smirk and said nothing. I said, “I meant, in a world where art is neglected, artists have to support each other.”
She said, “I’d be just another easy lay for you, wouldn’t I?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, what are you talking about?”
“I’m finished talking,” she said, pushing her chair from the table. “You’re just like the rest.” She ran out and left the door open behind her.
I told Ridge the next day, and he offered to fix me up with one of his ex-girlfriends, but I declined. I nursed my crush on Belinda Schaeffer. Not only was she a TWF, but with a PhD, and in French, and from Yale. In workshop, she was thoughtful and kind, untouched by jealousy or need, and passed through us like a fragrance. Only those at the top of the workshop hierarchy approached her—the teachers and her fellow TWFs. The rest of us looked at her like groundbirds admiring the flight of an eagle.
One of the workshop’s stars, Jonathan Reynolds, although married, had an affair with Belinda. When it ended, he wrote a poem called “The Cunt,” that he submitted to class, but he was afraid to title it that so he typed an e over the u , so it could be read as “The Cent.” His first book came out a month later and included a long love poem entitled, “Letter to X,” which Barkhausen had seen in draft. Since Belinda was the subject, I rushed to buy it. The poem described nipples as big as ginger snaps as well as her trimmed pubic hair. Reynolds couldn’t resist associating himself with the magic of her name, and the acknowledgments at the back of the book included the note, “Letter to X is for Belinda Schaeffer.” There were also two poems “to B .”
I was ashamed to tell anyone, even Ridge, of my longing for Belinda, since it was so passionate and so common. Instead, I asked Monique of the charades and pantomimes for a beer. She was also blonde, with a master’s in French. Unlike the rest of the class, she wore tailored clothes and simple strands of pearls. I guessed she was rich. I had overheard her saying that her father invented the twist tie. On occasion, she affected an accent, and it was in full force the afternoon I brought her to The Deadwood. Ridge asked her if she was born in France.
“No.” She paused. “Conceived in France.”
After a second beer, Monique’s accent disappeared. Aware of its vanishing, she began tossing French phrases into her sentences to evoke Parisian charm. A third beer brought it back with a vengeance, and when she repeated, “How you say?” for the fourth time, McPeak barked at her to knock it off.
Talk turned to fathers, initiated by McPeak’s poem about his father, which we had just discussed in class. A brakeman on the Rock Island Line, he lost a bet on the Cubs and almost choked to death trying to swallow his pocket watch. My father was an envelope salesman for a company in Harlem and he hoped I’d take over his accounts. Monique said her father invented the flat-bottom paper bag, but by now no one believed anything she said. Ridge didn’t say a word about his father, who died when he was in high school.
“What about your father, Ridge?” Monique asked, but he just stared at the table and shook his head.
“His father drank himself to death,” I whispered.
“Don’t be so efféminé, Ridge,” she said. “Whose father hasn’t ?” She laughed and lifted her glass. Then she looked at me and said, “My father wrote the slogan, With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good. Did you know that, John?”
We left for a poetry reading by fellow workshop students. McPeak nudged me as I slipped out of the booth, nodding at Monique and making a big frown. As we passed Epstein’s, a sign announced that the actualists would be writing poems of “beastly English,” using nouns that had become verbs like “crow and “sponge.” Outside the room for the reading, Monique flirted with Falcon Namiki whose retro Carnaby Street dress caused McPeak to dub him an
She said, “I’d be just another easy lay for you, wouldn’t I?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, what are you talking about?”
“I’m finished talking,” she said, pushing her chair from the table. “You’re just like the rest.” She ran out and left the door open behind her.
I told Ridge the next day, and he offered to fix me up with one of his ex-girlfriends, but I declined. I nursed my crush on Belinda Schaeffer. Not only was she a TWF, but with a PhD, and in French, and from Yale. In workshop, she was thoughtful and kind, untouched by jealousy or need, and passed through us like a fragrance. Only those at the top of the workshop hierarchy approached her—the teachers and her fellow TWFs. The rest of us looked at her like groundbirds admiring the flight of an eagle.
One of the workshop’s stars, Jonathan Reynolds, although married, had an affair with Belinda. When it ended, he wrote a poem called “The Cunt,” that he submitted to class, but he was afraid to title it that so he typed an e over the u , so it could be read as “The Cent.” His first book came out a month later and included a long love poem entitled, “Letter to X,” which Barkhausen had seen in draft. Since Belinda was the subject, I rushed to buy it. The poem described nipples as big as ginger snaps as well as her trimmed pubic hair. Reynolds couldn’t resist associating himself with the magic of her name, and the acknowledgments at the back of the book included the note, “Letter to X is for Belinda Schaeffer.” There were also two poems “to B .”
I was ashamed to tell anyone, even Ridge, of my longing for Belinda, since it was so passionate and so common. Instead, I asked Monique of the charades and pantomimes for a beer. She was also blonde, with a master’s in French. Unlike the rest of the class, she wore tailored clothes and simple strands of pearls. I guessed she was rich. I had overheard her saying that her father invented the twist tie. On occasion, she affected an accent, and it was in full force the afternoon I brought her to The Deadwood. Ridge asked her if she was born in France.
“No.” She paused. “Conceived in France.”
After a second beer, Monique’s accent disappeared. Aware of its vanishing, she began tossing French phrases into her sentences to evoke Parisian charm. A third beer brought it back with a vengeance, and when she repeated, “How you say?” for the fourth time, McPeak barked at her to knock it off.
Talk turned to fathers, initiated by McPeak’s poem about his father, which we had just discussed in class. A brakeman on the Rock Island Line, he lost a bet on the Cubs and almost choked to death trying to swallow his pocket watch. My father was an envelope salesman for a company in Harlem and he hoped I’d take over his accounts. Monique said her father invented the flat-bottom paper bag, but by now no one believed anything she said. Ridge didn’t say a word about his father, who died when he was in high school.
“What about your father, Ridge?” Monique asked, but he just stared at the table and shook his head.
“His father drank himself to death,” I whispered.
“Don’t be so efféminé, Ridge,” she said. “Whose father hasn’t ?” She laughed and lifted her glass. Then she looked at me and said, “My father wrote the slogan, With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good. Did you know that, John?”
We left for a poetry reading by fellow workshop students. McPeak nudged me as I slipped out of the booth, nodding at Monique and making a big frown. As we passed Epstein’s, a sign announced that the actualists would be writing poems of “beastly English,” using nouns that had become verbs like “crow and “sponge.” Outside the room for the reading, Monique flirted with Falcon Namiki whose retro Carnaby Street dress caused McPeak to dub him an
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