mary mary

coming of age

he knew mary mary would be there like she said.
his rabbit heartbeat wouldn't let him think.
this was a moment to simply knock on a door and soon
everything would be different.
a few steps down he descended. he lifted the brass knocker on
the heavy street door. the light in the window was red.

the knocking broke the silence in minetta lane.
s. was happier than he could ever remember being. his unbelievable luck.
this beautiful gentle loving woman would open the door to him 
and he would give himself to her heart and soul.
the door opened and there she was letting him in.
she wore a french boating jersey with horizontal blue
stripes; long sleeves pushed up to her elbows and nothing underneath. 



the living room was the bedroom.
"take off your clothes and get into bed, i'll be right back."
s. sat erect in a brass double bed melting with anticipation.
mary came out of the bathroom pulling off the blue striped 
jersey as she walked slowly towards him.
the scent of burning sandalwood, the warm light of candles, 
fresh flowers and this nubile creamy skinned enchantress with 
cherry cheeks and n*****s was a vision. and she was all his. 
and there was no fear because he loved her.

s.'s senses were all alert. the first touch of skin as she 
slipped in beside him was electric... she was perfumed and 
warm. both moved as if attuned to some 'a priori' 
choreography. that was the first time and afterwards he 
showered her with kisses loving every part of her. the second 
time they tangled together in different forms she led the way 
until it was finished again. this time she wouldn't let go 
down there. mary had a trained vagina. she had a grip on his 
wilting willie. " no, don't go. never leave right away, 
that's what stupid men do. you are going to be a great 
lover." and she let him rest a while on top of her.
"a school of love", s. thought, "and i'll come every day for 
these classes." she let him rest awhile and catch his breath, 
no more words.

s.,with her first nuzzling and gentle kissing began to grow 
again inside her. he was a tender novice and an obedient one 
and she was like a concubine from "the perfumed garden" or
the kama sutra (even 'auparashkosh' was practiced.
they lay apart cooling in the night air which drifted in a 
soft jazz ensemble; sounds of languishing lovers.... john 
coltrane at the gaslight cafe' that night.
they slept entwined like the righteous until well after noon. 
venus must have loved him.

a cute mexican girl with guitar sang that night at the 
gaslight; i think her name was stella. 'stella by starlight' 
sticks in my mind.

"whatcha gonna call that
pretty little baby....
ohhh oh pretty little baby
ohhh ohhhh pretty little baby

think i'll call him jesus
yes i'll call him jesus
ohhh oh think i'll call him jesus.... she sang sweetly
ohhh oh yes, i'll call him jesus....

i heard that song and many others waiting for mary mary at 
the 'gaslight cafe'.
the gaslight was a down the stairs cafe bar; a real 'bistro'; 
across mcdougal from the commons (later, "the fat black 
pussycat"). mary travers was the cashier and sang across the 
street for nothing but tips and soft applause, snapping of 
fingers; not to disturb the peace of residents in the five 
story walk-up.
she sang between the poet's sets and peter yarrow's stand-up gig.


2 a.m. and mary hadn't come. it was too late to go to doc 
stanley's pad. i could have climbed the fire escape and got 
to bed, but i had tried that before. coming in the window in 
the wee small hours, i had startled mike stanley one night. 
he almost peppered me with a machine gun. he kept it on the 
wall beside him where he slept on the top bunk. i didn't want 
to go through that again. i knocked on mary's door. it was 
dark inside. she didn't answer.
so i wound up spending the night slumped over my knees on the 
stoop by the gaslight. i was tired. my heart felt like 
someone had slammed it against a brick wall and stomped on 
it.

the circle in the square was surrounded by new york 
university campus and expensive brownstone houses; the kind 
with carriage houses. it was both a campus and non campus; a 
well kept park with an 'arche de triumphe' at the start of 
fifth avenue. in the center was a circle with a fountain and 
wide steps leading to the water's edge. i went there. it was 
a great place to take a morning nap in the sun.
i woke up to a hulabaloo as a gang of young italian toughs 
brandishing bats and clubs attacked the blond poet and turk 
leclair who were asleep when i arrived. they really wanted 
the young 'rimbaud' but we all ran. we took off north up 
mcdougal and they chased us all the way to eighth street 
where they gave up trying to catch us. fear has wings. the 
'beats' in the village had devastated the virgin population 
in 'little italy'. the young italians were mad as hornets. 
but they weren't crazy, there were too many people on eighth 
street for them to bang heads. we were lucky. turk led the 
flight and he knew instinctively to run to a busy street.

doc stanley showed up at the circle around noon as he usually 
did. i told him about me and mary. he said something 
philosophical which went over my head or didn't help. he held 
out a handful of pills. i remember they looked so pretty; 
all different bright colored capsules and pastel tablets.
i asked, "which one should i take?"
"take 'em all."
well, i tossed them back without a care. i mean i swallowed 
them all.
about an hour later, oblivious to the state i was in, i gave 
the sidewalk art festival a piece of my mind; scott the 
panjandrum of aesthetic purity.
like jesus in the temple with the moneychangers, i harangued 
and browbeat those poor artists with all the arrogance only a 
teenager would dare display. i tore their work apart. with 
enthused eloquence and telling criticisms i left them one by 
one staring at the pavement... heads hanging in chagrined 
embarassment. my vehemence escalated and soon a crowd was 
following rather gleefully my 'dressing down' of the paltrey 
efforts i surveyed. i handed out to each complacent 
bewildered painter of 'sweet florals',every collection of 
'elves and fairies on mushrooms and flowers' an equal share 
of biting criticism.
the tiger painter, the countless specialists who painted only 
clown faces, even the insipid amateur abstractionists 
couldn't escape my wrath. at one point i got so excited i was 
pounding the pavement with the palm of my hand. i can still 
see that moment. then it was over. i'd come to the end of my 
tether standing in front of the last poor soul and the one i 
had started with.

.............................................................

................................

nena was sitting in a chair in front of the television in

front of me in her nightgown. her feet were up on the chair.

her knees had drifted apart. she'd had too much to drink. she

was in a stupor.
nena aleman cortez alejandro de cervantes villarosa della

anjou, exiled with her whole aristocratic
family from cuba, was an alcoholic who had known me since i

was five in jamaica. she was sure i was some kind of a

genius. she was married to a very rich theatrical agent and

lived in a penthouse apartment on fifth avenue.

nena was a patron of the arts. she had me over to dinner now

and then. i was used to spending the night on those occasions

in the guest room. she gave me money and a few designer sport

jackets from her husbands wardrobe. he didn't care. ben was

hardly ever there.

one day it rained all day and into the night. i was coming

down with a cold; i could tell by the taste in my mouth. i

must have been a little rundown. i went to nena's. the

doorman let me in. she wasn't there or she was sound asleep

so i went up on the roof. it was still raining. i curled up

in a chaise lounge on the sundeck. my sleep was more like

hallucinations than dreams.

in the early morning i went down and nena was happy to see me

and very concerned; popped me into a hot bath and fixed me a

hot toddy (hot cider and rum, a pinch of allspice with

cinnamon and butter), and put me to bed. when i woke up a

darvon's time lapse later, i was burning up with fever and

spitting yellow globs. off to the hospital we went. the

doctor said i had 'walking pneumonia' i wondered what was the

difference.

nena called bob, my father, who sent plane fare and after a

few days on antibiotics at st. vincent's hospital, i flew

back to winter park, the andersons, the old farmhouse, my

garret under the eaves and the beautiful loving kids who had

missed me so much and expressed that with hundreds of hugs

and kisses. except for robbie of course... jealous robbie;

and matilda, who was too grown-up.

Author's Note

this is a true story