Sunny

So Jane calls on Friday morning and says, "825 Riverside Drive. #20K, 1PM," and hangs up. Jane’s not what you’d call the wordy type. To tell the truth, I’d been seriously thinking of getting out of this work, maybe go back to acting class or something. Of course, you gotta pay for acting class, so, what the heck. A few more times wouldn’t kill me. I do more acting now than I ever did in those stupid classes anyway, and I never have to audition. That’s pretty funny, when you think about it.

I pour another cup of coffee, another expense, since I really love those Arabic coffee beans- or whatever you call them, and they don’t come cheap. You’d think they really came from Arabia, instead of Colombia, which is pretty much closer than Arabia when you think about it.

I look out the window at the brick wall with ivy growing on it. That sounds boring, but it’s not. When I first got this apartment, the ivy was just these scrawny little leaves and a little stick vine clinging like there was no tomorrow to the bricks. Now it had made its way past my little third floor palace, and it had these tiny little clinging hands, like a newborn baby’s. You could see them getting stronger, holding tight, and now some of the leaves were as big as my palm. There are so many colors in each leaf, too. People just figure plants are green, but there’s a lot more to it, really. There’s mossy green, yellowy green, and kinda bluish green in some spots, and the veins on the big leaves are almost black. You can practically see through the little fingers that hold the wall so tight, and they’re another green-minty color, almost, like those Tic-Tacs, what are they called? Wintergreen. It’s very trustworthy, that ivy.

I carry my coffee into the bathroom. I bought a mug that has that same ivy on it-English Ivy, that’s what it is. That way I can look at it even when I’m in another room, or it’s really dark. Like it’s ever really dark in New York City. It was dark during the blackout, but other than that, not so much.

I bend over and take the towel off my head, and throw my hair back. I got pretty lucky in the looks department. I mean, it’s not my fault or anything, but I still kinda take pride in it. My grandmother taught me to “Always take pride in your appearance”, and I do. If I had to work at it, I probably wouldn’t, but I don’t, so I do-take pride, I mean.

I look in the mirror, but not too carefully. That’ll make you crazy, looking too carefully. Everything still looks nice, but someday it won’t, and I figure if I look too carefully, I’ll get really upset at some stupid line or wrinkle. This is better. I’m not very tall, but I am what people call leggy, which is another lucky thing, and I have pretty big boobs for my size, which I think is really lucky.

I put on some mascara, and brush the knots out of my hair. It’s that really pale blonde-more luck- and pretty long, almost to my waist. I let it dry on its own, and do what it wants. That suits us both just fine. Lipstick goes on after I get dressed, otherwise I always manage to get red somewhere on my clothes.

That took me awhile to figure out. I’m not a bright bulb. My grandmother used to say that, too. “Beautiful girl, but not a bright bulb.” I manage though, don’t I?

I decide to wear my white silk blouse with the two buttons at the waist. It kind of criss-crosses, and is demure- that’s what the saleslady said. I liked that word. I looked it up, and it said:

   de-mure: [Middle English]
   First appeared 14th Century
   1 : RESERVED, MODEST
   2 : affectedly modest, reserved, or serious :
   COY

I wasn’t sure what coy meant, but even without coy, it was enough. It sounded very respectable, and was Middle English, like the ivy.

So then I slipped on my long black wool skirt, with a demure slit up the side. Put my black, not so demure high heels in my bag, and put on my Capezio ballet flats. Another expense, but I love the idea that they’re called ballet flats. Very comfortable for walking, and I could be a ballerina walking in them. I could be anything at all.

Jane hadn’t given me much information, but she knows me well enough, so I figure I'll pack the bag and go. The not-demure heels, some lingerie in black and in red, why do they always like black and red so much? I put on my black shawl- it was still chilly for April, and left. The saleslady said it wasn’t called a shawl anymore, it was a pashmina. They’re always changing the names of things so you’ll buy new ones. I’ve noticed that. When I get uptown on Riverside, I change my shoes in the elevator, and knock on the door.

A woman answers. Not a good looking woman. I mean really not a good looking woman, but she has nice eyes, when you can make them out behind the bottom-of-the-Coke-bottle glasses. The starchy white uniform didn’t help much, either. Her hair is up in this nasty tight little bun, and she’s squat. I am short, without my heels, but not squat. Guess she didn’t get lucky, like I did.

The place is quiet and kind of creepy, and the first thing I see is a big glass case with this snake skeleton in it. Very attractive.

"Pituophis Catenifer" she says looking at me with not a little disapproval. " The snake...he's called a Pituophis Catenifer."

"Ah." I say nodding like it means something to me.

"Follow me," she says. We go into a bedroom. There's this guy lying on the bed. He looks about a hundred years old-but when I look closer I realize it’s not that he's old, it’s that he’s sick. Very sick.

He's got this button he holds. It goes to a wire inside his pajama shirt, which is so white it’s blinding. and he's breathing kind of noisy.

I see him push the button, and his eyes roll a little, and then his breathing gets quieter.

The woman closes the door and I hear her move away. I'm standing there in this room with this guy. He says- in a way that you could tell talking's a big deal for him-"Please sit there...in the light." So I do.

Then he says " Would you take off your blouse please?" So I do. "And your brassiere." He says “brassiere.” You don't hear that too often. "Please..." So I do.

And he just looks at me, and I look around.

“You can smoke if you want to”, he says kindly, like he’s doing me a favor. “I still enjoy one now and then.” He nods to an ashtray on the night table, which has a half-smoked Galuois in it. The table is also covered with all kinds of hospital stuff-long Q-tips on sticks that are wrapped on the cotton end; they say Glycerine Swabs on them. There’s something that looks like a turkey baster there. A glass of water with a bent glass straw. A little box of tissues. Everything in the room is spotless, too, like a hospital.

The walls are a pale yellow, and the window looks out on the Hudson River and New Jersey. The room has this bright warm glow to it. I like it there. So I light a cigarette, I’m trying to quit, really, but I just like them so much. “I’m not much of a gentleman, having you light your own cigarette,” he says, and then has this spasm where he sort of chokes, and pushes that little button with the wire again. “Are you okay? Can I do something?” I ask him as I start to get up.

He’s calmer, and manages a weak little smile, and says, “You’re doing it.”

We spend an hour in that room- I mean I do, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. He drifts off and sometimes wakes up with a mini- spasm, then looks at me and smiles again.

“You look like an angel,” he says. There’s something very sweet about this guy. I like him.

On Saturday Jane says he wants me every day next week at 1PM. Two hundred fifty bucks…one hour. The guy looks at my boobs. I think I can handle it. So-by Wednesday we're really becoming buddies. Turns out he's a scientist-works on animal brains or something. We have a routine, first I take off my blouse, and my “brassiere”, and then he has me read to him- The Catcher in the Rye. Stupid name, but I like the book. The main guy has a funny name, too, Holden. It makes me think of those little ivy leaves.

We don’t get too far in the book each day, what with his drifting off and then the hacking up a lung spasms and all, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It’s an old hard cover book, and there’s some hard-to-read writing on the inside page. The writer wrote him a note and signed it, I guess. I can make out a J- looks like Jerry maybe, and Salinger.

He tells me I remind him of Sunny, and then he shows me a picture of some brain-damaged cat he operated on. The cat's name was Rudolph, and he explains that the electrodes in the cat's head made the cat look like a reindeer. He thinks this is funny as hell, and almost dies laughing. The guy almost dies laughing. I mean he really almost dies. He gets over it though, and looks at me kinda sad. I don't really like looking at cats with electrodes coming out of their heads, but it does sort of look like a reindeer. Interesting lunch hour, doncha think?

So Friday I get there. The woman answers the door, and I can see my reflection in those Coke-bottle glasses. She leads me into the kitchen. I may not be a bright bulb, I'm no fool.

"Tea?" She says. Just like that.

"Tea?"

"When..." I say, shaking my head so my hair is covering my face.

"5:26 this morning," she says. Her nose is all red, like Rudolph.

"It was very peaceful. He wanted you to have this," and she hands me the book.

"To my Sunny-see page 95"

    I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her
    It was funny. It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it
    up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and
    nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all.
    The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl
    when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell- I don't
    know why exactly.*

So I get ready to leave and the woman hugs me - and says, "God bless you."

Can you imagine? God bless me.

*The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger P.95