Leonard Michaels - The Men's Club

“Wait a minute,” cried Paul. Cavanaugh was moving around the table toward Kramer. I thought to grab Berliner, but he was fixed where he stood, legs trembling in his trousers, fists ready. Beside Kramer, Cavanaugh stood hugely, raising his arms as if to shed rays of peace. “Think of your friends,” he said. “I love you guys. How will I feel if you start hitting? Think of your friends.”

Kramer’s eyes were on Berliner, hard, responsible to nothing like thought.

Canterbury rose. “It’s my fault. I did it. I was sitting here and I fell and said things. I caused the trouble. If you hit someone, hit me.”

His smile came bearing wretchedness and hope to his white face.

Kramer said, “Fuck it,” dropped into his chair, sighed.

Cavanaugh lowered his arms, then walked away slowly to his chair.

Kramer slumped, his head twenty pounds of black pout. I heard Berliner’s breathing tear his throat. Paul looked at his hands, automatically beginning to roll a marijuana, a fat one to clog all synapses. Canterbury remained standing, glancing around the table, trying to find something to say. He seemed very isolated standing there, as if abandoned by all of us, far away, lonely as a pole. Kramer didn’t even want to hit him. Then, inspired by sheer desperation, Canterbury said, “Terry, you were talking. What happened to what’s her name? You were about to tell us, weren’t you?”

“Me?” said Terry.

“Deborah Zeller,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Paul. “What about Deborah Zeller? She used to taste your food.”

Listless, quick, scattered — somehow Terry began talking. He had no heart for it, but it was apparent he wanted to redeem the club. He watched our faces, measuring the interest in Deborah Zeller. Berliner’s breathing was so loud I wondered if he could hear Terry. Kramer slumped, chin in hand; he studied the grain in the tabletop. He didn’t give a damn about Deborah Zeller. His pleasure in the evening had been ruined. He was bitterly pissed off. But I gave a damn. I showed Terry an attentive face. Deborah Zeller was no mere name to me. I knew her. Not to say hello to in the street, of course, but if I were at a party and a woman said, “Hi, I’m Deborah Zeller,” I’d have responded extravagantly, probably embarrassing both of us, the way one behaves with somebody famous, who exists immensely for others. Here comes Deborah Zeller, so famous I could virtually taste her as Terry talked. I tried to show him all this, how I flew ahead of his words, acquiring his sense of the woman only against my own, which in fact was nothing but romance and anticipation. It gave way slowly, surrendering to Terry’s voice, his intention. He talked not for me. Not even for the club now. He talked the way he talked, a rhythm of authority in his sentences. The big round head — bald except for sandy fluff beside the ears — looked shaped from within by invincible power. A considerable bone with hazel eyes, bludgeon nose, full flexible mouth, talking of Deborah Zeller. Confidently. Berliner’s breathing became less loud and then I ceased to hear it. Even Berliner, in his fury, was listening. I felt reassured.

Paul, with quick skinny fingers, perfected his marijuana, a token of his staying here, his willingness to listen.

Canterbury, stiff again, sat like a man facing into wind.

Cavanaugh refilled his wineglass. He, too, was here.

Kramer slumped.

Terry talked.

“ … at the university for years, like a faculty member, except she was in one department, then another. ‘I took professors,’ she said, ‘not courses.’ You know the type? Excellent student. Only she starts a dissertation in anthropology, then reads philosophy and wonders about going to law school; meanwhile, she applies for the program in business administration. Nervous; smokes. Never inhales, just smokes, smokes. Talks her head off, too. If you clear your throat or glance away from her eyes, she stops and says, ‘What?’ She was familiar with advanced work in half a dozen fields, and then — no goodbye — she takes a job with an insurance company and begins to speculate in real estate. She also had telephones with a computer hookup in her apartment. So she could play the commodities market. Her father’s full-time work. She did it as a hobby. No real respect for any career. How could she have respect? Praise, high marks, fellowships — suddenly she’s making a lot of money. The only criticisms came from her father. She phoned him to say she was worth a million on paper. He said, ‘I’m delighted to hear you are thirty years old and without a husband. Listen to me for once. Come back to New York. Be with real people.’ He depressed her. ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ she said, ‘not thirty.’ I never offered opinions about her life. What if she acted on them? I’d be responsible, no? Besides, I admired her brains and energy. I approved of her, envied her — at least in the beginning. An extremely busy woman who had time for dance classes and a Marxist study group. Bay Area Women on the Left. She herself organized the group. It met once a month in her apartment. She assigned readings in Marx, gave a talk, led the discussion. Another group she organized, the Anacreontic League of Women, would fly to different cities to eat in fine restaurants. Whatever she enjoyed tended to become a group. Lobster, pasta, Karl Marx. If she wanted to swim across San Francisco Bay, eighty-five women would jump into the water behind her. Her father would yell criticisms from the shore. Me, I’d be rowing behind with no opinions, but full of admiration. Plenty of people would be involved. Her address book was thick as a dictionary. Her phone never stopped ringing. She had an answering machine that said ‘Hi. Debbie Zeller speaking. I really want to talk to you, but I can’t right this minute …’ She was always busy. Her whole body — fingers, mouth, hair, feet — was busy. She was never bored.

“I met her through Nicki. When the divorce was final, Nicki started phoning every night, usually to talk about Harrison, her boy friend. Why do women treat me this way? Because I’m bald, I think. I make a simple, basic impression. Anyhow, she phoned with a story about a woman at the tennis club. Nicki was sitting on a bench waiting for her partner when this woman asks if she’d like to warm up, hit a few back and forth. Nicki agreed. Just hitting a few, this woman begins slamming to the corners. Nicki said, ‘I was running my ass off.’ She begins slamming back. Soon it was obvious Nicki could wipe her out. The woman quits, runs up to the net. ‘Hi, I’m Debbie.’ Her exuberance was overwhelming. ‘She kept touching me,’ said Nicki. ‘Mad to be my friend or something.’ Nicki is a reserved type, a little shy. No defense against this kind of approach. When the woman invited her to the study group, Nicki said yes, she’d definitely be there. She wasn’t the least interested, she had doubts about the woman, but she said yes. So she asked if I would go with her. Harrison wanted no part of it. She didn’t want to go alone. She couldn’t not go at all. She was allowed to bring a friend, even a man. I said okay, I’d go. It turned out I was the only man. About fifteen women were in Deborah’s living room when we arrived. Others came later. I hoped a man would walk in, but none did. When everyone was seated, Deborah introduced Nicki to the women and said she was a fantastic tennis player. Nicki had to stand up and introduce me. She was blushing and trembling. I, at least, had political views and I’d been to many such meetings. Finally Deborah started things officially. She gave a talk about Marx’s idea of money. She made references to his work, early and late, and said he wasn’t a metaphysician, economist, or visionary, but a first-class businessman. She kept glancing and smiling at Nicki as if she hoped to impress her, but I was the one who was impressed. I was knocked out. When she finished, I applauded. Nicki was relieved when the discussion was over and we could make our exit. She said Deborah was obviously bright, but too aggressive for her taste, and the way she dressed was awful. ‘Did you see how short her skirt was? Years out of style.’ Well, Deborah has a dancer’s legs. Exceptional definition. Each muscle an independent dynamo. Later I found out she didn’t think her legs were sexy, only delightful to contemplate. But when she walked down the street, hoodlums whistled and made sucking noises. She seethed with anger. I said, ‘Don’t wear short skirts.’ She got angrier. She said, ‘Women are more attractive than men. Even to each other. They enjoy looking at each other.’ This was our second or third date. The first was after the study group. Deborah phoned the next morning. I was very surprised. Also frightened. She said she was leaving town. Would I like to have a drink with her before she goes? You know what I said? It makes me writhe to think of it. I said, ‘Yes, thank you.’ There was no reason to be frightened. Alone, Deborah was a little girl. When she sat on a couch, she flopped. I had to see not only her legs but also her underpants. She’d flop and begin a conversation, her knees a yard apart, her eyes on your eyes, as if she had no crotch. She could make money and lecture on Marx, but I had to look at her underpants. Her face was also something to look at. Close-together little eyes. They seemed never to miss your meaning, maybe to understand more than you intended. She’d say, ‘To spend most of one’s life thinking about money is intellectually degrading. Do you agree with this idea?’ She never lectured when we were alone. She asked what I thought about this or that, then she’d ask why, then she’d repeat what I said and develop it. No phony style, either. She’d make me feel my depths. As I was saying, she had close-together little eyes. A slightly hooked nose, wide mouth, sharply turned heavy lips, and fierce overbite. Extreme face. Fundamentally African, but white, really white skin. Some would say too dramatic, too keen. I wouldn’t argue, but it was an exciting face. Dark wiry hair and a fine long neck. Fine wrists and fingers. Very sensitive. Looking at her sometimes, I’d have a rush of pleasure. I’d laugh. Give her a hug. She’d say, ‘You like me?’ Not coquettish. Curious. Really curious. She said other men reacted similarly. ‘Usually the blonds,’ she said. She understood, but she didn’t. It upsets me to talk about her, but I’m going on and on. You know why? Because of Harold. Every time I remember another detail, I think Harold doesn’t believe me. I feel like I’m talking to a lie detector. I wanted to tell only one incident with Deborah and look, look what I’ve done. I’m producing a saga. Because of you, Harold.”