Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  “You were never in the contest, Chad. Now will you go away, please?"

  “Mmm,” Chad mumbled, turning again to the tray and poking through the packets of sweeteners, “I suppose I should go.” He brushed his fingers together to rid them of the little white specks of Equal. He smiled. “Wouldn't want to keep the doctor waiting. Plus, I have to move into Fritz's office. You two enjoy yourselves tonight.” He started out of the lounge but stopped and turned in the doorway. “Oh, Davey, I almost forgot. I have a message for you."

  Davey's head rose slowly, and he looked at Chad.

  “Miss Schuman said she would like to see you as soon as possible. In her office.” He frowned. “You know, you really don't look well.” He hurried down the corridor.

  Davey turned back to Casey, massaging his neck. “Well, you can't say my life isn't consistent."

  Casey clenched her teeth. Giving Fritz's job to Chad Wilkes instead of Davey was a low blow from Miss Schuman. Davey had been at Penn longer than Chad and he did much better work.

  “Look, Davey,” she said, going to him and kneading the tense muscle in his shoulder with one hand, “Chad is a talentless slug who just happens to be a consummate ass-kisser, and we all know how much ass good old Miss Schuman has to kiss, don't we?"

  He nodded slightly.

  “I've said it before, Davey, and I'll probably have to say it again and again: you should leave this dump. You're better than this, you're being wasted here. If you're going to stay, you're just going to have to be as much of an asshole as Chad to get anywhere."

  “Oh, c'mon, Casey,” he said, standing. “Who's gonna take me?” He dumped his coffee in the sink. “I've been working this long at Penn Publishing—which, as I'm sure you know, is not exactly a point in my favor as far as everybody else in this business is concerned—and I'm still only an editorial assistant, for Christ's sake! If I can't get anywhere here, what good will it do to go somewhere else?"

  Casey was surprised at the anger in his voice; he so seldom showed any. She noticed that his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. When he turned to her again, standing just inside the door, his face was shining with perspiration.

  “I suppose I should go see what she wants,” he said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper.

  “Wait, Davey. Why don't we get together tonight? There's a great old Karloff-Lugosi flick on TV. I can come over to your place with munchies and booze. We can get shit-faced. It'll be better than sitting home alone brooding, right?” He started to speak and she could tell by the look on his face that he was going to say no, but she didn't want him to. She went on quickly, before he could reply: “And if you're really good, maybe I'll even give you a hand job."

  He laughed and shook his head. “Okay,” he said finally. “How can I turn that down?"

  “Great. We'll have fun."

  His face was drawn again.

  “Anything else wrong, Davey?” she asked. “Besides Beth?"

  After a moment, he shook his head. Casey did not believe him.

  “Gotta go,” he said.

  “Okay. Give that city block we work for a kick in the teeth for me, willya?” she said in a stage whisper.

  Davey tried to hurry down the corridor without looking hurried. He couldn't go see Miss Schuman yet; he was a mess. He was sweaty and sticky; he could still feel the wetness trickling down the insides of his thighs. He was glad he was wearing dark pants.

  He had to make an effort to avoid limping; something between his legs was stinging him, making it difficult to walk steadily.

  He went out front, past Tammy's desk, around the corner to the rest room. He stepped into the far stall and locked the door, experiencing a shiver of déjà-vu in the small rectangular compartment, thinking again of the woman behind the smudged glass ....

  Davey opened his overcoat, dropped his pants, and fell back against the door of the stall, his head spinning as be stared down at himself.

  His white briefs were soaked with a sticky reddish brown. Spots of it glistened in the darkness of his pubic hair and were smeared on the right side of his penis.

  “Dear Jesus,” Davey breathed, “I'm bleeding."

  When he returned to his cubicle, Davey had to sit quietly for a moment at his desk to calm down. He stared at his hands, watched them tremble like leaves in a breeze.

  He'd cleaned himself up, washed thoroughly and clumsily in the stall with soap and water from the rest-room sink. Beneath the blood, he'd found two scratches on the side of his penis. They had barely broken the skin above the vein that was visible along the side of the shaft. He'd cut himself. Pulling his pants back up, he'd hissed curses at himself for being so stupid earlier, for sliding his cock through that rough-edged hole in the wall of the booth.

  Davey had had to sit on the toilet seat for some time. He'd buried his face in his hands and prayed that he hadn't picked up some God-awful disease.

  Standing in front of the mirror before he left the rest room, he'd realized that Chad Wilkes was right; he did not look well. He'd rubbed his pasty cheeks, trying to work up a little color in them. He'd washed his face with cold water, run his fingers through his hair. Staring into the mirror, he could see her, almost as if she were superimposed over his reflection, smiling up at him with her deep welcoming eyes that seemed to pull him slowly, powerfully, toward her, toward those dark, candy lips that had felt so good on him, sooo cooool and smooth and comforting ....

  He'd started suddenly, and thought impatiently, I've got to get some sleep.

  Now he stood, steeled himself for his talk with Miss Schuman, and started down the hall.

  He tried to think confidently, tried to tell himself that he was going to be very firm about her unfairness in giving Fritz's job to Chad.

  Jasmine Barny, Miss Schuman's secretary, sat behind her desk in the outer office, talking on the phone. She was a small young black woman with a very large smile that never quite went away. Standing before her desk, Davey suddenly felt very dizzy. He grabbed the edge of Jasmine's desk to keep from hitting the floor.

  Jasmine hung up the phone and looked at him with concern. “Are you okay, Davey?” she asked, standing.

  “Yeah, yeah, I think so,” he said quietly, straightening up as the sensation began to fade. “Sit down, I'm fine."

  “You sure? You don't look so good."

  He took a deep breath and smiled. “Yeah, I'm fine. I just haven't eaten today. Is she in?"

  “Yes,” Jasmine said uncertainly, watching him carefully as he moved around her desk. “She's expecting you. Go on in."

  As usual, Miss Schuman sat behind her desk, seeming to be in competition with its size, smoking a cigarillo, scanning a paper she held before her in one thick-fingered hand.

  “Miss Schuman?” Davey said.

  “Ah.” She put the paper down and took a drag on the cigarillo, motioning for him to come toward her. “Come."

  Davey stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Sit,” she said, waving her hand toward a rusty-red vinyl-covered chair that faced her. She wore a bracelet with several silver seashell-shaped charms that dangled and clinked loudly when she moved.

  Davey sat and crossed one leg over the other.

  Miss Schuman reached over to an ugly wooden box filled with cigarillos on the corner of her desk and offered it to Davey. “Smoke?"

  “No, thank you."

  “That's right,” she said, “you don't smoke.” She leaned back in her chair and it squeaked painfully under her considerable weight. She was wearing one of her tentlike dresses that fell in folds around her huge upper arms and mountainous breasts. This one swirled with black and red and had a small red bow at the collar where her breasts just began to press together into deep cleavage. Large red beads were strung around her neck and little black cubes dangled from her ears beneath her curly, stiff, salt-and-pepper hair. Her glistening red lips smiled at Davey, pushing her fleshy cheeks up until they almost obliterated her eyes.

  “You wanted to
see me?” Davey asked.

  “Yes,” she said abruptly, her smile disappearing. She took another drag on her cigarillo and exhaled smoke as she continued. “I think it's about time we had a talk. Another talk, I should say, since this isn't a new issue.” She leaned forward, not without effort, and tapped her finger on a notepad before her. “I want to talk to you about these stories you've been recommending to our editors. Like the one about...” She lifted the notepad and looked over it briefly. “...about the family who loses their son to a, uh...” Another peek at the pad. “...to a ‘gun-cleaning accident.'” She looked at Davey silently, waiting for him to respond.

  “Well,” he said, wondering whether he should be honest or tell her something she wanted to hear. He decided to be honest. “I really thought it was an important story. And well written."

  “Come on now, Owen,” she said quietly. “That is a pro-gun control story you gave to Max. How many times do I have to tell you that is not what our readers want to read. We leave all that stuff to Phil Donahue. We publish action-adventure magazines, vigilante magazines, war magazines. In our business, Owen, guns are more important than people. We are read by people who have seen Rambo fifty-seven times and who tap-dance on the throats of those who support gun laws. If we were to print that story you recommended, they would storm this building and beat us all within an inch of our lives. If we were lucky."

  “Well, maybe so,” Davey said quickly, sitting forward in his chair, “but the truth is—"

  “The truth is, Owen, that you are not doing your job. You're doing a job, but I'm afraid it's not the one you're supposed to be doing.” She took a long drag on the cigarillo, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes a moment. When she spoke, she gestured with her hand, leaving a swirl of smoke behind the cigarillo. “Your job, Owen, is to toss this stuff out, do you understand me? You may be a pacifist, and your tastes may lean toward literature of a more intellectually stimulating nature. America is, however, a country of armchair warriors, and those are the people to whom Penn sells magazines. We want gunfire, explosions, war, violence, mayhem. For our female readers, we want stories about handsome men and beautiful women with fascinating careers who meet, fall in love, and have no cares or worries except whether to spend the weekend in Paris or Rome and what they should wear.” She looked again at the pad before her and continued, her tone exasperated, “Two weeks ago you turned in a story about an aging magician who falls in love with a young blind girl. For Christ's sake, Owen, this is not what we want, don't you know that by now?"

  Davey uncrossed his legs and shifted his position in the chair, trying not to sound off the way he wanted to.

  Your lack of spine, Davey. You have no spine.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand. And I'll, um, I'll try to keep that in mind."

  “Good. Now, like I said, we had this talk last year. I would be very pleased if, next year, or a few months from now, we don't have to have it again. Because if we do, Owen, we aren't going to, do you understand me?"

  You have no spine.

  He exhaled his reply: “Yes."

  She smiled again, pooching up her cheeks. “Good. Now. Unless you have any questions, that's all I wanted to say."

  Davey stood. “No. No questions."

  “All right.” Puff. “Thank you for coming in."

  “Sure.” He tried to smile as he stood, but failed. He turned and started toward the door.

  “Owen?"

  He stopped. “Hm?"

  Miss Schuman frowned as she stamped her cigarillo out in a big brass ashtray to her right. “You feel all right? You look pretty pale."

  “I feel ... yeah, I feel fine."

  She removed another cigarillo from the box and stuck it between her lips. “Are you eating right?” she asked, producing a butane lighter from somewhere in the folds of her billowy dress. “You know, your body might be trying to tell you something. You should pay attention to your body, Owen.” She flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of her cigarillo. “It's not a bad one,” she added with a sly smile, “you should take good care of it.” She exhaled and waved smoke at Davey. “I've got a diet at home you might like to try. Maybe I'll bring it in tomorrow. Or maybe you'd like to come over to my apartment some time and I can show it to you."

  Davey said nothing as he reached for the doorknob. Chad Wilkes's smug smile flashed behind his eyes.

  “I do have one question, Miss Schuman."

  “What's that, Owen?"

  “Well ... Fritz's old job? I understand you gave it to Chad Wilkes."

  She sniffed. “That's right."

  “Well, you know, Miss Schuman, I've been here for quite a while now. I hope to stay in this business. Make advances. I thought that, by now, I would've moved up a little here at Penn. I thought that I would be considered for that job."

  “You were considered, Owen. You were. But Chad has a good eye. He knows what we're looking for, he's picked some winners. He ... well, he knows”—she cocked one thinly penciled brow, speaking deliberately—“what I like.” She leaned toward Davey, making no attempt to hide the scrutiny in her eyes as she looked him up and down slowly. “You know, Owen,” she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, “we hardly know one another. Maybe if we spent more time together ... you would know what I like, too."

  I can't believe what she's saying, he thought.

  “And next time,” she continued, “maybe you'll get the assistant-editor position."

  They know they can shit on you, so they're going to!

  “Maybe some weekend soon,” she went on, “we can have dinner. Spend some time outside of work, you know, getting acquainted."

  They know they can shit on you....

  “What do you say, Owen?"

  ...so they're going to.

  He thought of Beth's last words to him: You're gonna have to start grabbing things by the short and curlies.

  And of Casey's gentle scolding: You have no spine.

  Of Chad Wilkes's smug smile, and of the girl in the booth, of her breasts and her jet-black hair, and something seemed to uncurl inside Davey. He wasn't sure if it was confidence or anger, or both, but it was sudden and strong and it pushed the words up through his mouth.

  “Not on a bet."

  Miss Schuman blinked slowly. “I'm sorry?"

  “I said: Not. On. A bet.” Quietly, but firmly.

  The corners of her mouth twitched. She clearly did not know how to react.

  “Miss Schuman,” Davey said, “I think it's time that I—"

  What? his mind demanded. Time that I what?

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “Moved on. I think it's time that I moved on."

  She chuckled. “To what, Owen?"

  “To a new publisher, I suppose. There doesn't seem to be anything for me here."

  “And what makes you think there is elsewhere?"

  Pause. “I'll turn in my two-week notice before I leave today.” He opened the door.

  “That won't be necessary."

  Davey half turned to her.

  “I don't like your attitude, Mr. Owen. If you want to be rewarded for your work, you must do something to deserve it. So far you haven't.” Puff. Smile. “Chad has. If you're going to go around with your nose in the air making rude remarks to your superiors, then I'll let you go now so you won't waste two weeks of your time. Or mine. How does that sound?” She grinned. “You can take your things with you when you leave tonight. Good-bye, Mr. Owen.” She went back to the paper she was reading as if he weren't there.

  Davey left the office and closed the door quietly.

  Davey got his things together in no time at all, and he did it with a smile. He felt better than he had in months, satisfied with himself. A little scared, too, of course. He had no idea what he would do next, but it would at least be something that would allow him a little self-respect, even if it were nothing more than bussing tables.

  Having gathered together the few belongings he had in t
he cubicle—a few pens and pencils, a tin of aspirin, some newspaper articles he'd cut out for one reason or another, all of which fit nicely into his briefcase—he said a silent good-bye to the tiny space he'd occupied for so long, turned his back on it, and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” Casey asked him on his way out.

  “I quit."

  “You what?” she hissed with a smile.

  “Well, actually, I quit and then I was fired. I'll tell you all about it tonight if you're still coming over."

  “Are you high? I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

  He tossed a few good-byes to his coworkers as he left, smiling even at those whose names he could not remember. In fact, he was still smiling when he got into the empty elevator and as he crossed the lobby to the doors, opening his umbrella as he stepped outside.

  He joined a small group of people waiting at the bus stop: two old ladies, a black woman juggling a baby on one arm and a bag in the other, and a few foul-mouthed teenagers. He collapsed his umbrella and tucked it under his arm; the rain had stopped, leaving only a chilly mist.

  He looked around him at the others, catching snatches of their conversations. Then, for no reason, she came to mind again.

  Smiling and cool.

  Soft and smooth.

  And oh so promising.

  She was that way. Just a few blocks, around a few corners, and he could see her again.

  He remembered the uncomfortable stickiness in his pants earlier. The shame and anger he'd felt.

  The pleasure he'd felt at the touch of her soft, moist lips.

  There was a hiss and wrenching sound as the bus came to a stop at the curb. The others filed in; Davey stepped toward the bus, looking from its door to his right, toward her...

  He stepped up on the first step and reached into his coat pocket for a token. He felt its round flatness, so much like those four tokens he'd held in his hand earlier, the ones that had lifted the panel from the glass...

  “Well,” the driver grunted impatiently at Davey, “you comin’ or goin', fella? I ain't got all fuckin’ day."