​BLACK MARKET LIT

          So it was with a sizable chip on my shoulder that I, in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, drove my battered Ford toward the corner lot that housed the large Tudor dwelling owned by the Rosses, then parked conspicuously in the driveway beside the only Bentley I'd ever seen.  

          Sure enough, it was the man of the house who answered when I rang the bell, gazing at me haughtily for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

          “Yes?”

          “Dr. Ross,” I said, measuring my words carefully rather than instantly going on the attack, “am I correct in sensing that you feel there's a difference between us?”

          “Isn't that apparent?”

          “Come to think of it, I guess it is.”

          “Glad you're beginning to see things my way,” he responded, with what seemed to be a combination of surprise and pleasure.

          “You bet I am,” I said with a smile. “You look at assholes all day, while I'm fucking your daughter.”

          Though the haughty physician looked ready to explode, my bet was that he would neither go searching for a gun, nor call my parents. He was, I suspected correctly, far too full of himself to risk embarrassment or shame by admitting -- to the police, my parents, or anyone else -- that his precious daughter was doing the dirty with the likes of me.

 

          It wasn't long after my confrontation with her father that Mimsy and I broke up, though breaking up is much too strong a term for the end of what had been the point of convergence, for both of us, of friendship, lust, and a great way to thumb our noses at the world. As part of her ongoing tug of war between rebellion and respectability, Mimsy went back to using the real first name she'd professed to despise -- Melissa -- then charmed her way into a crowd that was obsessed with image, respectability, and getting into the right college. In the process, she even acquired an earnest boyfriend named Barry who, being the son of a someone who'd risen as both a pharmacist and slumlord, also met with the approval of the father Mimsy -- but not Melissa -- claimed to despise.

          I, meanwhile, continued to be the town's wayward son, taking advantage of a sickness that sidelined the school paper's adviser by putting out an issue so scurrilous it sent shrieks ringing through the hallways. Then, while suspended for a week, I added to my ever-growing list of transgressions by getting arrested for breaking and entering at a local rec center, though in truth it wasn't because of malice or the intent to steal -- just a simple urge to shoot baskets at midnight at a time of year when it was too cold to do so outdoors.

          Then off we went our separate ways after graduation, Melissa, as she was still calling herself, to one of what were then known as the Seven Sisters colleges, while I took a far rockier route. To the delight of those who said I'd never amount to anything, and the chagrin of my parents, who hoped against hope that I would have some sort of awakening and take a path they approved of, I embarked upon a series of jobs that sound interesting only on a book jacket: driving a truck, working nights at a pool hall, helping out at a boxing gym, and even, for a short period or time, assisting a bookie. I can now claim that it was a means of logging experiences, but though that has some merit, it's really only true in hindsight. The fact is that I was being rebellious at my own expense, and it wasn't until the bookie and I were held up at gunpoint that I was forced to wake up and decide not what I wanted to do with my life, but if I wanted to do anything the least bit meaningful.

         

          Since those days were well before cell phones or Facebook, news and whereabouts were harder to keep up with. The result was that when I did hear something about Mimsy -- or Melissa -- it was thanks to random instances of what we used to call Jersey Geography, which meant bumping into someone who had an update that was usually, by then, no longer particularly relevant or up to date.

          So I figured that unlike me, my one-time girlfriend had become a nice, respectable person en route to a nice, respectable life.

 

          “You win!” a familiar voice when I picked up the phone a couple of years later in the squalid East Village apartment a friend and I had just sublet.

          “Melissa?”

          “Mimsy!” she countered forcefully. “And you can take me to dinner to say thanks.”

          “For what?”

          “This girl I know used to work with your new roommate. Donny, right?”

          “Denny --”

          “And she says you two bet $100 over who'd get laid there first.”

          “So?”

          “Do you want to win, or don't you?”

          That was all the proof I needed that Melissa had indeed given way to the Mimsy I knew.

 

          It turned out that despite her attempt to conform -- or perhaps because of it -- Mimsy had found that college life, especially in a small Massachusetts town, was not at all for her. She tried as best she could for a year, playing a role that was never comfortable. Then, to her parents' chagrin, she left.

          Worried not just about his daughter's future, but also about what others might say or think, her father tried to exert his influence by pushing her to transfer to a bigger school like Yale, where he, as an alumnus, had pull. When that was rejected, it was her mother who stepped in, suggesting a trip to Europe, where it was felt their precious Melissa might find herself. That, too, fell on deaf ears.

          Instead Mimsy reached out to an uncle who had shocked the family by giving up his law practice to be a dairy farmer in Vermont. It was during an extended stay with him, his new girlfriend, and their herd of goats, living simply while working long hours, that she decided to follow a path that was not her parents', but one hundred percent her own. Moving to Brooklyn, she got a job as a waitress, then focused on doing something she'd always loved: acting.

 

          Our bet-winning reunion led not just to a celebratory dinner, but also to non-stop excitement that felt like it would never end. We were young, New York was still affordable, and we were buoyed by fun, sex, and dreams that hadn't yet been bruised or compromised. Even though we had to fight for time together -- Mimsy was taking acting classes, going to auditions, and slinging hash at a greasy spoon, while I was driving a cab and trying to write a script -- we felt as though the city was ours. And we were convinced -- or at least managed to convince ourselves -- that soon so, too, would be the world, since our lives were brimming with exhilaration, discovery, and adventure. Every door that opened to us was filled with creativity and energy: film, literature, music, painting, and theater. Plus we were running with kindred spirits -- up-and-coming but still struggling painters, sculptors, musicians, and songwriters -- who, though scuffling financially in the same way we were, made time to sit through 24-hour movie marathons and retrospectives, went to galleries in strange places, feasted on ethnic foods that were new, tasty, and cheap, and, as we did, consumed inappropriate amounts of alcohol and drugs.

          But the roller-coaster ride that felt like it would last forever came to an abrupt stop when, as my sublet was coming to an end, I was offered a job with a production company in L.A. It was then that I had to decide whether to take the shot I'd been hoping for, or else forgo those plans and find a way to stay with Mimsy.

          Decision-making meant that instead of just being, I had to think, consider, and reflect not just on what I wanted, but also on who I wanted to be. And so, too, did Mimsy.

          Pondering, it turned out, was not something either one of us enjoyed or was good at, and neither was discussing. Suddenly the spontaneity was gone from our lives, and so was much of the joy. Instead we found ourselves face to face with a phenomenon that was new to us: reality.

          Looking back at that time, it now appears that our extended party was little more than a wild and wanton dream, though one I wish could have gone on forever.

 

          “Any chance I can crash with you for a little while?” asked someone whose voice I recognized immediately when I picked up the phone in my rat hole in a not yet hip section of LA called Echo Park.

          “Depends on whether it's Mimsy calling, or Melissa.”

          “Fuck you! Can you come get me?”

          Almost a year had gone by, and I was hardly flourishing. I had graduated from Production Assistant to Associate Producer, an ascent that sounds promising but was neither remunerative nor rewarding in other ways, since I was working for a company that produced the kinds of educational films I slept through while growing up.

          My hours were horrendous, I hadn't yet found a crowd to hang with, the LA streets and freeways were still a mystery, I was getting no writing of my own done, and sleep was made difficult by salsa, shrieks, and gun shots that went on all night. But otherwise, I kept telling myself, life was peachy.

          My initial thought was that Mimsy might just be the remedy I needed. But when I saw her standing in front of the United terminal at the airport, I knew instantly that all was not right. She looked gaunt, pallid, and troubled. Still, spotting me she was momentarily transformed into someone more resembling my old co-conspirator and flame.

          “You look great!” she gushed as I double-parked.

          “You, too,” I said, trying my best to make it seem like I meant it.

          “I look like shit.”

          “You look like Mimsy.”

          “Is that good?”

          “A whole lot better than what's-her-name. It's great to see you.”

          That got me a smile and a kiss.

 

          “I won't bother you for long,” Mimsy announced as we drove away from the airport.

          “You're not a bother and you can stay as long you want.”

          “You're sweet.”

          “Only with people I like.”

          “You've always been a friend,” Mimsy said with a sigh. “Maybe the only real one I have.”

          “C'mon --”

          “I've been through a lot.”

          It turned out that after my departure Mimsy's life became a roller-coaster ride with both off-the-chart highs and horrendous lows. Workshopping an Albee one-act led to an off-off-Broadway run of what became known as an avant-garde version of “A Streetcar Named Desire,” which attracted an inordinate amount of attention not due to its excellence, but because it was done largely in the nude. That experience resulted first in a bout of pneumonia for Mimsy, thanks to the rotten heating in the ramshackle theater, then an off-off kind of relationship with the part-time actor and full-time junkie who was Stanley to her Blanche. When the coupling ended horrendously, with the leading man getting busted while trying to score on the Lower East Side, Mimsy, having acquired a habit of her own, was left not merely adrift, but strung out and broke.

          After a stint recuperating back in Jersey, Mimsy declared herself clean, healthy, and ready to start anew. Then, having decided to distance herself as far as possible from the druggie crowd she'd fallen into, she wheedled funds from her father. Since a trip to the moon wasn't possible, it was toward me that she headed.

          The agenda she described when we stopped for a bite sounded both constructive and achievable. First step was to find part-time work so as to minimize the financial pressure she might otherwise face. As soon as that became a done deal, she would find an affordable but talented photographer so as to get new head shots, then use those to pursue an agent. Plus, she would contact the local film schools in the hope of acting in as many students productions as possible in order to cut together a reel.

          For me there were benefits right from the start. In addition to much appreciated companionship when I wasn't working, and not just in bed, Mimsy's touch transformed my hell hole into a place that actually seemed welcoming. Thanks to trips to swap meets and second-hand stores, within days there were flowers and nick-nacks here and there, plus paintings and photos gracing the walls.           Though historically a late riser, each morning Mimsy would uncharacteristically bound out of bed and fix breakfast. Then, with a smile, she would accompany me to work so as to have use of the little Austin America I'd bought upon arriving in LA. Come afternoon, except on days when she would surprise me at work with a picnic for the two of us, she would call in to get a sense as to when to pick me up. And lo and behold, at the designated time, there she'd be, ready to accompany me for the kind of inexpensive food -- Thai, Ethiopian, Korean, Creole, Salvadorian, or Lebanese -- we could never have found near her parents' house or mine.It was a life that was comfy, cozy, and, in contrast to our time together in New York, surprisingly bourgeois.

          Until, that is, Mimsy got a job that was about as far from bourgeois as anything I could have imagined: dancing at a place that billed its girls not just as NUDE or NAKED, but, for reasons I never professed to understand, TOPLESS & BOTTOMLESS.

          Not the least bit inhibited, especially after her stint doing Tennessee Williams without clothes, Mimsy viewed the gig as simple, straightforward, and surprisingly well-paying. She was comfortable with the management as well as with the other girls. And, despite the occasional sleazeball in the midst of those who spent their afternoon ogling and drinking, she had precious few worries or problems with the gawkers, many of whom tipped surprisingly well.

          With Mimsy as friend, lover, and muse -- encouraging me to make time to write, praising whatever pages I showed her, offering constructive criticism from an actor's point of view -- I started seeing the world differently. Instead of my wants and needs, I thought in terms of ours. Rather than what I should or shouldn't do, the word that came to mind was we. Where for so long I would wonder what would become of me, I began to think of building a future for us.And to my dismay, that actually felt good.

          But everything changed one sunny afternoon when in through the door of the club where she worked stepped someone Mimsy instantly recognized: her cousin Andy from West Orange.To the surprise of everyone, Mimsy let out a scream and raced off the stage, then threw on some clothes and bolted. Disheveled and distraught, she drove like a banshee to the production facility where I was working.

          I tried every way I could think of to console her, but to no avail. Mimsy took no solace in my assertion that there's no wrong in earning an honest buck. Nor was she appeased at my contention that the real question was not what she'd been doing, but rather why her sleazeball cousin, on a rare visit LA, chose to spend an afternoon in that kind of club, rather than at the beach or at a museum.

          Vowing to leave the seedy side of life behind so as to devote all her working hours to her acting career, Mimsy continued to borrow my car each and every morning. But soon everything changed. The afternoon calls became less and less frequent, the picnics turned into a thing of the past, and her arrival times to go to dinner were strikingly inconsistent.

          I tried not to be bothered by, or dwell on, the changes, attributing her flakiness and moods swings to the rigors of gaining a foothold in show biz. But the night that I noticed fresh track marks on her arm, I demanded a reckoning.

          With tears in her eyes, Mimsy admitted that she'd allowed her ever-increasing frustration to overtake her, which in turn led to what she termed “a stupid, fucked-up urge to score.”But she swore it was an aberration, then promised me it would never happen again.

          “It's not to me you've got make that promise,” I insisted, which she seemed to accept.

          And for the three days that followed, she was the Mimsy I cared about and enjoyed, upbeat, reliable, thoughtful, and fun.

          But on the fourth day, there was no afternoon phone call. Nor, to my chagrin, was she anywhere to be found when my work day was over. Growing more and more irritated as five minutes turned into ten, then ten into twenty, thirty, and forty, I finally gave up and went for pizza with a film editor and an assistant cameraman. Still having heard nothing by the time we were done, I then wangled a ride home.

          Only when we turned onto my block was I momentarily relieved, for instead of my Austin being gone as I feared, it was parked near my apartment.

          But seeing the car engendered a worse worry: that something might have happened to Mimsy. Afraid that perhaps she'd fallen, or worse OD-ed, I rushed to unlock the door with the key I kept hidden on a window sill. Stepping in, I instantly winced not at what I saw, but at what I didn't see.

          Gone was my television, gone the sound system, gone virtually everything of any value except the Austin that was parked outside. Unable to accept that I'd been betrayed by someone I thought I knew so well, someone I cared about, someone who called me her only friend, I stood immobilized for what felt like an eternity.

          Then, as shock gave way to fury, I punched the wall so hard that I nearly broke my fist.

           I went into the kitchen and grabbed some ice to reduce the swelling, then reached for the phone to call the police. But despite my anger, my disappointment, and my sense that the world would never again be the same, I couldn't quite bring myself to dial.

          With the heaviest of hearts, I trudged a block and a half to a dark gin mill, where I spent the evening trying, with little success, to drown my sorrows.

 

          Interestingly, Mimsy's departure led to another one: mine. Acknowledging that toiling on unenlightening educational films was not a path to anything good, I gave notice, then embarked on a series of holding pattern gigs that enabled me more time to do my own work. I did proofreading for a fledgling LA-based publishing house, then wrote a book for them on the benefits of yogurt. When that ended, I worked evenings as a waiter at a place called The Elegant Chicken, and then did a stint as the interim film critic at a trade paper called The Hollywood Reporter.

         

          It was during the days I spent panning lame comedies and action sequels that I learned, thanks to Jersey Geography, that Mimsy had once again retreated to her parents' house, this time with hepatitis.

          With no sense of what had taken place in LA, the friend who filled me in -- a teammate from my high school basketball team -- suggested that a call from me might boost her spirits.

          Without an explanation, I quickly changed the subject.

 

          Three months or so after that, another ex-Jerseyite informed me that Mimsy, who was on the mend, had moved in with someone whose brief marriage had ended when his wife complained of terminal boredom: Barry.

          With the gossip flowing fast and furious, I learned in the weeks that followed that once the rekindled relationship became serious, Barry sold the pharmacy he'd inherited from his dad, hoping to obliterate any history that his bride-to-be -- once again billing herself Melissa -- had not just been had, but worse, by someone he knew.

 

          Later that year, into a drug store north of Miami, with a large banner heralding NEW MANAGEMENT, stepped my parents, having finally traded the winters of the Northeast for a warmer climate.

          Instantly there was a moment of recognition as four people from the same Jersey town proved how hard it is to escape the past.

 

          Looking back, I can't help but wonder at times if I don't owe a measure of gratitude to Mimsy for a couple of reasons. Not only did she provide the shock that propelled me to focus on screenwriting, but more importantly, once I threw out the horror script I'd been writing while she was with me, I began work on the screenplay that got my career underway. That one seemed surprisingly fresh and original to the people who bought it and made it, thanks in particular to one character: a wild, mercurial, but ultimately amoral actress of sorts who enlivens, inspires, then betrays an on-again-off-again boyfriend.

 

          Not given to nostalgia, I've never made much of an attempt, on trips to New York, to look up the people I knew either there or in Jersey. Nor, on visits to Florida over the years, have I made any effort to contact or see Mimsy.

          But I do wonder -- not often, but from time to time -- what might have, or could have, or maybe even should have been. And I can't help but find it ironic that it's as co-owner of a pharmacy that Mimsy -- or Melissa, as she's probably now known -- has spent much of her adult life.