Setting: A casual bar on the West Side of Manhattan
Time: Evening
We were on our way to something – a party of some kind that involved seeing several friends we hadn’t seen since our high school graduation. I had taken the train in from Freeport, where K and I had rented a one-bedroom apartment where we would live while we figured out the next chapter of our lives. WC lived in the city, way down south in the financial district, where he worked. We met on 42nd and Broadway and were walking uptown.
It had been just over two years since I’d seen WC. He looked pretty much the same – a gaunt, freckled, formerly good-looking Irishman, but with what looked like ten extra years of wear and tear. We hugged hello and I noticed the familiar odor of alcohol on his breath. Since our high school days, WC had been a drinker, sometimes a solo at-home drinker. So, it did not surprise me that he’d obviously been drinking earlier that evening. Nor did it surprise me when he suggested that we stop on the way to the party for “a quick one.”
“We’ll be at the party in less than ten minutes,” I complained.
“You’ll like this place,” he said.
I knew he didn’t care whether I liked it or not. And I knew that his suggestion wasn’t a suggestion. Before putting himself in the social uncertainty of a party, he needed a bit of liquid confidence – a light thumb on the scale of the evening’s possibilities.
It was more a tavern than a bar, an old tavern, a time-worn tavern, a weathered, dimly lit tavern that promised anonymity. (Which, I realized, was the reason WC had picked it.)
The bar itself looked to have been there since the building was constructed in the early 1900s. The wood was fine-grained and dark. Maybe oak, but darkened by years of neglect, of neglected spilled drinks and neglected cigarette embers. I followed WC to what I guessed was his regular spot in the corner.
My guess was confirmed when the bartender, a stout, red-cheeked, middle-aged man with glossy yellowed eyes, came over and set down a mug of beer and a shot of whiskey in front of WC before asking me what I wanted. I ordered a beer.
We sat in the corner reminiscing about the old days – stories we had told one another too often. When we finished our drinks, I pulled out my wallet to pay. But CW patted my arm and said, “Let’s have one more for the road.”
He motioned to the bartender to bring us a second round.
A moment later, a cluster of people came in and seated themselves. They were a few years older than we were – late 20s or early 30s – and looked fashionable somehow, although I couldn’t tell you why. They were full of energy and talking loudly, as if they felt they had something clever to say.
I didn’t recognize any of them. But CW did. He had been studying them carefully since they entered.
“What’s so interesting?” I asked.
“Do you see that guy? The older guy with the blondish hair?”
He seemed vaguely familiar.
“Yeah, I see him,” I said. “What about him?”
“That’s John Savage,” he said.
“Who’s John Savage?” I replied.
He looked shocked. “Are you kidding? You don’t know who John Savage is?”
I shrugged.
“The Deer Hunter?” he said.
“Yes!” I said. “He’s that guy who lost both his legs in the Vietnam War…”
“Right,” he said.
I looked again. It really was John Savage – the very same man who had been so compelling in The Deer Hunter, the actor who was as good in his role as Robert De Niro and Christopher Walken were in theirs.
And now I could see that the people with him were not a cohort but an entourage. They were at least ten years younger than he was. They were dressed better. And they were very attentive to whatever he was saying, to his every gesture. They were more than fans. They were sycophants. And John Savage looked drunk. And bored.
WC finished his drink.
“Ready to go?” I asked him.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m tired. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“What? You’re leaving? You invited me. You’re the one that wanted to go!”
“Well, I don’t want to go now,” he said.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. And he walked out the door.
I was thinking about John Savage and his entourage. Something was wrong there, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I wondered what he’d been doing since The Deer Hunter. Had he made another movie? Two?
“SDS?” a woman in the entourage said quite loudly. “What’s SDS?”
Savage had his head down, shaking it as if to say, “Who are these people?” and “How did I get here?”
“Students for a Democratic Society,” I replied. The entire group looked at me. I shook my head and went back to sipping my beer.
Their conversation picked up energy. Savage stayed seated, hunched over his drink, nodding reflexively whenever someone spoke to him.
I had to pee. I got up and walked around their table to reach the bathroom. It was as old and decrepit as the rest of the place. There were four full-sized urinals against one of the walls. A few seconds later, someone entered and took the urinal next to me. I thought it was odd that he would not place himself at least one urinal away. I began to feel uncomfortable.
“SDS,” the man said, and laughed a little.
I looked. It was John Savage.
“Nobody remembers,” I said.
As we walked over to the washbasins, we struck up a conversation. Not just a casual, NYC conversation where you trade quips about everything you know about anything that comes up. We went off on a comical diatribe about how the “young” people don’t know anything, and about how the world is changing, and about what things will be like in ten years.
We walked back to the bar, arms over shoulders – literally, arms over shoulders – and sat down at a small table. As we ordered shots of whiskey, it felt to me like we were on screen playing two guys in a bar.
We downed the shots and he said, “I’m going to the China Club. Wanna come along?”
I was not familiar with The China Club. But I was hanging out with a famous movie star. How could I say no?
As we made our way to the door, he stopped at the table where his entourage was sitting.
“Hail a cab,” he said to me. “I’ll be right out.”
He came out of the bar with two girls, one on each arm. He was smiling. They were laughing. I thought I saw a smudge of white on his nose.
“Great timing!” he said as a cab pulled up. He opened the door and climbed into the back seat with the girls. I looked at him, thinking, “Is this SOB dumping me?”
He looked as if he was reading my mind. He gave me a piteous look. “Come on! We’re going to the China Club! You and me. And…”
He looked at the girls, who proudly announced their names.
“Yes!” he shouted happily. “You. Me. Leslie and Jane! “Get in!”
I hopped in the front.
“To the China Club!” he declared.
The charisma that must have been part of his success as an actor was in full force. The women were laughing. The cab driver was laughing. And I felt ecstatic.
I glanced back and smiled at him. Whereupon he grabbed one of the women by the head and began to kiss her, quite aggressively. What was confusing wasn’t that she seemed to enjoy it… it was that while he was kissing her, he was looking at me. And he held that look as he released her head, grabbed the head of the other woman, and began kissing her. It looked like he was trying to send a message to me. I just wasn’t sure what that message was.
I don’t remember what The China Club looked like from the outside, but the inside was cavernous with dozens of small tables and chairs surrounding a dance floor behind which was, I think, a band.
The moment we entered, it was apparent that John Savage knew the China Club and the China Club knew him. We were escorted to a table that was already set with a bucket of champagne and four flutes. But he didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to dance. He took the two women by the hand and led them toward the dance floor.
“Come on!” he said to me.
I stood there. I couldn’t move. I was out of my depth.
As they began dancing, he kept waving at me to come join them.
I couldn’t do it.
As I was walking to the exit, I glanced back. The girls were still dancing… but he was standing still, looking at me as if he expected an explanation.
