To Freida, walking was the only acceptable form of exercise, should be done whenever possible and without destination or purpose. We always walked quickly, per Freida’s insistence, should she be recognized, and at our advanced ages, the trip to the market had become rather a rigorous race to the spinach. The old girl really had nothing to worry about. Swathed in the de rigueur costume of the faded starlet, Hermes scarf and Chanel sunglasses, she could have easily been a Garbo or a bag lady, or any number of aged dames wary of direct light. That she was Freida Garson was privileged knowledge, though one would guess, outside the realm of cinephiles and preening queens, this privilege was in scarce demand. She could have thrown caution to the wind and gone out, shorn of her disguise, into the bustling world of Greenwich Village, and would have drawn less attention than, say, the group of rather pale and sickly looking young men hanging onto the walls of St. Marks. They had, with just a bit too much intent to be truly frightening, their very own distinct form of charm rooted in their complete lack thereof, no doubt, with barbs and hooks through their noses, lips and/or eyes. But stars will be stars. Whether anyone recognizes them or not.
I on the other hand, lived for recognition. Freida had retired from the screen at the ripe old age of…well that depends on your source of reference, but it was twenty years ago, near to the date. But I held on, embracing television like an unwilling but nevertheless insatiable lover. Now nearing three-hundred, I can only find work on the game show circuit — you might have seen me giving circle the center square or trading bons mots with Betty White. It’s nothing that I’m proud of, but it’s eight hours of work a week, a decent paycheck, free booze and a spot, Monday through Friday, in the hearts of seventeen million Americans. Those swelling hearts beat rhapsodically in the bosoms of housewives and sporadically in the cavernous chests of people even older than myself. I am occasionally stopped by one or the other for an autograph, or an inquiry into what Richard Dawson is really like, to which I always reply, shamefully queer. Theirs is admiration that can never tire, love that will never abandon and devotion that shall never waiver. Freida was spoiled from an early age — fame came easy to her — but I’ve worked for fifty years to sign a kerchief for Mrs. Baker-Watson’s recently returned amputee son whose only reprieve in life is my grinning double chin on his eight inch black and white TV set.
We went to a different grocer each week, all within walking distance, or at least that was the idea. I often found myself crossing state lines in pursuit of the perfect pear, or shuffling past any number of fruit stands that Freida had blacklisted for one grievance (mangos were far too soft ) or another (practically rotten cabbage). Today we traversed Fifth Ave to the East Village and were presently perusing the wares of a handsome, bearded young man, on the corner of Avenue C and Ninth Street. He entertained a casually browsing young family of three: a handsome athletic fellow in criminally tight khakis and his pretty wife, unassuming in a pale yellow cardigan, and between them, their yellow-haired offspring, clutching at anything in reach. Meanwhile a young Spanish boy pocketed a handful of grapes, hoping not to be noticed. I winked at him and he sped off towards Avenue D.
“Will you look at this?” Freida purred as she fingered the fruit, obsessively, vigorously, appraising any fault she could exploit to lower the exorbitant price of this apparently sub par produce. “These tangerines have been visited by aphids. It should be a crime to have these out for sale.”
Like a knee reflexive to the strike of a tiny hammer, I responded without having to distract from my own perusal of some superb fruit in the form of the high, bulbous buttocks of the young father standing in front of me. “Where would you rather they sold them, dear, the back of a flatbed truck?” I said greedily licking my lips.
“If it resulted in better merchandise, I would pluck them from the bottom of a dumpster, you there!” she addressed the sad-eyed fruit vendor of indeterminate ethnicity, but if I had to venture a guess, perhaps Persian, with the offensive tangerine stretched out directly before him, “What kind of two-bit operation do you think you are running here?” Her inflection of the ‘think’ suggesting that not only did this wide-eyed, possibly Persian young man run a poor business, but that he also ran it poorly. The young couple looked warily at us, trying to determine whether we were of the garden variety New York crazy, or if they needed to abscond with their precious flaxen-haired cargo in tow. Just then, as the grocer searched for the cloudy words in English with which he would try, and ultimately fail to defend himself, the young woman’s eyes opened wide with pleasure.
“I know you!” She gasped, “you’re Sanford Haven!”
“T. Haven. Sanford T. Haven,” I corrected her, as I’m often called upon to do, the T not signifying anything, but good ole Bobby G. felt it made me sound more distinct or something, back in 1941.
“That’s right, from Match Game! I watch you nearly every day when I’m doing the wash or vacuuming the apartment…”
“You really should ask your husband then to get you a cleaning woman so you can devote all of your attention to me and the kids…” I shot a glance towards the husband, his face practically plastic in its insincerity, but beautiful because it was meant to be — chiseled jaw, dimpled chin and all. I wanted him and wanted to erase him — a blight on this corner, on this city to whom he did not and never would belong. A recent transplant from Poughkeepsie, or Jersey no doubt, a further sign of the gradual whitewashing of this little corner of the world. Freida and I have walked through the changing landscapes of New York for the past fifty years, in our own various incarnations, so we inevitably feel some kind of propriety over these streets. We’ve watched poor immigrant faces morph into affluent gay faces then finally into affluent white faces in every part of this island-nation, though our sovereignty is strictly that of figureheads. I am a queen without power. And this was another face in a long line of faces, disfiguring all that I had once loved of this city. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him.
Then he smiled his perfect, ten-dollar smile. I felt a faint, subtle stirring, though I knew nothing would come of it; nothing has for nearly ten years. But my heart sank to the pit of my stomach as he expressed his rehearsed though still utterly charming nonchalance to my succinct assessment of their marital life. After signing, for lack of a better option, a ripe cantaloupe, I bid farewell to the department store couple and their moon-faced son or daughter. Freida continued to berate the sad-eyed grocer, all the while inserting ideas to improve his business (never undersell your competitor, you don’t want to seem desperate) and, in general, his life (shaving your beard could only help at this point), the young man nodding along to the blitzkrieg of blabbering before turning his sad eyes to me for something in the way of assistance, or more likely salvation.
“Freida dear, let’s try the next stand, it looks promising—I think I see a peach that has your name all over it.” I pulled at her bony little arm away while with the other one she violently shook a bunch of wilted asparagus.
