Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York Read online

  We both showed up with the classified section from the New York Times and the Village Voice, our choices clearly marked. We were going to live in the Village even if it had to be in a basement. My sister Eileen did. Why not us?

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Boy, did my parents give me the silent treatment when I left Parsippany this morning. They’re really upset that I’m leaving home. What about your mom? How’d she take it?”

  “Great. No problem. Wished me luck.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Of course I’m kidding. She’d rather have me frozen in her stand-up freezer than have my own apartment.”

  “They’re all the same.”

  “Yeah.”

  No, they’re not all the same. I had a friend once named Cindy. She was eighteen and going out with this bum, and her parents threw her out of the house, that lucky girl.

  Apartment ads are all lies. Every one of them. All pathological liars go right from mental institutions into making up classified ads.

  The first apartment we went to had three lies in the ad. It said three rooms. It had one room. It said a hundred and eighty a month. It was two hundred and twenty dollars. It said 213 West Twelfth. There is no 213 West Twelfth. It was 213 East Twelfth. A recent inmate must have written that one.

  We never got to the second apartment on our list. The telephone number was a lie. It said to call some number which was not a working number.

  “Ha-ha, Myrtle, do you know what I did at work today?”

  “No, what, Henry?”

  “I made up a funny telephone number and put it in the New York Times’ classified section.”

  “Ha-ha. That’s a good one, Henry. What are you going to do next week?”

  “Next Sunday I’m going to put in the number of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

  “Oh, Henry, you slay me. I hope they don’t take you away to that awful institution again.”

  The third ad said, “Sep. bedroom.” There was no sep bedroom to be found anywhere.

  We looked at every available brownstone in our price range. There were two. Awful places. Four flights up and in the back, one flight down below the street. No windows, no air. Horrible places.

  The worst part about looking at a brownstone is that you have to get the super to show it to you.

  “Good morning, my friend and I have come to see about the apartment.”

  “So?” the sweaty super says.

  “Is it possible … to see it? … If it’s all right with you … we wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble or anything.” I was much nicer to this man than I’ve ever been to my own mother.

  And with hate in his eyes and sweat all over, he beckoned us to follow him up narrow stairs, down narrow halls. He unlocked the door, threw open the closets and stood there. No high-pressure salesman, he. He knows he’s got two girls dying to live in the Village.

  The place was so dark and dirty we couldn’t see a thing. Linda and I were scared to say we didn’t like it, and we were scared to confer in front of him. Finally, I got the courage to tell him we’d think about it, and he was furious. Why didn’t we just leave him alone, let him drink his beer and watch his quiz show? There were bugs on the floor. I’m glad he didn’t rape us.

  After not finding the brownstone, we went to the Van Gogh, the Rembrandt, the Salvador Dali Arms, all new buildings with prints in the lobby. Despite the fact that they were offering one month’s concession or a free mink stole, they were too expensive. They were too small. They had no charm. Doris Day got charm for her money.

  Talk about shlepping. We saw every apartment in the Village and surrounding the Village. Our bones were tired, we had blisters on our feet. Toilets, toilets everywhere and not a place to go. I had to go to the bathroom all day. We must have looked at more than twenty bathrooms, and I could never bring myself to ask.

  One apartment will remain in my mind forever. (Even after I’m gone. Is there a life after death? Will I still be single? Oh, boy.) The ad read, “Jr. three, East Vllg., 280 East Third, $160.” Lies … all lies. What they considered the East Village, even the East Village wouldn’t have. The apartment was in the center of the Lower East Side, which, if you want to think about it, is very funny. My father’s mother and father came to this country from Rumania and lived on the Lower East Side. They worked hard—he was a tailor, worked on fur coats. As soon as they could, they moved to Washington Heights, a much nicer part of the city in those days. My father, as soon as his baby hat business was flourishing, moved his family to Long Island, and Sheila Levine, as soon as she could, was looking at apartments in the East Village, which is, face it, New Yorkers, the Lower East Side. The Levines had come full circle.

  Back to the apartment. The whole goddamn thing was alcoves. There were no rooms, just alcoves. There was a sleeping alcove and an eating alcove and a sitting alcove and, I swear on my life, there was a bathroom alcove. We didn’t exactly love it, but it was the end of the day and we were tired, and a hundred and sixty dollars was what we wanted to pay. So we took it.

  I must admit we were pushed into it by a very strong rental agent, a Miss Melkin, who was an older version of Miss Burke, the employment agent. She kept raving about those alcoves like you’ve never heard.

  “Here it is, girls. Don’t you just love it? You can do amazing things with those alcoves … this is one of my favorite apartments and only a hundred and sixty dollars. I was so shocked when they told me the price. I don’t know how much looking you’ve done, but take it from me, I’ve been around. You won’t find anything like this for this price at this location. And with only a two-year lease. I couldn’t believe it. Most apartments require a three- or four-year lease, and I’ve heard some of them even want five years, which I think is ridiculous, but they’re getting away with it. Look at that alcove over there. Isn’t it charming? You could do so much with this place with curtains. Do you realize how few apartments have a window in the kitchen alcove? This is just the type of apartment I’d like for myself if I didn’t have one. I have the lease right here … if you girls would just sign here and give me the first month’s rent, the last month’s rent and a month’s security, the apartment will be yours, and you can move into it tomorrow if you’d like.”

  Boo on you, Miss Melkin. You took unfair advantage of young girls with checkbooks. Boo on you for your fast talking and your high-pressure selling. Did you ever stop and ask yourself, Miss Melkin, “What have I done that’s good for this world?” That Friday afternoon, you used your experienced mouth against two naïve maids from the suburbs. Boo! Boo on you, Miss Melkin.

  We signed the lease, paid the rent and security and went back to our respective homes, a little depressed about all those alcoves. My mama met me at the door.

  “So?”

  “We found a place. It’s really great. It has these darling little alcoves.”

  “Is that why you’re moving? We don’t have alcoves?”

  “Mom, please.”

  “Where is this new home of yours?”

  “The Village.”

  “Where in the Village? What’s the address?”

  “What’s the difference? You don’t know the Village.”

  “I have some idea. Your father and I used to go down there to look at the bohemians. Do you think you’re the only one who’s ever heard of the Village? I was in the village looking at the weirdos before you were born.”

  “It’s on East Third Street, and it has these darling alcoves that we could put curtains up on. …”

  “East Third Street? Where on East Third?”

  (Oh, boy!)

  “280 East Third Street, and each little alcove can be separate. …”

  My mother didn’t get hysterical crying, like I expected her to. She got hysterical laughing.

  “Manny, Manny, come here. Guess what? Guess where Sheila found an apartment, ha-ha-ha. 280 East Third. Isn’t that right across the street from where your mother and father, may they rest in peace
, lived when they first came to this country, ha-ha-ha?”

  My father thought it was pretty funny, too. He thought it was just hilarious. The two of them really had a good time laughing at what their shmucky daughter Sheila did.

  “How much?” my father speaks.

  “One sixty a month, including utilities.” That sobered the two of them up.

  “Are you crazy? Are you nuts? My parents, may they rest in peace, lived across the street and paid twenty-seven fifty for two bedrooms and thought it was a lot.”

  “Daddy, that was almost forty years ago. Prices have gone up.”

  “It’s ridiculous. I paid, for two bedrooms in Washington Heights, eighty-five a month.”

  “Do you really want to live in New York, where young, beautiful girls like you are murdered? And it’s so dirty.” I don’t know which she worried more about, the dirt or the murders.

  “It’s a fun neighborhood.”

  “Getting murdered is fun?”

  “I signed a lease.”

  “You signed a lease? You signed a lease? Your father will get Hyman Silverman to get you out of it. If anyone can get you out of a lease, Hyman Silverman can. He’s the top attorney in the country. The best.”

  “I don’t want Hyman Silverman to get me out of the lease. I like the place. It has all these alcoves. You should see it.”

  “I did see it. Your grandmother and grandfather used to live there.”

  “Mom, please. I’m twenty-one years old. I should be able to decide where I’m going to live.”

  “Listen here, College Graduate, you think you’re so smart. Twenty-one is just a baby. You listen to your mother. You’re not too old for me to tell you what’s good and what’s not good. You let Hyman Silverman get you out of the lease and you’ll thank me for the rest of your life.” I’m not thanking you, Mom.

  Knock … knock … knock. …

  Who is it? My mother tap … tap … tapped, she didn’t knock … knock … knock. My sister was out in a red Corvette. My father was aknocking on my door.

  “Sheila? It’s Dad.”

  I threw on my robe. The man who diapered me should not see me in my nightgown now.

  “Come in.”

  He comes in. He is wearing the one sport outfit he owns. You have your gray Hush Puppies; you have your short black socks. You have your iridescent green pants, belted over a protruding belly. You have your shirt with the penguin, and you have the light blue hat with the air vents topping it off. A picture. Right out of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  Neither one of us could say anything. We’d said so little to each other over the years. I knew Will Fisher better than I knew this man standing by my window.

  I didn’t know him because we never talked. He talked at me and always in cliches. Like he was always telling me to be good to my feet and they would be good to me. And I never knew what to say to him. My father is so middle-of-the-road, so middle everything. Our house isn’t too big and isn’t too small. His business isn’t too big and isn’t too small. And I’ll bet his you-know-what isn’t too big and isn’t too small.

  Dad, why were you there to talk to me? You hadn’t talked to me in twenty-one years. And the only plausible answer is the old joke … “I didn’t talk to you for twenty-one years because everything has been fine up to now.”

  I used to be jealous of all those kids in weekly television series because they talked to their fathers. Whenever there was a problem, no matter how small, a kid could have a problem with a shoelace, he would go to his father and talk about it.

  He spoke, “Sheila?”

  I was on the verge of tears. My father always did that to me. Remember when I was five, I wanted to marry you, Dad? My Oedipus complex. Electra complex? Why didn’t you marry me, Dad? “Why can’t I marry you, Daddy?” … “Because I’m already married, Sheila.” … “When I grow up, I’m going to marry you …” “Give Daddy a big kiss.”

  “Sheila? I’m talking to you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your mother is very upset.”

  “I’m sorry she’s upset. I don’t know what she’s so upset about.”

  “Your mother loves you. She wants the best for you.” Aha! The two, my good man, do not necessarily follow.

  “I love her, too. All I want is to pick out my own apartment. Is that so terrible? Everyone else picks out their own apartment.”

  “I’m not interested in everybody else. I’m interested in you.” (Like when I was fifteen: “But, Daddy, everyone flunked the test. The whole class flunked.” … “I’m not interested in everyone else. I’m interested in you.”)

  “If you were really interested in me, you’d let me live where I want to live.”

  “I can’t stop you. You’re a big girl. I just wanted you to know how I feel.” You lied … you said Mother sent you. You wanted to come.

  “Dad, I like the apartment. I’m sorry.”

  “Do me one favor. In the telephone book, list yourself as S. Levine. You never know with the nuts in the city. There are men who call up girls and say dirty words over the phone. So listen to your father and say S. Levine. That way they don’t know whether you’re a man or a woman.” They know, Dad. Only girls with frantic fathers list their initials in the directory.

  He leaves. Now I got guilt up to here. I got mother guilt and father guilt and guilt for wishing I was an orphan. “No, no … you can’t leave the orphanage. You’re only twenty-one.”

  The next morning.

  Ring … ring … ri. …

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Sheil?”

  “Yeah, Linda?”

  “Yeah.”

  Pause … pause … pause. …

  “Sheil, my mother is all upset. She doesn’t like the neighborhood we’re moving into.” There is a grin on my mother’s face. Mom, how did you know? I’m a dying woman, tell me how you knew.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “My father has this friend, Harry Lipschutz, who is supposed to be the top attorney in the country, who can get us out of the lease.”

  “What should we do?” What a question. What could we do with two mothers with two lawyers, both the top attorneys in the country, breathing down our necks?

  “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.” I don’t know because nobody’s ever asked me that question. “Were you so crazy about that place?”

  “No. All those alcoves. What did it mean?” It meant your freedom. Freedom to make a decision. That’s what it meant, Linda.

  “I wasn’t so crazy about it either.”

  Oh, Linda, why weren’t you strong? Why wasn’t I strong? If I had moved into that apartment, my whole life might have been different. For one thing, it might have been longer.

  And so it came to pass that the two wishy-washy Jewish maids allowed their strong mothers and the greatest lawyers in the country to get them out of the lease. The two mothers then set out to find the proper dwelling for the two princess-daughters. A dwelling that would befit them. Something airconditioned with knights in shining armor (known as door-men) at the gates to protect the maidens’ virtue.

  But alas, alack. The kingdom was poor. The two princesses could not afford to pay for the beautiful castle that the mothers had found. The mothers promised to give them money from their own castlehold expenses, but the princesses said, “No, we must do it on our own. We must find another princess to share the expenses.” They looked all over the kingdom for many days and could not find another princess. Just as they were about to give up, a fairy godmother (you remember Joshua from NYU) appeared before them.

  “I have found you a roomie!” he said. And so it came to pass the two daughters planned to move into 25 West Thirteenth Street, known throughout the land as the Mont Parnasse, with Kate Johnston, an Episcopalian. The End.

  Let me tell you about Kate Johnston. I speak freely because I know that Kate will never read this. “Kate?” … “Yes?” … “Sheila Levine killed hersel
f. She wrote this whole long suicide note telling why she did it. I know you knew her, Kate. Would you like to read her last words?” … “Nah.”

  Kate Johnston was a girl in the NYU drama department when I was there. She wore dirty underwear, and that’s not my opinion—everyone in the department saw it. Never let it be said that Sheila ruined a reputation on her deathbed.

  I never liked Kate. She walked into a room and made everyone in the room embarrassed for being there. She got a C as a final grade and went in to talk to the professor who gave it to her, cried a little and came out with a B-minus. She got the lead in Streetcar Named Desire and walked off the stage because she couldn’t stand the unprofessional behavior of the rest of the cast and had the director begging her to come back despite the fact that she was a rotten actress. While the rest of us were going to camp, Kate Johnston was in summer stock. And to top it all off, her parents were divorced and her father had remarried and her mother had remarried and she was the only child among them and all four of them left her alone.

  So I always hated Kate Johnston. So I was jealous. So I was happy when she left school in her junior year because I thought I would never have to see her again. So? So isn’t it ironic that I ended up living with the bitch? Yes, it’s ironic, but you didn’t have to live with her—I had to. I had to. We needed a third.

  Halloween and Other Problems

  WE OPEN on the exterior of 1650 Broadway, a dirty old building. Pan down to Sheila Levine. She is in a size fourteen black sheath, which is a little too tight so that if one looks closely with the inquiring eye of the camera, one can see exactly where her panty girdle ends. The shot should not be too tight because Miss Levine neglected to shave under her arms this morning. Sheila, about to go into the building, trips and falls to the sidewalk, ripping her right stocking at the knee and drawing blood. Miss Levine covers her knee with her pocketbook and walks hunchbacked to the closest Schrafft’s a restaurant famous for its ladies’ rooms.