The Outward Emergence of Real Suzie, Part One
After an afternoon spent Birdie-planning with all my New York City pals and then dinner with Aunt Suzanne, Uncle Trevor and Bonnie (who can't stop chattering about our Great Plan to Meet Conrad At the Train Station), I make an early night of it and lie in the guest bed in Aunt Suzanne's Apartment Beautiful. It's not too hot, not too cold, and all of my relatives are soundly sleeping long before I am. I wish I could call one of the girls; Bridget, Nancy, Deborah Sue. I'm sure Ursula's spread the word about Kim's getting to kiss Conrad Birdie already; that's sort of Ursula's job, spread anything that Kim tells her around. That really isn't why I want to call; for some reason, there's this part of Real Suzie that just wants to confess to someone. She's getting tired of only manifesting herself on nights in New York City and in the form of rebellious gestures like black pedal pushers and high-heeled dressy shoes (gasp! So grown-up!). I can't tell Bonnie or anyone; New York Suzie doesn't even go so far as to make those little rebellious gestures like Sweet Apple Suzie does, plus, I'm only here occasionally, and I really want to tell someone that will be there always, understanding my confusing head. I'm sure everyone has their secret, dark desires; maybe sharing mine with someone else, and in turn hearing theirs, would make me feel better.
Until then, I must let my secret, dark, desirous side come out to play. Black turtleneck, straight skirt, panty-hose, beret, purse with a twenty-dollar bill (there's a five stuffed down my brassiere, just in case of an emergency). One of the few benefits of my mother's Mr. Wonderful: I won't let him deal with me emotionally, and so he feels he must compensate financially. He has quite a bit of money that materializes in my hand whenever necessary. I take Aunt Suzanne's house key from the counter. What's the time, what's the time? 11:43, close to midnight. Real Suzie's going out tonight and nothing can stop her.
I hop up and down in the elevator to get my blood flowing and dash out the door of the ritzy apartment building, running all the way to the Little Black Box, my favorite coffee joint in the whole city. I'm fired up, my temper flaring; I'm so tired of lying to be culturally conformed. Why is it not okay just to not like Conrad Birdie? Teenagers everywhere are so consumed with this slick-talking fool. It drives me insane. It isn't even real music. It's just not good.
A waiter approaches me. "Hey, chick, you're lookin' angry. Want some reefer?"
I appraise the waiter carefully. Hmm. Decent, but not reefer-worthy. "No thanks. Just coffee. Extra sugar, s'il vous plait."
"Your wish is my command, babe," says Mr. Reefer Man, scurrying away to fetch my coffee and I tune into the poets reciting. It's an open-mike night, I gather, and as I drink the soon present coffee, I debate going up there myself. I've never gone before, but I'm boiling with anger over my forced conformity. Once my cup is empty – the Little Black Box makes the best coffee ever – and I'm sufficiently caffeinated, I fly on stage, thinking it's too late to turn back now. The emcee makes a rather rude insinuation involving my temper and body, but I just throw one back at him and begin reciting the first thing that comes to mind.
"Trapped in a rainbow. Lost girl in the epitome of small-town America. Why does 'suburban' say 'urban' in it? Affectation, conformity. Hair grease and swivel hips – life is a void."
The crowd bursts into applause. My heart is going thump-thump-thump. I am appreciated, wanted. I am a real beatnik now, even if I have to go back to pretending to be Loyal Conrad Birdie Fan #32½ tomorrow and the day after. I head for my seat and am bypassed by an attractive young gentleman of about eighteen or nineteen.
"Hello, mysterious beauty. May I treat you to another cup of coffee?" Now this one is reefer-worthy.
"Certainly," I say flirtatiously. His face conveys so much: sensitivity, an impetuous nature. I must have him for my own.
"And do you have a name, mysterious beauty?"
"Yes. Do you?" I try to avoid giving my name to men I never intend to see more than once. I'm hoping that this decidedly adorable human will just keep calling me 'mysterious beauty' and leave it at that. It's quite flattering.
"Yes, I do. What I meant is, what is your name?"
"Ava," I lie. It's the first name that comes to mind. He walks me to my table and we sit down.
"As in Gardner?"
"Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly, I've gotta love one man till I die," I say, internally thanking my mother for dragging me to see Show Boat years ago. I'm hoping when I say it, I add a sultry quality to the monogamous lyrics. Real Suzie is very sultry. She's quite good at it.
"I'm Smokey," offers my smoldering new man.
"As in the bear?" He nods, blushing a bit. "Well, how about you get my coffee, and then we can talk forest fires and woodland critters and whatever else you want." Real Suzie – or should I say Ava – is in full force now, flirting hard and acting like a licentious tramp. I've read my poetry, now I want my man du jour.
"Sounds great, Ava," says Smokey, departing with my empty cup. He seems like a sweet guy, maybe not the most intelligent of the lot (his name is Smokey for God's sake) but certainly a sweet guy. How far shall I go? Second base? Third, maybe? Let's see how good he is and decide based on his credentials. He better be as good as the coffee.
