Marine Park(27)

            This was the seventies. Nobody cared too much about a bit of abnormal skin. And it was on his face. It seemed more like a chronic but unimportant dermatological problem. Desmond tried not to think so much about it. He went through a sexual revelation after getting back from Sterling Forest. His crowd liked to go out to Staten Island, where the bouncers let you in without the best clothing, and the girls were Italian and loose. Desmond and his best friend, Harlan, would borrow the car of their friend Perry, who was gay, and they’d drive down the Belt Parkway over the Verrazano together. Perry’s scene was more in Manhattan, but he kept the car because his father gave it to him. His roommate, Carol, used it to drive to the beach. Desmond and Harlan would pick up the car from Perry’s apartment, pat him on the shoulder, and fly over the bridge. Desmond entertained Harlan on the ride with stories from his semester upstate. Harlan had never been farther north than Van Cortlandt Park. While Desmond drove the candy-red Mustang, the windows down, the radio on 104.3, Harlan curled in the passenger seat and complained about finding true love. Yeah, Desmond said, but why say the truth about it?

            It was on Staten Island where they first met Ida, who had perpetual thick-rimmed glasses. They had noticed her a few times before they formally met, because she was known to stand on the bar at that particular place every Saturday just as it turned midnight, and slowly take off the turtleneck sweaters she liked to wear. One night Desmond pushed forward and put a hand up to help her back onto the dance floor, and instead of taking his hand she jumped down and pushed her finger on his lips. By the time they left they had already kissed backed up next to the jukebox, so when Desmond got the keys from Harlan and took her back to the Mustang he knew they’d be going further. She pulled her pants down herself but wouldn’t help him with his. He suddenly felt shy about it. So he did what he could with his mouth and she seemed to enjoy it, because eventually she unbuttoned his fly and blew him while he leaned back, every so often, on the horn.

            Ida’s herpes was much worse than Desmond’s, and though she was certain it was from him, she never said anything about it. She wasn’t the type of girl who was involved with many men, and the turtleneck stunt was something she’d seen a cousin of hers do. She’d had a serious boyfriend in Vietnam who, before he left, had taught her all about sex. They did it everywhere he could imagine, and, eventually, some of the places she tentatively suggested. Can it be standing up somewhere? she said. Girl, he said, how come you’re so naive? When he came back with chlamydia and was good enough to tell her about it beforehand, she broke it off. She felt somewhat guilty. She’d been looking for a good time ever since. The ex-boyfriend only called on the phone, from Montana, where he was living.

            The blisters that she got, every few weeks, on the inner upper part of her thighs, turned pink after a day. There were worse diseases, and Ida knew this. Grand scheme, what she had didn’t compare. Even still, it hurt to walk when the blisters were in full. On the second day they would begin to stream pus. A day later they scabbed over. She learned the schedule quickly enough, but worse was the uncertainty. Doctors didn’t know what it was, but they advised that she inform everyone whom she would potentially be having sex with. They were fairly sure, they said, that it couldn’t be transmitted between outbreaks. They asked questions about her habits, shook their heads. She began to police her body, so strictly that sometimes she’d step out of film lectures at the New School to go to the bathroom and take a look. In the stalls with no locks, so that she had to hold the door shut with one hand, she kept her head down, watching her legs. The panic seemed to rise from them, from below her toes, and by the time it seeped up to her head she’d have to let go of the door and clutch her arms around her chest.

            One Saturday, after having gotten only three hours of sleep the night before, she got drunk too quickly. These things aren’t anybody’s fault. She had been at Two Fish Bar with Desmond and Harlan again, and, as they’d become accustomed to doing, they came stumbling out the wooden doorway onto Father Capodanno Boulevard walking toward the real clubs, closer to the bad end of the island. They passed the red Mustang parked at a smashed meter. Ida kept tripping, and Desmond was ignoring her, so it fell to Harlan to guide her with his arm. She kept adjusting her pant legs. By the end of the boulevard they had gotten fairly close. Desmond went inside, and ordered his own drink, but Ida and Harlan walked back to the Mustang, and they had unprotected sex. How do you feel about me? Harlan said. Ida pushed him out in time.