Number Mad

I moved to New York in 1976. In a stolen car. Not really stolen, but a Newton, Mass. lawyer paid $300 to vanish his gas-guzzler. I drove the Olds 88 on the West Side Highway on Manhattan, took off the plates, threw them into the Hudson, and walked away from the vehicle. Easy same as the previous times for other men wanting to rid themselves of a big car. I took the subway to Brooklyn Heights. I was in love with a painter from Pittsburgh. I knocked on Ro's door and was greeted by her ex-lover.

Bix had the look of a hillbilly. Lanky, sallow, and sad. Ro had told me that she had never kissed him, but she liked having sex with him. He was gentle. That information had made me sad too, but not as much as his news that evening.

"She's gone to Paris. To study art. She left on a jet plane."

"Gone?" I understood the word even more saying it again.

"Don't know when she'll be back again." Bix tended to talk in liners from Beatles songs. His other trait was to scribble numbers. He was fixated by them. His hand held a scrunched up paper scrawled with thousands of numbers. They weren't a mathematical equation. Only random numbers. He was mad. His madness had nothing to do with Ro not kissing him.

"Thanks." It was late and I had no place to stay.

"You can sleep here." He held the door open wide.

"Okay." I stayed awake all night in Ro's bed. So did Bix. He sat at the kitchen table writing down numbers. With a pencil. He should have been in a hospital. In the morning I said good-bye. I knew of a cheap hotel on West 11th Street and 5th Avenue. A dump with a good address.

"Are you going to be alright?"

"Sure, no problems." He didn't even lift his head from his task.

A year later he was found dead in a cave located among the bare winter trees of Fort Tryon Park. The police said the stones around his last home were covered with numbers. None of them made sense.

Not like 1 + 1 = 2, however today is a special day. At 12hr 34 minutes and 56 seconds on the 7th of August this year (today), the time and date will be 12:34:56 07/08/09. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9; note it, enjoy it, as it will never happen in your lifetime again.

Some numbers are not for the mad.

Journal Entry June 11, 1977

James' drinking hasn't lessened a single degree, in fact it has worsened over the last few days. Mark Amitin said that James was terribly infatuated with me, which was the main cause of his insane drunkenness. Looks like I'll have to head north or west sooner than I thought, because of this unstable environment. No way I will submit to his lust. Moving will suck, but there's little else I can do for both our sanities.

Fletcher was right.

I have been living on unemployment, but need to get a job. Mark and I are trying to work out something on his ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE project. I need something now. James' obsession is intolerable.

I'll write a story about it and then beat feet, if I get enough money to go west.

Arggh!!!

Everything I do is so fucked up.

No, the world is fucked up.

Me too.

LATER

Ro and I meet on Brooklyn Heights, our first time since her return from Paris. She and I explained how we feel, and then argue. Two counter-forces easily able to pull away from each other. Ro can be as vicious as she wants to be, however it's not as effective as before, when whatever she said crippled me.

"Why do I always have to define my relationship with you. I never have to do that with Kirk."

"That's because Kirk is gay."

"His being gay doesn't make me not love him. I don't need sex from him. Only love."

She is content within his circle of friends and it's obvious that there's nothing sexual between them, which should make me accept her dependence on those, who don't threaten her.

"Unlike me."

As we stood before 51 Remsen Street, I told her that I would try and not see her again. She answered, "I don't know why, but I've always seen you whenever you asked to see me."

She was right, but we continued to fire salvos at each other and I said, "After our first month you became unapproachable. Any movement to get close to you was doomed to failure, but in that hopelessness came freedom to do as I chose, regardless of my losses. I was hurt, but too used to being hurt had its advantages. I see the blows coming before they hit or hurt and I can live with that."

She climbed the stairs and said, "Masochist."

"I'll be back for more. Promise."