exchanged, but they knew.

She returned his smile and they toasted each other, shy and silent.

Customers began to crowd the bar. The jukebox blasted. Saturday night was in full chaotic swing. They sat apart from it, nursing their drinks, savoring being together as long as they could, until the bar noise intruded once too often.

They left unnoticed.

Walking together, each was aware of the closeness of another human being, aware of the sheer pleasure of being near and with someone. Their joy rose to a dizzying pitch, flushed their cheeks, crinkled their faces with smiles, filled them until they thought they would burst.

He took her hand and she held him as they walked to Central Park.

Along the fringe of the park, the city changed. The sounds of traffic were beautiful. The crisp autumn air was sharp and as delicate as crystal. They watched their breaths hanging on the air, mingling as if caressing. They laughed loudly in the stillness and immediately became silent again, surprised at the echo, and very surprised at their laughter. They laughed again.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “one of the radio stations keeps saying that you’re never alone in New York.”

“Do you carry a radio with you all the time?” she asked, unable to say anything logical.

To her surprise, he didn’t consider the question stupid. “No. I hate radios. Every time I hear them say that I get lonelier.”

There was sincere sympathy in her eyes. “Well I’m alone in New York,” she said. “I don’t even have a roommate.”

“Me neither,” he said, happier to have something in common with her than to have a roommate.

They linked arms. Walking slowly, they marveled at the way life was. They thought about two plain drab people in a sea of people. Who had charted the course so that they might cross paths and bump? To have started from opposite ends of a frightening city and meet somewhere in the night! How strange and wonderful! They dismissed their questions and clung to each other tighter.

Midnight held them in its shimmering spell as they sat on a bench inside the park. They filled the park with their contented sighs. Their smiles touched the grass with light. Neither could recall a time in life so happy.

They faced each other and lost themselves in search. They studied every line, every blemish, and thrilled at the plainness.

He took her in his arms and their bodies merged. They kissed and clung to each other. He reached up to cup her small breasts. She trembled, her mouth undisciplined as it moved over his face. Their bodies demanded; their mouths insisted. He touched the hem of her skirt, touched her stocking top, trailed his fingers along her warm thigh. Her fingers began to grope for him.

For one terrible moment time stopped as they stiffened.

They backed away simultaneously, shame flooding their faces. She straightened her skirt and eyed him suspiciously. He forced a cough and narrowed his eyes at her.

“It’s late,” she said hoarsely.

“Yeah.” His voice was harsh.

They walked out of the park. They were careful not to touch.

The city became itself again. The wind cut into their tense bodies. People and traffic made harsh, obscene sounds. The garish neons blinked hard.

He stopped and she turned quickly to face him. Both felt the taste of dead leaves in their mouths. Standing apart, they spoke to each other across a vast canyon the way all New Yorkers did.

“Look, I’ll take you home,” he said loudly.

“No thanks. I’m going to stop at my friend’s house.”

He scuffed his shoe against the sidewalk and looked toward Broadway. She averted her gaze. They walked.

“Maybe you should give me your address and phone number,” he said.

“Sure.”

“I mean if you want to. Maybe we can get together next week or something. I’ll call you and pick you up. If you want to.”

“Sure.”

They refused to look at each other.

“It’s way out in the Bronx,” she said.

“Yeah.”

They came to a subway entrance.

“Well, I’ll see you,” he said.

“Sure.”

She clicked down the steps, hurrying home to her radio, forcing herself not to cry until she heard the reassuring voice tell her she was never alone in New York.

His legs were like pistons over the blocks. Finally winded, he slowed and looked around. The park lay far away. He stood on a grating and winced as he felt a train rumble below him. When the grating became silent he bowed his head and walked toward Forty-Ninth, reminding himself to pick a different bar.

There was still enough time for loneliness before the city went to sleep.