A Visit to John Street

U

pon returning home from Thanksgiving in Kentucky, I was determined to do everything right, having already caused enough trouble there. It seemed as if the only thing I had to do was settle, once and for all, an obnoxious court case I had instigated sometime after January 3, 1983. At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do, but I should have known then what I know now--when bad things happen, take care of the immediate problem and then be done with them. Never go to court, because the laws in this land are obviously not on the side of good; any fool in the street knows that. On December 4, when I walked into 45 John Street, I was certain that whatever was to be would be and I would just Doris Day my way out of the mess. I didn't want to sit through a trial by jury, and what do I want with $2,252,000, anyway?

My lawyer, George Coffinas, is a very good man, a hardworking Brooklyn attorney I would trust to marry my sister. And my former roommate, John, well, he's a good guy, too. So I thought I didn't really have anything to worry about, in the long run, and, if I kept my cool, the short run wouldn't be too difficult, either.

My best friend from college had already volunteered to come downtown and help me prepare "to face destiny," as she called it. She brought raisin bread and milk and French bottled water, but my dog knew I was leaving and I wasn't hungry and I didn't have any idea of what I was to wear, so how could anyone possibly help someone as confused as all that? I just wanted to do back to bed.

We had toast (Karen even had Lemon Shred jam on hers), and Karen helped me decide what to wear. My lawyer had told me it didn't matter what I wore because we wouldn't be facing a judge or jury. But I know that to do the right thing in a hostile environment, one must dress for the occasion; when you're uncomfortable you can make a lot of mistakes. I had no idea what to wear, I didn't know if I should dress for comfort or dress for success or dress for a meeting with lawyers and insurance men. No matter what I wear it always seems to be wrong, because people are always calling me

the wrong name or the wrong gender or the wrong something or other.

Karen suggested I wear my eggshell wool pants, but I knew the wool would make me itch and I didn't want that. I wanted to wear my white L.L. Bean jeans, but instead I tried on a pair of cotton khakis, to try to match the season, and then noticed the ink stain on the left pocket.

After ten minutes of deliberation which seemed like ten millenia, I finally settled on the L.L. Bean white cotton jeans, the blue Ralph Lauren shirt my mother gave me for Christmas in 1983, the navy blazer Michael gave me, my saddle oxfords with the left tongue missing and all the scruff marks on the white part, and pearls. I looked like I was pretending I owned a yacht, which is a good joke, considering the only boating I know really is rowing and who in the hell goes to hell dressed for the Yacht Club? (Lots of people, probably.) All the while, Karen kept muttering that I shouldn't worry, because Andrea Dworkin would certainly be wearing overalls. But that's exactly what I was worried about-she always knows what she's going to wear..

By the time I got to 45 John Street, my attorney was waiting for me out front. He giggled when he saw me and asked me if I was going "incognito." He was referring, of course, to the fact that I was wearing sunglasses and a beige trenchcoat (my eyes were killing me and I wore beige just like all normal people do when they don't know what to wear). We walked into Burger King. I was horrified when I realized I wouldn't be able to eat anything, so we turned around and George suggested we go to the Roxy Coffee Shop, where I ordered a salad and soup and a bagel. I didn't eat the soup and the salad was just lettuce and tomato. I did eat the bagel. When we left the table, George paid my check and I saw that he had eaten his club sandwich and I was leaving cold soup and lettuce and tomato uneaten. "Oh, no," I thought, "I'm playing Scarlett O'Hara again. This will really get me into trouble."

In New York City, if you make a mistake, don't worry. The city changes every second and so do you. Just stand up straight and start

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK

Can Johnnie Ray Rousseau, a 22-year-old black gay aspiring nightclub singer, find happiness with Keith Keller, a six-foot-two blond bisexual jock who works in a bank? Will Johnnie Ray's manager. ever get him on the Merv Griffin show? Who was the lead singer of the Shangri-las? And what about Snookie?

Somewhere among the answers to these and other silly questions is the story of a couple as different as well, as black and white. And it's as funny, and sexy, and memorable, as any love story you'll ever read.

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK

8 no ei by

Larry Duplochan

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK

$6.95 in bookstores, or use this coupon to order by mail.

Enclosed is $7.50 (includes postage and handling) for one copy of Eight Days a Week.

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Alyson Publications, Dept. P-4, 40 Plympton St., Boston, MA 02118

18 NEW YORK NATIVE/DECEMBER 23-29, 1985

CAUSING

by Laura Cottingham

TROUBLE

all over again and everything will be fine again.

We walked back to 45 John Street and there was my friend John, standing out front across from St. John's Church. I was worried that maybe there were too many Johns around. I thought it would be nicer if we peeked into St. John's Church, but when we opened the door the man at the bottom of the steps said to shut it, and when we walked up the stairs and looked in they were performing a play. John said it must be Oscar Wilde and I said, "Wild is right, let's get out of here." When we got to the tenth floor, the insurance firm (or whatever it was) was a mess, with workmen going in and out and lots of wires going here and there. The people who worked there seemed nice enough (they were doing their jobs, after all; we were the troublemaking strangers). There was nowhere to sit, really, so John and I hung out in the corner. There was a map on the wall, but I wasn't intereted in looking at it, because I know where I want to go next and I'm not there now.

I was really being a baby, even though John said my hair was cut just like Joan of Arc and we were trying to have nice conversations about nice things to while away the time. The lawyers were off somewhere by themselves, the secretary was mimeographing (!), and the repair men were walking about. Who knows where Andrea Dworkin was? I didn't see her.

Then I ran into her in the bathroom, She didn't even say hello when I said, "It will all be over soon." I was trying to be helpful, but it didn't matter. She muttered something at me and left the bathroom. No matter what I did I couldn't do it right. I mean, if you go to the bathroom and get into trouble, what's the world coming to?

I just sat there in the corner with John and kept trying to play good games and be on good behavior. John was an angel. There I was, thinking lazy thoughts and asking strangers for information and causing trouble, and sure enough, my lawyer comes out and he's asking questions like this amount and that amount and all I can say is yes.

Everytime George comes in and tells us the latest, we say yes, John and me, pretending we're at the Stock Exchange or something ridiculous like that-anything to avoid the reality of being forced to perform before lawyers or come back to City Hall or stay longer or all of the above.

John was telling me about his mother's beautiful brocade coat, which he is going to redesign and wear himself. I was trying to think about Joseph and his many-colored coat, or about any good story about a coatanything at all to avoid the situation at hand. But I couldn't keep it up. By now it was four o'clock and we had been there since two. I wanted to pick up my typewriter to take with me to Denmark and I had promised Mr. Green I would be there by four-thirty.

I started to get nervous. John tried to calm me down, but I wanted everything over and done with. I thought I would do something constructive, so I asked John if he wanted some water, because previously John had been kind enough to get all the water for us. And it should have been obvious at the time that I was making a mistake, because John didn't need any water and neither did I, really. I just set up the need and it meant that I had to walk down the hall.

George came back and informed us that Miss Dworkin now wanted a stipulation that I was not to write an article about anything we were all there about. I said yes. Then we were all-John, George, myself, and our defendants (we were the plaintiffs) plus the insurance man and the court reporter (who only cost twenty dollars and was the court reporter on the Rosenberg trial)-in a little fishbowl room. George was reading and the other attorney kept correcting him. John and I were standing, as was our attorney. Everyone else was lucky enough to get a seat. I stood quietly and went out at one moment to get more water.

Then George got to the part about writing an article. I wanted to listen carefully; if I had to sign anything, I wanted to be certain that I meant it. George said we must "refrain from writing or publishing or commenting upon, or cause to be written or...

I looked up and said "Cause? What does that mean?"?

All hell broke loose, with Dworkin's lawyer saying something about my attitude, the insurance man amiably agreeing that I had made a very good point indeed, and my lawyer and John understandably taken aback by my lack of discretion. Dworkin scribbled something on a piece of paper (she, at least, was smart enough not to open her mouth). The court reporter, who had a patch over his left eye and is probably three times my age and has seen many kinds of zany legally prompted rude behavior, just smiled.

We left the room without signing anything. When John and George and I hit the street, I threw a fit. I had only come to 45 John Street to settle the case once and for all and now had left with nothing settled, which meant I had done something wrong. And I knew what it was: I had gone for water and asked a question when I didn't need to.

John and George found everything in order, so we met three days later and I signed the release. But when I got to the other part, I was stuck on number 2 and 4. Number 2 read: "This stipulation shall not constitute an admission by any party hereto to the commission of any act alleged in any of the pleadings."

"No way," I said. "This means they think they can just write away history and claim they never did what they did."

"Laura," my lawyer said, "it has to be that way."

"Okay," I said, "But it's wrong and foolish."

Number 4 read: "Plaintiffs Cottingham, Kyriszis, and defendants Stoltenberg and Dworkin, hereby agree to refrain from. writing or publishing or commenting upon, or causing to be written or published or commented upon, in any medium, written or electronic, the events described in any of the pleadings in this action."

"No way," I said, sitting there in the back of the Campus Coffee Shop looking at the Happy Hanukkah decorations on my right (it was the first day of Hanukkah that day, you know). "Here's what I'll do," I said. "Let's take out the part about them not being able to write anything. Let them say whatever they want about the "events described in any of the pleadings in this action."

From my perspective, Andrea Dworkin has been out to nab First Amendment Rights from people she thinks don't deserve them. She's right about pornographers--they should all just shut up, because they're putting bad ideas into people's heads and the people who suffer the most from this is women. Even if she wants a gag order on me, I don't want a gag order on her. Let her say whatever she wants to, to whoever she wants to, about me. I don't care.

George said no, that the agreement has to be "mutual" and I can't give them something they refused to give me (the gag order was Dworkin's idea, after all). I refused to sign-until George explained that the only writing or commenting I couldn't do was John neglected to tell me I had to walk past about "the events described in any of the her to get the water.

As soon as I walked past, I sensed trouble. No sooner had we drunk the water than

pleadings in this action."

So I can't tell you about either the "Verified Complaint" or the "2 Answers."