From Amazon
David Schickler's debut seems at first to be a lot of fun: a gaggle of young Manhattanites with fancy jobs and fine educations chase each other around town, falling in love or not. In a series of linked stories, Schickler gives us a perverted heiress; a bumbling schoolteacher whose teenage student proposes marriage to him; a bad comic who finds his métier in off-off-Broadway theater. The writing is cool and a bit willfully naive: "Rally McWilliams was profoundly lonely," begins the title story. "She wanted to believe that she had a soul mate, a future spouse gestating somewhere in Nepal or the Australian Outback. But in Manhattan, where Rally lived, all she found were guys."
The mood turns dark, however, with the introduction of Patrick, a thirtysomething Wall Street trader who collects women and spends his evenings tying them up in his room. In short order the book's easy comedy is torqued into something more dramatic by Patrick's descent into violence. That Schickler doesn't play to his strengths is not necessarily a bad thing: one admires a writer who reaches beyond facility to something more difficult. But the transition from lighthearted sexual ronde to dirty realism is a bit bumpy. On the other hand, the novel's picture of a dark, desire-ridden Manhattan is an attractively seductive slice of escapism. The linked-stories format gives rise to a feeling of multiplicity, which is just the right tone for a book about a city crowded with pleasures. Describing James, a love-struck young accountant, Schickler writes: "His mind tonight was on the fine and the illicit pleasures of the planet, on their merits and dispersement. Some people cut daisies, thought James. Some visit Wales, or choose cocaine, or dig latrines for the poor and the weak." Everyone, it seems, is after something different. But it's desire itself that interests the author of Kissing in Manhattan. --Claire Dederer
From Publishers Weekly
Like figures in a strange, spiky, urban frieze, the characters of Schickler's striking debut novel-in-stories pose, strut and cross paths in a darkly romantic, surreal Manhattan. Their geographic ground zero is the Preemption, a Gothic apartment building equipped with an ageless doorman and a venerable 19th-century elevator. On the premises, a devoted wife bathes her timid husband nightly, a headstrong Princeton-bound high school girl proposes marriage to her English teacher, and a perfume heiress humbles a cruel lawyer. Elsewhere, at a few select haunts, a failed comedian earns celebrity status as an angry mouse in a stage play, a smart feminist is seduced by a muscle-car-driving chauvinist named Checkers, and a travel writer searches for the particular something that makes people wonderful. At the dangerous center of the eclectic cast is Patrick Rigg, a 33-year-old stockbroker who unleashes pent-up childhood rage by recruiting a devoted harem of young women and making them fall in love with their own bodies. Rigg brings most of the characters together for the Millennial Solstice Debauchery Spree, a 10-day bacchanal headquartered in the Preemption. But celebration gives way to terror when Rigg discovers that his favorite woman none other than the travel writer, Rally McWilliams has fallen for Rigg's roommate, introvert accountant James Branch. Narrated in a deliberately artless (and occasionally just plain flat) deadpan, the narrative draws its strength from the puzzle-like maze of its intersecting plots and its menagerie of characters with Dickensian names and modern sensibilities. Schickler is a fabulist for the 21st century, a skewed Scheherazade. Though there are thin spots in the web he weaves, his imagination and passion promise much. First serial to the New Yorker.
Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
These 11 loosely connected stories (some previously published in Zoetrope and The New Yorker) are aimed at a young, hip, New York audience, but Schickler's talent is such that even readers outside that demographic will find much to enjoy here. The characters are linked by the place they live (the Preemption, a mystical apartment building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan) and the restaurants they frequent; often characters that are featured in one story turn up as party guests or fellow diners in another story. Three play a more substantial role, and we follow their experiences through a series of stories. Rally McWilliams, a beautiful travel writer, is willing to take a chance on almost any man in her quest to find a soul mate. Her search brings her into the orbit of Patrick Rigg, a wealthy financier who acts out his still potent grief over the long-ago death of his younger brother by indulging in weird sex games, carrying a gun, and seeking out the sermons of a priest with secrets of his own. Through Patrick she meets his roommate, shy and isolated James Branch, fresh from Minnesota, whose best friend is the Preemption's antique elevator. The stories are funny, tragic, disconcerting, moving, and all combinations thereof. Highly recommended where well-written fiction is appreciated.
- Nancy Pearl, Washington Ctr. for the Book, Seattle
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
- Nancy Pearl, Washington Ctr. for the Book, Seattle
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
Schickler's debut straddles the line between a short story collection and a novel--it is a series of closely interlinked stories that often feature reoccurring characters. The stories are all set in Manhattan and involve an old, eerie apartment building called the Preemption. The collection features a vast array of characters: a wife who bathes her husband every night, a successful businesswoman looking for the man who can dominate her, and a would-be comedian who finds success playing a mouse in a popular play are among the colorful characters who roam these pages. But three come into the foreground to form a dangerous love triangle that brings this collection to its novelistic climax: Patrick, a scarred, angry businessman; James, a shy accountant who talks to the Preemption's elevator every night; and Rally, a lonely travel writer. When James and Rally, who was one of Patrick's many conquests, fall in love, Patrick's deep-seated rage threatens to boil over. This wonderful book--magical at times, surprisingly sweet at others--never ceases to amaze and impress. Kristine Huntley
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
“Forget mere sex and the city... Kissing in Manhattan features die-hard romantic strivers in a surreal turn-of-the-millennium New York ruled by the spirit of improbable happy endings.”
— The New York Times Book Review
“Schickler has a wild, out-of-left-field dramatic imagination that’s really fresh. The way his characters take you, as well as one another, by surprise is terrific fun.”
— New York magazine
“Like figures in a strange, spiky, urban frieze, the characters of Schickler's striking debut novel-in-stories pose, strut and cross paths in a darkly romantic, surreal Manhattan. ... Schickler is a fabulist for the 21st century, a skewed Scheherazade.”
— Publishers Weekly
“One of the most charming and memorable debuts this year is Kissing in Manhattan.... Tenderness and darkness are around every corner ... There are Gothic overtones, bits of magical realism, moments of true eroticism with hints of danger.... This tender, lovely book and these love-starved and hopeful individuals linger like a reader’s dream.”
— The New Orleans Times-Picayune
“With these wonderfully haunting, strange, and hilarious stories, David Schickler has established himself as a major new voice in American fiction.”
— Ron Hansen, author of Mariette in Ecstasy and Hitler's Niece
“Schickler’s playfully alive voice is uniquely his own — sprightly, exact, Herculean in all the fundamentals. What talent! From beginning to end, here you have some of the most pleasurable storytelling of this — or any — year.”
— Darin Straus, author of Chang and Eng
— The New York Times Book Review
“Schickler has a wild, out-of-left-field dramatic imagination that’s really fresh. The way his characters take you, as well as one another, by surprise is terrific fun.”
— New York magazine
“Like figures in a strange, spiky, urban frieze, the characters of Schickler's striking debut novel-in-stories pose, strut and cross paths in a darkly romantic, surreal Manhattan. ... Schickler is a fabulist for the 21st century, a skewed Scheherazade.”
— Publishers Weekly
“One of the most charming and memorable debuts this year is Kissing in Manhattan.... Tenderness and darkness are around every corner ... There are Gothic overtones, bits of magical realism, moments of true eroticism with hints of danger.... This tender, lovely book and these love-starved and hopeful individuals linger like a reader’s dream.”
— The New Orleans Times-Picayune
“With these wonderfully haunting, strange, and hilarious stories, David Schickler has established himself as a major new voice in American fiction.”
— Ron Hansen, author of Mariette in Ecstasy and Hitler's Niece
“Schickler’s playfully alive voice is uniquely his own — sprightly, exact, Herculean in all the fundamentals. What talent! From beginning to end, here you have some of the most pleasurable storytelling of this — or any — year.”
— Darin Straus, author of Chang and Eng
Book Description
Hilarious, sexy, and deeply tender, Kissing in Manhattan follows a troupe of love-hungry urbanites through a charmed metropolis and into the Preemption -- the mythic Manhattan apartment building readers first discovered when The New Yorker debuted David Schickler's stunning short story "The Smoker."
Now, in Schickler's eagerly anticipated first book, the Preemption sets the stage for a romantic fantasy as exuberant, dark, and dazzling as the city it occupies. Behind closed doors, the paths of an improbable cast of tenants -- a seductive perfume heiress; a crabby, misunderstood actor; a preternaturally sharp-sighted priest -- tangle and cross, while a perilous love triangle builds around three characters:
James Branch, a shy young accountant with an unusual love for the Preemption's antique elevator, and a strange destiny...
Patrick Rigg, a Wall Street lothario who soothes his pain by seducing beautiful women, carrying a gun, and attending the nightly sermons of a foreboding priest...
Rally McWilliams, a fetching, hopeful young writer who roams the city at night, searching for the soulmate she believes in but can't find...
Charged with joy and a deadly sense of humor, Kissing in Manhattan is a daring new writer's vision of a world where men and women, good and evil, love and sex, meet, battle, and embrace on every street corner.
Now, in Schickler's eagerly anticipated first book, the Preemption sets the stage for a romantic fantasy as exuberant, dark, and dazzling as the city it occupies. Behind closed doors, the paths of an improbable cast of tenants -- a seductive perfume heiress; a crabby, misunderstood actor; a preternaturally sharp-sighted priest -- tangle and cross, while a perilous love triangle builds around three characters:
James Branch, a shy young accountant with an unusual love for the Preemption's antique elevator, and a strange destiny...
Patrick Rigg, a Wall Street lothario who soothes his pain by seducing beautiful women, carrying a gun, and attending the nightly sermons of a foreboding priest...
Rally McWilliams, a fetching, hopeful young writer who roams the city at night, searching for the soulmate she believes in but can't find...
Charged with joy and a deadly sense of humor, Kissing in Manhattan is a daring new writer's vision of a world where men and women, good and evil, love and sex, meet, battle, and embrace on every street corner.
From the Back Cover
“Forget mere sex and the city... Kissing in Manhattan features die-hard romantic strivers in a surreal turn-of-the-millennium New York ruled by the spirit of improbable happy endings.”
— The New York Times Book Review
“Schickler has a wild, out-of-left-field dramatic imagination that’s really fresh. The way his characters take you, as well as one another, by surprise is terrific fun.”
— New York magazine
“Like figures in a strange, spiky, urban frieze, the characters of Schickler's striking debut novel-in-stories pose, strut and cross paths in a darkly romantic, surreal Manhattan. ... Schickler is a fabulist for the 21st century, a skewed Scheherazade.”
— Publishers Weekly
“One of the most charming and memorable debuts this year is Kissing in Manhattan.... Tenderness and darkness are around every corner ... There are Gothic overtones, bits of magical realism, moments of true eroticism with hints of danger.... This tender, lovely book and these love-starved and hopeful individuals linger like a reader’s dream.”
— The New Orleans Times-Picayune
“With these wonderfully haunting, strange, and hilarious stories, David Schickler has established himself as a major new voice in American fiction.”
— Ron Hansen, author of Mariette in Ecstasy and Hitler's Niece
“Schickler’s playfully alive voice is uniquely his own — sprightly, exact, Herculean in all the fundamentals. What talent! From beginning to end, here you have some of the most pleasurable storytelling of this — or any — year.”
— Darin Straus, author of Chang and Eng
— The New York Times Book Review
“Schickler has a wild, out-of-left-field dramatic imagination that’s really fresh. The way his characters take you, as well as one another, by surprise is terrific fun.”
— New York magazine
“Like figures in a strange, spiky, urban frieze, the characters of Schickler's striking debut novel-in-stories pose, strut and cross paths in a darkly romantic, surreal Manhattan. ... Schickler is a fabulist for the 21st century, a skewed Scheherazade.”
— Publishers Weekly
“One of the most charming and memorable debuts this year is Kissing in Manhattan.... Tenderness and darkness are around every corner ... There are Gothic overtones, bits of magical realism, moments of true eroticism with hints of danger.... This tender, lovely book and these love-starved and hopeful individuals linger like a reader’s dream.”
— The New Orleans Times-Picayune
“With these wonderfully haunting, strange, and hilarious stories, David Schickler has established himself as a major new voice in American fiction.”
— Ron Hansen, author of Mariette in Ecstasy and Hitler's Niece
“Schickler’s playfully alive voice is uniquely his own — sprightly, exact, Herculean in all the fundamentals. What talent! From beginning to end, here you have some of the most pleasurable storytelling of this — or any — year.”
— Darin Straus, author of Chang and Eng
About the Author
David Schickler is a graduate of the Columbia M.F.A. program. He lives in New York. His stories have appeared in The New Yorker, Tin House and Zoetrope.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Checkers and Donna
Donna didn't want to meet Checkers. It didn't seem right.
"Checkers?" said Donna. "What kind of a name for a man is Checkers?"
"He's strange," admitted Lee.
Lee and Donna sold Manhattan real estate. They were in their early thirties. They shared an office on Bleecker Street.
"Checkers." Donna tried it on her tongue. "Checkers, Checkers."
"He's attractive," said Lee.
"Checkers is a name for a dog. Or a henchman." Donna stared at her computer screen. Listed on it were SoHo prices.
"He's strange but attractive," said Lee.
"A henchman in a movie." Donna wore a suit and important shoes. "Not a nemesis. Not suave like that. Just a henchman."
"This isn't a movie," said Lee. "This is real life."
"How do you know this Checkers?" asked Donna.
It was ten minutes till five on a Thursday. Donna and Lee's office was on the twenty-first floor. It had a bay window facing south, and just before five every evening, Donna and Lee stood at this window and looked at the sunlight on the rivers. Lee, who was a lesbian, loved the East River best. Donna loved the Hudson.
"I don't remember." Lee shrugged. "He's just one of those men you meet."
They looked at New York, which they routinely broke into pieces and shuffled around and sold.
"Checkers what?" said Donna.
"What?" said Lee.
"Checkers what. What comes after Checkers? I mean, Checkers is his first name, right?"
Lee was frustrated. She had long, graceful fingers, but beady eyes. "Look, I don't know him. All I know is, his name has nothing to do with the game of checkers. He was very clear about that."
"Hmm."
"He's attractive," insisted Lee. "He's in need of a woman."
Donna laughed. "I'll bet he is."
Lee frowned. She was single, just like Donna. "That's how he said it. He used those exact words. Checkers said, 'Lee, I'm in need of a woman.' That's how Checkers talks."
Donna's hair was cut short. It tapered to a point at the nape of her neck, and there was a fine scoop of air between her shoulder blades that had been there since she was sixteen.
"When did he say this? That he needed a woman, I mean."
Lee sighed. "Last night. At a bar. Checkers said what he said, and I told him about you."
Donna and Lee, combined, were worth three and a half million dollars.
"What bar?" asked Donna.
"Flat Michael's," said Lee.
Flat Michael's was a restaurant bar in the East Village where poetry wasn't allowed.
"Why me?" asked Donna. "Why tell this Checkers about me?"
Lee sighed again. Donna was one of those women you told men about. Her hair was the color of a medieval peasant girl's. She was not in the habit of licking her lips, but her chest was full and her waist was slender.
"This Checkers," said Donna. "Why's he so attractive?"
"He just is," said Lee.
Donna closed her eyes. She imagined a man who was a spy, or an idiot. She pondered the potential hairiness of the knuckles of a man named Checkers.
"All right," she said. "I'll meet him."
"Great," said Lee. "He'll be at Flat Michael's at eight tomorrow night. He'll be waiting at a table for you."
"It's all set up? He's not going to call me or anything?"
Lee smirked, shook her head. "Checkers said he knew you'd say yes."
Donna snorted. "He's awfully presumptuous."
"He's Checkers," shrugged Lee.
"I don't know if I'd like such a presumptuous man."
"Try," said Lee.
Donna had grown up in Manhattan. As a girl she took ballet classes at Ms. Vivian's, on the Upper East Side. Ms. Vivian watched Donna's body carefully, to see whether Donna had a vocation for ballet. Ms. Vivian was an expert on the matter of young women's arches, calves, breasts, and demeanors. Fable had it that Ms. Vivian possessed gypsy blood, that she could read in a girl's limbs and attitudes that girl's destiny. Jezebel Hutch, for instance, grew up with Donna and took ballet at Ms. Vivian's for seven years, until the day Ms. Vivian tapped Jezebel's shoulder and said: "You are an astronaut."
Jezebel giggled. She was twelve. "What?"
Ms. Vivian was stone faced. "You are an astronaut. You will fly to the moon in the machines that men make. You will be noble, but you will not dance."
Jezebel's face collapsed. "But—"
Ms. Vivian pointed to the door. "Farewell," she said.
Jezebel left, weeping, in the arms of her mother, Jennifer Hutch. Jennifer called Ms. Vivian a freakish bitch. The next day, though, she started Jezebel on Einstein and calculus.
As for Donna, she lasted at Ms. Vivian's till she was sixteen. In fact, it was just two days after her sixteenth birthday that Ms. Vivian summoned Donna to the office.
"You belong to a man," said Ms. Vivian.
Donna held her breath. She'd kissed an ugly boy named Harold three months earlier. Harold was from Queens.
"Your body is destined to belong to a man. That is your vocation."
Donna's eyes teared up. "Harold's just a friend, Ms. Vivian."
Ms. Vivian gazed at the wall. "You will not dance."
"He — he didn't even get up my shirt," blubbered Donna.
"Farewell," said Ms. Vivian.
Donna believed that she'd proved her teacher wrong. As an NYU undergraduate she'd slept with two men — one was timid, the other Libyan — but neither of them had ever come close to owning Donna's soul. In her twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh years, when she was founding her business with Lee, Donna lived with a man named Charles, who smoked pipes and worked at the Strand. Charles was sweet, but he had chronic dandruff and a tendency to handcuff Donna to major kitchen appliances during sexual intercourse. Bored with these conditions, Donna left Charles. She'd been single since, except for the occasional stray dog that never lasted.
By thirty Donna felt mostly pity for men. Their eyes always seemed starved or dead. They earned money, yet felt it necessary to bungee-jump or climb Tibetan mountains. Their biceps and laughter were ungodly strong, but, as far as Donna could see, men never used the full force of these strengths against women. This was cowardice, Donna felt. She wanted a man who would crush himself into her — psychically, sexually, utterly, daily — and never apologize.
By thirty Donna was convinced no man could impress her. She tried a fling with a woman named Maxine. The experience was disastrous, in part because Maxine owned thirteen cats and treated Donna as a fourteenth. Maxine wanted Donna to cuddle against her, or to lash out at her and move off indifferently into the night. Donna broke Maxine off in two weeks.
No one, it seemed, man or woman, could muster the power it would take to claim Donna. Frustrated by this, Donna would strip naked sometimes, late at night, and stand on her bed and dance. But her dancing wasn't ballet anymore. It wasn't about grace and structure. It was like this: Donna would let her hair, arms, and breasts sway and flail. She'd kick, stamp, and groan, and her thighs would sweat. Sometimes, she would grab whatever smart outfit she'd worn that day and rend the silk or cotton to shreds. At the peak of these tantrums, as she shrieked and thrashed, Donna expected Ms. Vivian's words to come true. She expected a man — a cloven-footed man, perhaps with the head of a goat — to throw open her bedroom door and roar and mount her. She'd fight this man with her claws, her intelligence, her body. She would beg freedom, demand independence, but the man would work himself into her without mercy, and Donna would gasp and gasp, and, finally, smile.
On Friday night Donna took the F train to Flat Michael's. Lee always took cabs, but Donna feared automobiles. Having grown up in the city, she'd never gotten her driver's license. This was a source of embarrassment for Donna, but even deeper was her suspicion that cars were chariots of doom. In the movies they housed corpses in their trunks or blew up at a bullet. All over the island, doormen were always packing women into taxis and grinning like conspirators. Where were these women going? Donna wondered.
The subway was safer. It was like a good dance floor, crowded but anonymous. If you were on your way to meet a man named Checkers, it gave you time to consider your perfume and your mood. Donna was wearing a black shift and black pumps.
"You look sexy," an old man told Donna. The old man was sitting with an old woman, probably his wife. The wife read a newspaper and ignored the old man.
"Oh my God," said Donna.
"You resemble, in my opinion, a girl from a blue-jeans advertisement." The old man smiled meekly.
Donna pointed at the newspaper the wife held. "Oh my God, I know that woman."
The wife glanced at Donna, glanced at the paper. On the front page was a picture taken at Cape Canaveral. The picture showed four men and one woman, all in puffy space gear.
The old man cleared his throat. "Not a cigarette advertisement, you understand. Blue jeans."
"That's Jezebel Hutch," declared Donna. "She's from Germantown. I grew up with her."
The wife stared at the picture.
"Jezebel's an astronaut," whispered Donna. "She did it."
The old man cleared his throat again, louder. "Goddammit," he declared, "there's nothing sexy about cigarettes."
When Donna ar...
Donna didn't want to meet Checkers. It didn't seem right.
"Checkers?" said Donna. "What kind of a name for a man is Checkers?"
"He's strange," admitted Lee.
Lee and Donna sold Manhattan real estate. They were in their early thirties. They shared an office on Bleecker Street.
"Checkers." Donna tried it on her tongue. "Checkers, Checkers."
"He's attractive," said Lee.
"Checkers is a name for a dog. Or a henchman." Donna stared at her computer screen. Listed on it were SoHo prices.
"He's strange but attractive," said Lee.
"A henchman in a movie." Donna wore a suit and important shoes. "Not a nemesis. Not suave like that. Just a henchman."
"This isn't a movie," said Lee. "This is real life."
"How do you know this Checkers?" asked Donna.
It was ten minutes till five on a Thursday. Donna and Lee's office was on the twenty-first floor. It had a bay window facing south, and just before five every evening, Donna and Lee stood at this window and looked at the sunlight on the rivers. Lee, who was a lesbian, loved the East River best. Donna loved the Hudson.
"I don't remember." Lee shrugged. "He's just one of those men you meet."
They looked at New York, which they routinely broke into pieces and shuffled around and sold.
"Checkers what?" said Donna.
"What?" said Lee.
"Checkers what. What comes after Checkers? I mean, Checkers is his first name, right?"
Lee was frustrated. She had long, graceful fingers, but beady eyes. "Look, I don't know him. All I know is, his name has nothing to do with the game of checkers. He was very clear about that."
"Hmm."
"He's attractive," insisted Lee. "He's in need of a woman."
Donna laughed. "I'll bet he is."
Lee frowned. She was single, just like Donna. "That's how he said it. He used those exact words. Checkers said, 'Lee, I'm in need of a woman.' That's how Checkers talks."
Donna's hair was cut short. It tapered to a point at the nape of her neck, and there was a fine scoop of air between her shoulder blades that had been there since she was sixteen.
"When did he say this? That he needed a woman, I mean."
Lee sighed. "Last night. At a bar. Checkers said what he said, and I told him about you."
Donna and Lee, combined, were worth three and a half million dollars.
"What bar?" asked Donna.
"Flat Michael's," said Lee.
Flat Michael's was a restaurant bar in the East Village where poetry wasn't allowed.
"Why me?" asked Donna. "Why tell this Checkers about me?"
Lee sighed again. Donna was one of those women you told men about. Her hair was the color of a medieval peasant girl's. She was not in the habit of licking her lips, but her chest was full and her waist was slender.
"This Checkers," said Donna. "Why's he so attractive?"
"He just is," said Lee.
Donna closed her eyes. She imagined a man who was a spy, or an idiot. She pondered the potential hairiness of the knuckles of a man named Checkers.
"All right," she said. "I'll meet him."
"Great," said Lee. "He'll be at Flat Michael's at eight tomorrow night. He'll be waiting at a table for you."
"It's all set up? He's not going to call me or anything?"
Lee smirked, shook her head. "Checkers said he knew you'd say yes."
Donna snorted. "He's awfully presumptuous."
"He's Checkers," shrugged Lee.
"I don't know if I'd like such a presumptuous man."
"Try," said Lee.
Donna had grown up in Manhattan. As a girl she took ballet classes at Ms. Vivian's, on the Upper East Side. Ms. Vivian watched Donna's body carefully, to see whether Donna had a vocation for ballet. Ms. Vivian was an expert on the matter of young women's arches, calves, breasts, and demeanors. Fable had it that Ms. Vivian possessed gypsy blood, that she could read in a girl's limbs and attitudes that girl's destiny. Jezebel Hutch, for instance, grew up with Donna and took ballet at Ms. Vivian's for seven years, until the day Ms. Vivian tapped Jezebel's shoulder and said: "You are an astronaut."
Jezebel giggled. She was twelve. "What?"
Ms. Vivian was stone faced. "You are an astronaut. You will fly to the moon in the machines that men make. You will be noble, but you will not dance."
Jezebel's face collapsed. "But—"
Ms. Vivian pointed to the door. "Farewell," she said.
Jezebel left, weeping, in the arms of her mother, Jennifer Hutch. Jennifer called Ms. Vivian a freakish bitch. The next day, though, she started Jezebel on Einstein and calculus.
As for Donna, she lasted at Ms. Vivian's till she was sixteen. In fact, it was just two days after her sixteenth birthday that Ms. Vivian summoned Donna to the office.
"You belong to a man," said Ms. Vivian.
Donna held her breath. She'd kissed an ugly boy named Harold three months earlier. Harold was from Queens.
"Your body is destined to belong to a man. That is your vocation."
Donna's eyes teared up. "Harold's just a friend, Ms. Vivian."
Ms. Vivian gazed at the wall. "You will not dance."
"He — he didn't even get up my shirt," blubbered Donna.
"Farewell," said Ms. Vivian.
Donna believed that she'd proved her teacher wrong. As an NYU undergraduate she'd slept with two men — one was timid, the other Libyan — but neither of them had ever come close to owning Donna's soul. In her twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh years, when she was founding her business with Lee, Donna lived with a man named Charles, who smoked pipes and worked at the Strand. Charles was sweet, but he had chronic dandruff and a tendency to handcuff Donna to major kitchen appliances during sexual intercourse. Bored with these conditions, Donna left Charles. She'd been single since, except for the occasional stray dog that never lasted.
By thirty Donna felt mostly pity for men. Their eyes always seemed starved or dead. They earned money, yet felt it necessary to bungee-jump or climb Tibetan mountains. Their biceps and laughter were ungodly strong, but, as far as Donna could see, men never used the full force of these strengths against women. This was cowardice, Donna felt. She wanted a man who would crush himself into her — psychically, sexually, utterly, daily — and never apologize.
By thirty Donna was convinced no man could impress her. She tried a fling with a woman named Maxine. The experience was disastrous, in part because Maxine owned thirteen cats and treated Donna as a fourteenth. Maxine wanted Donna to cuddle against her, or to lash out at her and move off indifferently into the night. Donna broke Maxine off in two weeks.
No one, it seemed, man or woman, could muster the power it would take to claim Donna. Frustrated by this, Donna would strip naked sometimes, late at night, and stand on her bed and dance. But her dancing wasn't ballet anymore. It wasn't about grace and structure. It was like this: Donna would let her hair, arms, and breasts sway and flail. She'd kick, stamp, and groan, and her thighs would sweat. Sometimes, she would grab whatever smart outfit she'd worn that day and rend the silk or cotton to shreds. At the peak of these tantrums, as she shrieked and thrashed, Donna expected Ms. Vivian's words to come true. She expected a man — a cloven-footed man, perhaps with the head of a goat — to throw open her bedroom door and roar and mount her. She'd fight this man with her claws, her intelligence, her body. She would beg freedom, demand independence, but the man would work himself into her without mercy, and Donna would gasp and gasp, and, finally, smile.
On Friday night Donna took the F train to Flat Michael's. Lee always took cabs, but Donna feared automobiles. Having grown up in the city, she'd never gotten her driver's license. This was a source of embarrassment for Donna, but even deeper was her suspicion that cars were chariots of doom. In the movies they housed corpses in their trunks or blew up at a bullet. All over the island, doormen were always packing women into taxis and grinning like conspirators. Where were these women going? Donna wondered.
The subway was safer. It was like a good dance floor, crowded but anonymous. If you were on your way to meet a man named Checkers, it gave you time to consider your perfume and your mood. Donna was wearing a black shift and black pumps.
"You look sexy," an old man told Donna. The old man was sitting with an old woman, probably his wife. The wife read a newspaper and ignored the old man.
"Oh my God," said Donna.
"You resemble, in my opinion, a girl from a blue-jeans advertisement." The old man smiled meekly.
Donna pointed at the newspaper the wife held. "Oh my God, I know that woman."
The wife glanced at Donna, glanced at the paper. On the front page was a picture taken at Cape Canaveral. The picture showed four men and one woman, all in puffy space gear.
The old man cleared his throat. "Not a cigarette advertisement, you understand. Blue jeans."
"That's Jezebel Hutch," declared Donna. "She's from Germantown. I grew up with her."
The wife stared at the picture.
"Jezebel's an astronaut," whispered Donna. "She did it."
The old man cleared his throat again, louder. "Goddammit," he declared, "there's nothing sexy about cigarettes."
When Donna ar...
