Poseur: A Memoir of Downtown New York City in the '90s by Marc Spitz

Author:Marc Spitz [Spitz, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Autobiography, Biography, Criticism, History, Music, Non-Fiction, Personal Memoirs, Popular Culture, Social Science
ISBN: 9780306821752
Google: YIhVDgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00B77AF00
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2013-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

“I want to go home.”

“Why do we have to do it there?”

“I just want to.”

“Okay, I’ll get off work.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

London. The abortion had to be in London. There were clinics in Brooklyn. There were clinics in the East Village. We could have taken care of it in an afternoon and then tried, somehow, to rebuild to what was essentially the most solid relationship either of us had known. But she was scared. She wanted the comfort of England and her family. This had all gone down in Brooklyn. Brooklyn was tainted, and, now, so were we. We were getting rid of the kid. Neither of us knew if it was a horrible sin, and I still don’t know how I feel about it all morally, but I know it certainly felt like one. We were broken. Suddenly the sex was gone; the poor dog looked vaguely shamed as I walked her in the morning, as if she were trying to say, “I know, I’m not a baby . . .”

After she got pregnant, we didn’t fuck anymore. Didn’t play music anymore either, and music in 1995 was as good as it was in 1965: a golden age. Pulp had released Different Class, which was even better than His and Hers. Radiohead had just put out The Bends, and Blur’s The Great Escape was a perfect continuation of the peak they’d hit in Park Life. Don Hill’s was still open to us every weekend. Suddenly I realized how good I’d had it. Yes, I had to toil in a bookstore, but at least there were no abortions. She went over first. We couldn’t fly together. That night I went to Don Hill’s. It was Jack’s birthday, and I told him I’d make an appearance. He was the only one I’d told.

“Maybe they’re killing that baby right now, Girl,” he said as DJ Miss Guy cued up the new Soundgarden song “Pretty Noose.”

Things ended with Alex soon after. The procedure in the hospital there was complicated, and she got very sick. This isn’t some comment on the National Health Service. I just know she was healthy going in, and within an hour she was pale and sweaty and vomiting, unable to keep down simple beef consommé as she shook and moaned under a sheet. I paced and chain-smoked in the waiting room and, once it was clear she would have to stay overnight, had an awkward early supper with her mother.

“So, what year did you graduate?” she asked.

“Um . . . ’92.”

“Ah.”

The rest of Britain seemed obsessed with who was going to win the singles-chart battle between Blur or Oasis. It was on the evening news. I couldn’t give less of a shit. Once Alex was released from the hospital, I would lock myself in the family’s little bathroom with its weird porcelain tub and handheld shower, bury my face in my hands, and sob. I was on heroin again inside of a month. Alex dumped me.

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