by Carlos Colon
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“I can’t believe you said that,” laughed Atlantic Indemnity’s Bronx regional manager Greg Feldman after I displayed a brass pair at the monthly regional sales meeting.
I hated those meetings. They were an incredible waste of time. We’d have to drive to midtown Manhattan every month to listen to balding, overweight white executive types in the company pontificate about incentives, motivations, prospecting, and all other kinds of bullshit. Every month I did my best to duck them but this time I had to go. Not only was I going to get a plaque for outstanding sales achievement, but I was also going to receive a nice thousand-dollar bonus.
Three of us rode in together, me, Greg and my immediate supervisor Kenny Neglia, the manager of the South Bronx branch. My preference would have been to drive in by myself so I could break away as soon as I got my check, but Greg insisted we go in his car.
Other sales reps were starting to think of me as a big kiss ass because the bosses never bothered hiding who their favorite sales rep was. But I was their favorite for a reason, and at that meeting, I let them know why in a playfully brash sort of way.
“I would like to thank you all for this very nice award. And my wife, Stefanie, would like to thank you for the thousand-dollar bonus. Believe me, I won’t see a penny of it.” That got a nice little laugh. What came next is what made everybody’s jaws drop. “I would also like to express gratitude to all you white pussies that are too afraid to take the debit routes in the South Bronx projects. It’s those little debit life insurance policies that you don’t want to bother with that have enabled me to set new commission and renewal highs every year.”
It was meant lighthearted but my attempt at humor landed with a thud. It was only Greg’s exaggerated Ed McMahon guffaw that broke the awkward second of silence that followed, effectively removing the stick from the asses of the blowhard executives posing for pictures next to me.
“Let’s go to the Mick’s,” said Kenny after the sales meeting. He and Greg regularly went to dinner at Mickey Mantle’s restaurant after the regional meetings because a) they were Yankee fans and b) it was only a couple of blocks away at the south side of Central Park.
I protested. “I’m not sitting in no Yankee restaurant.”
“Oh, grow up,” laughed Kenny. “The Mets are in the playoffs and the Yankees aren’t. What the hell else do you want?”
“I want to not sit in a restaurant surrounded by pain-in-the-ass Yankee fans. Let’s go to Rusty’s instead.” That was a restaurant owned by Rusty Staub, a former Mets All-Star. It was located on the east side around 79th street.
“Rusty’s! That’s all the way uptown on the east side,” said Kenny. “By the time we get there with all that traffic, we’ll starve. Mantle’s is right here.”
“Rusty’s,” I countered. “I’ll buy.”
That’s when Greg, the top boss, stepped in. “No, Nicky, you made us both a lot of money this year, even if you do have a big mouth. Next meeting we’re putting a muzzle on you. But anyway, you’re not buying, we are. Mantle’s it is.”
Rather than waste the whole night debating I gave in to my Yankee fan superiors.
Once inside, much to the amusement of my ball-breaking higher ups, the host sat us beneath portraits of Babe Ruth and Joe DiMaggio. To add to their fun, they ordered the Yankee Pot Roast.
I gave it right back to them by ordering the Surf and Turf, the most expensive entrée on the menu. Fuck ‘em! With what I earned them in bonuses and overrides, they could afford it.
From the bar we ordered two bottles of wine, a red and white, before launching into some guy talk about the current National League Championship Series. The Dodgers beat the Mets in Los Angeles to tie the series at one apiece, and yes, the game ended late and yes, just as she said, I did not get any from Stefanie afterwards.
Despite my resistance to anything Yankee oriented, the food at the Mick’s was pretty good. But when dinner was over, I noticed that both bottles of wine were almost empty. Greg noticed it too because we both looked at each other in surprise. He and I had only one glass each.
“So you got tickets for tomorrow night’s game,” said Kenny. Not surprisingly his speech was already slurred. “I gotta tell you, Nicky, and I hate to say it. I got a feeling the Met’s ain’t gonna make it.”
“Bullshit,” I laughed. “The Mets played eleven games against the Dodgers this year and won ten of them. They practically swept the season series.”
“Yeah but Nick, it’s the playoffs now,” said Greg, the other Yankee fan. “Anything can happen in a short series.”
“Oh, screw the two of y— “
“Holy shit,” said Kenny, a little louder than he should have. He was looking behind me towards the opposite side of the restaurant. Greg, who was sitting next to him looked in the same direction but couldn’t make out what Kenny was reacting to.
“What is it?” asked Greg.
Kenny squinted his eyes. He then murmured “Is that... is that...? Shit, that’s Orel Hershiser,” said Kenny, claiming to see the Dodgers ace pitcher.
I wasn’t buying it. “Get outa here!”
Greg then suddenly perked up and laughed. “He’s right! That is Orel Hershiser.”
I couldn’t help but to turn around. “You two are so full of—oh shit!” It was him. The Dodgers’ ace was sitting at a private table towards the end of the restaurant with two members of the Dodger bullpen that blew the game for him earlier that week. They were enjoying a nice quiet dinner before the series was to resume the following night.
“Hey man, tell him you’re going to the game tomorrow night,” said Kenny.
“What? What for?” I said. “What does he give a shit whether I’m going to the game tomorrow?”
Kenny got up and staggered towards Hershiser’s table.
“Kenny what are you doing?” said Greg.
The check was already paid so it was time to leave anyway. Greg and I got up as well.
“Hey, Hershiser,” said Kenny, approaching the pitcher like an old friend.
“Kenny, let’s go,” said Greg. From experience, he knew that his South Bronx Branch manager could be a little trouble when he was juiced like this. For their part, Hershiser and his teammates didn’t seem too concerned at the slightly off balance New Yorker spinning towards them.
Kenny pointed his thumb towards me and addressed the Dodger ace as I tried to lead him away. “Listen, Hershiser, my buddy here is a Mets fan. He’s going to the game tomorrow. I told him that they ain’t got a chance against you guys as long as you get two more shots at pitching against them.”
Hershiser smiled politely.
“Kenny stop,” I said, before apologizing to Hershiser, who nodded graciously.
Kenny was pushing his limit. “Hey man, don’t apologize. It’s okay, right Hershiser?” The pitcher patiently remained quiet. “It’s the rest of these guys,” said Kenny, gesturing to the relievers that got their asses kicked by the Mets lineup. “They gotta hold up their end.”
And Greg thought I had balls?
Greg took Kenny’s arm. “All right, that’s enough.”
Kenny recognized Greg’s tone. “Okay, okay.”
I took Kenny by the other arm to help Greg lead him away. “A good thing you’re not driving.”
It was beautiful outside, a nice night to be out in the city. But really, my mind was on getting back home. It was a Thursday and we had to work the next day so I wasn’t too keen on being out late. Greg also seemed ready to call it a night.
Kenny had other ideas.
A quartet of stylishly dressed ladies sashayed past us swishing their perfumed little asses into the Ritz-Carlton. With his boner pointing the way, Kenny broke in their direction.
Greg was getting pissed. “Kenny! Where are you going?”
Kenny answered without breaking stride. “Didn’t you see what just walked in there?”
This was a regular occurrence with Kenny, be it at dinners, parties, or business road trips. Sometimes it was funny. U
sually it was just annoying. That night I had already allocated more time to Atlantic Indemnity than I cared to; the commute to the city, the long, boring sales meeting, dinner at a Yankee restaurant, enough was enough. I had no interest in letting Kenny’s hormones drag the night any further. “Come on Kenny, we gotta work tomorrow.”
“Let’s have some fun,” he cackled. “Don’t worry. We won’t say nothin’ to wifey. Promise.”
“Let’s get him,” said Greg, shaking his head in frustration as he walked past the clueless doorman that allowed an obviously inebriated cad into the posh hotel.
“I don’t see him,” said Greg. “Do you?”
The main lobby was relatively quiet. It was just me, Greg, and a couple of people over at the front desk. At the far end, we saw a clear glass door to a bar called the Star Lounge that opened as a well-dressed couple came in to the lobby. The sounds from inside; people chatting, clinking glasses and sports on the TV followed the couple until the door swung back shut.
Kenny was inside.
We could see him through the glass, pouring his questionable charm on the ladies he followed in. He was known throughout the company as Kenny the Widow Banger, a reputation he had earned by insisting on handling death claims whenever an attractive widow was involved. By personally taking care of all the paperwork, he’d develop a bond with the grieving beneficiaries that would lead towards him alleviating their suffering in his own special way. To an outsider it may sound ridiculous and more than a little creepy, but I hate to admit it, I’d seen him succeed at it more than once. His wife Gail, who was married to the horndog for over twenty years, had her share of suspicions. It led to many nights of him sleeping on their couch. One morning I even found him sleeping on the couch in our break room at the office.
“I’ll get him,” said Greg, pulling the door to the Star Lounge open.
“All right,” I said. “While you do that, I’m going to give Stef a quick call.”
These days every walking person on the planet has a cell phone in his pocket. Back in the eighties it was, put a dime in the payphone. A few steps away, a row of them stood on the wall towards the back end of the lobby. I dropped a dime into one of them next to a woman whose back was towards me. Stefanie picked up midway through the fourth ring. The “Cheers” theme song was playing in the background from our living room console.
“You got the TV away from Davey? Congratulations!” Like every other nine-year-old in those days, our son always had to be pried from his Nintendo.
“I forced him to go read in bed,” said Stefanie. “From now on he gets only one hour of Nintendo.” She raised her voice a notch to make sure he heard the next few words. “And that’s after he does his homework.”
“What’s Jessie doing?”
“What else? She’s in her room listening to George Michael.”
“One of these days, she’s going to learn that guy is gay and it’s going to break her heart.”
“He’s not gay.”
“Not gay? Did you see those white shorts he has on it that video?”
“So? He’s not gay!”
“Yeah, all right, he’s not gay.”
“So did you get your bonus?” Now we get to what was really on her mind.
“That’s all you think about, isn’t it? I bet you already spent it.”
The woman at the next phone turned around to face me. The playful little banter between me and Stefanie caught her attention. Not wanting to disturb her conversation any further, I toned it down. That’s how we did it in those days. We were considerate of others, not like these obnoxious idiots today yelling out their conversations on smartphones, Bluetooth or whatever the else they walk around with attached to their heads.
Being at the other end of the phone, Stefanie felt no need be subtle. “Actually I’m thinking about something else.”
To avoid annoying the other lady, I played along quietly. “Oh really, and what might that be?”
Stefanie got to the point. “I’m wet. I am so wet.” She knew I loved it when she played the aggressor. “Are you going to come home now? I can’t wait, I’m already touching myself. God, you have to see how wet I am. Or maybe you want to feel how wet I am.”
“Okay, stop right there,” I whispered, conscious of the woman next to me. “You’re going to make me have an accident.”
“Ooh,” she giggled. “On the road or on yourself?”
The woman on the other phone looked right at my eyes. It was if she heard what Stefanie said. Not wanting her to see the bulge developing below my belt buckle, I shifted slightly.
Nope, too late.
She looked right at it and gave me a suggestive smile.
The woman was stunning. She had straight Sahara-red hair that curled inward as it reached her shoulders. Her eyes were green and cat-like. On another woman, they might have appeared soft and vulnerable. On her they looked carnivorous. Her face was strikingly seductive, her figure slim and athletic, hugged eagerly by a silk red dress that ended above the knees. Her shoes were red too, with heels that made her an inch or two taller than me.
Stefanie, unaware of the awkward scene at my end, went on to describe the flimsy inviting nightgown she was going to be wearing, and the wicked, salacious things we were going to be doing behind our closed bedroom door. She always knew how to get me more worked up than a teenager at his first R-rated movie.
But this time I wasn’t listening.
The woman next to me brought her hand down to her thighs.
Stefanie’s voice became a distant echo.
The lobby, which was already a little quieter than any big city lobby should be, seemed to drift away in the distance.
The woman took hold of the hem of her dress and slowly lifted it to expose silk red undergarments (who would have guessed?). At the other end, Stefanie was still baiting me with erotic promises but she didn’t stand a chance. I may have been fully cognizant of where I was and what was happening, but I was no longer the one pushing the buttons. They were being pushed by the woman reaching inside her intimates, doing exactly what Stefanie was describing on the phone.
I was no longer at the wheel. And Stefanie was no longer a factor in the equation. Nicky Negrón was now a passenger in his own body. Without saying a word, the woman gave me a knowing look and hung up the phone she was speaking into. Or was she? I’m not sure I ever heard her say a word. The woman was confident that I would follow her anywhere. And I did nothing to prove her wrong. I hung up the phone, cutting Stefanie off in mid-sentence.
We were in New York, the greatest cosmopolitan city in the world. You can’t keep your eyes open for two seconds without spotting a beautiful woman. Not once had I ever been tempted. So how was it that this woman was luring me so effortlessly? With no feeling of interest, attraction, or any lust, I followed the woman towards the elevators perfectly conscious of the fact that I wanted nothing to do with her. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to help Greg collect Kenny and ride on home to my beloved wife’s open arms. And yet I couldn’t. I couldn’t because I also wanted this woman more than I ever wanted any woman in my entire life.
When the elevator doors opened I held out for desperate hope that Greg would come out of the Star Lounge dragging a soused Kenny, saying “Come on, Nick. Let’s go home.” Instead I obediently followed the red-haired lady into the elevator.
When we entered the elevator, we waited until the doors closed before pawing at each other like two hungry beasts on the National Geographic channel. And with no thought of any danger we might have been putting ourselves in, we made the elevator sway on its cables by bouncing each other off the walls, groping at one another with nothing that resembled passion or lust. We were practically ripping our flesh off along with our clothes. When our faces slammed together, our mouths locked like links on a chain as our tongues probed for the other’s tonsils. How lost was I? All throughout this martial exercise in foreplay I gave no thoughts to the inevitable marks that would be left on me and the troublesome conv
ersation it would lead to when I got home.
When the elevator doors opened on the 14th floor, we rolled out onto the hallway, nearly tackling a refined elderly couple that was waiting to get on. Shaking their heads in distaste at the half-naked couple wrestling on the floor, they stepped over us and boarded the elevator.
Obviously my brain was in sleep mode. That much I could tell, though I was aware enough to be unnerved at how easily I was being thrown around, like a pillow in a sorority room.
The red lady pressed me against the door to her room, reaching for the card key in her purse (yes it was red). She unlocked the door while continuing to gnaw at me. Anyone who would have witnessed the intensity between me and this ravishing redhead would never have believed that my participation was completely involuntary. Even I was confused at how much I was matching her aggressiveness in disrobing her as we jetted towards the bed like two cruise missiles.
The panic was building. I wanted this to stop. I wanted it to stop immediately. But then again, I didn’t.
Besides Stefanie and the super’s wife back in the Bronx, there weren’t a whole lot of notches on my belt. And none of the experiences I had resembled the steel cage match I was having with this lioness in red. On the bed, the ravenous redhead yanked my pants off and pounced, tearing at my Calvin Kleins to find a rod that made John Holmes look like a toddler. It was as if all the blood in my body was being funneled to that one specific area. It was seconds from bursting.
When her lips took hold, it sparked the early arrival that every man dreads. Normally that would have been completely humiliating, even as she eagerly ingested the results of her tenacity. Instead I was terrified because I was unable to rise and walk away from what was happening while this smorgasbord of conflicting emotions grappled throughout me.
It was already a forgone conclusion.
This was not going to end well.
A few seconds later she sat up and removed her matching red undergarments. I watched helplessly, still fully erect and still unable to move. When she mounted me, her eyes closed with pleasure and she made the only sound I ever heard her make—a deep enraptured groan of gratification as she rhythmically grinded her hips forward and back.
