She was sitting in a cafe a few blocks from Union Square, where we were supposed to meet at seven-thirty. It was eight, raining. Someone else sat with her. I lived a long way from Manhattan and always misjudged the trip. It was a habit, like smoking.
The other guy's name was Tom. We introduced ourselves. Katie got up, and I sat. When she smiled, I tried to read her face to figure out who he was. He was a theater designer. I shook my umbrella out and placed it under the table.
"How long..." I asked, for something to say.
"Since high school," he said. "But I don't think you count that. I've been in theater since I was little. Musicals and all," he waved a hand.
I wanted to tell him about a party I'd gone to over the weekend with a group of designers. They were from elsewhere, lived in the city for two years, and spent the night grouped around an island in the kitchen in the house, drinking, smoking, eating hash brownies out of the oven; they told a group of people that graduated from college all they would do in New York was work.
"That's the secret," one said, laughing, "all you do is work." Clouds gathered around them, chasing everyone else out of the kitchen, except the post-graduates and my friends, and others that waited for the next batch. Everyone there'd seen No Man's Land (one of the first shows I had to pay for to see in New York), which these guys designed and produced. It was easy listening to them after seeing the action onstage, which the actors pulled off as if they walked over tightropes.
"Where do you work now?" I asked.
"In a friend's play," he said, "do you know theater?" he asked, "You might know him. You're friends with her, I guess." he said, pointing to Kate. We looked at each other. What? I thought. She smiled.
"A little," I said. He gave the name. I didn't know it. Can you leave? I thought.
"It's called Alive. I'm starring and directing after he goes to England to shoot a movie."
Katie was an actress. And director. All I knew about her shows was they were one-acts
with one actress (her) playing roles that argued over each other. I hadn't seen one, but I heard someone gave her time and money to write another she'd finished and was trying to get attention for.
2.
Tom left after an hour.
Katie and I walked in the rain; we didn't know each other that well. When I opened my umbrella she got closer. I talked. I asked about the play, if anything changed, what she did in the meantime, write? Somewhere down the line she asked what I did.
"You've got time on your hands," she said.
I said I was writing.
"Novels? Plays?"
"It doesn't matter. It's time I deal with."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Breaking it up."
She asked what I meant. I switched the subject and said we should get to the bar. Should we take a taxi? No, she said, let's walk. It was raining. We walked through Union Square past construction sites, then started west.
"I wonder if you forget things here," she said, "or if places stay tainted in your mind."
"Things probably change," I said. I asked what she meant. She told me about months of walking up and down University Place - which we passed - to a job she had but didn't like. It was a non-profit. She remembered hating everything about it - down to the walk there - opposite where we walked. She tugged at my arm while she talked and moved under the umbrella. Two avenues behind us was the theater we'd seen The Pledge the week before, a movie about a retired and deranged cop on the hunt for a serial killer in the Pacific Northwest. When it was over, Katie said how it was about if you followed your instincts too far, you could hurt people, and feed your obsessions.
"What obsessions?"
"Whatever's in your head that's not resolved," she said.
At the end of the movie, a mother accused the cop of using her and her daughter as bait for the serial killer, even though they'd lived together for months and had a steady relationship. The serial killer did meet the woman's daughter, and tried to again. The girl started to show signs of his presence, black crayon drawings of tall men. The cop recognized them. A psychiatrist said it was common, all the victims happened to not have fathers. Everyone at police headquarters urges the cop to quit, retire.
The killer drives to where the daughter is. The cop's in the bushes nearby. As backup, he called the police who think he's crazy. And the killer died in a car accident on the way there, never shows. The case against the cop is settled. The woman leaves, takes her daughter.
I wasn't sure, I said, if that was the point.
"What is?" she asked
I said I didn't know, it didn't seem there was a color to the situation. That was left up to you.
She said, 'I have to go.
I kissed her and we stood for awhile. She ran down the stairs to catch a train. I waited, then, going in the same direction, followed. Walking underground, I ran into a friend; my thoughts made gigantic leaps between what she and I said happened in the movie. So different. I asked my friend questions that he turned back on me. I ran down more stairs to catch a train.
3.
We were back on the conversation about her job. That's why this area was tainted? I asked.
"Of course," she said, "I ran around so much. Getting off the train at Union Square and walking there, she said, pointing back to the theater, to do this paperwork I didn't feel like bothering with, but had to. The people didn't like me either. Someone threatened if I didn't get 800 disposable cameras for such-and-such event, I'd be fired. I got 200. I was amazed. I didn't know I had it in me. I thought it was fine. That was the end. I was fired.
"I rushed to make it on time, but never did. Drank coffee. Was nervous I'd get fired (which proved right). Worked through breaks. Or ran to a cafe, sat dejectedly, or walked around just to get sun. Then, going back and not seeing it again until six. In winter, not till the weekend."
The rain picked up. We were close together, her arm around my back; I kept my hand on one of her shoulders. The bar we were headed to was west, close to the river. My friend - her friend, they went to school together - waited tables there on weeknights. He avoided weekends, even if that's where the money was because it was too crowded for him to handle.
"He's a lot like me," I said.
"How?" she asked.
"He avoids crowds."
"Oh," she said.
4.
When we got to the street, it was darker than usual, not crowded. Even for a weeknight. It was a little street, a block off a main one, and didn't have a lot of light. Prostitutes, transvestites, lingered on corners; usually, there were more. We walked; the rain mostly let up. The bar's doors were locked, but the gates weren't down. The glass windows (round, like a cruise-ship's) were smashed, wood nailed behind them, nails puncturing our side of the doors. We tried another, stunned by the same sight. Traces of sirens in the distance (you hear them when you want to). I suggested a diner a few doors down.
5.
Some transvestites wandered in behind us. They usually came to these places, if they didn't make trouble, or if the police didn't comb the neighborhood, which they did every night. I walked to the back with Katie where I usually sat with my friend, after he got off work. We'd come at two or four, depending when he got out and ordered omelets and wine. The wine was served in coffee cups and only a few other people were allowed to drink that late. Sometimes one of the transvestites sat with us, who told us the first time we needed company. We told the waiter or waitress it was okay, they didn't have to chase her out, we knew her from school.
"What school?" one of the waiters asked.
"The New School," my friend said.
"What's your major?" the waiter asked.
"Dance," she answered, and fell off the chair laughing.
"What kind of dance?"
"Ballet," my friend answered. He was drunk.
"We're all ballerinas," she said and waved her arms.
6.
Behind us, the transvestites weren't let in. Katie and I sat.
"So are you Kate or Katie?" I asked.
"I don't care," she said.
I looked at the prostitutes, but didn't recognize any.
"Do you come in here a lot?" Katie asked.
"With Matt" I said.
"Me too. He gets off late. Why's his place closed?"
"Maybe a fight." I said.
"I hope he's alright."
"Call him later."
We talked about our tastes. I mentioned the Harold Pinter show the week before, she said she didn't like him. We talked about Juliet Binoche, who starred in 'Betrayal.' Kate saw it when it was in theaters. She liked Juliet Binoche. A friend got her in for free.
"It's cynical," she said, "I didn't like it."
"It's a relationship, backwards" I said, "I don't think it says more that: some relationships are backwards: starting with sex and devolving, unraveling, before your eyes."
She said, "police," and looked behind me at the door.
As we walked out, I watched a policeman get his arm between a transvestite and a waiter. The waiter yelled. The transvestite was backed by a group of three more, towering over the cop by half a foot apiece. We left.
7.
The rain stopped. Police cars at either end of the street and by the talk you heard, more on the way. We passed the bar.
"I'll call," she said.
I looked up the block. "He's not answering." The transvestites were back, away from the corner. They yelled at the cop who was shorter than them. Another came to hold them off with a baton. One of the girls puffed her stomach, crossed her arms, and smoked. Occasionally she flung a hand in the policeman's face.
"I can't get through," Katie said, "he won't pick up."
Our night waned. There was no hope of picking it up again, not if she worried about Matt more than where we were going.
"What should we do?" she said. She was in the middle of the sidewalk, between lamps that bounced light off her face.
"We - " I started.
"Let's go to my place. I have movies. We can watch Juliette Binoche. It's closer than yours."
"We could - "
"I have other movies."
8.
Wish granted. I wanted to sleep with Katie since I ran into her one night while my friend was working. She came in, sat at a table near me. We started talking. We had no idea we were being set up. I wanted to hear more about her plays, which she talked about so much. I listened, asked what she liked about living in New York since she moved from Florida. The questions: all with intent: this doesn't happen often: let's see if it works.
9.
"This isn't going to work."
I was on top of Kate, in her bedroom. We'd been on her bed, watching the beginning of Blue. We were far from the tv. She had trouble following what happened. I said I didn't have glasses and couldn't read subtitles. She knew French. I said if she closed her eyes and translated I'd tell her what happened; she closed them. I leaned over as her smile ran through her face, and kissed her.
10.
A minute later we peeled each other's clothes off. I lifted her shirt over her head. She stood up, closed the door. We heard the room buzz, and started again. At this point I climbed on her as she reached for my belt. Then said: "this isn't going to work."
11.
I have this problem with women and their fathers. I remind one of the other in some way, especially when the fathers aren't any good: lazy, drunk, laissez-faire. People like me grow up to be bad fathers (without wanting to) it seems. I said I didn't want children (she said 'that's a good sign'), and I meant it (she said 'another'), so why should I change? She said:
"Because my father went to get married to my mother and said"We remind you of each other?"
"I shouldn't do this," and said it again, later, to her. I was four.
A few years later he told me (that put the final nail in the coffin
of how I felt). So what do you think?"
"Yes."
"But I don't want to marry you."
"That's no excuse."
"I should lie - ?"
"No - "
"Nevermind," I said.
12.
"We didn't have to do this here," she continued. "We could've watched the movie."
I said, 'that's true."
"Then, why did we have to?"
"Didn't you want to?"
"I'm uncomfortable."
"What can I do?"
"You can leave."
"You want me to? Right now?"
There was a light on in the room. A window looking onto the street was covered by a velvet curtain she lifted from the theater of some school and hung to keep the morning light out, and noise.
"I wouldn't mind."
"Fine."
"You live far."
"I know," I said.
"How many roommates do you have?"
"Three."
"You can stay."
"Thank you."
I picked a towel off the floor. It was that time of the month, she was going to try anyway.
"Do you mind if I shower?" I said.
"Go ahead." She said: "Do you mind if I start the movie again?"
"Not at all."
13.
I was home the next morning at eight. Katie was called to work for a day in an office. Her apartment was the noisiest place I ever slept. There was a bus stop across the street, and the curtain hardly kept out the noise of the brakes. I got home and ran into a roommate. He was washing prints in the kitchen sink.
He asked - "Where were you?"
"Nowhere special," I said.
"Didn't go right?" he asked.
"I reminded her of her father."
"Oh god," he said, and walked to the sink.
"What are those?" I asked.
He showed the pictures. They were from around the area.
"People yelled at me for these. I said I knew what I was doing looked weird, but there was a point ?"
"What'd they say?"
"One said, 'That isn't weird (I was taking pictures of his mother's rosebush). Yesterday, when you took pictures of the drainpipe, that was weird.'"
"Strange," I said.
14.
My friend Matt called in the afternoon. The sun was almost down; when it was the light in my room was perfect, facing west. I sat down: 'the bad time I had last night,' but scrapped it and worked on a screenplay about Southern delinquents. A friend's film. As far as this goes, I was alien: I based most of the scenes on what I overheard from friends in North Carolina. The screenplay didn't have any future, I knew, it was an exercise. I listened to the message:
"I had to go to the hospital but everybody did. A fight started and someone threw glasses at the bar. No one was hit. There was glass everywhere. People cried. It's too bad you and Katie didn't show. You would've had something to talk about."
I lay down in bed and started thinking about this.