“Almost published?” I said.
Helen shrugged. “I don’t know the details. The editor wrote him a long letter or something.”
“He is pretty old. But then so are you, and you don’t mind having a baby like me around, do you?”
“Four years, kiddo,” she said. “Three years and nine months, actually. I’m not an old lady yet. But what do you think — is he too old for her?”
I didn’t think anything. Helen was always giving these speeches about so-and-so and their sex life, who was cheating on who, the I Ching, reincarnation, cat-breeding, UFOs and the way people’s characters could be read like brownie recipes according to their astrological charts. I gave her a sly smile and put my hand on her leg. “Age is relative,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
And then the strangest thing happened, by way of coincidence, that is — there was a flurry of activity in the foyer, the bowing and scraping of waiters, the little tap dance of leather soles as coats were removed, and suddenly the maître d’ was leading Adele and the very same Kurt Ramos past our table.
Helen saw them first. “Adele!” she chirped, already rising up out of the chair with a big stoned grin on her face, and then I glanced up and saw Adele there in a sweater so tight she must have been born in it (but no, no, I had vivid proof to the contrary). Beside her, loping along with an athletic stride, was Kurt Ramos, half-German, half — Puerto Rican, with crazily staring eyes and slick black hair that hung to his shoulders. He was wearing a tan trenchcoat, bell-bottoms and a pair of red bowling shoes he’d borrowed from a bowling alley one night. There were exclamations of surprise all around, the girls embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other in twelve years and I found myself wrapping my hand round Kurt Ramos’ in a complicated soul shake. “Good to meet you, man,” I said in my best imitation of a very hip adult, but he just stared right through me.
IN MAY, Ski Silinski quit to move up to Maine and live among goats and liberated women on a commune, leaving his wife and kid behind, and I found myself elevated to head bartender at the ripe age of twenty-three. I was making good money, getting at least a modicum of exercise rowing Helen around the defrosted lake every afternoon, and aside from the minorest of scrapes, I hadn’t really wrecked anything or anybody in a whole long string of weeks. Plus, I was ascending to the legendary status I’d sought all along, stoked by the Fireman Calabrese incident and the high drama of my unconscious dive into the hands of the state police. I’d begun dealing Quaaludes in a quiet way, I tripped and had revelatory visions and went to concerts with Helen, Adele and Kurt, and I pretty generally felt on top of things. The prevailing ethos was simple in those days — the more drugs you ingested, the hipper you were, and the hipper you were, the more people sought you out for praise, drugs and admiration. I even got to the point where I could match Jimmy Brennan drink for drink and still make it home alive — or at least partially so.
Anyway, Ski quit and on my recommendation we hired Kurt Ramos as second bartender, and the two of us made quite a pair behind the bar, he with his shower-curtain hair and staring eyes and me with my fixed grin that was impervious to anything life or the pharmaceutical industry could throw at it. We washed glasses, cut fruit, mixed drinks, talked about everything and nothing. He told me about Hawaii and Amsterdam, drugs, women he’d known, and he showed me his poetry, which seemed pretty banal to me, but who was I to judge? When work was over, he and Adele would come over to our place for long stoned discussions and gleeful drug abuse, or we’d go to a late movie or another bar. I liked him. He had heart and style and he never tried to pull rank on me by virtue of his greater age and wisdom, as Jimmy Brennan and his drinking cronies never failed to do.
It was a month or so after Kurt started working behind the bar that my parents came in for the first time. They’d been threatening to make an appearance ever since I’d got the job — my mother wanted to check the place out because she’d heard so much about it, everybody had, and my father seemed amused by the idea of his son officially making him a drink and pushing it across the bar to him on a little napkin. “You’d have to give me a discount,” he kept saying. “Wouldn’t you?” And then he’d laugh his high husky laugh till the laugh became a smoker’s cough and he’d cross the kitchen to the sink and drop a ball of sputum in the drain.
I was shaking a martini for a middle-aged guy at the end of the bar when I glanced up and saw my father looming there in the doorway. The sun was setting, a fat red disc on the horizon, and my father extinguished it with the spread of his shoulders as he maneuvered my mother through the door. The hostess — a terminally pretty girl by the name of Jane Nardone — went up to him with a dripping smile and asked if he’d like a table for two. “Yeah, sure,” I heard him say in his rasping voice, “but only after my son makes a me a vodka gimlet — or maybe two.” He put his hands on his hips and looked down at the little painted doll that was Jane Nardone. “That okay with you?” Then he made his way across the room to where I stood behind the bar in white shirt and tie.
“Nice place,” he grunted, helping my mother up onto a barstool and settling in beside her. My mother was heavily made-up and liquid-eyed, which meant she’d already had a couple of drinks, and she was clutching a black patent-leather purse the size of a refrigerator. “Hi, honey,” she said, “working hard?”
For a minute I was frozen there at the bar, one hand on the shaker, the other on the glass. There went my cool, the legend dissolved, Lester the ultra-wild one nothing more than a boy-faced boy — and with parents, no less. It was Kurt who saved the day. He was thirty-five years old after all, with hollow cheeks and the faintest weave of gray in his mustache, and he had nothing to prove. He was cool, genuinely cool, and I was an idiot. “Mr. Rifkin,” he said, “Mrs. Rifkin. Lester’s told me a lot about you”—a glowing, beautiful, scintillating lie. “What can I get you?”
“Yeah,” I said, adjusting the edges of my fixed smile just a degree, “what’ll it be?”
And that was fine. My father had three drinks at the bar and got very convivial with Kurt, and my mother, perched on the edge of the stool and drinking Manhattans, corralled anybody she could — Jane, Adele, Helen, random customers, even one of the busboys — and told them all about my potty training, my elementary school triumphs and the.417 batting average I carried one year in Little League. Jimmy Brennan came in and bought everybody a round. We were very busy. I was glowing. My father was glowing. Jane showed him and my mother to the best table in the house and they kept Helen and two waiters schmoozing over a long, lingering, three-course dinner with dessert, after-dinner drinks and coffee. Which I paid for. Happily.
THE SUMMER THAT YEAR was typical — heat, mosquitoes, fat green flies droning aimlessly round the kitchen, the air so dense with moisture even the frogs were sweating. Helen and I put off going to bed later and later each night, hoping it would cool off so we could actually sleep instead of sweating reservoirs on each other, and we saw dawn more times than I’d like to remember. Half the time I wound up passed out on the couch, and I would wake at one or two in the afternoon in a state of advanced dehydration. Iced coffee would help, especially with a shot or two of Kahlúa in it, and maybe a Seconal to kill some of the pain of the previous night’s afflictions, but by the time we got around to the deli for a sandwich to go, it was four and we were on our way to work. That became a real grind, especially when I only got Monday nights off. But then, right in the middle of a heat wave, Jimmy Brennan’s mother died and the restaurant closed down for three days. It was a tragedy for Jimmy, and worse for his mother, but for us — Helen, Kurt, Adele and me — it was like Christmas in July. Three whole days off. I couldn’t believe it.