The Curse

Roz smoked furiously staring through her window down at Duffy Square. A curious specimen had caught her eye: A pimp. A pimp huddled around the corner of the Howard Johnsons on the corner of 46th. Where Brillo works: dishwasher. The pimp had pointed alligator boots, like. Like. Mesh sleeveless shirt. Toothpick twirling in the corner of his mouth. He stood flat against the wall around the corner, and inched slowly to the corner and peeked around onto Broadway and the Hidebeater Block. Roz followed his eyes: Hojo; Kodak store; the Automat; Playland; the Forum—and B-I-N-G-O, Bingo was his name-o. Sandy-haired teen standing suspiciously under the marquee of the Forum. On the marquee: The Legend of Hill House. Pamela Franklin. Roddy McDowell: Planet of the Apes, Night Gallery, Cleopatra. The little shit is standing right up against the wall. Not even trying to be subtle. Fucking rube. No—not sandy. Red. Punk’s got carroty red hair. Whisp of a stache on his lip. Cocky eye. Tight jeans. Helluva bulge. Weird jaw—both square yet pointed. Older than he looks? No trace of a beard on the chin. Hole in the knee of his jeans and wearing chucks. In his hand? Switchblade. Oh yeah. She took a drag. Pimp was putting down roots beside the Hojo. The kid poked his head out, made the scene, and then zipped around into Playland. Netta workin today? Roz craned her neck around to look at the clocks, collared the right one and did the math. X o’clock. Who the fuck knows. She took another drag and returned to peering down at Playland. Dark inside. Always dark inside Playland for some reason, no matter which one. This one. On the Deuce. Just north of here. All dark as X. Where is the little fucker? Can just barely make out—FUCK. Cigarette burned too low and burned her fingers. She dropped it. Don’t want another fire for fuck sake. Sal will have my ass. She snatched up the butt, popped another cigarette—her last—from her case and lit it from the old one. She took a few drags, always the best ones, first couple drags, and blew them up at the blue sky through the glass. Now where is. So dark in. Oh. Oh there, in the Automat. She noticed his red hair through the window of the Automat, leaning his head against the glass and cocking his vision toward 46th Street. Tricky little fucker. She took a drag. The pimp too had disappeared. Where where where. She took another drag. Dollars to donuts he’s inside Howard. Fried clams. Yum. Chocolate Soda. Yes yes. Ha-cha. She licked her lips. Maybe he moved down 46th, can’t see from here. The little redhead cracked the door of the Automat and began to slink down Broadway. She laughed a short bark. Not even a little bit subtle. She watched as he slipped behind the newsstand outside the Kodak store. Moved behind it. Ooh there. There’s the pimp. She saw a flash of him through the glass of Hojo. He had made the little carrot top. This will be good. 

Record ended. 

Fuckers.

Roz flew over to the hifi and flipped the record: Free Jazz. Ornette Coleman. Hysterical horns blared out of the speakers. She cranked the volume knob up. 

The little punk had moved all the way to the end of the newsstand and was peering around the corner, down 46th Street. He looked back behind himself, toward Duffy Square. What started this little drama? 

Poppy Cooper, born in Fort Lee New Jersey, moved to The City in May of 1972. The trees of Washington Square Park were in full bloom, the air fragrant. Spraypainted on the Arch were the words: The Only Dope Worth Shooting Is Nixon. Her dad had been a trumpet player for Buddy Rich. Ditched her with mom as a babe. Ran away from home and hunting down daddy. She hit the park after exiting. No—no wait. Didn’t make it to. As she exited Port Authority she noticed a handsome man in violet pants and a pink blouse. His coat was red and so were his shoes. A strong musk exuded from every inch poured into his snakeskin boots. Pretends he’s never seen someone so beautiful. Who you repped by, darlin? Her face flushes and suddenly conscious of her bony knees. Me? Nobody. I never. Rubs his bottom lip and looks her up and down in disbelief, then looks up and down the avenue, as if he’s gotta snatch her up before some other manager sees her. You ever thoughta modeling at all? You got the figure for it. Not everyone does ya understan. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. Nobody even gave her a second glance back in Jersey. He nods. Oh yes. he says. Oh yes yes indeedy. We could definitely book you. Have you ever been to Paris? he asks. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. She’s never even been to The City until today. What about Rome? he asks. Of course he knows but this is all part of the seduction. You know the drill with Poppy: Poppy had never. The man nods. Oh yes, come with me, I have some calls to make. We got a roster and everythin. Where you stayin? And she thinks. Poppy thinks. I hadn’t, she says, and really she hadn’t. She had thought about so much else, but not that. Don’t you worry honey, we can accomodate. You hungry? Oh yes, she says. I’m famished. He nods. Today you famished, tomorrow you famous. He smiles and a diamond winks from his front tooth. You like steak? he asks. Well, she says, yes yes I do like steak. But isn’t that? He holds up a hand, each hand is decked out in elaborate rings colored gold and silver, stones glitter in the May sunlight. Don’t you worry about a thing, let’s go to Tad’s, you won’t believe your eyes. Poppy has a steak and baked potato. His name, she finds out, is French John. She’ll find out why. That night she smokes reefer for the first time and he takes a few snaps of her to show to the designers. When the reefer kicks in she feels like she’s watching him from behind a gauzy curtain, safe. Someone else is outside doing stuff. She’s safe back here behind the curtain. When he gently pulls down her blouse, already hanging off her shoulders, she barely notices. The next day he gives her a bump of coke to wake her up, explains everyone does it, and by that night she’s nodding off to a bump of junk. A week later and she’s working Eighth. She lives in a railroad flat on West 44th between Tenth and Eleventh with three other girls all owned by French John. By the fall she’s hooked on junk. Christmas Eve she works ten johns in one night, a new record: the last john is a young guy, light red hair, his first time. Paid for by his drunk uncle after a night of frosty pints at an Irish pub nearby. He’s shy at first but Poppy is an old pro by now and has his cock out and stiffening it before he can say Faith and Begorrah. His name is Danny O’Reaordan and he’s in love with Poppy before he blows his spunk across her uvula. He makes his way over the bridge into The City at least once a month after this, hunting Poppy down successfully almost every time, but she is a busy girl so on some occasions he has to angrily agree to another girl, though his encounters with these imposters are at best brusque and at worst lightly violent, as he likes to slap them across the face now and then for the crime of not being Poppy. As the blooms open up in Washington Square again he asks to see her in her off work hours, however few they may be, and takes her on walks through the park. Her eyes are dull and lifeless but he is in love with being in love and thinks love is something unique and holy to him alone thinks his love makes him better and stronger and more real and more good. The flowers in the trees confirm this. The breeze agrees. The blue sky is a present from the universe to him. He and His Girl walk the park and listen to people play saxophones or guitars or trumpets. She might have wondered at one time if the older man playing trumpet was her father, but not anymore. Nothing good happens. There is no good. So how could it be? Even if it was, it wasn’t. Danny flips a dime to the musician and snakes his arm around Poppy’s waist. Soon it will be too much to think about her with other guys. Until now he had been able to kid himself but the reality was sinking in now. Other pens were dipping into her inkwell. He had to save her. He needed to put an end to this. As the spring turns into summer he begins to question Poppy about her manager. Who is he, where does he live? Began to formulate his plan. He needed to off French John. Then she would be free. They could move into a little house together on Staten Island. He buys a switchblade on the Deuce and hunts the pimp down at Tad’s. French John, though, is no fuckin fool and can see the rangy look in the kid’s eye as he enters the steakhouse. French John makes for the john, but instead splits through the kitchen and exits onto 43rd Street. Turns east and circles around to Child’s on the corner of 42nd and Seventh to see if any of the other pimps can give him a hand, but sees Danny, the carrot-topped punk, rushing down the Deuce toward Seventh. Their cat and mouse went on for an hour, working its way steadily north, until here we are now.

Roz licked her lips again and watched Danny finally leave the relative safety of the newsstand and crossed 46th. On the southwest corner he stopped and looked around, then headed west down 46th. No. No I can’t see. Roz moved to the farthest corner of the room and laid her forehead against the glass. He was gone. Fuck. But then, just as all hope was lost, she noticed French John exit through the front door of Howard Johnson’s, onto Broadway. Something in his hand? Yes: also sporting a switchblade. He moved casually, rolling on his steps like a cowboy, and rounded the corner of 46th.

Shit.

She stood back and watched the corner. She took a drag: the last. Cigarette kaput. She crushed it out in the apple ashtray and looked back at the corner: nothing. Shit. Hope French John creams the little fucker. Shitty little rube. But then—French John’s shoes.

Fuck.

        Fucker.

       Push it down. Faded green paint cracked and peeling on the wooden trap door. Inside and down. Shove it down. Down.

      She crossed to a trunk on the other side of the room and lifted it open. She rummaged through a collection of papers. Flyers. Hundreds maybe. She shuffled through the pages. Yes: here we go. Tulpa: playing the Oscar Wilde Room, Saturday February 10th. One Night Only. The night Buggy chipped his tooth and Davis was calling him Alfred E Neuman. She flipped the flyer over to the blank back and laid it out on her table and stared at the blankness of the page. When’s his birthday? When when when. Oh wai—same place. New Years at the Mercer, he kept mentioning it was his birthday. Modern Lovers first and then the Dolls headlined as dawn broke. Erik put his cigarette out on his tongue and then vomited. Oh lordy, yes. But the little shit kept blabbering about his birthday. So: January first. She smoothed out the flyer, then tore the right side of the page away from herself. She turned the page widdershins and tore the next edge of paper away from herself, then turned the page counter-clockwise again and repeated, and then one final time. The flyer now edgeless. She uncapped a magic marker and began to write his name: LEN WATSON: over and over on the left hand side of the page, and then followed with JANUARY 1 over and over on the right hand side of the page. When the page was filled she turned it widdershins again. She wrote on top of the previous writing: LEN YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND AWAY YOU WILL STOP YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND GO AWAY LEN WATSON YOU ARE SCUM AND WILL DISAPPEAR AND FUCK OFF GO AWAY GO THE FUCK AWAY in large letters until it filled the page. She turned the page counter-clockwise a last time and scribbled her autograph across the words on the page. She licked her lips as she cocked her head and looked at the page filled with black scribbles. She swallowed, then folded the page away from herself, then repeated the action five more times until it was too small to fold anymore. Roz picked the small envelope up and dropped it into a small white bowl. She flipped open her zippo and lit the corner. She watched as the folded paper lit slowly from one side to the other like a forest fire spreading across the woods. When it had burned down to ash, she took the bowl and walked it to her toilet. She lifted the lid, emptied the ashes into the water of the bowl—a cigarette butt already floating there—and then touched the flusher. 

        —Go the fuck away, she said as she flushed the toilet.