MANHATTAN TRIO

by Holly Rennick

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Three stories about New York, New York, the Gotham we love to hate, but excitedly fork over $72.00 for the Gray Line Tour.

   "Skyline Silhouette" about waiting it out with your brother,

   "Central Park Conception Association" about elocution for civic concerns, and

   "Village YW" about moving ahead with your friend.

That $72.00 sounds a little pricey?  That's because New York City loves suckers.  The Staten Island Ferry's in line with my literary income.  The Museum of Modern Art is free on Friday evenings.  The Fragrance Foundation Museum never costs a penny.   When Garth Brooks performed for free in Central Park, 749,000 locals hoped their neighbors wouldn't see them.  Only 1,000 tourists knew how to push their way into the throng.

My kind of town, even if I don't live there.

SKYLINE SILHOUETTE

Claim:  The City's birth rate increased dramatically nine months after the Blackout of 1965.

Fact:  Maternity records showed no statistically-significant difference from five previous years.

As noted in the New York Times, the conception perception "is evidently pleasing to many people to fantasize that when people are trapped by some immobilizing event which deprives them of their usual activities, most will turn to copulation."

November 9, 1965

I wasn't going to be caught in the holiday crowds again this year.  After school, I'd been to Macys to buy Dad a vest.  Of course we don't actually celebrate Christmas, just the tree part.  Hanukkah has the menorah and everything, but the presents are just symbolic.  Anyway, Jesus was a Jew, too.

People not from the City think we go to places like Times Square.  It's winos, hookers and tourists.  My friends basically like W. 34th.  They have nicer things.

Dad was still at work and Mom was at some Long Island event about endangered species.  New Yorkers can really get into things like birds that nest where we dump garbage.

I thought that we'd just blown a fuse, something the super could look at.  Without ironing, there's no way I could wear my blue pullover to school tomorrow and I needed that top to go with my black skirt, the one that rolls up at the waist.

"Holy shit!  Look out there."  It was David, two years older and about five years behind in social skills  He wears whatever.  He motioned me to the living room, our formal showplace favored by Mom's relatives.

There was the skyline of apartment buildings against the Hudson.  Something was wrong, but the obvious didn't click.

"There's no lights!"

I looked again and of course he was right.

"Holy shit," David's way of emphasis.  "No power."  Windows were dark all the way to the river.

I was glad to have been back in our flat.  Not much in the City daunted me by day, but with evening, my street sense kicks in.  A 15-year-old wouldn't want to be on some stalled subway with a bunch of Haitians.

"So whatta' we do?"  I'd not dealt with such an impossibility before.  If Dad couldn't get a taxi, he'd be at least an hour, maybe longer.  Who knew where Mom was?  Like they expected us to run this place in the dark?

"I guess we stay here," my brother's surprisingly sound advice.  "Con Ed'll fix it."

There really wasn't much to do except look out the window.  Lots of cars below and occasional lights in other buildings, sometimes moving along a floor as someone with a flashlight opened doors.

At least the phone still worked and Dad called pretty quickly, concerned that we might not be there.  Mom had tried, but couldn't get through, so had called his office.  Wherever her train had stopped was close to a motel, so she was OK.  Dad was figuring that his office might look a little tempting to someone realizing the alarm was out, so maybe he'd stay there until things got sorted out.

We'd be OK.  Keep the deadbolt set.

By 6:30, it had been an hour.  I found some crackers and peanut butter.  David used his flashlight to make some Tang.  The high-rises, sun now on their far side, were shadowed as if cut from the black paper of a photograph album.

By 8:00, it was truly weird.  Dark buildings.  Flickers of light.  But people outside still moving almost normally.  Taxi horns.

I'd never before seen high-rise silhouettes, I realized.

I wasn't scared, just watchful.  How long until they fixed this?  David's transistor radio said things were under control, but it might be tomorrow.

By 9:00, we're weren't sleepy, but couldn't think of much else to do but go to bed.  But my room was totally black and even when I took in a candle, it looked black.  I'd stay in the living room where at least we had a window.

I'd not have expected David to decide the same, but what could I say?  It was conversational to call him a coward ("You too scared to ask Ruth out?"), but I wasn't about to question his fortitude now.  Sure, we'd both sleep out there so if the other noticed anything, we could hear.

We lugged out pillows and blankets and claimed our domains on the rug, an expensive one from some foreign country.  Undressing was no problem, as it was dark, so I slipped into my yellow nightgown, the one with the lace trim.

"Night, Miriam," as he settled down

"Night, David.  Maybe no school tomorrow, you think?"

"We have a home game," the basketball player in him.  He was fun to watch and I liked hearing girls say that he was good.

Two hours later I was still awake.  They should have fixed this thing by now.  Maybe it was some sort of sabotage.  Maybe somebody had got past our doorman, into our hall, was testing our door.  I could sort of hear what might be that sort of sound.

"You asleep?" I whispered.  Maybe we could talk about something.  Plus scare away anyone who might be out there.

"Not yet," his voice not the least bit sleepy.

"Want to come over here?  Maybe it will seem less weird."  Fact was, if there were somebody in the hall, I'd want to know exactly where my brother was.

He must have been thinking of me, as he pulled his bedding beside mine.

"You cold?"  I could tell he was looking at me, but I couldn't really see his face.

"Not really.  Just a little," I admitted and I scooted against him.  He really wasn't a mean guy or anything.  OK for a brother, I supposed.

It was more comfy than being by myself.

A little later he sat up, pulled up the side of a bedcover wedged between us and lay back down.  The side of my arm told me he was in a tee-shirt.

"That OK?"

"It's better," I agreed.

"You sure?"

"Just don't steal my pillow."

Did I doze?  I'm not sure, but I was aware when he slipped his wrist around my front.

I wasn't sure why he did it and I wasn't sure why I let him.  It wasn't as if he were actually touching me, by gown being on, but I knew when he again moved his hand.  At first it was just on the bottom of my ribcage.  Then it was just against the bottom side of my boob.  Not really on it.

But then he was higher, wrapping my breast through the cotton.

But it was just so easy to lie there, pretending it was pretend.

Of course I knew he shouldn't. but I didn't mind even when he slid a finger over my nipple, hard like a baby thimble.

"David?" letting him continue.  "You probably shouldn't."  I don't know why I whispered.

"It's 'cause there's no electricity.  Nobody will know," he suggested as explanation.

I let him find my other side.  "You won't tell?  I mean your friends or anything?"

"Promise,"  finding my nightgown buttons and opening the neckline.

"No, don't," but tempered it with, "not that way."

"Then you do it."

He was right about the "nobody will know," I told myself, sitting up and pulling my gown up.  I knew he couldn't see a thing, but once topless, knew that he actually could.  I hoped that he thought I was pretty, even if I wasn't that big.

He surprised me when he lay me back on the rug and stripped me of my panties.  But what could I do?  Nobody else was around and I could hardly go running into the elevator because it wouldn't be working.  We were just messing around, the two of us, anyway.

Never having been naked with a boy, maybe it should have been strange, but it was exciting when his fingertips brushed against my hair.

Did he want to have sex, I wondered?  Maybe, or he wouldn't be touching me down there.

Did I?  Well, not exactly, I didn't think.  But so many of my friends had done it, or at least almost done it, so why shouldn't I think about it, too?  I'd given it lots of thought, actually, and figured I was old enough, at least.  Maybe after going to a really fun concert or something.

My brother just hadn't been part of my imagination.

But then, who'd have thought that we'd be without electricity?  That's when the rapists would come out. Probably lots of girls tonight were even getting raped by their brothers, I wondered?

But it was so hard to remember all the stuff about rape protection when someone's rubbing your pubic hair and you're getting wet.

Somehow I knew to raise my knees and put my hands behind my head.  It didn't make any sense in a rape, I realized.  It was just how I wanted to be, so his finger would feel nicer.

I closed my eyes while he disrobed and when I opened, he was kneeling between my knees, light from the sky showing the paleness of his penis angled upward.  It had never occurred to me that the sky, just the sky, could be light at night.

I lifted my hips, crab-like, to meet him.  I just knew how.

We said nothing as he inched forward, the head of his penis to me, then working it in, little by little.  It was bigger than I was, but didn't hurt.

His being inside me didn't make me not a virgin, I decided.  It was how we moved together.  I knew how to climax a shit-load better just by myself, of course, but it was fun having somebody to do it with.

The folks were both home next morning, but we didn't have school.  Mom didn't look at the rug and Cassie must have cleaned up any evidence.  Cassie wouldn't tell, though.  Negroes know, even when they're old.

Within the week, I got rubbers at the clinic for street people.  The nurse wanted to charge me, but I knew that they were free if you said you  couldn't pay.  David hid them in his top drawer, but I'd monitored his hiding places forever, so I knew the first time that one disappeared not related to me.  His business, but I wished I'd known in advance and could have poked a hole in it.  Slut bitches!  So smart because they were almost graduated!

In August, David showed me a Newsday that said there were more babies born nine months after the blackout, but a couple of days later the Times reported that the data showed nothing.

"I wasn't worried, David.  You never get pregnant the first time."

He nodded.

"And since then, we've been really careful."

July 13, 1977

Had David not been come over, maybe I'd have done something stupid, like trying to leave my apartment.  At 27, sometimes you're not as smart as when you were 15.

But he'd come over right away so I'd not be barricaded in my flat alone.  It wasn't that my neighbors wouldn't have helped me out, but sometimes you don't know.  Rapists wait for such opportunities.

David showed up, still in his suit, lugging a bag from the deli.  "Mario's working by flashlight, selling everything he's got.  You like that Greek potato salad and I figured we'd want some hunks of cheese."

"I've got some wine," I offered.  "We'll have a picnic in the kitchen."

"And tell ghost stories," he added.  "Wooooo!"

And right then I knew that I wanted to feel scared.  It had been so long ago that it hardly seemed like who we were today.  But I still remembered how I'd been scared of the blackout until he'd found my nipple.

Why not just say it?  It wasn't like before, when we'd not known.  He'd come to have sex with me.  I wanted him to.  We both knew as soon as the blackout hit that we had to make love.

"Twelve years, right?  They probably don't even have 15-year old virgins anymore," me being flippant.

At least he didn't skirt around the reference.  "We can't make it a regular thing again, Miriam.  It would just screw up our lives."

I giggled in the dusk.  "If you won't screw it up, who will?"

"Blame it on Con Ed.  Seduced by a sexy skyline silhouette," thinking literarily.

We were without power until the next afternoon.  I wasn't on the pill, too dangerous, I'd read, so had to find my diaphragm.  They say to re-jell and replace securely between penetrations, but I forgot.

One of my latter orgasms was probably what worked my protection a little loose.

But for the blackout, I'd probably never have gotten to be a mother.

Mom was distraught about not knowing about the father, but at least she wasn't the first of her friends with daughters in that situation.  "Things are just so different, these days."  My tale about meeting the guy at a club, I'm sure she found sordid, but not enough to let it go.  It's hard being a Jewish daughter sometimes.

Not even 30, I was fabulously successful in her eyes ("Do you know what she makes for one episode?") and I'd surely engage a registered nanny to tend to the details of motherhood for which I'd not have time.

Probably she'd have to devote a good bit of her remaining days to raising her grandchild, Mom sighed.  She'd need to turn one of her bedrooms into a nursery.  Maybe my old room, but then where'd I sleep when I visited?  Did I have any idea what carpentry cost, these days?

"Mom, all I need to do is catch a cab back to my own place," but she'd hear none of that.

Actually, her real concern was lineage.  "At least your mother deserves to know a little about the background of the father, Miriam!"  She'd spout my father-a-scoundrel story to her friends, but she guessed that I knew exactly.

It wasn't that hard to put her at ease.  "The thing is with a guy, Mom, you know absolutely if he's Jewish.  In bed, if you know what I mean."

"Well, anymore lots of goys are, too."

"His grandfather was a rabbi."

"And so was yours," with due respect.  "So maybe ours will be one, too.  If he's a boy, of course."

Hey, Mom.  They also have women rabbis these days, but I didn't say it.

David's fiancé, Rebekah, was like the sister I'd never had.  Getting carried away was what dating's about.  Losing track of the guy afterwards was how some things just went.  My due date, April 15, she didn't connect with the blackout.  Her date wasn't that long afterward and there was so much to do for the wedding.

It goes with the Hebrew thing that if a girl's knocked up, no dad in sight, her brother steps in as the kid's father figure.  We're big on fathers and David never missed an opportunity to execute his responsibility.  "The thing is," testing me," I'll just give her pretty stamps.  I'll bet she'll love Togo butterflies!"

"You have to wait till she can lick them."

"No, I can tell from her eyes."

I looked around.  Clear.  "Genetic?"

"Must be."

My little Sarah fit right with her cousin when we'd get together.  They look a lot alike.

August 14, 2003

It was shortly after 4:00 and I was wrapping up the draft of another chapter, racing to type the key elements as the plot jelled.  American women don't want to be Jewish, but they love reading about it.  Drafting is the fun part, seeing the words stream.  Then it gets slow, laboring to fill in the blanks, make things mesh.  Then it gets really slow, trying for phrases that both set the tone and pepper the detail.  Then it gets really, really slow, waiting for my agent.  Then it gets fast again.

At least there were a few minutes warning.  Power plants were failing all the way up into Canada.  An old timer at this sort of inconvenience, I unboxed candles while I telephoned.

"Hey David.  Got the news on?"

"Yeah, a biggie," sounding a bit cautious on his part.

"Sarah's in Syracuse and I'm sure she doesn't have a flashlight."

"I think she'll manage without you."

A man never understands a mother-daughter relationship, but I let it go.  "So, you coming over?  We always said."

"What'll I tell Rebekah?"

I knew he'd come.  "Maybe that your sister got this 1776 stamp on a letter today.  Picture of George Washington.  They forgot to cancel it.  Might be valuable.  Really, though.  That you're checking on your neurotic sibling or something."

"It's been a while, Miriam."

"That's why I do yoga.  Helps the joints.  That plus celery oil."  Me and Jane Fonda.  Me and Tina Turner.  Who says you can't stay fit?  It's just that sometimes you get a little behind.

"At least we won't have to worry about a baby," I added so we'd not change the subject.

"Hold on!  The last time you said that..."

"Was 25 years ago and sometimes a girl gets surprised," I finished.  "You got candles?"  to change the subject.  I just had the expensive kind.

"I got everything we'll need.  The skyline's going to silhouette so great!"

Of course, he'd be seeing more of the ceiling after I got my way.

END OF STORY 1

CENTRAL PARK CONCEPTION ASSOCIATION

It's easy to see Central Park from the top of the Empire State Building.  Fifth to Eighth Ave., 59th to 110th St., the bobble-topped contrast to the concrete of Manhattan.  The park's free but the view costs $11.00.

Following is the President's Address at the Annual Meeting and Funfest of the Central Park Conception Association held in the Ladies Pavilion.

Hello!  Hello!  Hello?  Is this thing on?  Oh, I see.  Hello friends and fellow members.  [Diminishing chatter in the first rows.]

I'm delighted for such a turn out!  Probably some folks find it odd that we'd have our meeting at 9:00 on a Friday night.  But as we know, a lovely summer evening awaits us!  [A few titters.]

But before we disperse to our Funfest, though, I'd just like to share a few words. [Resumption of light chatter.]

We couldn't be doing this without our sister organization, the Central Park Conservancy.  It took them three years to remove the graffiti.  So if you see some kid with a spray can, tell him about the Park Department's recreational programs, open to all.  He'll help take care of the place then.  ["Or we'll waste him," from a wag in the back, to disapproving looks from some of the better dressed ladies.]

And let's not forget to pick up after ourselves.  No Coney Island white fish for the crows to pinch.  [A pause for mirth, or perhaps more accurately, a pause for the hope of reaction.]

And this year we're more than honored to have with us Mohammad Kenyatta, representative from His Honor, the Mayor.  His Honor is rocking at Gracie Mansion, but we all know he'd rather be rolling with us in the Park.  ["So why doesn't he pick up some garbage, too," from a fellow with his hat on backwards.]

And let's give a hand to Lt. Randy Escoveda, Central Park Precinct.  Stand up, Lieutenant.  [Polite clapping.]

In four years we've seen rapes drop from 11 to 1, robberies from 204 to 89 and assaults from 37 to 30.  Let's give another hand for the men and women in blue!  [Appreciative compliance.]

But stay on your feet a minute, Lieutenant.  What say you be a little less vigilant about, "No person shall, in a public place, engage in any act of lewdness, including but not limited to sexual intercourse, fellatio, cunnilingus or masturbation."  Why, none of us would be here if you caught everybody!  [Laughter, including that of the Lieutenant.]

Just kidding, sir.  We truly appreciate how NYPD is making Central Park safe, especially above 72nd.

And a very special welcome to this year's "Twice Qualified" inductees!  As the certificate says, "Both having been conceived and having conceived in Central Park."  Let's give these special folks a big hand.  [Duly directed to several in the reserved seating.]

And don't we love the weekends!  No cars!  Just find a quiet place (And we all have our favorites, right, folks?), do it the way the Pope says and start shopping for a baby buggy.  [Good natured reaction, no clerical collars nor habits in attendance.]

Speaking of weekends, how many of you have been visited by a Frisbee, right at the big moment?  And had the kid pop his head over the shrubbery, looking for it?  [A few laughs.  A few mutters.]

This great park's visited by more than 20,000,000 people each year.  That's 10,000,000 men and 10,000,000 of the fairer sex.  Let's say that about half the latter are in their fertile years and five percent of the pretty little missies have a little fun in a not-too-public pmace and their odds are about a half percent for starting a wee one, that's 1,250 babies every year!  Boy, we're going to need the whole North Meadow to meet!  [Shuffling of chairs, audience beginning to ignore its leader's address.]

You seniors remember Robert Moses, our great Parks Commissioner back when baseball was the Yankees, Dodgers and Giants?  ["We love them Mets," a lone protest from the back.]

Well, you know who loved him best?  The dry-cleaning establishment!  Yes, the dry-cleaning establishment!  All those young ladies with grass stains on the back of their rayon blouses!  [Contrived laughter from a few.]

And listen up!  Here's where we don't get the appreciation we deserve, folks.  Territorially, the Metropolitan Museum of Art is part of us, just like the ice rinks.  And where in the Big Apple are there more pictures of frolicking folks, more than Times Square, even?  In our museum!  So don't tell us we're not highbrow!  We're a classical art form!  [Pleased laughter.]

And don't we love the street musicians with their open cases?  Some of those artists could probably play at Kennedy Center!  Next one you pass, flip him a buck and ask for, "Roll me ooo-ver.  Roll me ooo-ver.  Roll me over in the clover and do it again."  [A derisive "Send him to Kennedy Center, too," drawing more claps than the speech.]

Well we know why we came, don't we?  Because it's a time to get together, meet new friends, even.  This place is big enough, New York enough for all of us.  We've got 843 acres, and (let me check my notes on this) if we get, say, 4 by 8 apiece, we could go for 1,200,000 conceptions!  [General cheers.]

Of course, that would include up here by my podium!  [Crowd again begins to get restless.]

But seriously, back when we started doing it here in 1873, we didn't know as much as now about differences.  Now we're more aware, and the fact is, we know that for some of us, it's not about conception at all.  Won't work.  [Several bravos and a few inclusive nods.]

So maybe our name's even a bit dated.  [Cries of protest, No, No!]

But Central Park's also about tradition and tradition's what keeps a great city great.  [Cheers from the same voices.]

As your President, elected to represent you, I'll stand firm.  We'll not be called the Central Park Copulation Association.  [Applause from most of the listeners; injured silence from a few.]

And while I'm on the subject, let's make it clear to the Lieutenant that while the Association defends our right to enjoy Central Park with whomever we choose, including undocumented workers, we're not about to let our zoo become a place for things that aren't right.  [Embarrassed silence and a few coughs.]

So let's make tonight something special, something well done, something on which we can look back with pride.  ["Throw da bum out!  We didn't pay for some friggin' pervert speech!"]

And Mrs. C.F. Yang here says to remind you of the Stanten Island Ferry Conception Association meeting next month.  Another very fine sister association.  ["Give them lezzies a real fuck and they'd be cured!"]

Lt. Escoveda?  Could you kindly remove that gentleman from our gathering.  He's disturbing the peace, I believe.  ["I've got my rights!"  General row begins.  Lt. Escoveda looks worried.]

So thank all of you for your continuing support.  We couldn't be a Conception Association without your help.

END OF STORY 2

VILLAGE YW

Steph had memorized the brochure.  In a jungle as huge as would be New York, a girl needed a place like the Greenwich Village YWCA.  Of course she knew that "village" meant something different, but the word gave the flavor of humanness.  The "CA" didn't really mean much, not like it would in Iowa, but "YW" at least hinted of people like herself.  Des Moines wasn't hicksville, but to get anywhere on the stage, you really needed to be in New York.

When the taxi dropped her, she at least recognized the entrance.  Maybe they featured the front door on the brochure to tell Iowa girls they'd at least found it.

And two weeks there, her feet tired, Steph still thought a lot about Iowa, people who said "Hi," didn't push, didn't even know about the subway map.

She knew a lot about the map, avenues vs. streets, lobbies, high heels on escalators.  Nobody was just going to sign you.  In some of the girls and guys (She'd no idea if they were actually homosexual, but surely, they must be?) occupying the plastic chairs in the waiting rooms, she could see dreams already fading.  But in others there was a doggedness, what would make the difference.

Working at Dunkin' Donuts was part of it, too.  Acting leads didn't take all day (or even any of some days) and income helps persistence.  Actually, Steph realized, staying occupied was a big part of survival.  That, plus old fashioned luck.  Lots of actresses were nobodies until, say, they happened to stumble into some two-bit part in a show that closed after three performances, but maybe they met somebody else who knew of another audition.  Nothing worked the way Iowans would assume.

The Village YW (appending "CA" being a give-away that you were a tourist) was a bed, wardrobe, dresser, chair and table, sized for solitaire.  Toilet and shower down the hall.  No overnight visitors, but that wasn't an issue.  Don't cook in the rooms, teapots and hotplates overlooked.  Clean and safe.  Fair enough weekly rate.  She earned more at Dunkin' Donuts than she would have back home, she wrote to her mom.

It was pretty lonely though.  Washington Square was a nice place to sit until it started to get dark.  The pigeons would come right up.

*****

There was a black girl waiting by the bathroom.  More or less Steph's lanky build; more or less Steph's age.

"I'll just be a minute, hun," the girl apologized.  "Have to brush my teeth."

"I'm not exactly in a hurry," admitted Steph.  Strange how the black girl said it; nobody apologizes for anything around here.

The black girl looked at Steph more closely and crinkled her eyes.  "Did maybe I sell you an egg salad sandwich yesterday?"

Steph looked back.  She had bought an egg salad yesterday.  The girl behind the deli counter (and she was black, that Steph remembered) had asked if she wanted anything to drink and Steph had wondered if she maybe could have a water?  The girl had probably seen her glance at the prices.  When she brought the tray, there was a coffee.  "'Bout time to clean the pot, anyway."  Drinking it (it was hot and strong), Steph realized that the coffee tasted so Manhattan.

"That was you?"

The other flashed her teeth, too white to ever need brushing.  "Guez so.  Us niggas alls look da same to you honkeys."

Steph stepped back.

"Oh, honey!" in perfect English, the other bouncing her fingers off the shoulder of Steph's bathrobe.  "You should have seen your eyes," now laughing, but then sobering.  "I mean...  Oh, shit!  That's not funny at all, is it?  Saying 'nigga' and 'honkey'."

Steph didn't know what to say, but didn't want to be rude.

The other continued.  "You're new, right?  Two weeks here and I'm an asshole.  Sorry.  Really.  My name's Jessie," extending her hand, toothbrush still in it.

"Steph.  From Iowa."  She took the hand.  "Yeah, I'm sort of new.  I thought maybe I'd see if there's any way for someone like me to get a job acting, you know, just little parts, or maybe even dancing.  I'm just looking, though."

"No shit, girl!" the black girl still holding her hand.  "That's why I left Fargo.  No use for me there, 'cept dancing with pasties."  A grin, then her face taking a conspirital turn.  "And so here we meet in this place to cat-fight for the walk-on."  Then she grinned again, "But no problem for two like us, 'causes they already know if they want black or white.  What's your name again?"

"Steph."

"From Iowa. Jessie, from even further."

Steph nodded as the bathroom door opened.

"So you come to the deli some more, you hear?  Can't have the directors thinking you might die of malnutrition half way through a production."

In two weeks, Steph had never told anybody but receptionists that she was hoping to work on stage.

******

Steph knew it was hardly fair, Jessie loading her tray with extra cheese slices, ham, whatever was handy.  But Jessie rightly noted that as fun as it would be for Steph to slip her a dozen éclairs, they couldn't really stay in shape if they ate them.

The two had their bench by the arch where they'd meet.  It was so much better to be sitting by someone.  Sometimes, if Jessie were tired, she'd stretch out on the bench, her head on Steph's lap.  Steph could trail her fingers through the nappy hair and nobody in Washington Square paid the least bit of attention.  Probably Jessie would think a white girl's hair was really boring.

Jessie was probably the better dancer, at least knew a lot more about it, but Steph had a bit more acting background.  It was at least fun talking about it.

"You know, honey," (Steph liked hearing her friend call her that), "it probably doesn't matter what we can do if we fuck enough of them, but that's not how we're going to make it, right?"

Steph hadn't really considered that option, but hearing it from Jessie, she knew she wouldn't.

Jessie's ghetto blaster ("Makes me not want to be a darkie, carrying this thing around.") they took to the YW basement and worked out.  Jessie's leotards did little to mask her nipples, but she didn't care.  "Shoot," noticing Steph's glance, "That's why we pay the big bucks to the YW, so we don't have a bunch of oglers.  Now the thing is, honkey ho, is to wiggle your fruit."

"Your whole problem," Steph corrected her.  "Where we're going, we don't want melons," making Jessie lose her beat.

"Wha sista, den you be da strawberry and I's da blackberry."

*****

The key, they'd tell each other, is to not give up.

"This place is full of losers.  What's one more?" an evening after Steph saw her name vaporize from a callback list on 43rd St.

"Shit fire, girl!  We ain' no losers!"

"Don't say, ain't."

"Wha I cain jus say bout whateva I like, whitey girl who hardla neva turned no trick!"

The two laughed till they'd not a wiggle left within them.

"Wha you talk like dat?" Steph attempted the drawl.

"Because sometimes the Harlem shows call for Aunt Jemima."

"Then you better eat lots of donuts, mammy."

"But they want us to be African Americans on Broadway."

*****

The YW lounge was for playing rummy or watching TV if someone else hadn't claimed the channel.  There were lots of channels.  More channels in New York than smiles.

Steph even told Jessie that she'd not ever had a black friend before.  The ones in Des Moines live in different neighborhoods.

Jessie nodded.  Up in Fargo, she hardly had a black friend either, and laughed until Steph got it.

That was the first time they kissed, right there in the YW, supposedly watching a movie, talking about black friends.

It was just a quick kiss, what friends might do when they realize why friendship's important.  In New York City, you can kiss who you want to.

Steph liked doing their workouts, getting sweaty.  She'd thought going without her bra might make her sore, but maybe she was toughening up a little.  They'd go arm on shoulder and practice high kicks.

"Strawberry and blackberry," would laugh Jessie after they stopped.

Their rooms were hardly large enough for an extra chair, but Steph would haul hers down to Jessie's and the two would pretend a tea party, usually featuring Munchkins.  Jessie would tell her to eat more chocolates so she'd the Moonwalk right.  Michael Jackson's formerly-chocolate, Steph challenged.

They'd just been sitting across the little table.  She'd watched Jessie change from her jogging suit to her shorts and jersey.  Jessie's nipples were erect with the sudden air.  The black of her panties made her legs bronze.

When Jessie leaned to pop a Munchkin in Steph's mouth, Steph leaned too, letting her friend work the sweet against her lips.

In your friend's room, Steph decided, you can kiss a Munchkin as long as you want to.  She'd locked her own room's door and no one would know where she was.

"Your feet as tired as mine, honey?"

Removing Jessie's jersey was Steph's doing, yet none of Steph's execution.  Her hands just knew.  Steph had never touched another's breast in fondness.

First Steph's sweater, then her bra, came off as well.  "Strawberry pies," Jessie said without guile before turning off the light and guiding each of Steph's breasts to her mouth.

Steph said nothing as Jessie pulled off her own shorts and then unfastened Steph's skirt, letting it fall to her feet.

Jessie's bed was like hers, institutional, solid.  Together, they scarcely dented the mattress.

Body against body, Jessie was silent, working her stomach against Steph's.  Steph didn't know why she wanted Jessie doing what she was doing, but she knew it was right together, trying to push into Jessie the way that Jessie was pushing into her.  Their hands were locked around the back of each other's heads.

"Steph, honey?" Jessie broke their kiss.  Was her friend crying, Steph wondered?  Not sad crying.  A girl cry.

"What?" again cradling Jessie's breast.

"Do so something for me."

"Sure, Jessie.  Anything."

Her only black friend (only friend at all, actually) at first didn't continue, but then rolled to level their eyes.  "Fuck me."

Steph looked, trying to read her.  "Fuck you?"

"Make love to me.  You know, inside me.  Just once."

Steph swallowed.  More than anything she wanted to make love.  But?

"Jessie, you know we can't.  I can't, I mean."

Jessie put Steph's hand on her panties and Steph could feel the fuzz beneath.

"Just do what feels right.  It's OK."

The black hand guided the white one to where Steph could feel moistness.  "Please."

Steph felt her own fingers drawn against soft irregularities within the oily smoothness, pressed against a minute firmness.

"I want you to," leading Steph lower.

Steph did what felt right, her white forefinger slipping into the ebony velvet.  Jessie was her blackberry.

Steph made love preciously, hunger subdued for the sweetness of savor.

Jessie squeezed her, then rocked against her and then began to arch and fall with a sinuosity only a dancer might know.  Steph watched her eyes open wide, loose focus and then close.

As Jessie's climax subsided, her frame almost quietly pressed to Steph's, Steph kissed her forehead, tasting the rivulets of sweat.

Long afterwards, a time of quiescent union, Steph wondered, "It was OK?"

Jessie kissed her back.

"I mean," clarified Steph, "we're not really that type, or anything."

"No," agreed her friend.  "We're just alone in this place and now we're not alone."

"Jessie?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's take off our panties."

"I'd like that," the pair helping each other.

"Maybe we didn't come here to get famous or anything, you think?  Maybe we came here just to be friends."

"Like chocolate and marshmallow."

"I'm glad," lying on Jessie's black chest, a hand on each black breast.

"Me too, honey," wrapping her black legs around the woman on top.

"So was I Ok?  Really?"

"Feel how your flaxy hair is mushed up with my wiry stuff?  Both of us wet like?  Really."

"Know what, Jessie?"  Steph knew something more, even.  "We'll both get auditions next week.  Thing's work out sometimes."

And they do.

END OF STORY 3

HOLLY ON THE WEB

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that which is salvageable on http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick. If you take the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

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