Thirty - Jill Emerson [57]
Actually if there were a two-bedroom apartment in Liz’s building that we could both take, that would be perfect. Or, and this would be even better, now that I think about it, if there were a small apartment in her building that I could take by myself. Because her place isn’t really big enough for two girls to bring dates to at the same time, and also because I think I would like a certain amount of real privacy. A place to sit and write in this book, for example. And have whatever thoughts I want to keep to myself.
I just took a walk around the neighborhood and I felt like a complete stranger. Not just since the abortion, but when I was tricking uptown I found myself spending less and less time around here.
I guess there’s no real point in having an apartment down here anymore.
I wonder where Eric is. And Susan. People keep walking in and out of my life. He might be around—I haven’t been here to answer the phone.
I could go over to his apartment and ring the bell and see what happens. But I won’t do that because I’m afraid he might be there.
There’s an argument for moving. I would just as soon be unfindable by him.
Though I have this irrational feeling that if he really wanted to find me there’s no place on earth I could hide. Like he has this all-seeing eye. I know it’s nonsense but I can’t dismiss the feeling.
August 11
There’s a vacancy coming up as of the fifteenth in Liz’s building. The superintendent showed it to me this afternoon. Just one room and a vestigial kitchen. The bathroom is big enough to turn around in if you plan your moves carefully in advance. Not a bad view, though, of Fifty-fourth Street.
It’s two hundred and ten dollars a month, and I have to take it as of the fifteenth, and my place downtown is paid through the first, not to mention the security, so there’s a lot of money I’m throwing away. But the hell with it, I’m taking it.
If the super had his way he’d rent to no one but whores, according to Liz. She told me how much she gives him at Christmas, and the doormen, and everybody else connected with the place. She really throws money around, and as a result they fall all over themselves to do her favors and open doors for her, and of course she has no hassle about men coming to her apartment. The respectable tenants, meanwhile, sometimes have to wait three months to get a leaky faucet fixed.
I went crazy yesterday and made a hundred and thirty-five dollars.
August 17
I met Howard yesterday. Walking downtown on Lexington between Forty-eighth and Forty-seventh. He was walking uptown, I was walking downtown. And there he was.
Talk about awkward.
Miss Plastic Tits was nowhere to be seen. He was alone, carrying that attaché case that I used to think was welded to his hand. We just stopped in our tracks and stared at each other, each waiting for the other to be the first to say something. When we finally started a conversation it went something like this:
“Well, what do you know.”
“Well, hello.”
“I always wondered when I’d run into you, Jan. A few months ago there was a time when I kept thinking I saw you around town, but I would look and it was never you. You’re looking good.”
“Thank you. You look good yourself.”
“You’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“I’ve been gaining a little back lately.”
“Well, you look good.”
“Well, I—”
“I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Actually I have an appointment.”
“I said I’ll buy you a drink. We have some things to discuss, Jan.”
“I have this appointment.”
“I’ll make a scene.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, bitch. You walked out without looking back. You gave me some bad nights, bitch.”
“I’m sorry about that. Let go of my arm.”
“I will like hell let go of your arm. We have some things to talk about. I want a divorce. I don’t want to wait to talk about it until we happen to run into each other again. No, you can’t brash me, Jan. I’ll raise my voice, I’ll attract attention, I don’t really give a damn.”
“You want a divorce?”
“I’m sure it’s