Hope’s House Warming
New York, circa 1993
“I don’t need a man. A man needs me.”
Nothing, not even an abrupt end to a six-year relationship was going to find me
caving and changing my stance.
Hope simply agreed with a “I hear
that” then hung up the telephone. Her main satisfaction seemed to be that I
would definitely come to her party. She gave no indication she recalled those
words as the ones we heard Bliss speak the last time we saw her alive. Hope had
also become part of this revisionist history of who Bliss was – not that I
really knew her.
I only met that Bliss chick twice,
back-to-back weekends at that. Her aura screamed of a duplicitous chick
playing all sides of a closed circle. She played it well by mainly saying good
things about people then quickly placed herself on a higher plane. Chick was as
fake as they came. She irked me, for various reasons, but mostly for trying to
play the role of an experienced, worldly woman when the word on the grapevine
stated otherwise.
October 1991, the year of abrupt endings is how I now refer
to it. It was the eighteenth, only a week after attending an event I tried my
hardest to back out of. I saw Bliss for the second time, after having heard her
name a few times over the years. Campus lore had suddenly morphed her into a
mythic figure, the young woman credited with breathing life into the MAX boys.
MAX boys were dangerous because they operated sans structure, where any man
could crown himself king and be that, as long as he stayed within the barely
visible territorial lines he drew for himself.
Dusk falling over Manhattan always felt like the evacuation
scene of a movie where giant killer ants chased humans out of their domicile. I
drove into Chelsea via the LIE and Midtown Tunnel
because Hope said we should arrive together. She only had to ask once for me to
tag along and attend Attitude’s first major gallery showing. Gym and treadmill
could wait. I left Queens at 3:30 p.m. but after fighting
through rush hour traffic, by the time I reached her office, the city looked
grayer than normal, almost comic bookish, like a web had been spun. A soft hug
with a gentle spine rub as we reached across the gear shift.
Hope had not told me this was a
society event! High society at that!
I should have known this, put the
pieces together even before she gave me a glimpse of the invitation card that
came to her job. There had to have been a reason why Attitude had not
personally invited me. Two clicks of my brain to the left side would have told
me that a MAX boy would not exhibit unless it was done to the maximum. That was
how they lived life, even the negative sides.
Hope only found out about the event
because her job received an invitation. She volunteered for the exhibit and
they agreed because of the years she had known him. We were the same age but
she chose to stay and do grad school at our alma mater, while I decided to push
career and pursue my masters on a part-time basis.
Though the exhibit had been at the
gallery for nearly a month, tonight’s event was invitation only, sent
out to major publications, competing galleries and art critics. Très chic
meshed with overly-crowded; polished floors, bright teeth, low-cut expensive
dresses and club ties. My first thought was that Attitude had sold out.
Hope, ever his defender, explained
the basic story of how he lost a bet to Bliss, and had to agree on no longer
being an “underground” artist. Bliss did not think he could pull it off, but
every gallery she contacted wanted him, so she went with the Bienvenue Gallery.
Known for only showing works by established artists who catered to the
wealthiest of folks but not necessarily in need of patronage, pieces at Bienvenue
rarely sold for under five-thousand dollars. Failure here was worse than doing
so on the street level, simply because the published reviews would be harsh.
And the artist’s ceiling would have been set. Most artists dared not approach,
crutching artistic integrity, claiming their art was pure all the while
breaking bread and dawn with strung out junkies.
She guided me through his work,
contrasting it with his first collection, calling it a major departure from his
other works and previous collection. Voices from the Margin exhibited a
dark sobriety, a bare canvas sliced and splashed in measured tones and
compartments. The clarity lied in its boldness, wherein the brushstrokes baited
the viewer to prejudge. The benefit of having chosen Bienvenue Gallery was that
these patrons and critics had seen the worst and the best. Voices from the
Margin claimed to be neither. The thirty-nine pieces that formed the
collection built a wall around the past, the truth and showed an artist willing
to take the money and run.
The attendees gushed over the pieces,
and I absorbed the exchanges. And, there was Bliss, with the audacity to wear a
sheer white dress with no bra nor panties, taking credit for having made him.
She proceeded to tell us how she had
Attitude on a string and that he’d do anything for her. Of course her face
cracked when he walked in, not disheveled but clearly not dressed for the
occasion: T-shirt with a slogan, with some next chick, white girl wearing a
matching t-shirt with an inversion of the same slogan – Be Me; and Who’s Me.
Bliss looked as if she’d had her period run down her leg when Attitude introduced
the girl as his future wife. He held court with a champagne flute raised by a
slightly bent elbow; interlocked fingers – caramel brown and canary yellow. His
speech was short, gracious yet bellowed a distinct self-assured note, clearly
meant for Bliss.
When they walked away to meet and
greet, I simply told her, “Don’t ever be fooled, ‘cause there’s never a time to
play a skank.” With the media there, all kind of bulbs flashed in the air; prominent
people being quoted. True, I’m sure when Attitude gave that little spiel
thanking Bliss for helping him craft the collection over red wine and good
times – it made her feel special. But I made sure I took a picture of her,
since no one else cared. I wanted to be sure if she ever tried to play dumb, I
would show her what the flash captured, what people with real clear vision
could see: erect nipples and bush- nun bush, at that, because I asked around
when I met her last week; that Bliss chick had no reputation to speak of, yet
confiding in me she was a sexual freak, who goes hard.
Bliss did not utter another word to
us or anyone else, until the end of the night. She had retreated to the only
empty wall in the space and observed the party, much like I had done after Hope
gave me the tour when we first walked in. I knew to pick a place and keep my
mingling to a minimum. After doing my best, these past two years, to slowly
wean myself out of Society parties, I found no reason to get deeper as Attitude
himself maneuvered a way to walk away. Then, as if a jolt of energy coursed
through her, Bliss approached me as I waited for Hope to say her goodbyes. She
got real close to me and shouted, “Barbara, I don’t need a man. A man needs me.” and then repeated the two short sentences two more
times; these times adding my last, “Barbara Wilson…”. She then walked back to
the other side of the room, staring at me as if to say, ‘your move’.
Bliss’s last words had not registered
or meant anything special to me, even after I saw how it turned Hope’s right
shoulder and spun her to where we stood and then immobilized her like a little
kid playing freeze tag. She barely excused herself when she came out of her
stupor. She rushed outside. I followed quickly but mindful I had spiked heels
and a knee high skirt. She could run that fast because she wore charcoal gray
slacks and flats. She responded to my call with rushed words that matched her
pace. “I have to make a phone call.”
I got to her as she dropped the coin.
The phone booth on the corner did not have a door, only a back panel with perpendicular
sides. She adjusted her body with a slight movement, indicating she needed
privacy. I moved a few steps away but close enough to hear her only words when
the person at the other end picked up. “The King is under attack!” Her voice
flared, “no.” She repeated her words, hinting that the person on the other line
asked for clarification. The call took about thirty seconds from her depositing
the quarter to hanging up the phone.
Manhattan, edge of Soho, now under the complete darkness, it
felt smaller, the kind of place with short streets lined with garbage cans;
alleyways where directors filmed movie rape scenes. Hope’s eyes betrayed her
words, “It’s nothing. I’m glad you came. I liked how you came at Bliss. It gave
me a different point of view.” I smiled and we walked toward the parking garage
to retrieve my car but my worries bubbled. When we got inside the car, I asked
again. Hope’s demeanor, a forced innocence as she played into her new haircut,
a bob with a short bang split down the middle. She said something I thought no
one had picked up on. “You have to decide whether you are in this Society or
out of it.”
“I just need to know if Ken is in any
trouble.”
She laughed and said, “This was a MAX
event. It has nothing to do with the brothers.” Traffic moved, with us catching
a red light at every other intersection. Relieved that my first worry had been
cleared, I made the worst mistake I could at the moment. I let my guards down.
Hope’s words came direct yet she maintained the supportive tone. “Why do you
act like this was something given to you? You earned this. You have a right to
tell anyone you meet who you are and how you came to be here. You have nothing
to be ashamed of.”
“I never said I was ashamed but it
doesn’t mean I have to claim something I am not, like Bliss is doing.”
She laughed. “Is that what you think
Bliss was doing?” When I didn’t answer, she continued, “I thought you
understood that she was standing there forcing them to look at her, letting
them know she would support a man, no matter the situation.”
I pulled in front of her building, a
few feet behind the “No Standing Anytime” sign. “Would you do that?”
“I have. We have. Not under the
bright lights like she just did but we have.” Then her tone changed. A sadness
ran across her face; it seemed to hold back the high pitch sounds because the
bass came out of Hope’s mouth. “You know what, you and I, we’ll forever be
friends and it is what I want. But, you don’t have to be a part of this for us
to be close. I hope that’s not what you think.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what to
think…”
She cut me off. “It’s simple. It has
always been and will always be this simple: you know enough to keep your mouth
shut. You do know that, right?”
A small fear, beads of sweat fizzed
on my brow, behind my ears and down my spine. I nodded unable to say the words
because my mouth locked. Hope hugged me and promised to call for lunch.
She did. We did lunch, shopping,
concerts and over the next two years we truly became girlfriends, best friends.
Two years of just enjoying life and
the plush style that came with having a great income backed by two degrees on
the wall. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut when it came to talking about
the Society. That had become easy and then my world caved in one week.
My man of six years left me, and four
days later, Bliss died.
>=<
October
1993
Forty degrees during the second week of October was not my
idea of a nice night for a party, especially since it served no true purpose –
not a birthday nor a holiday. Hope even warned guests not to bring gifts. My
life had splintered less than three months ago, yet I felt so relieved. I had managed
to hold my ground while everyone seemed to be running away, finding alternate
routes to reshape their lives, even Hope.
I never pictured Hope as someone who
would need to move to New
Jersey, gentrified Jersey at that. Her move from Murray Hill, Manhattan now put two tunnels between us. She
went from high rise to a community with a security gate, manicured lawns and
assigned parking for detached condos in red brick-faced colonial style
buildings. In some ways this could be seen as moving closer to how she grew up
in the suburbs but Hope was city-slick and tough as any girl I ever met.
Until her phone call a few hours
earlier, I had an iron-clad yet trifling excuse to bail out, knowing this party
to be an attempt to mend rifts. People would smile but none would discuss why
several tight friends went from seeing or talking weekly to needing a party
just so they could say hello again.
We no longer had Bliss yet everyone
pretended she continued to be or had been a big part of their lives.
I arrived early to help Hope with
last minute details, and be there enough time in case I wanted to leave early
without her feeling slighted. Plus, I needed to clear the air with her. Bliss’s
death brought back the uncertainty I felt two years ago when Hope made that
phone call. I came early to ask her point blank whether something had been in
the works to forever silence Bliss, the way Hope had silenced me. Hope’s words
served caution while taking away a core part of my personal history, rendering
me only able to talk about the marginal stuff, for fear I would end up a
suicide.
I was not early enough as nearly a
dozen people beat me there. Unlike me, they brought gifts. Blenders, wine
glasses and stuff I knew Hope possessed. They knew this, yet they seemed
excited, at peace that Hope no longer lived in the past, like she had been
reborn. This became my cue to observe, listen and forget quickly.
Her new apartment, an alcove studio,
half the size of her previous place in Manhattan explained why she donated most of her furniture to charity. Miniature
lithograph prints lined the exposed brick wall from the window at the opposite
end, past the kitchen, up to across the bathroom’s door. Instead of her
straight-laced nature, Hope aligned the prints with top edge of one frame next
to the center of the other, and no two frames on the same plane. Her aesthetics
had expanded. Back in the days, she would have featured only the likes of
Bearden and Gordon Parks.
She now included Dali and Rodin; mounted glass shelves with very few books and
a couple of statues she purchased over the years. Skylights throughout the
apartment enhanced the artistic feel.
The layout managed to detract from
the smallness, leaving me fascinated that she fit a futon, sofa, bed and could
still entertain dozens of people. Many more showed than I expected. Of the
seventy or so who came and went, thirty arrived within the first two hours.
More than half left early, saying they came only to pay their respects…letting
the word and thought hang like an unfinished sentence, as if Hope and Bliss were
family.
Nearing eleven o’clock, even in a crowded tight space I felt alone. Just a pitch
above boring, the party had served its purpose of retying alliances. I pondered
the best way to excuse myself and call it a night, until Ernest and Devon walked into the party.