Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“Fine.”

“I’d like it done with a new needle,” I requested.

“Course.”

After the stylist numbed my ear, he took the needle to my lobe. I closed my eyes, bit my cheek and while counting to ten, felt a pinch. Then I opened my eyes again. He was swabbing away a drop of blood.

“We have a little training post. But what I want you to do, is clean your lobe tonight with soap and water.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I swear,” I assured him. I then put twenty-five bucks in his hand and picked up my bags.

“I accept tips you know,” he said.

I gave him a dollar and left. I felt the tiny gold drop in my lobe and, passing by a cheap jewelry joint, I bought an earcuff from an Indian salesman. While trailing back to the hotel, I was aware of someone walking behind me staring. I blushed so hard that I felt feverish. Dashing into a department store, I bought a pair of sunglasses. When I went to the cash register to pay, I noticed a bunch of preteen girls giving me the eye. One of them finally said, “Hi there.”

I wasn’t sure if they felt my androgynous look was free of sexual threat, or if they regarded me as a child might regard a clown. I silently paid and left.

When I finally got back to the hotel, I asked the desk clerk for my key. His eyes widened and, he asked, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“How do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he replied, retrieving my key. I indignantly grabbed the key and went up to my room, where I put on all the clothes and accessories. It was eleven o’clock. The trip downtown by cab would take no more than ten minutes. For about a half hour all I could do was stare gloomily at my new self in the bathroom mirror.

Finally, after my brooding fit, I went outside. A thrift store was across the street, so I popped in and purchased a cheap and heavy army coat that draped down to my knees. I also bought a black knit beanie that I could tug over my disastrous head and pierced earlobe. All that, with the sunglasses, erased all identity. The salesgirl shoved everything into a Unique shopping bag, where I also shoved my former clothes. I then hailed a cab and was let off at Great Jones and Broadway.

Before entering Caramba’s, I noticed a black-stencilled message; it read: “People starve on this block.” At the rear of the place, past all the yuppies around the bar, Marty and the director were seated, sipping aperitifs. The great director didn’t bat a lash at my get-up. Apparently he expected it, but I could see Marty gently bite his bottom lip.

“Enchanted,” I said, softly shaking the tips of Sergei’s fingers. I didn’t recognize him. I took a seat, shoved the Unique shopping bag under the table, and plopped a cloth napkin on my lap. “I’m famished.”

“This is Sergei Ternevsky” Marty said, finally unveiling his last name, and allowed a pause for appreciation. I vaguely recalled drunkenly watching an experimental film that had showed one midnight at the Saint Mark’s Cinema. It was a dumb satire about tools.

“As I suspected. I’ve seen your films and may I say that it is hard to imagine what cinema would be, were it not for your contribution.”

“Moving along,” Marty commenced. “Sergei would like to know something about your background.”

“Well, it’s probably going to bore you to tears. I was raised in Queens, the only son in a Jewish household. A passive father, and a domineering mother. After high school, I got accepted to the Fashion Institute, you know, FIT on Twenty-seventh? And well, here I am.”

“What became of your last residence?” Ternevsky asked.

“It was a sub-sub-sublease that sunk. Currently I’m back with the folks.”

Then a tenacious silence leapt on us like a hedgehog and gnawed away. They both just looked at me. I felt a gathering tautness, so I took the presumptions, “I came to terms with my sexuality at a relatively young age.”

“I have no interest in that,” Ternevsky replied, and then he added, “You say you’ve seen my films. Which ones exactly?”

“Well, I’ve always worshiped Phillips and Flatedges.” This was the boring experimental film I’d sat through. It was done in the sixties and parodied documentaries. It was a history of the screwdriver.

“Sergei’s in production on something similar currently,” Marty mentioned.

“No, really!”

“It’s an attempt to bring philosophy to the screen,” Marty explained.

I nodded enthusiastically. I was about to say something like, “Bringing philosophy to the screen is a good thing,” but decided against it.

The waitress came and put down hors d’oeuvres, a big bowl of chili with tortilla chips and virgin margaritas. Apparently Ternevsky had already ordered for all. It was while both Marty and I were munching away that Ternevsky to launch into his great soliloquy, a monologue that said little other than he was skillfully modest and modestly skilled. Occasionally his pet, Marty, would lick his hand with some compliment. He talked about others in Hollywood like Steven Spielberg who had benefited from his experiments in technique. Money was reserved for the quick and greedy, but history holds all the real laurels. Soon he brought his conversation around to the abode.

“It’s kind of a private museum,” he explained, “furnished with personal relics. All I’m going to ask is a mere one hundred dollars a month, a courtesy fee. But I won’t be shy about one demand.” His face tensed and he leaned over his chair toward me. “I don’t want it to be a hangout, do you understand? This isn’t some fuck pad for you and your friends. If I find anyone up there other than you, you’re out, understand?” It was clear.

“Good,” he replied, and suddenly rising to his feet he looked across the large dining area and yelled to the distant waiter, “Check!”

“Come on,” Marty said to me as he put his own coat on, “Sergei has an important appointment.”

The waiter was too slow, so Sergei dropped two twenties on the table to cover the appetizers and drinks.

Outside, Sergei vigorously walked to a Mercedes parked on Great Jones. Marty dashed ahead, and opened the door for the maestro. Grabbing the Unique shopping bag from my hand, Marty tossed it into the trunk and slammed the hood. Apparently Sergei was going to some fundraising gala at a new ritzy restaurant. It was crass to travel with any less than a party of three, so even though he and I had little else to say, Sergei desired my company. As Marty drove up Lafayette, Sergei explained that he was to meet a great star of record and music video. He mentioned a name that I didn’t know. She had topped all the charts effortlessly, and now the only other place for her to go was motion pictures.

Lafayette turned into Fourth Avenue, and Fourth turned into Park Avenue South, and then into Park Avenue, dipping down into a sunken tunnel. Around the Grand Central/Pan Am Building mezzanine, we finally made a left on Fifty-seventh Street. We stopped in front of a place that had the rear end of what looked like a Caddy for a canopy: The Hard Rock Cafe. A doorman swung open the door, and a swarm of teenagers were screaming behind police barricades as we all entered. Marty took the liberty to explain that the gala was sponsored by the African Relief Fund, the same people that had organized the “We Are The World” song. But all that had occurred in L.A., and there was still an untapped resource on the East Coast. Of course, there were the constant strains of rock and roll songs. Screaming over the noise, Marty explained that these people were the movers and shakers of the record industry. Between them were divided a Roman Empire of the teenage world. Sergei quickly spotted his future movie queen and zipped off, leaving us to wander.