This installment of JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY heats up, not X-rated but beyond GP. I hope you lean back and enjoy it during the holiday season. The re-release of the entire book will be February 2, 2022.

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Mike mailed 45 headshots to casting directors every month. Martha Swope Photography Studios had transformed his dark Jewish face into a Mediterranean playboy that got him an average of six auditions a month. It wasn’t great for a full time actor, but for an accountant who didn’t have an agent, it was fabulous.

He kept a spreadsheet of his auditions, listing which monologue he used, the names of the directors and assistants, potential pay, theater or film, and what reactions he got.

Mike’s newest monologue was from Last Chance, and he repeated silently wherever he went, riding the bus, before meeting with clients, or shopping for groceries:

I TOLD SUSAN SHE SHOULD LEAVE BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO GOOD FOR ME, BECAUSE SHE NEEDED SOMEONE WHO COULD TAKE CARE OF HER, SOMEONE WITH MONEY.

SHE BELIEVED ME. SHE KISSED ME ON THE CORNER OF MY EYE, RIGHT HERE. I CAN FEEL HER LIPS, THE SOFT PUFFY SKIN PRESSING AGAINST THIS SPOT.

ALL I HAVE TO DO IS TOUCH THIS SPOT AND SHE’S ALIVE TO ME AGAIN. FLASHES OF US IN BED JUMP IN MY HEAD.

WHEN SUSAN WALKED OUT THE DOOR, SHE SAID, ‘GOOD-BYE. I LOVE YOU.’

IT WASN’T UNTIL I WAS HALF-WAY THROUGH MAKING A POT OF COFFEE THAT MY LEGS COLLAPSED. I FELL. I COULDN’T BREATHE. I CRIED. SUSAN LEFT ME, AND IT WAS ALL MY FAULT.

YOU’RE THE FIRST WOMAN I’VE BEEN WITH SINCE SHE WALKED OUT THE DOOR THAT DAY.

SUSAN STILL FILLS MY MIND. I’M SORRY. IT DOESN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOU. I LIKE YOU, BUT I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT SUSAN.

YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL THAT IT MAKES MY TEETH CLINCH TOGETHER. MAYBE I COULD LOVE YOU. WHEN I SIT NEXT TO YOU ON THE TRAIN, OR TOUCH YOUR NECK HELPING YOU ON WITH YOUR COAT, I WANT TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU.

I LOOK IN YOUR EYES, AND I WANT TO BE IN LOVE WITH YOU, DOLORES.

HELP ME FORGET SUSAN, DOLORES. HELP ME.

He liked the monologue. It was half-sorrowful, half-sexy, five seconds short of two minutes.

Mike told the Liberty Tax receptionist that he was going to lunch and an appointment after that. His audition was scheduled for 2:30, so he had enough time to go over the monologue again.

16 other actors sat in the hallway waiting their turn with the director of the indie film to be shot in New Jersey next month. When he was invited in at 3:10, Mike’s hands were sweating.

After the audition, at the corner of Broadway, leaning on a lamp post, Mike couldn’t stop the tears from flooding his face, and he called his therapist. “I was terrible, Pat. The words came out, but I wasn’t there, I just wasn’t there.” He didn’t say it, but the thought crossed his mind that it should’ve been him instead of Nicky who had taken the bullet all those years back. “I think it’s the end for me, Pat.”

Holding the phone to his ear, Pat Knolles let Mike cry. He knew that in a city of 15 million people, public tears weren’t unusual. He’d seen it often and imagined the scenarios: a weeping woman walking up Riverside Drive carrying an empty cat box after her 17-year-old puss died of kidney failure; a father wandering toward the #1 train near Canal Street, his arms wrapped around himself, hiccupping sobs because in family court he’d lost custody of his four year old boy; a woman bawling on the steps of her apartment building after being fired from the job where she was in love with her boss. Mike wasn’t different from the others, feeling their dreams fall apart in the streets of the Big Apple.

When Mike calmed down some, Pat told him to go home and take a shower, then maybe go to a movie. “Or,” he added lightly, “you could go back to work.” He did not say, “Get over it,” or “It’s not the end of the world.” His psychology training taught him to stay away from those phrases, but they snuck into his mind.

Mike sniffled and tried to pull himself together. “I’ve got another audition in a half-hour. I’m going to cancel it.”

“Because you’re such a bad actor?” Pat asked, his ironic tone sliding in.

Mike sniffed. “You’re telling me to go to it.”

“You might as well go. You’re not going to feel worse than you do now, right?”

“Sometimes your bed-side manner is tough to take,” Mike said.

Pat smiled to himself and kept silent.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good,” Pat said.

Before he headed to the subway station, Mike went in the Irish bar across the street for a dose of self-confidence.

Finishing off his second scotch, Mike took off his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves. Then he ordered a double and unbuttoned his white shirt so his chest hair showed. When he looked at his watch, it was time for the evening news, and he decided he ought to see the weather forecast.

SUMMER 1990

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“Have you told him yet?” Toulousa asked before Pete arrived at the theater.

Lowering her eyebrows, Carolyn stared at Toulousa and kept silent. She thought no one had noticed. For her, the only change was her tight waistband.

Toulousa nodded at her friend. “Yes, I knew almost two months ago, Carolyn. A pregnant woman smells different than the rest of us.”

“I smell?” Carolyn asked, shocked.

Toulousa shook her head back and forth making her dreadlocks swing, “No, honey. You smell good. Real good. It’s just a metaphor. Your cheeks are rosy, you look strong, and I couldn’t wait any longer for you to tell me your secret.”

Carolyn rubbed her palms together nervously and asked, “Did you tell Pete?”

Toulousa smiled. “Of course not. I bet he doesn’t have a clue. You know, he’s just a dumb kid.” She saw Carolyn pull back, and she rushed to say, “I just meant to say he’s young, without much experience. Don’t you think you need to tell him he’s gonna be a daddy?”

Carolyn knew Toulousa was right. She’d realized what was going on when she missed a period. She’d started talking to the baby when she missed the second period, petting her stomach as if it were a sleeping puppy, but only when she was alone. She didn’t tell anyone. A superstition nibbled at her that someone was going to take the baby away.

“Have you told your mother?” Toulousa asked.

Carolyn’s eyes darted left and right, like she was a wolf trying to escape a trap. A fierce protective tightness pushed into Carolyn’s throat.

Toulousa shook her head. “What? Are you gonna show up one day and say ‘Surprise!’?”

Pete came in the front door just at that moment. “Surprise what?” he said, coming up behind Carolyn and putting his arm around her waist. “It’s a good Sunday out there, huh?”

He was right. It was sunny and cool, in the mid-70’s.

“It’s a good Sunday in here too,” Toulousa said, giving Carolyn a raised eyebrow. “Right, Carolyn?”

Carolyn turned her pale blue eyes to look into Pete’s brown eyes. She loved his black, curly eyelashes. “I’ve got a surprise,” she said to him.

He cocked his head sideways and asked, “Good or bad surprise?”

Toulousa held her breath, hoping for the best.

Carolyn couldn’t keep herself under control. Her lips spread out in a big grin, showing all her teeth.

“Okay. A good surprise,” Pete said. “So tell me. Or do you want me to guess?”

Carolyn took a breath and said it flat out, “We’re pregnant.” She spread her hands over her stomach.

Pete’s brown eyes got big. They shifted back and forth between Carolyn and Toulousa. “For real? A baby? We’re gonna have a baby?” He put his free hand on top of Carolyn’s, and she nodded her head Yes.

“Yippee!” It was a holler. If the theaters had been full, everybody would have heard it. Pete let go of Carolyn and started doing a jig, like a leprechaun who’d just found the rainbow’s end.

Toulousa let out her breath, Carolyn’s smile stretched broader, and life was looking good.

All day and through the evening, Pete skipped or danced or swaggered over to the ticket booth in between tearing tickets, to give Carolyn little pecks on the cheek, touching her hand or her belly. That night, after Max left with the deposit bag, he took Carolyn to the couch in the office as usual, but the sex went slower. He asked Carolyn to explain changes she was feeling. He had her point to where she thought the baby was growing, and he wanted to know how he could make her happy.

While he nuzzled under the lolling weight of Carolyn’s right breast, she wove her fingers into his dark kinky hair. She kept repeating, “I’m so happy.”

When Pete winked at Carolyn on their way out of the theater to go home in separate directions, she was still smiling. 15 minutes later, letting herself into her apartment, she dropped her face into neutral. “I’ve got your back,” she said to her belly, trying to reassure the baby.

AUTUMN 1990

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His client asked so many questions, he was late leaving for his audition. On the sidewalk, before he had a chance to hold up his hand to hail a taxi, a yellow cab turned the corner and stalled, then died in the middle of the intersection. The driver tried twice to start the engine, spitting out the words, “Fuck and fuck,” over and over, “Fuck, fuck, and fuck,” loud enough to be heard through the closed window. Then suddenly, the driver threw open the car door, got out and walked away, leaving two women in the back seat with their jaws hanging open.

Mike watched the 30-second scene. Then without thinking, he stepped into the driver’s seat and closed the door, announcing, “You’re getting a free ride, ladies.” The two women wore blue-jean chic, with jewelry hanging from their ears, necks, and arms. Before they had a chance to open the door next to the sidewalk, Mike turned the ignition key, and with a roar, the cab’s engine fired up.

He didn’t pay attention when the brunette in the back seat hollered, “Wait!” The other one screamed, and the brunette continued, “What the hell are you doing? Stop right now. Stop and let us out. Stop!”

Revving the engine, Mike kept driving, to 3rd Avenue, past Lexington to Park, then Madison. The second woman slapped at the grill separating the front and back seats. Mike formulated a plan to whiz to West 31th Street and 10th Avenue, so he’d have time to practice his monologue before the audition.

 But the cab, a Plymouth Fury, stalled out again near the Marble Collegiate Church at 5th Avenue.

Immediately, the brunette was out the door, yelling at the driver’s window, “Who are you? Jesus god, man, you’re in trouble, you’re going to pay for this, there are laws! Kidnapping! Car theft!”

The second woman remained in the back seat, leaning her forehead against the top edge of the front seat, rolling her head back and forth, screeching in fear, “A lunatic. A lunatic stole our taxi.” She panted hysterically, “A crazy man, crazy, crazy, crazy.” Her hysteria morphed into laughter.

“April,” the brunette said, reaching into her friend. “April, calm down.”

April sputtered and choked. “We’ve been kidnapped by a madman in a broken taxi. He’s a nut.” She had to put her forehead on the seat back again, holding her stomach and cackling.

The brunette stood by the car, looked at her friend, then at Mike who rolled down his window and grinned at her.

The brunette pouted and said, “You should wear a mask if you’re going to high-jack women.”

April hiccupped in the back seat.

“Do you have a business card?” the brunette asked sarcastically with her hands on her hips. “We might need another ride.”

Mike reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed the brunette his card through the window: “Owner/Manager/CPA – Liberty Tax.” Then he extended a second card through the cash slot to the woman in the back seat and said, “Hello, April. Everything’s okay. My name’s Mike Levine.”

 April’s laughing eased up enough to read the card, and she said, “Liberty Tax?” She choked on a laugh and looked around the back seat wildly. “An accountant kidnapped me. A crazy accountant with a stolen taxi.”

“I don’t usually steal cars,” Mike said. He stepped out of the car door and stuck out his hand to shake with the brunette. “I’m trying to get to an audition on time. Sorry I startled you.”

April screeched, “Don’t let him touch you, Faith. I’ll call the police.” She struggled to climb out of the cab while she searched through her purse for her phone.

The brunette slit her eyes. “Yeah, right, an audition. An accountant going to an audition.”

Mike flashed a smile.

The brunette shrugged and said, “April, we’re okay. Nothing happened.”

April dropped her purse, spilling keys, tissues, 2 lipsticks, and a cell phone on the pavement. She grabbed at the phone and started scrolling on the screen.

The brunette rolled her eyes and said, “Put your phone away, April.”

“I promise to call you if I get the part. But I’ll need to know…,” Mike dropped his eyes so his eyelashes spread on his cheeks before he looked up with a twinkle in his eye, “…to know how to get in touch with you.” Then he repeated their names, “April and Faith. I’ve been looking for two beautiful women to fall in love with.”

April took a deep breath and re-read Mike’s card.

Mike looked at his watch. “Let me buy you a glass of wine. It’ll be my apology,” he said, pointing to the Pink Tree Café across the street. He was sure, as far as good luck was concerned, finding two women was better than a heads-up penny on the sidewalk.

Before April finished her white wine, she was giving her number to Mike, promising to meet him the next night after work.

§§

She decided on the walk home that she would tell her mother the truth.

Lydia was in the kitchen, reading the Daily News at the Formica table. Carolyn sat down next to her. No one said anything.

Finally, with her shoulders slumped in a curve, Carolyn said, “I’m having a baby.”

Lydia didn’t look up from the paper for almost a minute. When she did, her scaly skin was grayer than usual. “What did you say?” she hissed, like it was a threat.

Carolyn knew her mother had heard. “In three months.”

Lydia leaned back in her chair, and her sour expression turned into a grin. “You’re the new Virgin Mary? You’re pregnant by Prince Charming waiting at your door? You wouldn’t know pregnant if it slapped you in your ugly face.” She went back to her reading.

But when Carolyn kept sitting silently at the table, Lydia looked up again.

Carolyn said, “My boyfriend works at the Triplex.” The sentence contained her entire life story.

Lydia shifted her eyes back to the paper again and said, “Don’t imagine that I’m rich, but I’ll pay for the operation. You can pay me back.”

“No,” Carolyn said. It was the first time she’d ever said the word to her mother.

Lydia stared at her daughter. “Well, you can’t expect me to pay to get rid of your mistake if you don’t pay me back.”

“I’m having it.”

“You’re having it?”

Carolyn nodded.

“Don’t be an ass. What did the man tell you, the one who knocked you up? That he loved you? Ha! You’re a dirty slut, so you cranked open your legs for some low-life pervert.” She cackled at the image of her daughter spread-eagled.

Carolyn told her mother, “Pete’s nice.”

“You’re daft, girl. The son-of-a-bitch will leave you. You’re stupider than I thought if you think he’ll stick around someone like you.”

Carolyn didn’t argue with her mother.

Lydia slammed her hand on the table. “I’m not going to support another mouth in this household. You’re gonna get rid of that baby,” and she slapped Carolyn’s belly.

Carolyn whined and backed-up, getting out of her chair to retreat. She wasn’t as stupid as her mother thought. She knew abortions were impossible after four or five months. “It’s too late,” she whispered. Carolyn wrapped her arms over her stomach and left the kitchen, heading upstairs to her bedroom without looking back.

Lydia scratched at the cherry-wood banister and screeched, “You take care of this, or you won’t be coming back here, you understand?”

Carolyn closed her door. She’d take care of it, in her own way.