Loud Literati

Last night I attended a soiree peopled by the lingering literati of Lower Manhattan. Not all intellectuals have been exiled by the exorbitant rents. Editors, writers, publishers, agents, actors, painters, and pundits drank wine at a triplex owned by a right-wing sophist. Nobody was famous, although several had come close. The first arrivals congregated in the basement kitchen. The Guatemalan maid poured rose champagne and red wine. Our hostess was dressed in a sleek black dress complimenting her svelte figure. I gave her several sprigs of Spring and a paperback 1st edition of Jacqueline Susann's VALLEY OF THE DOLLS. She thanked me for the gift and swiftly swung her attention to the avalanche of guests descending the winding stairs.

Within thirty minutes the kitchen was filled with smart people sounding smarter with each glass of wine. Conversation was nearly impossible with the rise tide of volume. Years ago I would have glowed at the center of this cosmos. Tonight I simply desired some quiet words. I ran into a friend's ex-wife. She also came from Boston. After a few questions about my family in Thailand, the 34 year-old brunette asked if I wanted to have a baby with her.

"You have several kids. I want a baby before I'm too old." She seemed so fragile in this desire.

"You will, but you deserve better than me or your husband." I was devoted to Fenway's mom. It was impossible to think of lying with another woman and I introduced my friend's ex-wife to a banker. Good-looking and single. Her smile disguised the disbelief of happiness in her time and I ascended from the mosh pit with a bottle of Chablis. The maid was trapped in the kitchen. She'd never make it any higher to serve the other guests.

The first floor was crowded with guests piling their coats on the sofas. I checked for my leather jacket. A Purple Label Ralph Lauren rescued from a Chelsea trash can. The foot-long tear in the front had been repaired by a Chinatown tailor. $20. The rip was invisible to most eyes and looked the money. I buried it underneath two fur coats and climbed to the second-floor.

A Laotian-French girl was sitting with her Lebanese boyfriend. He was praising the wave of rebellion washing across the Middle East. Another banker proposed a toast to Democracy. My glass stayed at my side and I said, "This is less about Democracy than the struggle of the poor against the rich. No jobs, no food, no rights."

"Well, here's to the rich." The Lebanese boyfriend drained his glass. A sneer twisted his lips. His aspiration to wealth was no sin in America. Everyone wanted to be a billionaire.

I spoke to a pregnant literary agent about giving birth. She asked for advice from a father of four. I only know what I know and said, "Don't have a c-section. Let the baby sleep in the bed with you. Feed the baby breast milk as long as you can and quit working your job. Your baby is more important than any book."

She thanked me and asked about my writing. I raccounteured the outline to my short stories about hitching across America in 1974. "Lesbian orgy in Big Sur, LSD on Black's Beach, drinking moonshine with ex-cons on Route 66, ghosts in a haunted mountain house in Vermont, gay marines at a disco in San Diego. A tale of lost times."

"Sounds fantastic."

"Maybe you'll get to read it one day." I have abandoned any hopes of getting my stories in a book. I'm 58. Editors want young blood. Writers who have a knack for tapping out fiction on their Blackberries. That person was not me. It was time to go home.

Barely midnight, but one the way out I was introduced by an English dandy to his friends as a man who had been thrown out of Thailand.

"Excuse me." His comment bordered on slander and as a younger man I might have assaulted him in front of everyone, however he had actually lent me $100 upon my return to the States and that money had come to my family. That favor granted him liberty at my expense.

"Come on, everyone knows how the Thai police escorted you to the airport in chains." The ex-child star lifted his head to laugh at this image. His friends regarded me with delight. I was a true criminal in their midst.

"That's a funny story, but not even close to true." I swiftly explained how the Thai police had treated me with absolute deference. "No chains, no dirty jail cell, they bought me dinner after I paid bail. The head detective said that he would protect me. Three months later I paid a $100 fine for international copyright infringement and the police were waiting outside to take me for drinks again. I'm persona grata in Thailand. By the way I'm paying off everyone who helped me back then. Here's your c-note."

The fop snatched the bill from my hand. He has two kids. I left the room, as he told his friends about the sordidness of sending money via Western Union. he was quite right about that. Western Union offices are drenched with the sadness of desperation and I haven't been to one in ages.

Now I do that business online.

My jacket was buried by a deeper pile on coats. It wasn't cold outside on the street. I walked over to West 4th Street. The A train was making local stops to Far Rockaway. Home in Fort Greene was less than 30 minutes away. I couldn't get there faster.