Little Cathy

Dec. 4, 1997, Wednesday

5:44 AM – Not sleepy. Been awake an hour already after only three hours sleep. Alcohol from four red wines is running through my veins, screaming, and the rancid after-smell of some cigars I smoked is still hovering around me — plus I’ve got a vicious hangnail on one big toe.

Last night was the Print and Digital Production party at P.J. Charlton’s, on Greenwich and Charlton. A very good time. I never lost control, had a lot of good conversations and/or good chummy feeling with a lot of people, working the room sort of — Emily, Shay, Jeff, Lester, Janice, Nancy, John, Wayne, Cathie. I fell into the well-respected big-brother role that comes pretty naturally among this group: people seem to like me most of the time, respect my knowledge and talent, like that I’m a good worker but not a company mouthpiece, kind of rely on my good cheer and — these are all my guesses — my amicable form of seniority.

Eve joined Cathie and the others in doing shots. I enjoyed being one of the few — maybe the only person there — not sucking up to that posing phony. She made a few attempts to butter me up and I all but ignored her. The others treat her like the boss — hiding their contempt and distrust. I treat her like an equal — letting her see, if she’s got even half an antenna for body language, my contempt and distrust. I know we’re not really equals, but out of automatic courtesy I pretend she is. As each day reveals more of her duplicity and straw-headedness, though, it becomes harder and harder not to treat her with the frank loathing and open ridicule I feel she deserves.

It was Nancy’s turn to walk death row yesterday, but the Terminator kept postponing the meeting, keeping Nancy’s nerves at high pitch. Nancy had to take a brisk walk at one point to work off some blood sugar: her little diabetes-sensor revealed blood sugar levels that got her scared. We figured out that the stress had sent adrenalin through her system, in turn triggering a flood of fight-or-flight fuel in the form of glucose. Eve finally consented to hold the interview at the end of the day, right before we all left for the party, and made Nancy the paltry offer of $45,000, the same rate she offered Bob, an ordinary studio artist. Nancy was pissed, but we didn’t get a chance to talk about it.

We all left about 10 in order to get Cathie Somple home safely. She was snockered, and Joanne, to underline her own invincibility to alcohol, offered to drive her home. I don’t think any of us minded very much the idea of Joanne wrapping her car around a tree, but we didn’t want Little Cathie to be part of the wreckage. We headed north to the parking garage, trying to think of a way to get Cathie away from old Beelzebub. It helped our case when Joanne fell on her face crossing the street. We thought she fell because she was drunk, but she explained right away that it was city government’s fault. The rest of us managed to avoid the gaping hole that had snared her, but it was pure luck, since none of us could find it to step over it. At any rate, the illusion that Joanne was falling-down drunk may have helped my argument a little later when I whisked Cathie away from her. Cathie came willingly — but another influence was that I told her we were heading to another bar, which we weren’t. Before whisking her away we all had to watch her wrap herself around the parking garage attendant in a fuck-me-standing-up kind of way.

We wended our irregular way north — me, Cathie,Lester, Monica, Nancy and Emily. Monica was almost as drunk as Cathie, but had more common sense going into it, and was openly relying on the rest of us to get her and Cathie to their respective homes. Cathie was a little like a cat that doesn’t want to be held. Stupid as she appeared to have become, she retained a sense of direction — at least a sense for the direction of Cafe Bar, which was the name I threw out as I pried her off the parking attendant. Several of us took turns alternately coercing and forcing her homeward. There was a brief embarrassment as she and Monica fell on the sidewalk together, arms and legs flailing beetle-like as they each cooed and petted at one another like spinster twins.

Five minutes later, only a hundred feet farther along our journey, we all suffered a greater embarrassment as Cathie accosted a handsome workmate, Sean Kiener, and applied her legs to his waist. We had a much harder time peeling her off him, he being better breeding stock generally than the parking garage guy — though both these victims dispatched themselves as gentlemen, more or less. Sean seemed a little bent himself, but could see clearly that Cathie was in no condition to be given what she was asking for — at least not with a group of her friends as witnesses — and did his best to extricate himself from her. I tried to help. “Sean’s gay,” I said. “Now that’s going pretty far,” he told me. “It’s asking a lot,” I agreed. We finally had to let her coil herself around him for a minute before Nancy took charge, insisting that enough was enough, arousing Cathie’s sense of humiliation for an instant — just long enough for Sean to tear himself away and retreat quickly, probably regretfully. It was about then that we all realized Emily had disappeared — evidently fed up with the whole play. The five of us continued our trek, more or less sensibly, from that point on.

There was a dangerous moment as two young men, a little inebriated themselves, or maybe just foreign, tried to accost us with pleas for help finding some place. I could see Cathie’s legs readying themselves for another springing grab, so I sort of shoved myself between her and the prey, said “Sorry, sorry,” and helped keep our little caravan moving toward safety.

We finally reached Cathie’s apartment and spilled her inside. Her roommate Lenka was there — that beautiful specimen — and was planning to hit some bar herself. We all mingled for a little while, making the kind of overly warm chitchat people make who don’t really know one another but have a common friend. We felt reassured, more or less, that Cathie was now safe, or at least someone else’s responsibility, and we left with kisses all around. Lenka helped Nancy on with her coat and I liked the way that looked, so I quickly took mine off so I could be similarly mothered, then we four Good Samaritans were off in the brisk coolness of the December night again. Nancy now had shepherding responsibilities for Monica — they both live in Queens — and got the two of them into a cab, although Nancy hates taking cabs in New York. More kisses all around, then Lester and I were alone.

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Man,” said Lester. “Am I glad that’s over.”

“Now that,” I said, employing Lester’s trademark phrase, “is a true story.” – 6:47 AM ~ NNFiles