Rosy

By Suzanne Tyrpak

Dreams can become nightmares. Small town girl, Sarah, hopes to find love and fame in New York City, but following her dreams leads to a downward slide into the insanity of the late 1970s: nightclubs, sex, drugs, and violence.

Desperate to dig herself out of debt, Sarah becomes pole dancer, Rosy Dreams. But the more money she makes, the darker her nightmare becomes as she sinks into a world where no one can be trusted—especially the men who claim to adore her.

As Sarah slips deeper into the underworld, she questions not only her dreams, but her sanity. She battles demons—imagined and real—fighting to survive the city’s brutality, fighting for her dreams, and ultimately fighting for her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Tyrpak
• Release date: Aug 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311571960

Suzanne Tyrpak

Adytum publishes:Suzanne Tyrpak, award winner writer of historical and contemporary fiction. Works include: Vestal Virgin (suspense in ancient Rome), Hetaera (suspense in ancient Athens), and Rosy: a Novel. Short story collections include Ghost Plane and Other Disturbing Tales, and Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction).Zané Sachs has worked for several large corporations (including a supermarket), and those situations have, in part, inspired Sadie the Sadist. Sadly, she has found, that the current work environment in the U.S. often treats workers as expendable units, comparable to robots. Every day automated systems and machines are replacing human workers. Zané expects to be replaced by a robot any minute. She is currently working on a prequel to Sadie the Sadist, titled Sadie's Guide to Catching Killers, and a psychological suspense novel, Jayne Just Watches.

Book preview

Shining Star

"Sweetness, I could eat you whole."

A rainbow umbrella-hat cruised along the sidewalk toward Sarah. The weirdo underneath it hissed. Before Sarah could stop him, his hand shot out and groped her crotch. She stumbled backward and found protection in the shadows of the theater’s entrance.

Pervert, she shouted at his back.

Drawing deeper into the entryway, Sarah glanced at the deserted box office where she’d spent her evening selling tickets to an obscure foreign film starring Laplanders. If reindeer could make it in Manhattan she figured she could too. Her gaze drifted to a poster advertising the upcoming premiere of Car Wash.

The last time her dad called, she told him that she’d broken into show business.

Across Eighth Street, beyond the buildings, she searched a patch of sky, but the only stars she saw were the glittering names on the movie theater’s marquee. The marquee went black. Closed for the night. Standing in the dark, Sarah wished for love, wished for a break, wished her mother hadn’t died.

And she wished Regina would show up.

Catching her reflection in the theater’s glass doors, she sucked in her cheeks and attempted to appear sophisticated. It stunk to look seventeen when you were twenty-two. At her last audition, the casting director laughed, said she was too young to play the ingénue. Sighing, she turned back to the sidewalk and checked out the rush of people.

Back home in suburbia, in another world, lights were going out, but Greenwich Village never stopped. Disco-sequined girls floated by on clouds of marijuana. A guy in a white angel robe sailed past on a skateboard. He was followed by a punk-rocker sporting a turquoise Mohawk, deep in conversation with a time-warped hippie—they entered Jimi Hendrix’s studio. Jimi had died six years ago, but his recording studio lived on—a purple haze of carpet on the walls. A skinny guy stared Sarah down, his junkie eyes destitute.

She glanced at her watch.

Regina was late as usual.

The watch had belonged to Sarah’s mother. Sarah focused on the second hand, but tears filled her eyes and blurred the dial. Her father expected her to leave the city, told her to forget her childish dreams, get a real job and become a secretary or a teacher—take care of him. Sickness stirred in her stomach, the old familiar guilt.

Braving the crowd, she stepped onto the sidewalk.

Someone slammed into her back and offered no apology.

Turning, she saw the blanket man.

He growled, exposing rotten teeth, and drew his filthy blanket over his unwashed hair. His head retracted like a turtle’s. He was a regular at the movie theater. Last week Sarah had pissed him off.

She heard Regina’s screech and scanned the sidewalk. Squeezed into black jeans so tight she could barely walk, teetering on spike-heeled boots, Regina oozed native New Yorker. She leaned against a man wearing designer jeans and a sleek leather jacket.

There you are! Regina shrieked, her voice more piercing than a siren. Passersby turned to gawk. Breaking from her escort, she shoved past a tourist who attempted to take a photograph. Regina’s breath reeked of alcohol. She motioned to the guy she’d been leaning on. Come here, Robin. She turned back to Sarah. Cute, huh?

Sarah nodded.

He’s my shrink.

Your shrink? Robin looked more like a rock star than a psychiatrist. His green eyes sparkled, and he flashed an impish smile at Sarah.

I’ve heard all about you. His voice sounded cultivated, without a trace of New York accent, and his handshake felt strong.

Good things, I h-hope, Sarah stammered. The man’s good looks caught her off-guard, but his smile seemed genuine.

Regina gave Robin a boozy kiss then turned back to Sarah. We met when I was in the loony-bin. He helped me screw my head on straight.

That’s good, Sarah said. Feeling awkward, she elaborated. I mean, it’s good that he helped you. Not that you were in Payne Whitney. I mean you’re not really—

Nuts? Yeah, I am. Regina twisted a dark strand of hair around her finger—it seemed shorter than Sarah remembered.

You cut your hair?

Got it trimmed. Don’t change the subject. Regina’s eyes grew blacker. If I’m not nuts, why did you call the cops on me?

Sarah glanced at Robin.

Celebrating Regina’s release had been Sarah’s idea, but she was starting to regret it. After Regina’s mother died, Regina had gone crazy—sleeping with every guy she’d met, downing fistfuls of pills. When Sarah found her passed out in a pool of vomit, she’d called for help.

We’re all kind of nuts, aren’t we? Robin said. Who wants to be normal anyway?

Sarah smiled, gratefully. I was worried, Regina. I called because I care about you.

Regina’s face softened. I need a hug. She fell into Sarah’s arms.

I know how hard it is to lose your mother. Sarah stroked Regina’s hair.

Sorry.

Nothing to be sorry for.

Regina wiped her eyes. Black rivulets ran down her face, streaking her foundation. Is my mascara running?

You look great. Sarah offered her a tissue.

Liar. Regina blew her nose. Sarah is my best friend in the world, she said to Robin. We met in scene-study class at Herbert Berghof’s studio. She’s going to be a famous actress.

I’m honored to meet a budding starlet. Robin’s eyes danced with amusement.

If you haven’t noticed, Sarah said, Regina tends to exaggerate.

Regina rubbed her newly reconstructed nose and sniffed. "You are going to be famous. I know it. We Greeks have second sight."

You mean, you’re seeing double. How much have you had to drink?

Just enough to calm my nerves. Isn’t that right, Doctor? Regina grabbed Robin’s arm to prevent herself from stumbling. But I need something stronger, like a lude. You promised.

Sarah frowned. What kind of doctor handed out Quaaludes? Come to think of it, what kind of psychiatrist went out drinking with his patients?

Robin caught Sarah’s disapproving glance. I think we’d better take a rain-check on the celebration, he said. I’ll find a taxi and take Regina home.

Put me to bed on doctor’s orders? Regina ran her fingernails along Robin’s arm.

His eyes met Sarah’s, offering an apology.

They walked along Eighth Street—Sarah trailing behind Regina and Robin—toward Sixth Avenue. Regina had laughed when Sarah referred to it as Avenue of the America’s; called Sarah a newbie tourist, but that had been six months ago.

When they reached the corner, Robin hailed a yellow cab. After settling Regina inside, he turned back to Sarah. Maybe we can get together another time?

Sure.

His smile lit up the night. With a wave, Robin stepped into the cab.

Sarah watched the stream of traffic until the tail-lights vanished.

Practically skipping, she headed down Sixth Avenue. Warm air embraced her; winter’s edge had softened into spring. Even in this concrete world, she felt life waking, and anything seemed possible.

A wino drinking from a bottle wrapped in brown paper staggered toward Sarah.

Clinging to her shoulder bag she ignored the red light, and like a true New Yorker, stepped off the curb.

As she headed downtown pedestrians grew sparse. She focused on the sidewalk, avoiding cracks as if touching a line might send her into an abyss. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. The childhood chant played in her head, repeating like a broken record. Step on a crack…It dared her. Lifting her foot with deliberation, she placed it on the cement’s divide. The chant grew louder, drowning out the din of traffic. Tears sprang into her eyes.

Sorry, Mom.

She continued walking, carefully avoiding cracks.

Crossing Houston Street, she reminded herself to pronounce it House-ton. She headed east. When she reached Mott Street it was dark, except for the candy store. Who would be buying candy at this hour? And what kind of candy would it be? But you don’t ask those kinds of questions in Little Italy.

A bell tinkled when the candy store’s door swung open. A man’s silhouette appeared in the entryway, framed by a halo of light. Golden rays poured out around him, like those pictures of saints in the palm reader’s window.

Hi, Mr. Palumbo.

You okay, kid? He squinted through black-framed glasses. I got some mail for youse.

For some unknown reason the mail in Sarah’s building got delivered to the candy store. But again, some things you didn’t question.

Mr. Palumbo handed her an envelope. She wished it was a letter, but she recognized the electric bill. She’d just paid last month’s. Even working extra hours the movie theater kept her scrounging.

G’night, Sarah. Mr. Palumbo started to close the door, then opened it again. Don’t forget, rent’s due Friday.

No kidding? Already?

April Fools’ Day, how could she forget? For some other unknown reason Mr. Palumbo collected rent for Mr. Woo, the Chinese landlord.

You’re a good kid, Sarah.

The patch of light went black.

She pulled open the door to her building, and it creaked on rusty hinges. She didn’t need a key. It was never locked. That’s why the place stunk of urine—sometimes she’d catch bums hanging around the stairwell. She glanced around the dimly-lit hallway, but saw no one. A lone light bulb swung from the ceiling. The others had burnt out. The building had no elevator. She hurried up the stairs, humming to herself and thinking about Robin.

By the time she reached the fifth floor, she felt breathless.

Digging through her bag, she found her keys. She undid the locks, one in the doorknob and one above it, then released the deadbolt. Entering the kitchen, she flicked on the light and heard roaches scatter, scurrying into the walls. They didn’t seem to mind that she barely kept a crumb in the apartment. Roaches weren’t picky. They feasted on toothpaste and book bindings.

She set her purse on the counter. The kitchen was large, bigger than the bedroom, but like everything else in the apartment, it was out of date. She opened the old-fashioned fridge and stared at the near-empty shelves. Celery and Tab. Her perpetual attempt at dieting. She pulled out a soda and zipped open the top.

The sound of ringing startled her.

Calls at strange hours usually meant bad news. Like the night her mother died. Reaching for the wall phone with a shaking hand, she lifted the receiver.

Sarah?

Robin? She thought she recognized his voice, but wasn’t sure.

I hope it’s not too late.

Is everything okay?

It’s just— She heard him breathing, felt her heart pounding. I need to talk to you, he said.

About Regina? Images of Regina, unconscious and barely breathing, rushed into her head.

I think we should talk in person, Robin said.

If it’s an emergency, I’d better leave right now. She glanced at her purse, thinking about the expense. I’ll see if I can find a cab.

No. Stay there. I’ll come to you. Tell me your address.

Sarah’s heart slammed into her chest as she recited the information. In a shaking voice she asked, Is Regina dead?

It’s not about Regina. I just need to see you.

A half-hour later Robin appeared at her door.

Two weeks later he hadn’t left.

Two Tickets to Paradise

Sarah couldn’t wait to get home, couldn’t wait to tell Robin about her audition for the Preposterous Players—an avant-garde theater company. The director asked her to read for several roles, a good sign. And she’d had a long conversation with the guy in the box office about how Todd Rundgren’s music had saved their lives. She felt sure they would call her back, proof that the acting classes she scrimped and saved for, the constant auditions—for Off, Off-Off, and Off-Off-Off Broadway—were finally paying off.

Smiling at her good fortune, Sarah rushed past the candy store and smacked into Mr. Palumbo.

Where you going?

Sorry, she said, attempting to sneak by him.

Come here.

Remembering the past-due rent, she felt her face redden.

He motioned her into the candy store.

Reluctantly, she followed him. The yellowish linoleum looked about a hundred years old. Dusty shelves of ancient looking candy lined the walls. A couple of old guys leaned against the scarred wooden counter. They stopped talking and watched Sarah as Mr. Palumbo rummaged behind the cash register.

Your mail, he said, resurfacing with a white envelope—no doubt, another bill—and a dog-eared catalogue.

She glanced at the cover: Frederick’s of Hollywood.

That’s not mine.

I think it is.

Mr. Palumbo handed her the catalogue along with the envelope.

You’re late on the rent, he said. Ten days is the limit, kid. Mr. Woo don’t care for slackers.

The old men sniggered.

I can give you a hundred dollars now. She shoved the mail into her shoulder bag, then rummaged around so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. And I’ll have the rest Thursday, when I get paid.

I’ll give you a break this time, but you’d better have the money Thursday.

Unless she got some other way to pay, one of the old men said.

The other chuckled.

None a that, Mr. Palumbo chided them. This here’s a respectable establishment.

Sarah hurried from the candy store, the old men’s laughter following her.

She pushed open the door to her building and tried to ignore the stench of urine. Someday, when she’d made it as an actress, she would live in a fancy apartment with a doorman like Robin did. He’d described his place to her, and she couldn’t wait to see it: a penthouse overlooking Central Park. Right now, he’d explained, it was under renovation, and he’d had to move out while it was being painted. He’d planned to stay at a hotel, but Sarah insisted that he stay with her. The last two weeks had been magical. Robin had taken time off from work, and to keep him company, Sarah had called in sick twice. That’s why she was short on rent. Every evening Robin had surprised her with Chinese food, Italian, Indian, even pink champagne. Aside from eating, they’d spent most of their time in bed. But today he’d encouraged her to go out for the audition. Unlike her father, Robin hadn’t laughed when she told him about her acting dreams. He said he believed in her.

Sarah bounded up the stairs. Someday, when she was rich and famous, she’d move into a building with an elevator. Or maybe she’d move into Robin’s penthouse.

Lungs on fire, she made it to the fifth floor landing.

Unlocking the door, she called, Hello.

She threw her bag on the kitchen table.

Robin?

She headed for the bedroom. The beaded curtain made a tinkling sound as she swept it aside. She stared at the empty mattress on the floor, sheets and blanket still tangled from that morning.

He must have gone out.

She went into the tiny bathroom. Something seemed off. Robin’s hairdryer wasn’t lying in the sink, threatening electrocution. How many times had she asked him to put it away? It seemed unlikely that he’d finally listened. She opened the cabinet. No hairdryer and no toothbrush.

She rushed to the closet and pulled open the door. His clothes had vanished.

A sick feeling rose from her stomach and latched on to her throat.

Suddenly her small apartment seemed too large. She felt herself shrink, like Alice when she’d tried to make it through the keyhole. She told herself she was being foolish. Why assume something was wrong? They’d probably finished the renovation on his apartment. Why stay in this dump when you owned a fancy penthouse?

She glanced at the refrigerator wondering if he had left a note.

Maybe there had been an emergency and he’d been called to the hospital. But why take his clothes? Maybe his parents had called from Florida. Maybe they had a problem and he needed to leave town.

Her gaze traveled to the telephone, white and silent on the wall, and she realized she didn’t have his number.

She sank into a straight-backed chair and sat at the kitchen table, the only piece of furniture she’d brought from home. The mail Mr. Palumbo had given her peeked out of her purse. She drew out the Frederick’s catalogue and riffled the pages. Crotchless panties? Who wears this stuff? She threw the magazine on the table, grabbed the white envelope, and ripped it open.

Total due: $365.42. She stared at the phone bill. Pay by April 28, or service will be disconnected.

No way did she owe that much. She checked the name and address, certain there must be some mistake. It was hers all right. She examined the long list of calls: Chicago, Palm Springs, San Francisco. She knew no one in those places.

Robin.

His name shot through her with enough voltage to light the Twin Towers. Hadn’t he mentioned he was from Palm Beach? She checked the dates. The strange calls had been made while he’d been staying at her apartment. She hadn’t noticed him on the phone that much—unless he’d called when she was out. Still, it was possible that AT&T had screwed up. How could they keep all those wires straight? Stupid phone company. She’d have to chew them out. Robin would have told her if he’d run up the phone bill. They trusted each other, had an understanding. Besides, if he had run up the bill, he’d pay her back. He had plenty of money. Probably wouldn’t bat an eye at a bill of three hundred plus dollars.

He was different from the small town guys she’d known back home. All they cared about was sex and beer. Robin knew about sophisticated things like art, and wine, and music. He’d told her he’d been in a rock band, and almost hit the big time. Once he’d met Led Zeppelin when they called themselves the New Yardbirds. But his parents had insisted that he go back to school. So, he’d become a doctor.

The phone bill had to be wrong.

But where was he?

A steely taste filled her mouth. Her tongue felt dry. Maybe he’d been in an accident. She imagined his fine cheekbones bruised and broken, blood dripping from his sensuous lips, the lips she had kissed that morning.

She pushed the thoughts from her mind.

Of course he was all right. He had to be or how could he have packed? And he would return. He’d told her they were meant to be together.

She gazed at the ceiling. A crack ran through the plaster, crept down the wall, and slipped behind the sink. She felt the crack inside her heart. She replayed the last week—the things they’d said, the things they’d done. Her father said she was demanding and self-centered, that no man would want a woman who didn’t care about laundry, a woman who couldn’t fold a shirt. She’d told him it didn’t matter; she didn’t plan to open up a dry cleaner’s. But maybe Robin cared.

Or maybe he had another girlfriend.

Maybe he was sleeping with Regina. She’d asked him about his relationship with Regina, and he said it was strictly professional. Still…Regina had classic beauty, and she was loaded; she got any guy she wanted. And now that she’d been released from the psych ward, Robin wouldn’t be sleeping with a patient. Would he?

Sarah studied the telephone, the black numbers, and the rotary dial. Deciding to call Regina, she lifted the receiver and listened to the dial tone. What would she say? Is Robin there? Refusing to humiliate herself, she placed the receiver back into the cradle.

She picked up the phone bill, crunched the paper into a ball, and hurled it at the phone. Wait till she got the starring role in the new production, wait till she received a rave review in The Village Voice. Then Robin would be sorry.

Meanwhile, she needed to pay bills. She needed to get groceries. Free popcorn at the movie theater wouldn’t sustain her for long. Even working overtime the phone bill would take months to pay off. And, without a phone, how would she know if she got cast in the new play? How would the director reach her? How would Robin—

She opened the fridge. She’d worked up a sweat, and the cold air felt good. She stared at the bare shelves. Passing on the wilted celery, she reached for the last can of Tab.

♥ ♥ ♥

The telephone woke her.

Forcing her eyes open, Sarah stared into darkness. The clock’s face gloated 5:08. The phone’s persistent ring filled her with dread. Crawling off the double mattress, she struggled to her feet, swept aside the beaded curtain, and fumbled with the receiver.

Who is it?

Person to person, collect call from Robin for Sarah. Will you accept the charges?

Yeah. Her heart sped, sprinting fast enough to break a record, and she felt wide-awake.

Sarah?

Where are you? Her voice sounded hard.

Sorry it’s so late. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

His voice melted her, dissolving her irritation.

I’ve been worried. You all right?

Something came up. I had to leave town—some business in the Windy City.

The what?

Hold on a sec.

Robin must have covered the receiver. Sarah strained to hear a conversation between him and someone at the other end. Led Zeppelin blared in the background.

Robin? You there?

Yeah. Hi.

Why’d you take off without telling me?

You’re angry. I shouldn’t have called.

No. I want to talk. It’s just—

I fucked up. His speech sounded kind of slurred.

Have you been drinking?

No. Just tired. Working hard.

She heard muffled conversation. What are you doing?

What? He seemed distracted. Sorry. Sarah?

She thought she heard a woman’s voice, and her heart screeched to a stop.

Who’s with you?

No one. Just a friend. I’m at this outta-sight apartment on the lake. You should see it.

Right. She wondered what the no one looked like. I’ll hop on my private plane and jet right over. Sitting down, the chair’s vinyl felt sticky on her skin. By the way, I got the phone bill and—

I had a dream about you.

A dream?

We’re flying above the ocean, you and me, so high the earth looked like a big blue ball.

Did you hear what I said about the phone bill?

I’ll take care of it.

It’s over three hundred dollars. I have to pay it or they’ll cut me off, and my rent is overdue.

Relax. I said I’ll pay it. Sarah thought she heard giggling. He’d probably met someone rich and gorgeous. Hey, listen, Robin said, Did my father call?

No. Does he have this number? Gazing through the window, past the security bars, Sarah watched the sky turn gray, then lavender. Are you ever coming back?

Miss me?

It’s five in the morning, and I’ve got a big day ahead. She stood, the chair’s vinyl ripping from her back like tape. I’ve got to come up with the rent, and now I have to pay this phone bill—"

Would you stop? His voice got all bed-roomy, I miss you, Sarah. I miss you a lot.

Really?

Yes.

Sarah pressed the receiver against her ear, listened to him breathing, felt her heart opening.

I can hear your heartbeat, he said.

No you can’t. She couldn’t help smiling.

I feel your heart. Do you feel mine?

Maybe. She touched her chest.

Our hearts beat to the same rhythm.

He spoke to her like no one else, words she’d only imagined in daydreams.

I really care about you Sarah. I love you.

She leaned against the wall, felt the cool plaster on her back as heat pulsed through her body. She listened to his breathing and moisture bloomed between her thighs. Her backbone slid along the plaster, until she rested on her haunches—the scent of her desire, ripe and musky.

So, she said, when will you be back?

I’ll be home soon.

Home. She liked the sound of it.

You sure my father really didn’t call?

Was he supposed to?

No. Robin sounded disappointed. I just need to take care of a little financial problem.

Sarah’s ears pricked. What financial problem?

No big deal. Listen, Sarah, do you have a credit card?

What? She stood, her senses on high-alert.

A credit card—do you have one?

Why ask me? You’re the one with money.

You’re so uptight. It’s just that I can’t find my American Express card—it might have been stolen.

You’d better report it.

I did, Robin said. But I need cash to get home. I just thought maybe…Look, I’d better go.

It’s just with the phone bill, and the rent—

It’s cool. Don’t sweat it. Sarah felt sure she heard a woman’s voice. Hold on, Robin said, then spoke to someone else. Shut-up! I’m taking care of it.

Something crashed, and Sarah heard yelling.

Stop hitting me, psycho!

Robin, what’s happening?

I gotta go.

Wait. How much do you need?

What? Robin sounded breathless.

How much should I send?

A hundred bucks. I’ll pay you back. I promise.

Okay. Her entire stash.

You’re the best. Can you wire it today?

Sarah watched herself write the address on the phone bill’s torn envelope, watched the pen forming the letters. Nothing felt quite real.

Robin’s voice drifted through a fog. Thanks, babe. I’ll see you soon.

The phone clicked.

She held the receiver, listening until the recording came on. If you’d like to make a call, hang up. If you’d like to make a call…Finally, the line went dead.

She stared out the window, past the bars, at her neighbor’s laundry, strung up on the crisscrossed lines. Beyond the laundry, she saw the next building, the once-red bricks now stained by soot.

Wanting something to settle her stomach, she opened the fridge. When she had been a child, her mother would give her Coca-Cola for an upset stomach. Coca-Cola had cured everything. But she didn’t have Coca-Cola. Not even Tab. Water would have to do. She found a glass and filled it at the sink, gulped thirstily, filled the glass again and pressed it to her forehead. No way could she go back to sleep.

She wandered back to the table. Set down the glass. Decided she needed air. Reaching through the security bars, she wrestled with the window. Years of amateur paint jobs had glued it shut. She managed to jerk it open, and reveled in the breeze. Trucks rumbled on Houston Street. The sky blushed, promising a fine spring day. The sun’s rays cut through smog to bounce off the neighbors’ windows.

Back home, her mother’s azaleas would be blooming soon, if her father thought to water them. The tulips were probably gone by now. She’d planted the bulbs last fall in honor of her mother. Flowers had been her mom’s greatest joy: tulips, azaleas, and of course, the roses. Last spring, when cancer finally got the best of her, traveling through her