“Intermezzo – A Novel”

(72,000 words)

by Nick Ingoglia

Synopsis:

The late 1960s and early ‘70s were times of sexual freedom unlike any in our history. The “Pill” had made pregnancy a non-issue; STDs were treatable and no longer a deterrent to one-night-stands and chance encounters; free-love advocates of the ‘60s hippy generation and early feminist writers encouraged women to explore their sexuality – be more like men, have affairs, experiment, see what you like – they were told; and traditional religious and moral codes of the 1950s, were becoming increasingly irrelevant.

Then came the ‘80s and the AIDS epidemic. This fatal disease coupled with a moral backlash led by religious conservatives and sexual traditionalists, sharply reversed the freedoms of the previous era. But what effect did that precipitous moral shift have on men and women who lived through those times? Did their moments of sexual freedom benefit or hurt them? What secrets were buried by those who experienced that revolution and at what cost? What is the difference between pornography and honest descriptions of sexual encounters in story telling in film or literary fiction?

These are some of the issues that arise when three friends reunite 25 years after they led carefree, single lives in New York in the 1970s. Intermezzo is a novel that tells what happens when friends decide to share – honestly and without romanticism or titillation – stories of their hidden encounters from their single days, stories that still haunt their memory. The unexpected addition of a fourth member to their group and a chance encounter with an octogenarian/scientist/humanist, add complexity, mystery and intrigue to this tale of sexual identity and self-examination in middle age. Our characters revisit their sexual pasts and experience a momentary interlude Intermezzo in their adult lives – an interlude with consequences none of them could have anticipated.

Read More: Following are the first three chapters of this novel.

“Intermezzo – A Novel”

Part I Storm Warnings

1. Buzzards Bay - June 1997

“Diana,” Elliot drummed his fingers on the tabletop beside him. “First you tease us with the promise of a lurid story. Now silence. I don’t get it - why the delay…?”

“Leave her alone,” Jericho snapped.

“Yes, this is not a race, Elliot,” Alvin added. “We’ve got plenty of time. No one is going anywhere – not for a long while.” He paused hoping to diffuse the tension raised by Elliot’s caustic remark. “Let’s all relax, shall we?” Alvin turned to Diana, “Whenever you’re ready, old friend.”

Diana picked up her wineglass, swirled the deep-red liquid so that it nearly breeched the rim, then cleared her throat. Silence - she tried, but could not form her thoughts into words. Instead, her mind turned inward, away from the story she promised to tell, back into the past. A face – a man, more a boy - that sheepish grin – Emilio...

She smiled slightly, but still didn’t speak. It had been only in the last few years that she could do that – think of him and smile.

As one part of her brain lingered in the past, and another continued to try to form an opening sentence, a third was aware of the impatient tap, tap, tap of Elliot’s fingers. The fuck can’t wait? Diana thought, her mood shifted to anger. Well, he’s going to have to. I’ll start when I’m ready.

She finished the rest of her wine in a single gulp. Then, still without saying a word, she engaged her old friends, one set of eyes at a time. A moment later, in the sincerest voice she could muster, she said, “I think I have always been promiscuous.”

“Nice opening.” Elliot laughed.

“That’s what he said,” Diana shot back. And with that, Alvin and Jericho broke into raucous, wine-facilitated laughter.

“Twenty five years and you haven’t lost your edge, Diana,” Jericho said. She brought her slender fingers to her mouth, trying to stifle an embarrassed giggle.

“Folks, let’s remember we agreed to let Diana speak without interruption,” Alvin said, assuming the role of mediator. “Please, if you will, Diana, go on. When you’re ready, of course.” He paused. “But I too am thankful that you haven’t changed over the years.” He smiled and held his glass up in a toast. “To Diana,” he said. The others joined in.

The smiles gradually faded and again silence filled the room. Instead of speaking, Diana turned away from her friends to gaze through the bank of glass that looked out over the blue waters of Buzzard’s Bay. She felt her mood shift again, from anger to the wise-cracking confident woman who had just challenged that alpha-male, to a vulnerable, lost soul. Her mouth went dry. She ran her tongue across her lips preparing to speak, then swallowed. She felt weak, near tears.

Emilio’s image hovered over the shimmering water. Why now, she thought. She brushed back a strand of gray-blond hair and without speaking, moved dream-like, to the window.

The house stood on a bluff above a small beach, affording a panoramic view of the bay. To the west, wispy orange and auburn clouds hovered above a glistening blue sea. ‘Red skies at night…,’ Diana thought. Her gaze drifted 180 degrees to the right toward the eastern edge of the horizon. Gray-black clouds advanced quickly from the North. Beneath the ominous sky, dark waves pulsed on an unsettled sea - not a ‘sailor’s delight,’ she thought.

An hour earlier, Jericho had tuned the radio to the weather band and the meteorologist repeated the warning they had heard earlier in the afternoon. A Nor’easter of epic strength was bearing down on the coast south of Boston and was expected to hit Buzzards Bay later that evening.

As Diana stood transfixed watching the dueling skies, the others rose, drinks in hand, leaving their cushiony throw pillows scattered around the living area and joined Diana at the window. Together they watched the evening skies. The sun, now a huge orange ball was perched just above the sea on the Western horizon. It remained there for a brief moment, before collapsing into a shimmering distorted sphere.

“That’s quite a sunset,” Diana said, dreamily.

“Who would have guessed that magnificence is going to be followed by the storm they’re predicting?” Jericho added.

“Beauty and danger, hand in hand,” Alvin said, more wistfully than he intended.

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot said, impatient. “It’s beautiful. Now can we get going? Diana, are you ready?”

Diana turned to Elliott, her face contorted. “Why so eager, Elliot? Can’t wait for the good parts? Is that it? Well, get ready, old boy. When it comes to my life, there are only good parts.”

She turned away from the window, as the others settled back into their spots around the room. Diana stood with one arm resting on the mantle of the stone fireplace opposite the windows. “Okay,” she said, her voice firm, confident. “I will tell you about a hidden part of my life – something I’ve never told anyone outside a therapist’s office. I will tell you about an early summer afternoon when I had sex with two men, well, really, they were more like boys.”

2. Alvin - November 1996

Alvin poured his second cup of coffee, tucked The Times under his arm, and returned to his favorite armchair. Outside, a chilling wind swept the last of the season’s golden leaves across a dull green lawn. In a few weeks he would be looking out on a colorless terrain in what was forecast to be a truly bleak winter. But this was okay. Alvin liked to be inside, reading, listening to QXR, writing. He treasured his time alone in the house. This semester, he had arranged his schedule so that on Tuesdays he had no classes, no student meetings, and no faculty committees to endure. With Meg at work and both daughters away at college, Alvin had the house to himself. He was living his ‘rehearsal-for-retirement’ dream. Soon, these Tuesdays would be everyday- nowhere to be, no traffic to fight, the master of his own life, able to do exactly what he wanted. Get back to that novel he had begun five years ago, or was it ten years – hard to remember now. His new chairman had been onboard for what, 12 years, so yes it must have been ten years ago.

He sipped from his oversized cup, raised his legs onto the rustic wooden coffee table and opened to the Arts section. When he turned to the book review, his dream-morning was shattered. A ‘break-through debut novel’ by a newcomer to the literary scene, a 26 year-old housewife from Queens, was getting a rave review.

He wanted to scream. Was this some kind of a plot? Were Janet Maslin and the other reviewers in cahoots to make him and every other academic schmuck like him feel like shit? This suburban housewife was already being talked about as a contender for a Pulitzer, the review said, and no, she did not have lofty credentials. She had barely squeaked out a bachelor’s degree in English Lit from Adelphi, of all places. Wait till the next staff meeting. His chairman will be all over this.

‘I don’t see why all of you talented PhDs from the Ivy…’ Alvin pictured, his boss sitting at the end of the long oak table in the department conference room, his submissive faculty dutifully grouped along both sides. ‘Why can’t you talented blokes compete with this lowly housewife? Let’s get busy, shall we? We can do it.’

This pep talk with the pathetic British affectation always had the same effect – none. Alvin and his colleagues would exit the meeting spouting enthusiastic goals. But in a few days all of them, Alvin included, would return to their pitiful academic lives, continually reminding students and new faculty of their illustrious Ivy backgrounds, but never producing anything new or noteworthy.

Alvin turned the page, hoping to be distracted. A short article, halfway down the page, caught his attention. A Hollywood director on a shoot in New York had been accused of sexual harassment by one of his actresses. That alone was not enough to grab Alvin’s interest. But as he skimmed the article a familiar name popped out.

Elliot Wiley, the defense lawyer, was quoted as saying that the director had not harassed anyone and that the actress was a no-talent malcontent, looking for publicity. Elliot Wiley - sounds like something the Elliot Wiley I used to know would say, Alvin thought as he reached for the phone.

Twenty-five years earlier, Elliot Wiley had moved into an apartment next to his in a fourth floor walk-up on 3rdStreet in the East Village. Their shared poverty and common aspirations - Elliot to become a playwright, and Alvin a novelist - made them natural compatriots.

Alvin dialed New York information. After a brief description of who he was looking for, the perfunctory operator gave him the listing of a law firm whose roster included the name, Elliot Wiley.

“You know, Alvin,” Elliot boomed, his voice rising in singsong enthusiasm. “The notoriety in this case is bringing my past back with a vengeance. You are the second of our old gang to contact me. Diana Wall called yesterday. You remember Diana, don’t you? It’s hard to forget a woman like Diana in a mere, what 25 years.” Elliot laughed.

Before Alvin could answer, Elliot said, “Alvin, sorry, but I’m going to have to put you on hold for a second. I’ve got to take this call.” He clicked Alvin to silence.

Diana Wall – yes, Alvin remembered Diana – he remembered her very well. They had met on a sparkling Sunday morning in early fall, less than a week after Alvin had moved to the East Village. He had been strolling in Washington Square Park, actually trolling would be a better word, and Diana went for the bait. They had coffee at a place on Bleecker Street, then Diana, also trolling, she later admitted, suggested a walk around the park. The walk turned into a trek down to The Battery and back, and another bite to eat around 5:00. After which they went to Alvin’s apartment and made love for the rest of the night. No, Alvin thought, they fucked for the rest of the night - love had nothing to do with it.

On their walk, Alvin learned that Diana was an intern at a publishing company on Spring Street and lived in a modest, one-bedroom, parent-subsidized apartment in the West Village. She had graduated from Boston University the previous spring and was planning a career as a literary agent.

“I want to work with brilliant young writers and publish the next Mailers and Updikes,” she said the first night they were together. On their second night, their post-coital conversation went something like this: “That was great, Diana,” Alvin, breathless, cuddled into her back. “Yes, it was. I just love to fuck,” Diana said, edging her way to the other side of the bed. She hugged a pillowto her chest, and quickly fell to sleep. It was at that moment that Alvin realized Diana was unlike any woman he had ever known.

On their third night together, Alvin confirmed his suspicion, that while Diana was sexually voracious, she was also emotionally aloof - strange for a woman, he thought. But it was the ‘70s, when all of the hip women were on birth control and among his circle of post-college friends, there was little thought about sexually transmitted disease. If you got something, there were drugs to treat it, and it certainly wouldn’t be life threatening. No one had heard of AIDS yet and it would be more than a decade till it became a sexual plague.

“Mr. Marks?” the cheery phone voice interrupted Alvin’s reminiscence. “Mr. Wiley asked if you would hold for a few more minutes. He said to tell you that he’s very sorry, but you’ve caught him on a terribly busy day.”

“I can hold.” Alvin said. Alvin was content to wait. He had no place to be and enjoyed this time reflecting on his single life.

By his fourth night with Diana, Alvin was smitten. He began searching for the right moment to suggest they get a place together. He gave her pages from his novel to critique.

“Be tough, Diana. I can take it. I thrive on criticism,” he told her.

In his fantasy, he was ready to spend the rest of his life with her. They would get a small flat in the Village, he writing, Diana working with publishers. By the time he completed his novel, Diana would be an established agent and help launch his first book. He imagined the splash in the press about this talented new author on the scene. He envisioned that once he had an advance on his book, they’d move uptown and hang out with established writers in cafés and bars on the Upper Westside.

Unfortunately, Diana had not read Alvin’s mental manuscript. On Monday of their second week together, she mentioned a friend, a male friend who lived in Boston.

“A boyfriend, actually,” she giggled.

Despite the boyfriend, Diana continued to have what had become, nightly sex with Alvin. Over the next week, Alvin increasingly viewed the boyfriend as irrelevant. Diana was sleeping with him wasn’t she? How much could she be into this Boston guy and still have sex with him every night? Alvin was confident that he would triumph over his absent rival.

On Friday of their third week together, Diana went to see ‘Boston’.

Alvin’s phone rang around nine on Monday morning.

“Can we meet for coffee, Alvin? We need to talk.” Alvin had a pretty good idea what the conversation would be about.

‘I think I should tell you more about my friend in Boston,’ Diana giggled over coffee and a bagel. ‘I’ve been going with him for four years, since we were freshmen at BU.’ She dumped a spoonful of sugar into her coffee, then another, stirring it compulsively. ‘He’s at Tufts Law School. He’ll be done next year. He’s going into corporate law,’ her voice rose, filled with the haughty prospect of being married to a big-time, corporate lawyer. She looked away, still stirring her coffee, then poured in another spoonful of sugar.

‘And?’ Alvin said. He took her hand to stop the clatter of the spoon against the cup.

‘Well, we’re sort of engaged,’ she said, more giggles, then quickly produced her left hand. ‘No ring yet,’ she said with another anxious laugh. ‘But, I’m sure it will happen. Don’t get me wrong, Alvin. I like you, and I enjoy our sex. But I just can’t jeopardize things with Arthur. I don’t think he’d understand if he found out. His family is Main Line, Philly,’ giggle. ‘Our parents have already met and my mother just loves him.’ She drew out the ‘L’ word into a several second rhapsody.

‘I can’t sleep with you anymore, but we can still be friends. Can’t we?’ She said with naïve, but sincere enthusiasm.

Alvin faked that it was OK with him. What else could he do? But secretly, he became depressed, stopped work on his novel and found himself back on the troll around lower Manhattan. When, after a week of trolling he met someone new, a woman in film school at NYU, he created a new mental narrative – this time without Diana - and began work transitioning his novel to a film script.

As the weeks went by, his feelings toward Diana became less intense. They’d run into each other in the park or on the street. They'd chat, exchange stories and gradually, their relationship morphed from lovers, to casual companions, to confidants and then, strangely enough, back to ‘sometime’ lovers. The ‘sometimes’ were when things were not going well with ‘Boston,’ and Alvin was in between what had become serial romances.

“Sorry, Al, it’s hell here,” Elliot said returning to the phone.

“Right,” Alvin said. “Elliot, you mentioned Diana. Is she still living in New York?”

“No, no, she lives near Boston somewhere, Newton, I think she said. But she's coming into town next week. We're having dinner at Chumley’s, our old hangout. What do you say, Al? Join us. It will be great. We’ll relive our single days, our drunken adventures. And, we can surprise Diana. I won’t tell her you’re coming.”

Alvin was about to respond when Elliot interrupted.

“Listen, Al. Great talking with you, but I really have to run. Next Tuesday, Chumley’s, around 7:00?” The phone clicked dead, leaving Alvin alone on the line. He held the receiver away from his ear, feeling weakened by the conversation.

At first he had been excited by the prospect of re-establishing connection with an old friend, and initially Elliot seemed enthusiastic to hear from him. But then he was brusque, acted superior, and, in the end, had been dismissive. He was the big-time New York lawyer with little time. He would fit Alvin in somewhere, but only when it was convenient for him. Elliot hadn’t once asked Alvin what he was doing or showed any interest in the last 25 years of his life.

Maybe I’m being too sensitive, Alvin thought as he placed the phone in its cradle. That’s what getting together is all about. Isn’t it?

Over dinner, Alvin told Meg about his conversation with Elliot.

“Always nice to hear from old friends,” Meg said. “By the way, Alison called me at work today. She said to give you a big kiss and tell you she got an “A” in her Contemporary American Novel course.”

“Good for her,” Alvin said. “Maybe she’ll become the writer in the family.” He paused. “He invited me to have dinner with him next Tuesday.”

“Who did, darling?” Meg said.

“Elliot, Elliot Wiley. That’s who I’ve been talking about. Isn’t it?” Alvin barked.

“Sorry, dear. I was thinking about Ally. Do you think she’s still a virgin?”

“Oh, Meg, how would I know that. I try not to think about my daughter’s sex life. Why did you bring that up out of the blue?”

“Well, she told me about a boy she’s been seeing. He’s a junior and she seems smitten by him.”

“I just hope she’s smart about her choices. She has to be careful,” Alvin said.

“Yes, we have to hope she doesn’t fall for one of the English grad students, don’t we.” Meg shot Alvin a sly smile.

“Yes, look what could happen,” Alvin said. “She could end up married to a has-been English professor at a third rate college in New Jersey.”

“Oh, you’re not a has-been, Alvin. And maybe second-rate but not third,” Meg said.

“You’re right, Meg. To become a ‘has-been’ you have to be a ‘once-was’ first. Then the ‘once-was’ can become a ‘has-been’. I think that’s about it, eh, Meg?”

“Stop it. Not everyone can write the great American novel. You’re doing fine. You’re a good teacher and a tenured member of the faculty. Now, no more self-pity.” They finished dinner in silence, each in their own thoughts; Meg – I’m going to have a talk with Ally when she comes home, Alvin – I wonder whatever happened with Diana and ‘Boston’?

“I’m having dinner with Elliot next Tuesday,” Alvin said as they got into bed later that night. He didn’t mention that Diana would be there. As he lay in the dark listening to Meg’s rhythmic breathing, he began to feel guilty about what he initially thought of as a minor omission; perhaps his guilt was saying, ‘not so minor.’

It wasn’t that Alvin was expecting anything romantic to happen with Diana. He had not mentioned Diana because he just didn’t want to get into it with Meg. He knew that if he told her a woman, an old friend from his single days, was coming to dinner, there would be immediate follow-up questions. Who is this woman? Why hadn’t he ever mentioned her before? And then, the final, inevitable question that might or might not be asked, but surely would be thought – were you lovers? The answer Alvin pictured giving - ‘Meg, it was the ‘70s. We were single, living in New York; that’s what we did, we were all lovers,’ - would only stoke the fires.

He fell to sleep ruminating on his life in New York. So few rules to break back then, do what you wanted to do, sleep with whoever you wanted, so many possibilities…

3. Truth-Seekers

The following Tuesday, Alvin left his home around 6:00 and joined unusually light traffic through Jersey City into the Holland Tunnel. He cruised up Hudson Street, and found a metered spot where a few quarters would get him to 7:00, after which parking was free – easy drive, light traffic, free parking, good omens for the night, he thought. He walked up Hudson Street and turned right onto Barrow, searching for Chumley's. He smiled.

Twenty-five years and things hadn’t changed. He still had trouble finding the entrance to this obscure West Village bistro. In his day, hip New Yorkers loved Chumley’s, not so much for the food, which was rather ordinary, but because there was no sign of any sort to indicate its existence. It had an address, 86 Bedford Street, but there was no number or any other indication that a doorway on this street, once opened would reveal a bustling dimly lit basement room filled with rustic wooden tables, a large fireplace, bookcases on every wall filled with old books, and an eclectic crowd of drinkers and diners. If a friend took you there, you made note of landmarks - neighboring buildings, streetlamps or the lone, sickly maple that stood across from the doorway - in order to find your way back. If you were given the address, you were likely to wander around for twenty minutes or more before locating the door. Even then, newcomers might stand on the sidewalk for minutes before asking a passerby if they knew where Chumley’s was. When Alvin had asked that question to an elderly man walking his dog decades earlier, the answer was ‘turn around young man.’

Chumley’s had been a literary hangout in the ‘30s, so this urban drama had been going on for more than 60 years. Last year, in a devastating blow to Alvin’s personal nostalgia, he and Meg watched a tour-bus pull up outside the courtyard entrance and a group of perhaps 40 pasty, mostly overweight, mid-western-looking tourists, cameras dangling from their necks, pour out in twos like campers on a class-trip. So much for the Westside ‘in-spot.’

After several misses, Alvin found the entrance, went down a few steps, and stood on a platform overlooking a room crowded with college-aged kids hunched around cramped tables. It took only a moment to spot a middle-aged, balding man in a dark suit and white shirt, opened at the collar. Elliot Wiley stood out like a yacht in a harbor of fishing boats.

The woman seated opposite Elliot rose and waved in Alvin’s direction. Alvin glanced behind him but he was alone on the steps. Diana? But this woman’s hair was sandy-gray, not the silky blonde he remembered; her shape, slender but curvy then, was now full, boxy, square and perhaps, most telling, what once had been a proud, confident posture had morphed into a slumped, matronly look.

Alvin worked his way through the crowd and stood next to the table.

“I recognized you the moment you walked through the door,” Diana said, rising from her chair. “It was that hint of uncertainty in you. You know, trying to look confident and in control, but not quite able to pull it off. You always think you're hiding it so well,” she teased.

Alvin took both her hands and held her at arms length.

“Uncertainty, huh. I wasn't so uncertain when I seduced you within a few hours of meeting you.”

“Seduced me? I seduced you,” she said.

“Hey, am I the only one here who didn’t get seduced?” Elliot broke in.

“You mean you never had an affair with Diana, Elliot. I thought every single man in New York had.”

“Why limit it to single men?” Diana quipped as the three gathered round the table.

Alvin turned to Elliot. “I thought this was going to be a surprise, Big Shot.”

“She caught me looking toward the door several times so I had to tell her someone else from her past was coming. She guessed the rest.”

“So, Diana, are you still picking up strangers in the Park?” Alvin asked.

“Don’t start with me, Alvin, or I'll tell Elliot some of your dark secrets,” Diana paused. “Of course I can't think of any. As I recall, you were always falling in love with someone or other and then whining when it didn't work out.”

“Ugh, don't remind me,” Alvin said. He beckoned them in closer so he could be heard above the background noise. “I think I was kind of depressed in those days.”

“We all were,” Diana said, sitting back. “We were emotional Ping-Pong balls, doing all the wonderful things New York had to offer - things we had dreamed about when we were in college - getting high, going to experimental theater, all-night clubs, wandering the streets till dawn, falling in love, or…”

“Or, we were staring out our grimy windows wondering what life was all about.” Elliot finished Diana’s sentence.

A petite blonde in a mini-skirt and white blouse, pale flesh bulging through the opened top three buttons, appeared next to them, notepad in hand. “Can I get you folks some drinks?”

“You both are still such babies,” Diana said when the waitress had left their table. “Trying to look down her blouse like that. What’s the grand prize, boys? The nipple? Still looking for mommy’s nipple after all these years? Open your shirt. You’ve got them too, you know. You can look at your own whenever you like.”

“You still don’t get it,” Elliot said, shaking his head. “It’s the game, Diana, the chase. Women show as much breast as they can so we have to look, but not the nipple. Catch a glimpse of the nipple and we’ve won; we don’t see it, you win.”

“Even if it’s just the outline behind a sweater or some sheer fabric,” Alvin joined in. “We see nipple, we win.” Alvin and Elliot clinked their water glasses.

“Well boys, let me tell you that in this case, whether you saw nipple or not, you lost. You both ordered a French red without telling her which one. So, you can be sure that you’ll get the most expensive stuff they’ve got.”

Diana sat back, arms folded tightly across her chest. “And by the way. I’m making sure you don’t see my nipples,” she said closing the top button on her blouse.

Drinks came and they began exchanging bios. They all had married shortly after going their separate ways in the mid ‘70s. Both Elliot and Diana were divorced.

“I got divorced two years ago. But in actuality, the marriage died at birth,” Diana said. “It just took me 20 years and two wonderful kids to bury it.”

“Mine was over five years ago. I married my law clerk last year. It's working out great,” Elliot said, a little over-eager.

“How old is she, Elliot?” Diana chided. “Out of her twenties yet?”

“She is, smart-ass,” Elliot said. “Actually she’s 32.”

“And you’re what 52, 53 now? How nice for you.”

“I married my teaching assistant a year after I got out of Columbia,” Alvin said. “Before you ask, Diana. Meg is six years younger than me, and we have two girls, both in college.”

“My girls are in college too,” Diana said.

“I have three,” Elliot chimed in. “Two boys and a girl, all with my first wife. Stephanie would love for us to have children together. But …”

“OK, time out,” Alvin interrupted, raising his hands to form a ‘T’. “I say we stop here with the kids bullshit. I really hate it when suburban parents start bragging about the wonderful accomplishments of their darlings.”

“It’s much worse among urban parents, believe me,” Elliot said. “In the city, it begins with bragging about the nursery school the kid’s in. When my oldest was four we wanted to enroll him in the Horace Mann School - very upscale, very expensive. They required an interview; can you imagine that, an interview for a four year old?

“Anyway, we waited almost an hour for his interview to be over. When Lee came out, I asked him how it went. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I saw the man but I never saw the horse.’

They all laughed.

“It seems inevitable, though”, Diana said. “Someone starts and although you know it's the same old bullshit of patting yourself on the back for your kids' accomplishments…”

“And conveniently leaving out the parts about them as teenagers, using drugs, having run-ins with the cops and calling you an asshole,” Alvin added.

“Right. But it's hard not to join in. I find that if someone starts, I can't stay out of it.” Diana turned to Elliot. “So Elliot, are your kids in college yet?”

Elliot was about to answer when Alvin clinked his glass with a fork.

“Hey, listen, I say we make a pact.” Alvin raised his glass. “Tonight, we only talk about ourselves. No kid crap.”

They looked at each other, raised their glasses and said in unison, “No kid crap.”

“Let me suggest we go one step further,” Diana said. “Now that we've gotten out the quick summaries on each other, let's cut out that crap too. I know it's the natural thing when you haven't seen friends in a long time, talk about your professions, your life story, how successful you are - blah, blah, blah. But 25 years ago we talked about ideas, not people, not gossip, not the mundane aspects of life. Remember? We used to have obsessions, passions. We spoke of ‘things that mattered…’ Our lives were filled with new cinema, art openings, experimental off-Broadway shows…”

“And, sex – don’t forget sex,” Alvin said.

“How could I forget,” Diana laughed. “To sex.” She raised her glass.

“To our former promiscuous lives,” Elliot joined in.

“What do you mean former?” Diana deadpanned. They all laughed again.

“Hey, speaking of off-Broadway. Remember that midnight play I dragged you to?” Elliot said. “The performance was four hours long. After an hour, we all had enough, but none of us wanted to leave because we thought the others were into it and we would miss some great moment in theater.”

“I remember. That was not off-Broadway, that was ‘off-off-off-Broadway,’” Alvin said. “We sat on pullout stands, like bleachers in a high school gym.”

“I think it was a gym,” Elliot said.

“Right, and didn’t some guy take his dick out on the stage?” Diana said.

“You would remember that, Diana, but you’re right,” Elliot said. “Then around 4:00 in the morning, after most of the people who were still there had fallen asleep, someone blew a shofar from under the bleachers. Remember?”

“I’ll never forget it – my ears rang for weeks,” Alvin said. “What a nightmare.”

“OK, OK. I admit it. I was the one who brought you there,” Elliot said. “So blame me if you like. But, you may recall, I did buy breakfast for everyone at that diner on the Westside.”

“Yeah, my first trip to The Empire Diner - it was just before sunrise, the three of us at one table, a couple of hookers packing it in after a long night at another, and longshoremen getting ready to go to work at the counter. What a scene. Wasn’t Jericho with us?” Diana said.

“I don’t remember,” Alvin said. Elliot shook his head.

“Come to think of it, Elliot, I think that morning was the first time I ever heard you talk about wanting to become a playwright.”

“Yeah, it was my dream back then.”

“Whatever happened to Jericho?” Alvin asked. The others gave ‘I don’t know shrugs.’

“And what happened to you and playwriting?” Diana asked.

“Life – that’s what happened. Practicality took over.” Elliot sighed and looked into the distance.

“I remember that conversation so well,” Diana said. “You were convinced you could write meaningful plays, not for the weekend, mindless, out-of-town crowd, but for the sophisticated New Yorker, the Upper West Side intellectual.”

“Meaningful plays?” Elliot said.

“I mean it didn't surprise me that you had become so successful, Elliot. You were always driven to make something of your life. The law part was not what I would have predicted. Back then, you were determined to lead a life of self-discovery - truth through art,” Diana said. “You talked about trying to make a connection between the psyche and the universe - you were such a fucking hippy intellectual.”

“I talked about the universe and the psyche?” Elliot said. “Hard to believe. But I think you’re right. Jericho was with us. What a beauty she was.”

“And so naïve – a preacher’s daughter from the South,” Alvin said, lost in the past. “But it’s true, we all were trying to understand ourselves. We felt that if we could honestly understand our psyche we could understand our lives, our existence, our soul...” Alvin stopped, glanced up, startled. A six-foot tall gorilla was standing on the landing where Alvin had stood moments earlier. Their waitress, one more button open, fell into the ape’s arms and let out an ear-piercing scream. There were several gasps, a few startled cries. Then the ape removed his head.

“Sorry folks. Didn’t mean to scare anyone,” said the headless gorilla. “The boss asked me to remind everyone that next Friday night is the Halloween parade and Chumley’s invites all of it’s patrons to join us in the march up Seventh Avenue. We meet here at 5:00 – a free beer to everyone in costume…”

“How many free beers?” shouted a voice from the bar.

“The boss said I should make it very clear – one free beer,” said the gorilla. “And you have to be in costume.”

“Hey, King Kong,” said a guy at a nearby table. “Can I get a beer now? I’ll even pay you for it.”

“Coming right up, sorry. Remember, next Friday.” The headless Kong raised his paw to wave goodbye and began to slide out of his suit to a chorus of ‘Take it off, take it off.’

“These kids are way crazier than we ever were,” Diana said.

“We were philosophers, not partiers,” Elliot said.

“I know,” Alvin added. “They also look like they’re having lots more fun than we ever did. We were so goddamned serious.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said. “We’d get drunk and talk about death and the mindless fairytales that our parents and our religions taught us. I think I first started to think of myself as an agnostic, in one of those drunken conversations.”

“None of us had any interest in religion,” Alvin said.

“Too tepid, Alvin. No interest? We fucking hated them all,” Diana said. “You, Al, a Catholic, you Elliot, a Jew, and me a Methodist. We all loathed them. Fucking lies to tell children so they wouldn’t be afraid of dying. We were looking for answers to existence outside the fairy-tales drilled into our young minds.

We were ‘truth-seekers’. If there was one ethos we lived by in those days, one morality, it was honesty – we were seeking what was true, no matter the cost.”

“What a distant memory that is. But you’re right,” Elliot said. “We were trying to separate ourselves from the hypocrisy of our parents – their religious and moral views, what we saw as their wasted lives slaving away at meaningless work, living in bland marriages filled with endless routines, following outdated, hypocritical societal rules. We were trying to get back to basic truths in our own lives.”

“And we did a lot of that talking right here at these tables.” Diana said, glancing around the room. “Hey, look at that – some things haven’t changed.” She got up, crossed the floor and stood in the orange glow of an ancient jukebox. She scanned the titles then put a quarter into the slot.

“OK, let’s see who can identify the title, artist, year,” she said, back at the table.

They listened for a moment, “Do, do do…”

“Much too easy,” Elliot said. ‘Walk on the Wild Side’, Lou Reed.”

“Year?” Diana said.

“Well, it had to be, let’s see, ’71 or ’72,” Elliot said.

“I’d guess ’72,” Alvin said.

“I would too,” Diana raised her glass. “A toast – to our own ‘walks on the wild side’,” she said. “Not as wild as Lou’s folks. I must say, though, I never lost my head when I was giving head…”

“Oh, Diana, why didn’t we ever hook up?” Elliot said.

“Because I may have been fooling around a lot in those days, but I did have standards, Elliot.”

Alvin laughed.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“No, just teasing. Actually you were a pretty cool guy. You just always seemed to be with someone. Weren’t you dating a girl from Long Island?”

“Unlike me,” Alvin said. “I was always looking, never stayed with anyone for long. What, we lasted a couple of weeks, right Diana?”

She nodded.

“My walk on the wild side meant I slept with whoever I wanted to, and fuck the consequences,” Diana said.

“And how did that work out for you?” Alvin said.

“Uh, great at the time; in the long run, well…”

“Let’s be honest, Diana. You just wanted to be a slut.” Elliot smiled.

“You were more of a slut than me, Elliot.”

“Touché.” Alvin raised his glass. “To the three sluts.”

“And look at us now,” Alvin placed his glass back on the table. “We couldn’t be more middle-class; so much for ‘truth-seeking’.”

“Huh, truth,” Diana said. She drained her glass, shook her head, gazing into her lap. “That implies we were truthful, with our lives – nothing hidden, open books? Right? I don’t think I would characterize my actions as open or truthful or honest – I hid volumes from everyone I knew, including you two. I could tell you things now, things I did then and after I got married, that would shock you.

“That ‘slut’ label, Elliot? You’d find it too tame, I’m afraid.”

Alvin signaled their waitress for another round. Diana had hit a chord and each of them were momentarily lost in memories. Then Elliot said, “But Alvin, you must be still seeking answers, still have that inquisitiveness - a PhD in English Lit from Columbia, and a wife who was an English major. I imagine that you’ve been reading novels, discussing literature, writing books, and spouting ideas over the dinner table for the past 20 years.”

Alvin glanced furtively from side to side. “Let me tell you a secret, old friends – call it my night’s shot at honesty - something I would never admit to my colleagues and certainly not to my students.” He motioned them closer. “My wife is the only one who knows.” He looked around in mock secrecy. “I haven't read a book in years, let alone write one.” He sipped at his drink. “I start reading something and then toss it aside. I haven't read anything of consequence, anything I’m proud of, in more than a decade.”

He sat back, his confession hanging among them like the branch dangling from the maple across the street.

“And you’re an English professor?” Diana said.

“I know, I know, I’m not proud of this. I’m not sure what happened. I think there came a point where I began to find reading too passive. Or maybe I just couldn’t concentrate, or maybe I just lost interest in literature. I really don't know what it was.

“I fake it by reading the Times Book Review, so I can make somewhat literate comments in my academic circles - but I haven’t finished a novel in years,” Alvin shook his head, “not in years.”

“And all I do is read,” Diana said. “In the last few years I've read everything I could get my hands on, Dickens, Wilkie Collins, P.D. James… Last month, I started on Edith Wharton, not to mention a bunch of modern women writers. I can't stop reading. I like to think I’m being intellectual. But, in truth, I’m afraid my real world is so fucked up, my only escape is into fiction.”

“I just don't have the time to read fiction any more,” Elliot said. “Over the summer, maybe a mystery or two, but that's all. And, as far as those grandiose ideas of writing plays that link the psyche to the universe.” Elliot shook his head. A young woman interrupted them.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said to Alvin. “Do you mind if I take this chair?” She had just come in from outside to join a nearby table of exuberant 20-somethings.

“Help yourself.” Alvin said. He removed his jacket from the empty chair and watched as she took off her coat – short black skirt, black tights, leotard top, no bra.

“We win,” Elliot said and clinked glasses with Alvin.

Diana shook her head. “Where were we before you adolescents got so distracted.”

“The past. We were in the past,” Elliot, said as he snuck a glance at the next table. “I remember being in here one night and seeing a woman, not unlike leotard-girl there, who was with another guy. I caught her glancing my way a couple of times, so when her date left the table for the men’s room, I went over introduced myself and handed her a card with my phone number. ‘I think you are a beautiful woman,’ I said, ‘and I’d love to take you to dinner sometime. Please, call me.’ I was back in my seat before her date returned to the table.”

“And?” Alvin said.

“She never looked my way again. And, I completely ignored her for the rest of the night.”

“And?”

“She called me the next day. We dined at Mary’s. Remember Mary’s? – no menu, no prices. Mary just fed you and if you asked about the cost she’d say, ‘no one ever complained about the price,’ - which was true - a very impressive place to take a first date.”

“And?” Diana said.

“It didn’t work out. I don’t remember why.”

“But you slept with her that night?”

“Yes, and a few more times as I recall,” Elliot said.

The bulging -top waitress, now sporting a ‘Gloria’ nametag over her left breast, reappeared, notepad in hand.

“Ready, folks?”

Elliot and Alvin ordered burgers, Diana a Cobb salad.

Their food arrived and the conversation drifted to more mundane topics; the coming winter months, not-to-be-missed theater, and a new tenor debuting at the Met. By the time they were on coffee, the crowd had thinned to only a single couple at a distant table. Elliot glanced at his watch, as Gloria cleared their plates.

“Sorry to have to call an end to this, friends, but it’s getting late and I really have a big day tomorrow.”

“One more minute, Elliot,” Alvin said when Gloria was out of earshot, “Ever since we talked last week, I’ve been thinking about my life back when I was single, living in the city. We were searching for truth, and yet…” he paused, did he really want to continue with this? The others waited and after a brief moment, Alvin said, “There were things from my life then that I kept hidden – right to this day. So how honest was I? If I, if we were really interested in the truth, shouldn’t we have been honest about our own lives?”

“Everyone has secrets?” Diana said.

“I know but, should we? I’ve been considering doing a book,” Alvin said. “actually, I’ve been considering it for years – so embarrassing. It would be a non-fiction account from people our age, about their sex lives. They would be anonymous interviews – so the subjects wouldn’t attempt to look good or be embarrassed about revealing something. And, they’d be asked about secrets from their past – things they did that they never revealed.”

“A confessional booth with you playing the role of priest,” Diana said.

“Yes, I guess that’s as good a way to describe it as any. And, my goal would be for them to render the stories as truthfully as possible - to discard the extremes of over-romanticizing, or in some cases,” Alvin shot a glance at Elliot. “Not making them simple bragging sessions about women you’ve slept with…”

“What about men we slept with,” Diana interrupted.

“Of course,” Alvin said.

“What about graphic descriptions?” Elliot said. “You wouldn’t want someone to leave out details of who put what where…”

“Or whose tongue ended up in which body part…” Diana smirked.

“No, the idea,” Alvin said, his voice rising, “would be to analyze for ourselves as realistically as possible, without using those clichéd depictions we get from movies and novels, and see the truth.”

“Ah, ‘the truth’ again, ” Elliot said. “You know, that has always bothered me? There are novels that are considered important literary works and with a few notable exceptions - skirt around sexuality. And then there is pornography. There seems to be little in between.”

“I agree. And in films, the divide is even more stark: porn vs. serious films, where do you draw the line?” Alvin said.

Diana laughed. “I always wanted Woody Allen to make a hardcore porno movie.”

“Or what about Stanley Kubrick,” Alvin said. “How about a gay Star Wars, '2069 A Space Suit Odyssey'.”

“It would star Obie-Wan-Bend-Over,” Elliot added and they all laughed.

A moment later Gloria placed the check in the middle of the table. Elliot snatched it up. “It’s on me, friends. I’m billing it to the firm.”

“It sounds like you’re priming yourself to do a Studs Turkel style oral history of American sex lives,” Diana said reaching for her coat.

“Yes, I've thought about that,” Alvin said. “I want to write something I feel strongly about. But what I come up with is not very academic - a book about people’s hidden sex lives. I’ve started writing an outline a dozen times, but I haven’t gotten much beyond the title – “First Time, Last Time, Best Time.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want to get off on other people's sex lives, Alvin,” Diana said, as she rose to leave the table.

“I've thought about that. But, I don't think that’s it. It’s not the titillation I’m after. I'm not interested in young people and their sex lives. You can see those sexually exaggerated bodies in any porno movie. I want to hear from people our age, or older even who can look back honestly and talk about their sex-lives.”

“Most important is for folks to look back with honesty,” Diana said. “Without that you’ve got nothing – nothing new – another soap opera, or, in my case, a hard-core flick.”

“OK, Diana,” Elliot stood next to his chair. “Before we go our separate ways, tell me, without romanticism, your most memorable hidden sex story.”

Diana didn’t respond immediately. Her usual quick, acerbic comment seemed trapped, beat out in her mind by something else. In a moment it was gone. Her answer was thoughtless, un-clever but spontaneous.

“Fuck you,” she said loud enough so that Gloria turned around. “You know Elliot, you used to be a cool, long-haired hippy, a dreamy, philosophical guy, an aspiring playwright. What happened?”

“Sorry, Diana,” Elliot said. “No offense.” He turned to Alvin. “You know, I kind of like the idea. It might be a project to get excited about. To get an idea, then act on it, bring it to fruition. I miss those days. I never felt more alive and alone, to quote a Tom Waits line, than when I was sitting at a typewriter at that filthy window overlooking Tompkins Square Park, trying to write the next Death of a Salesman. There just seems so little time now.”

“Not time, Elliot,” Alvin said. “We make time for what’s really important.”

“What we’ve lost,” Elliot murmured. He rose, in another mindset. “But now folks. I really have to go. Maybe we can meet for dinner again. I’ve really loved this talk. Will you be back in town anytime soon, Diana?”

“Sais pas?” Diana shrugged.

Outside, they exchanged promises to keep in touch. Elliot stepped into the street to hail a cab and Diana slipped into the back seat.

"No, Alvin. This is not a secret hookup," Diana called. “Just a shared cab - ’Im staying with my cousin on 34th Street.”

“Alvin, please stay in touch. I really loved our conversation tonight.” Eliot said as he slipped into the seat next to Diana.

End Chapter 3.