The Bohemian

by Bill Bowler

Chapter 4. Progress With Cynthia

I was becoming strongly attached to Cynthia. Looking back, I guess I was lonely. I was also anxious for her well-being. My problem was, shouting across the street was an awkward way to develop a relationship. I considered possibly loitering around her building entrance, waiting for her to come. I could casually strike up a conversation and one thing would lead to another, but standing around waiting for her could turn into full time work.

In the interim, the Fates conspired, the preordained unfolded, the unlikely occurred, and I bumped into her again. New York City is just our little home town, after all. I was grabbing a slab at the Ray’s Original on West 3rd St. when she turned the corner onto MacDougal. I ran out to the street.

“Hey! Hi! We keep bumping into each other.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m just coming from class. I need to get out for a while.”

We strolled south and turned east on Bleecker.

“What class did you have?”

“Seminar on Economic Decision Making.”

“Economic Decision Making? Is that bullshit or what?”

“Screw you.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t put it like that. Sorry. It’s a reflex with me. I got really alienated at NYU. All that absurd petty academic posturing. I wrote a poem about it, you know, about fools

educated in their schools
to be used as tools...

It was all so unbelievably irrelevant and boring.”

“You graduated from NYU?”

“Um, no. I’m kind of on, um, leave of absence.”

“What do you do?”

“Um, I’m, ah, kind of a poet. I work in the restaurant business to sustain myself financially but what I really do is write.”

“Have you published anything?”

“Ah, not yet, actually. I’m still preparing the manuscripts. I have submitted some poems to magazines. I’m waiting to hear. But listen, I shouldn’t be so negative about college. ‘Economic Decision Making’ you said?”

“It’s an important course for me if I decide to major in Economics. Joe Mrak is a brilliant man. His reputation is growing in the field. I was lucky to get into his seminar. It’s small and very competitive. We’ve been discussing the ethical implications of economic decisions.”

“Like destroying crops to keep prices up?”

“You can be simplistic, if you want. It’s easy to criticize. Have you ever considered the farmers’ point of view?” She paused. “Am I boring you?”

“No! No. I took a course from Mrak.”

We had reached Abingdon Square. Cynthia had never been out on the pier, so we walked down Bank Street, crossed the highway and walked out onto the old, dilapidated structure. There was a transvestite hooker hustling at the near end. Farther out, there were scattered homosexual and heterosexual couples, including a group of people having a picnic on a blanket.

A rat scurried by as Cynthia and I walked out over the rotten beams to the end of the pier. The sun was dipping behind the shorefront skyline of factories and docks across the Hudson in Jersey City. Venus was high in the western sky, the goddess of love presiding over our evening. Jupiter was rising in the east, lending a Jovian grandeur to my fantasies. To the south, in the bay, the Statue of Liberty held her torch aloft. It was a beautiful sight, despite the smell of sewage wafting from the river.

Cynthia and I stood arm in arm, watching a tugboat push a barge up the dark river. A huge private pleasure yacht sailed past. We could see revelers dancing on board and heard faint strains of music.

“What do you think?” I asked. “How many does that sucker sleep?”

“Twenty? Thirty?”

“What a life. Hey! Hello out there? Two martinis, please!”

“Shhh.”

The breeze was picking up across the river as the sun set and the evening cooled. Cynthia was standing very close to me, snuggling against my shoulder. I put my arm carefully around her waist. She moved imperceptibly closer. My fingers crept slowly under her sweater. It was a critical juncture, and I was afraid she might grab my wrist as I began to massage her side. She snuggled even closer and put her arm around me. I moved to kiss her neck, but she shifted and I found my lips in her hair.

I cleared my throat. She snuggled closer to me again, as if she were exploring my reactions. She turned to face me. I took her in my arms, one hand between her shoulder blades, the other in the small of her back, and pressed her to me. For a fleeting moment, she melted in my arms. I didn’t even try to kiss her again, just a long, delicious hug, her whole body against mine.

She moved away from my embrace and disengaged herself. A chill wind blew in from the river and she shivered.

We left the pier and walked back up Bank Street. When we reached the White Horse, I boasted, “This is where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.”

It was one of the last nice evenings of early fall. We decided to sit outside and have just one drink. There were no empty tables on the sidewalk, but I noticed a gentleman calling for his check. Cynthia and I stood waiting for a moment at the patio entrance. A couple walked up behind us.

The waiter came over and said to me, “These people were here first.”

I flared in righteous indignation. “Now, that’s really odd! Because I’ve been standing here and I saw them arrive just now, and we were already here! You understand, I saw them arrive!”

The waiter shrugged. I turned to the couple.

“He says you were here before us, which is funny because I just saw you arrive!”

The couple exchanged embarrassed glances. “It’s no big deal.”

I turned triumphantly to the waiter. “He says it’s no big deal! You can seat us first!”

The waiter shrugged again.

Cynthia took my arm. “They were inside.”

“What?” I said, but it was too late. Cynthia and I were seated and made the other couple wait. By this time, I was beginning to question my outburst and feeling the first pangs of remorse.

“What do you think? I should have let them go first, right? I made a stupid scene.”

“It’s OK, Walter. Forget it.”

“I’m just afraid of being hustled. I think everybody’s out to hustle me.”

“That’s what living in the city does to you.”

“Should I apologize to them?”

“No. What for?”

“Watch. They’ll get the table next to us.”

Five minutes later, they did.

* * *

That night, saying good-night in front of her building, Cynthia yawned and smiled apologetically.

“Long day?” I asked.

“I’ve been up since seven.”

I nodded sympathetically. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty busy. I may drive down to the Jersey shore. My friends have a house there.”

I didn’t even try to kiss her good-night.

To be continued...

to Challenge 349...