NOT A PIPE - by Vee Lind

The Tune and Also the Words

September–November 1963, Manhattan, NY

I sit on a bench in a gallery staring at a giant comic-book-style painting by Roy Lichtenstein. Last month, when I left Antioch heading for my first co-op job in Manhattan, Dad had nearly shouted, “Go see Roy Lichtenstein. His art obliterates the boundaries between fine art and popular culture.”

I pick up a brochure and read that Lichtenstein was born in New York to Eastern European Jewish parents. Could we be related? Lichtenstein was my last name when I was born—a name Dad changed to Lind when I was two years old. When we moved to Portland, Oregon he’d jettisoned our family name along with the New York lifestyle of our relatives. Now, Dad is considering changing his name back to Lichtenstein—Lind is too bland for who he’s become. He reveres New York now. I hope I will too.

A solitary woman in despair stares out at me from a giant canvas. Tears stream down her face, drawn comic-book style with thick lines and covered with Ben-Day dots. This both pokes fun at and captures my own bouts of despair—my drama over all the guys who didn’t love me back.  Since Dad disdains Mom and me when we cry, he’d prefer Lichtenstein’s Masterpiece. A woman coos in a cartoon bubble: “Why, Brad darling, this painting is a masterpiece! My, soon you’ll have all of New York clamoring for your work!” Dad would appreciate this dig at New York’s ego-bloated art world. I stare at Masterpiece for a long while, glad that Dad and I both like irreverence and satire in art.

In a week, I’ll be selling luxury alligator purses on Fifth Avenue at Bloomingdale’s—called "Bloomies" by the young, rich elite. Sandy and I will live in Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood named for its rough dockworkers and gangs. I love Margaret Mead, who said being a participant observer in other cultures could transform me. I’ll change from an innocent girl from the Portland suburbs and a student in Ohio into a woman of the world.

I tuck my white gloves into a drawer before the doors open and women rush in, dusting snow off their A-line coats. My supervisor inspects me: a navy shirtwaist dress, my stomach compressed by a girdle, and the seam of my nylons snapped onto garters.

“If you’re looking for something for the theater, you would be envied with this alligator clutch,” I say, holding up the bag against my black blouse, a backdrop to its dead, pebbled shine.

“See the richness of the kidskin interior,” I say, peering into the bag with feigned admiration. The woman, smelling of Lily of the Valley perfume, pulls out a mirror trimmed in matching skin. I offer the price: “It is two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“I’ll take two,” she says. As she hands me her charge card, I realize her purchase costs as much as my parents' Chevy Impala.

Sometimes I am pleased with my performance, but today I feel gross for contributing to this opulent charade. They believe that dressing like Jackie Kennedy will somehow bestow on them the glamour of Camelot and the adoration of JFK.

My friend Sandy arrives, and we rent a matchbox apartment with one double bed, a closet, and two chairs. Sandy tolerates, and often admires, my messy ways. We’re giddy to gobble up everything Manhattan. We get stoned on the observation deck of the Rockefeller Center, where the view below looks like a board game of crisscrossed avenues with ant-like cars and tiny yellow taxis driven by drunken ants.

In the evenings, we go to the Gaslight Cafe in the Village, even though it's been a year since Dylan was discovered there. The air is thick with the smell of cigarettes and cloves, masking the scent of illegal pot. Sandy, loyal to her boyfriend, leaves early so I can pick up a guy. I’m kind of sad when they don’t call a second time, but it’s an adventure. At least I’m now part of the sexual revolution.

I want to get to know a poor person, so Sandy and I set out to befriend the single mother next door. Carrying a plate of macaroons, we knock on her door. She peeks out, and I thrust the plate forward so fast that it forces her to open the door a bit more. A baby without a diaper balances on her hip, and a toddler peeks from behind her housedress.

Before our neighbor has a chance to shut the door, I take a step forward. “It’s so messy,” she says, scanning the room filled with dishes on the floor and piles of diapers.

“I’m messy too,” I say, quickly diverting her attention by pointing to a picture of JFK on the wall. It’s the only art in the room besides a crucifix: JFK on a black velvet background in front of an American flag.

The toddler holds up a bottle filled with a brown, bubbly liquid—probably Pepsi.

“Oh, did you know...” I say, excited to share JFK’s wonderful new program, “Did you know you can get food stamps to buy vegetables and other good food?”

Sandy looks at the woman’s blank face, then glares at me—understanding I’ve insulted the woman rather than helped her. My mom always gave her frayed suits to our cleaning lady, also oblivious to how it would be received as a put-down.

The mother looks relieved when the baby on her hip pees on her blouse. “Thank you for the cookies,” she says, opening the door so we’ll leave.

One Sunday, ice coats the street, and it's too cold for us to go exploring. We sip tea, nibble on stale bagels, and get back into bed. On the ceiling above my side of the bed, I’ve tacked a poster by the surrealist painter Magritte. I chuckle at the enormous image of a pipe with the words in French, “Ceci n'est pas une pipe”—This is not a pipe. A poster of Monet’s pastel water lilies is tacked above Sandy’s side.

“In Kansas, we call a water lily a water lily,” she says. “You’re lucky your dad was such a free spirit and taught you to understand surrealism and pop art.” She winces, continuing, “My dad's such a square; he wanted me to go to the University of Kansas.” She sighs. “He didn’t—still doesn’t—think he can bear being so far away from me.” Sandy wants to be a writer, and her dad wants to support her, believing she is a genius.

“I think you are the lucky one in the dad department. I had to push to go to Antioch,” I say. I flash back to a dinner at a downtown Portland restaurant when I first told Dad I wanted to go to Oregon State with my best friend. I explained that kids there had average grades, so I could explore without pressure. Dad stood up, slammed the table, and screamed, “No daughter of mine is average! You are forbidden from going to a cow college in a podunk town!”

Since I couldn’t go to Oregon State, I met with my guidance counselor for other options. I’d been reading Jack Kerouac's On the Road. I wanted to merge learning with adventure and nonconformity. Mom, who hated to see me upset, helped Dad accept Antioch College by showing him a brochure with photos of students on internships, their eyes aglow as they looked at the Manhattan skyline. By then, it wasn’t a hard sell because Dad had become obsessed with a new art project: making footstools out of discarded doors. He lost interest in where I went to college, as long as I promised to get a co-op job in New York to see the great museums.

I lift my aching feet onto a chair in the staff lounge and slip off the required black pumps. An African American girl opens the door wearing a short black dress and frilly white apron—the costume required of the bathroom attendants. She usually smiles dutifully when patrons place a dime in a basket lined with a doily. Now, she is framed by the door, an image seared into my memory. Tears stream down her cheeks.

She sobs, “The President has been shot.”

I don’t believe her; I don’t recall any president having been killed since Lincoln. I step to the door and look out over the sales floor. No one is mesmerized by diamonds, lamb coats, or alligator clutch bags. There are no sounds of fawning salesgirls or clinking cash registers.

A voice announces: “The store is closing for a day of mourning.”

I get off the bus at the wrong stop, following other stunned, silent riders. I join a crowd peering into a plate-glass window. In a giant mahogany cabinet, a television screen flickers and then steadies. Walter Cronkite’s voice breaks; he removes his glasses and continues only after he regains composure. I’m stunned into silence as we watch the President over and over again—one minute waving to adoring crowds from the convertible, the next minute keeling over. Jackie, her pink suit splattered with blood, cries out, “They’ve killed my husband!”

I wander toward home until I smell garbage and see the empty beer cans of Hell’s Kitchen.

The following Saturday, Sandy and I return to the Rockefeller building. The view from the observation deck is clear and crisp, untouched by the pall over the country. To the south, the skyline is dominated by the Empire State Building, the tallest building in the world. Sandy looks to the other side and, trying to sound upbeat, says, “Look, the harbor—the Statue of Liberty on Ellis Island.” I don’t bother to correct her that it’s on Liberty Island.

I put five cents into the telescope and scan the city until I locate Hell’s Kitchen. Sandy stares absently for a moment and says, “I can’t wait until we get back to college with our friends.”