of sour red wine were being passed from person to person, and the twenty or so people present were busy getting as high as they could. Judy was happy. The marijuana, purchased from Shank at a cost of a hundred dollars, would soon be brought out and consumed. And from there on the party would become a real blast.
Nothing could have pleased Judy more. She liked a party that moved.
She was sitting on the couch now. Next to her a boy and girl were busy with a gallon of wine; periodically, the boy’s hand would fondle her breast. Judy was pleased. The sexier a party became, the better it was.
Judy closed her eyes, remembering one magnificent party where everybody had gone shriekingly high on mescalin. That particular blast had been an orgy that would have delighted Nero. It had certainly delighted Judy. At one superb point she and another girl had delighted a particular boy—and the effect had been exhilarating.
Thinking about that began to warm Judy. Here we go again, she thought. Life is just a bowl of cherries. And I am one of them.
A boy passed. He had a full beard, long hair, rather wild eyes. His name was Nick Long and his prowess was legendary, and Judy was intent either on proving or disproving it.
She caught at his arm. “Sit down,” she said. “I’m lonesome.”
Nick looked at her, considered, sat down.
“You and I,” she said, “really ought to get acquainted. You’ve got to pay attention to the hostess. It’s the first rule of genteel party-going.”
“If we were in a room all by ourselves,” he said, “then I could really pay attention to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. You look nice, baby. I could ball with you and enjoy it. We could both enjoy it.”
“You’re hot stuff, huh?”
“The best.”
She grinned like a monkey. “There are ground rules,” she said. “Rules of the house.”
“I’ve heard.”
“The word is rather widespread,” she admitted. “The rules suit you?”
“They might,” he said. “I hear you’re a woman of the world.”
“Then let’s go.”
They got up and she tucked her arm in his. Nobody paid any particular attention to them as they left the party and found a bedroom temporarily unoccupied.
When Judy and Nick returned to the party the wine had all but been consumed, which meant only it was time to break out the pot. Judy had already rolled it that afternoon and she brought out the cigarettes with glee, the party-goers shared unanimously with the exception of Anita Carbone. Pot continued to repel Anita; she disliked the party, too, for that matter. She wanted to go home.
But Anita said nothing about her wish. She knew Joe wouldn’t like it at all. As a matter of fact, Joe had lately become increasingly critical of her. Nothing she did seemed to please him. She could not be sure of what might be wrong. Sometimes he apparently thought she was too square, while at other times he told her she was trying too hard to be hip, and still other times…
But it was hard to say, really, exactly what was bothering Joe. He would tell her she was trying to run his life. Well, she mused, maybe she was trying to impose her will on him. She didn’t want to, certainly, but it was hard for her to weigh whether she was or no. She had discovered one thing. Her escape had been one from something rather than to something else. She had run away from the twin beacons of Harlem and Long Island, but she had not reached anything satisfyingly conclusive. The life she and Joe had become involved in had not yielded anything particularly characteristic. Actually, a lack of values predominated. Perhaps this very lack of values, Anita reflected, might be enough—for the time being, at least—and give her a chance to breathe, while she could discover what she really wanted, what niche in life she could comfortably occupy. For the first time, Anita felt she should think of her life with Joe as a temporary thing, and not as an end in itself.
She let her gaze rove about the room. Judy was passing out the cigarettes-no sooner offered than eagerly snatched. These people, Anita thought. The ones who said: This is the life, this is what it’s all about. They were wrong, she felt. They had to be wrong. They made such a great show of not caring what other people thought, and yet they were so desperately concerned with coming on strong. In rejecting the values of a society they couldn’t cope with, they had made the drastic mistake of setting up their own society—every bit as illogical as the one they had rebelled against. And they had bowed to their own society’s false values while they had rejected a little too vehemently the false values of the repudiated society.
And there Anita stood, dead center. And not knowing which way to turn, because no path seemed open. Where next?
“Anita—” Joe began.
She turned.
“You going to smoke, baby?” he said, his tones gentle.
His face played with a smile. Her failure to open the doors to the sky via marijuana amused him more than it annoyed him. His half-teasing, half-coaxing commentary continued.
“You don’t have to, baby. But you better not breathe too deep. All these people smoking, they’ll get you high by being in the same room. Just a little high, but high. And with the wine you’ve been drinking you just might get an edge on. A little burn, like. You want that to happen? What do you say, baby?”
Lee Revzin, the poet, was lighting up a joint in the corner. He held the flame to the twisted end of the cigarette and drew in deeply. Then he passed the joint to a girl with long red hair whose name Anita did not know.
“Or do you want to go home?” Joe asked. “You could pick up your marbles and go home, baby. Play it safe. Go all the way home, to grandma. You might dig that. You could tell that Ray Rico cat what a wild life you’ve been leading. Impress the hell out of him.” He was being very nasty now and the words hurt her. But still she knew that he did not really mean them. He had wanted to make love before the party and she hadn’t felt like it. So he was taking out his frustrations on her, whipping her with his unsatisfied maleness. She did not like it but she could not blame him for it.
“I’ll smoke,” she said.
“Really?”
“Really.” But why? She asked herself. She didn’t want to. Or did she? And if so, why? Maybe to share more of his world. Maybe to sink herself further. Maybe because she needed him more than she wanted to admit. Maybe because, for some irrational reason, she was beginning to feel something for him she didn’t want to name. Maybe love.
Joe held a joint between his thumb and forefinger and smiled at Anita. “Hemp,” he said. “Tea, gauge, grass. A million names for a million games. Let’s blow up, little girl.”
He lit it and took the first drag, then handed it to her. She needed no instructions. She had seen him do it and she had watched Shank.
So she took the cylinder of marijuana and put it in her mouth. She drew the mixture of smoke and air deep, deep, deep into her lungs. It did not taste pleasant and she wanted to cough. But it was a sin to cough, to waste the smoke forever, so she held on to it. It stayed down until she had to let out her breath, by which time he had passed the joint back to her for another drag.
The high came gradually, reaching Anita before she became aware of it. Living with Joe in an environment of which marijuana had been part of the day-by-day routine, she had grown to believe that pot itself was largely a state of mind, that the weed affected you only if you worked the effect up all by yourself. A sort of auto-hypnosis, the way she had understood it. As a result, the effect marijuana now had upon her was rather startling.
She closed her eyes and thought, nevertheless, that she could see. An illusion, of course, and she recognized it as such, but it was nonetheless enjoyable. Her body felt dynamically alive, every muscle a substance she could see, hear, feel. She listened to the blood rushing through veins and arteries, and quivered to the softness of her enveloping clothing. A record, loaded with flamenco music, played full blast, and she not only heard each note but the space between them as well.
She felt Joe’s hand on her arm and her whole body wakened to his touch. Suddenly she wanted him, wanted him more than ever, sex more beckoning than it had ever been before. She itched and throbbed with desire.
“Joe…” She muttered.
His arms circled her from behind, his hands kneading her breasts. It occurred to her that everybody could
