Chapter 5 ~ Ivvy
March 11, 2010
Washington Square was a regular haunt during my lost time.
It was an easy place.
An easy place to score.
An easy place to get lost.
An easy place, despite police who often outnumbered dealers two-to-one, sometimes pretending to be dealers themselves.
Undercover zealots.
There’s a thin line between doing the work and becoming just another junkie, though. Even the most fanatical could fall and when they did there wasn’t even the opportunity to shout for help.
I didn’t really see her, not at first. She was just another shadow in a world seeking to avoid the light.
“You look like you’ve lived,” she said.
I wasn’t sure whether it was a statement, criticism, question or compliment. People didn’t talk to strangers in Washington Square unless they wanted something.
She nodded at me.
“Come on,” she urged, “don’t give me that strong, silent-type bullshit.”
I just stared.
She looked about herself, at the thinning crowds; up at the sky, watching evening draw in.
Sighed.
About thirty, although in the evening’s fading light I might have been wrong.
“You live here?” she asked.
I shook my head, tired of trying to catch her eye just so I could stare her out.
“Tourist?”
I shook my head, scanned the square.
She was looking at me now, her head cocked a little in the late evening shadows; sun falling behind tenements and sky-scrapers, bringing dusk to the park early.
“You don’t live here but you’re not visiting?” She sounded cynical. And tired.
I was beginning to enjoy this game.
Beginning to enjoy myself.
In the city, ‘here’ is always New York, and someone was either from ‘here’ or not.
Which, given my background, is why I could answer either way.
“Yup,” I said with a slight smile.
She watched shadows chase up the red-brick of the university.
Shivered.
Summer and she was shivering despite the humidity. I knew that feeling.
“So which is it?”
“Both,” I said, a faux enigma, as mysterious as a twelve year old goth explaining how The Cure are, like, you know, rilly deep.
She burst out laughing.
I had to laugh a little myself.
Smiling, I turned to face her; she mirrored me.
Reached out her hand.
“Ivvy,” she said.
I thought I’d misheard her. My Father said iffy all the time.
“Huh?”
“Ivvy,” she said, again proffering her hand, and I realised it must be her name.
So I held out my hand, went to shake hers.
Like a cobra, she had me, pulling my arm towards her, twisting my wrist to reveal my inner arm.
She smiled at the small scattering of track-marks.
“Told you,” she said, vindicated.
“Huh?”
“That you’ve lived,” she continued, smiling her victory, “I knew it! Now what’s your name?”
“Reggie,” I said, regaining my hand, standing to leave.
“Reggie?” she repeated as if she’d never heard the name before.
“Reggie,” I was back to staring her out.
After close-calls with make-believe dealers, searching for their commendation and medal, I’d decided that every week would see a different me visit the Square. Reggie was the name I was using that week.
There had been something about the way she had grabbed my arm.
“What precinct are you with?” I smiled like a threatened cross-breed.
She spread her hands, palms up.
“That obvious?”
“That obvious.”
She looked about herself; left, right, near, far.
But we were alone among seven million people.
And she slid up her sleeve.
Bruises.
Small and large all the way up her forearm; calligraphy of addiction.
“Amazing what they can do with make-up isn’t it?” My distrust knew no bounds.
It was impossible to read any emotion in her face. I could see only the cold calculation of how she was going to corner me, get me to confess, to incriminate myself and others.
Taxis and buses taunted each other in the distance, all blaring horns and revving engines. Subway trains sent seismic shimmers through the concrete.
And before I knew it, she was opening a wrap, dipping her finger in and rubbing it on her teeth. Like the oldest cliché in the book.
“Want some?” she asked.
It was my turn to scan the park to see if we were being watched.
Left, right, near, far, up, down, doorways, windows, fire escapes.
“Well?” She pushed me.
“Put it away will you?”
“You don’t want some?”
“I don’t do…”
“Yeah, like fuck you don’t!” She spluttered laughter and I decided it best to be elsewhere, turning and walking; downtown, towards Soho.
Through the monolithic NYU campus.
Stepping over street-sleepers already crashed out in the gutter.
Which bring back memories of a dead body; the night B.B. King sang the park to sleep.
Walking. Not looking back.
Not turning to check whether I was being followed.
Until I crossed Houston, turning west. I sensed her right behind me; realized I’d had that feeling since I’d left the Square.
It was only when I was walking down the steps into Spring Street subway that she spoke to me, such a surprise that I almost stopped breathing.
“You’re not worth it, buddy boy,” she said, voice suddenly hard as granite, “unless you can help me score. It’s not that easy for me, catch my drift?”
I didn’t say a word. This was serious. She was far, far off orders.
She grabbed my arm, spinning me to face her.
“I said do you catch my drift?”
I tried to tell her that I did, I really did.
Only I was spinning on the step and losing my balance and tumbling backwards. Walls became ceiling, steps became walls, all of it blurring as I fell down Spring Street stairs. Bumping, bruising; what felt like broken bones on each jarring impact.
“Fuck!” I heard her yell over the sounds of my own grunts and moans.
I was gone for a moment. In the comfort of the black.
Next thing I knew, the world had settled back to normality. I could taste blood. The ceiling was back where it should be.
She was leaning over me, checking me out.
Someone kicked my ribs as they tried to step over me. I gave a little yelp because I hadn’t breath enough to scream.
“Watch out, you fucker!” she shouted at my temporary assailant, then to me, “Jesus! D’ya get these people?”
“I…”
Before I could say another word, my need to breathe and her adrenalin got the better of me.
“Nothing’s broken,” she said, voice quick, a machine gun stutter of words, “you seemed to bounce pretty well and it really wasn’t that far anyway… Jeez, I’m sorry that I… Are you breathing okay, that’s the only thing I can’t check… If you’ve broken a rib… Damn! If you’ve punctured your lung then, you’ve gotta tell me…”
“I’m fine,” I gasped. While it hurt to do so, I could at least breathe. I tasted blood where I had bitten my tongue.
“Help me up,” I ordered.
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
She hooked her hands under my armpits.
“On three,” she said, “One… Two… Three.”
And together we lifted my aching bones to their feet.
This time I did scream.
“Shhhhh…” her calming voice.
She circled me, looking me up and down, making sure that I wasn’t about to collapse in a heap on the ground.
I wasn’t.
We stared at each other.
Not knowing whether to smile, laugh, cry, shout or scream.
Finally, she reached out both hands and planted them on my shoulders. Gently.
“Junkies of the world unite, eh?” she smiled.
“Guess you could say that,” I replied, smiling myself.
“You wanna celebrate?” She patted her pocket.
I nodded.
“Come on then,” she said and dropped her hands from my shoulders to hook one arm through mine.
She turned us around and led back up the stairs, each step a cacophony of aches and grimaces. We emerged into the full dark.
“Just one thing,” I said, “your name’s Ivvy, right?”
“Yup,” she replied.
“What the fuck is that all about, then?”
* * *
We trawled the Village, Chelsea and Soho, doing anything we could to avoid the storm cloud brooding low on a horizon. Beyond it only the fix awaited.
“It’s short,” she said, “short for…”
And left me hanging like the junkie I’d been.
“Well?” I coerced.
“Ivana,” she said, smiling.
“Ivana?”
“Ivana.”
I looked her in the eyes, assessing whether she was being serious.
“No, really,” I challenged, “Ivana? Really?”
She smiled. Nodded.
“Like Trump? Like that Ivana?”
She touched my forearm and shook her head.
“In name only,” she said, “name only.”
“What is it, Russian?” I asked.
“Romanian, third generation.”
“Oh.”
“Ivana,” I laughed, smiling to myself, “Ivana…”
* * *
Back at her apartment, we smoked weed and did some lines.
I wished that it was smack, even though I was nearing the end of my relationship with that particular mistress.
The street was dry, she said, had been for weeks.
She showed me her badge.
She showed me her uniform.
Ivvy: a naughty teenager, caught outside the school gates. Playing away. Flouting the rules. Running the risk. Understanding too well the laws of demand and supply.
Her straw hair had been blonde once upon a time, she could well have been someone’s homecoming queen.
Once upon a time.
Once upon a times.
Aren’t we all living off them?
Aren’t we all full of shit?
