by D. J. Herda
"Well, come on," she said, her voice oozing honey, draining sweet nectar lightly squeezed from a comb so that it dribbles its golden mellifluousness down your forearm. "I won't bite."
John took several steps across the cracked black-and-gold speckled linoleum that somehow, after 57 years, still managed to pass for a floor and slid down across a vinyl-covered stool that matched, in age and overall condition if not in cleanliness, the flooring. He stared at her chest—he couldn't help himself—at the promise of the untold wealth at which those two magnificent mounds portended, watching first one stupendous globe strain tightly against the pink chintz of her uniform and then the other as she turned halfway away from him to pour a cup of steaming coffee, then halfway back as she reached for a saucer and a spoon. He managed to lift his eyes only milliseconds before she turned full toward him, placing the java on the counter between his outstretched hands. She smiled. He smiled. They both smiled.
He looked down at the cup, managed to thread one trembling finger through the hole, and lifted it slowly off the counter. Slowly, deliberately, wantonly his vision, his apparition, his goddess leaned forward, resting her weight against her forearms, pressing lightly against the counter's edge. She reached out and grasped his wrists.
Setting the trembling cup back down, John looked up—up and in, up and deep down within that chasm of hope, that sink-hole of joy, that glorious crater of delirium in which those two grandiose globes were opened wide for inspection, opened to reveal the swollen ripeness of their bounty, two honey-do's ready for the harvest. They were the biggest boobs he had ever seen, and he was positive they must have been the sweetest tasting.
Gradually, the faint scent of jasmine on a moonlit night swept past him, and he heard the voice of an angel incant, "Do you take cream?"
John couldn't believe his ears and blurted out suddenly, "Oh, God, yes!" He stopped short. His eyes widened, and a sudden rash of red washed over his face. "I ... I mean, y-y-yes. I'd love some ... cream ... if it's not too much ... trouble."
She smiled at him, pausing far longer than one would have thought necessary while staring into his eyes, capturing them, taking them prisoner, ensnaring them for all eternity, pausing far longer than anyone would have expected a waitress to do before finally releasing his wrists from her grasp, and, still smiling, turning away to fetch the creamer.
Suddenly, John felt a new surge race through his body, a swelling deep down within, felt his manhood straining against all decency, straining and coursing, ready to race, raring to go ... and felt his bladder begging for release. He shifted his weight uneasily to one side as his vision of loveliness returned, set the pitcher before him, and said something softly, too softly for him to make out, before smiling once more and turning away to go fiddle with one of the coffeepots. John raised the cup to his lips and took a sip, then another, then a third, his lips lingering at the edge of the cup, his nostrils taking in the heady aroma, the heat rising from the black brew, a heat that nearly matched the one he felt burning within his loins. All the while he sipped, he watched the goddess move her derriere first this way, then that, its perfectly formed twin globes matching in symmetry and in promise, if not in size, those other twins that had already captured his imagination, his heart, his lust-filled soul. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He had to have her.
It was strange how these things happen sometimes. At one moment, you find yourself wandering through life, hoping to meet someone you might be attracted to, fall in love with, and never ever want to be apart from again. And the next moment, wham! There she is. Standing right before you. Standing there and staring right into your eyes, all gooey with sappiness and tenderness and all that other stuff, just the way it says in the magazines and on TV. Standing there invitingly, hoping that you notice, that you feel the same way about her that she feels about you. Hoping against hope ... and more.
"So ..." the goddesses' voice chimed sweetly, dragging him back to reality. "What's your name?"
John swallowed hard and set the cup down. He cleared his throat. He had to be cool. He had to do this just right. Oh, he knew it wasn't a tough question. He knew he could handle it. He'd done so before many times. But now ... Now, his answer would have to be perfectly smooth, confident, relaxed, assured. He would need to be all of that and more if he was to capture this wanton beauty for his own forever. He knew his chances in life of ever meeting anyone again even half so desirable rested on the far side of slim. He was not about to waste his best shot. She was just too good to be true, his fantasy dream walking. If this was John's one-in-a-million shot, he was going to sink it.
"John," he replied. "John ..." He paused. He felt his knuckles tighten, his palms begin to melt. His feet grew suddenly to twice their normal size. His head began to throb. Fear washed over him like a condemned man on Death Row taking those last few desperate steps.
Wait a minute. Wait! Something's wrong, here. Something's very wrong! a little voice in the back of John's head screamed. Did he remember? Could he remember? Back a year ago or more. Back to the very first trip he'd taken with his parents to Las Vegas. It had been a high-school graduation present. He'd wandered down to the bar late one night, 1:30 or 2, long after his parents had turned in, and he fought his way past wall-to-wall bodies, a sea of sweating torsos, smoking cigarettes, waving cigars, beaded handbags, stacks of chips, plastic cups filled with silver quarters, until finally he spotted a solitary stool.
Sliding quickly through the crowd, he settled onto the perch and motioned to the bartender for a beer. As he slowly raised it to his lips, the woman seated next to him turned around. "Well, helloooo," she said seductively. She was dark-haired, dark-lipped, with plenty of eye makeup, but clean, not greasy looking, and when John's eyes swept across her, he couldn't help but notice that her peek-a-boo blouse was, indeed, peeking. "What's your name?" she asked.
"John," he replied, surprised that anyone so sophisticated would express an interest in someone as young as he. He sat up on the stool, trying to make himself look taller, older. After all, she was 23, 24 maybe. He couldn't tell. "John ... uhh, just John. You know."
"Well, nice to meet you, John Just John. My name is Marie ... Marie Amore," she said, holding out her hand for John to squeeze. He hoped she hadn't noticed the sweat on his palm and wondered how it had gotten there. "Are you here on business or pleasure, John?"
"Oh," John replied, reaching nonchalantly for his beer. "Pleasure. Strictly pleasure. I always come to Vegas when I want to have some fun. I love it here. Always something going on. You know? Always some action."
She smiled. "I know what you mean. I'm here for some action, too." She stared at John as he sipped from the glass. "Are you staying at the casino?" she asked.
Suddenly a bell went off within the distant recesses of his mind. Ohmahgawd ... she wouldn't be ... I mean, she couldn't be ...
"Uhh, yeah," John said. "Yeah, I am. And you?"
She smiled, ran her long nails gently across his forearm, and looked up at him. "I could be ... if you're really looking for some fun."
Suddenly, the bell not only rang, it went hurdling from the tower. John flinched. "Ohh, gee. Yeah, well, I mean ... sure. Who isn't?"
Fun ... as in fifty dollars and a lifetime of herpes? Fun as in a hundred bucks and she throws in an autographed HIV test? This wasn't exactly John's idea of a good time. Not to mention the fact that, for his first ever, well, paramour, he had always pictured something, someone, a bit more ... conventional.
"I mean, no. I mean, not really. You see, I've got this business, uhh, engagement. In the morning. You know, early. In the morning. Tomorrow? So, you see, I really shouldn't, uhh ..."
The woman leaned forward, her ample breasts dangling invitingly, unrestrained, mere inches from John's nerve center. "Oh, nooo. You're not going to put business before pleasure, are you? Life is so-o-o short." She slid one hand, long-fingered and delicate, through his hair.
"Ohh, yeah. God. Yeah, that's saying a mouth ... I mean,
yeah, you can say that again. But you know the old adage. All work and no ... I mean, no rest for the ..." He felt his hands begin to tremble and his arm sink back down to the bar where the glass clinked softly against the damp marble. Slowly he pushed himself backward until he slipped off the back of the stool. "Look, I mean, I really appreciate the offer and all. I really do. That's ... that's just ... swell of you. Really, it is. But I think, under the circumstances and all, well ..."
The woman raised her brows and pursed her lips into a tight, inviting pout, all the while her eyes never wavering.
"So-o-o," John said. "I guess I'll be, you know, turning in."
She smiled. "Well, that's too bad, John Aiello. Are you sure you don't want some company?"
"Ohh, gee. I mean, yeah, that would really be, you know, swell. But, I really can't. I've got this ... meeting ... in the morning ... you know? And—" he spread his arms out to his sides, looking for all the world like a Mallard coming in for a landing, and forced a loud yawn—"I'm really tired, as you can plainly see." As he spoke, he backed slowly away from her and, lowering his arms, said, "No, I'm just going to ... hit the old hay and get some shut-eye. You know. Just me. Alone. All night long. Asleep."
"Well, then, maybe we can get together tomorrow night ... if you don't have any more business meetings, and if you're not so tired."
Oh, my God! I told her I'm staying here at the casino. I told her my name! I'm dead fucking meat! Jesus Christ, what if she looks me up? What if she comes knocking on my door in the middle of the night, stoned out of her head on drugs or something ... or drunk as a sailor? Or what if her pimp gets mad at her and beats her up and she comes to my room looking for help? Or, Jesus Christ! What if she goes to my parents' room by mistake!
"Hi, my name is Marie, and I'm a hooker. Is John in? He's expecting me." Oh, my God, that'd be it. That'd do it.
"John what?"
"What?" John said.
"I said, John what? What's your last name?" the goddess asked, staring over the counter past his mug of steaming coffee and out across a big, inviting smile that reminded him of that other smile he'd seen so long ago, a smile that had him so terrified of its potential for disaster that it ruined his entire trip.
"Oh," he said, fear suddenly coursing through him like a thoroughbred trailing at the wire. "John ... uhh ... John ... John ..."
John John John? John John John? Oh, that's a great name! What fun. You are so-o-o smooth, John John John! Anything else you'd like to tell her? Like maybe where you're from from from? Maybe like Walla-Walla-Walla?
"John John John! That's so cute. And unusual. You must get kidded a lot."
"Uhh, no. I mean, not that much. Not really. Some. You know, with a name like John ... uhh, you know. Some, but not a lot." He shrugged, praying for divine intervention. "But some. You know."
She smiled, her lips opening to reveal those same jewel-like pearls that had first lured him to her. He wondered how anybody could actually chew anything with teeth that small.
"My name's Mary Lou," she said, holding out her hand. "Mary Lou Feeney."
John shook hands with her, amazed at how soft her skin was, how warm, how delicate her touch.
Feeney!
"You mean, Mary Lou Feeney? As in ... Feeney? I didn't know old-man Feeney had any kids. I didn't even know he was married! I mean ..."
She giggled. "I'm not his daughter. I'm his ... well, I guess his niece."
John raised his brows, his eyes washing over her ample assets, and then he took a deep breath. That was close. John couldn't begin to imagine what kind of a girl could spring forth from the loins of a fruit cup such as Old Man Feeney. He breathed out again. He should have known. No one that shapely, that gorgeous, that stacked could be the progeny of a loon. He was ashamed of himself even for thinking it. For thinking lots of things.
And, better yet, he thought, she's no hooker, for Chrissake. She's just a nice, warm, friendly waitress looking for a nice, warm, friendly friend. Just because she's stacked doesn't mean she's a hooker, for God's sake.
On the other hand, John thought, he hadn't seen it coming in Vegas, either. He hadn't been able to tell. At least not until she had come right out and practically propositioned him. Could it be the same thing here? With Mary Lou Feeney? Could Old Man Feeney's niece be a goddam whore in sheep’s clothing? That would certainly fit. That would certainly explain her being so ... warm and friendly toward him all of a sudden.
He shook his head. Jesus, Christ, John. Can you pick 'em, or what!
"I just work here whenever I need a little ... extra money,” she said.
“You work here for extra money.”
“Yeah. You know, to help out with school and things like that. I'm in college. At the University of Minnesota. Home of the Golden Gophers?"
She took one step back and threw her arms out to one side. "Hit 'em high, hit 'em low, come on Gophers, go-go-go!"
At the end of the cheer, she thrust her boobs so far forward, he half expected them to explode.
"Ohmahgawd,” he whispered.
She looked at him. "What?"
"Oh. Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about ... something. I mean some things. Some ... one."
She glanced at him mischievously and reached up to tug at her top still straining to pop free. “These things can be a pain in the ass sometimes. You know?” She winked.
Winked!
"How about you?"
"Huh?"
"I said, how about you? Do you live here? In Chicago?"
"Ohh ..." John John John's mind raced around for an answer. If she were a hooker, he wasn't about to share his life story with her. And run the risk of her come knocking on his door in the middle of the night. On the other hand, even if she was, he didn't want to come off looking like a complete idiot. "Oh, no. No. I'm from ... uhh, South Dakota. Yeah. That’s right. I'm just here helping my uncle work his nets."
"Oh," she said. "Then your uncle lives here."
"Huh? Oh, no. No. None of us lives here. We're all from ... we all live somewhere else. Far away, I mean. All over. All over the place." He hoped that she was buying it.
"What do you do in South Dakota? Go to school?"
"Yeah. Yep. That’s what I do all right ... go to school. There. In South Dakota. You know, far away."
"Oh. At the University?"
"Yeah, that's right. In Fargo."
"Oh." She smiled again before pausing, the smile fading from her face. "Wait a minute. Isn't Fargo in North Dakota?"
John stirred uneasily. "Oh, yeah. Of course. But, I, uhh ... commute."
"Oh, well, that's fine ...” She squinted at him, picked up a glass, and wiped it dry. “I guess."
"So-o-o," John said awkwardly. "What's your size? I mean sign. Major. I meant to say, what's your major? What are you studying? You know. In college. In Minnesota."
“Nothing, really. I mean, I haven’t really made up my mind.”
Nothing. She’s studying at the University and doesn’t have a major.
“You?” she asked.
He shifted on his stool. “Oh ... same.”
Her lips turned up into an impish grin. "You're cute, you know that? And kinda shy. I like that in a guy."
Holy God, she thinks I'm cute. And shy. And me? I think ... I’ve done it once again.
"Just for that, I'm going to give you another cup of coffee, John John John. On the house. For being so adorable."
As she reached for the pot, John could picture his father opening the morning paper to the scream of the headline: "Local Boy Arrested for Solicitation!" It went on to read: “’I didn't know she was an undercover cop,' young pervert insists. 'I thought she was just a really nice hooker!’”
She filled his cup, and John John John jumped back sharply.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she said. "Is that hot? I'm so clumsy. Here, let me get you ..."
"No, no, that's all right. Really. Besides, I've gotta go. I've just gotta ... help my uncle ... pull in that net. He's waiting for
me. Right now. Right down ... over somewhere, uhh ... somewhere else. Thanks, anyway. Really."
"Well ..." the goddess looked confused. "Okay, but at least let me give you a go-cup."
Oh, my God. Did she say D-cup?
"It'll help keep you warm.”
I’ll buy that!
“Here," she said, filling up a plastic cup and handing it to him.
"Ohh. Oh, okay, thanks. Thanks a lot. Really. Sorry I've gotta run and all, but, well, you know."
"If you get cold later, come on back, John John John. It gets lonely in here sometimes. Especially when my uncle’s off somewhere getting supplies."
Your uncle. Right. Sure.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. If I can. I'll definitely do that."
John slipped off the stool and slid out the door, failing to notice the sun breaking over the lake. He scurried back to the rocks where his uncle was waiting, watching, tugging at the net to see if he could feel any action of the Piscesian kind.
Jesus Christ, John! What the fuck is the matter with you? Two women in two years, and they're both fucking hookers? What the fuck is the matter with you? You have a sign on your back? Twenty bucks, No waiting! What the goddam fuck is the goddam matter with you?
John worked quickly, quietly, helping his uncle pull up the net before letting it slide back down into the frigid abyss after they'd removed the handful or two of fish they brought up, wriggling like crazy to get free—or, perhaps, warm. He wiped his hands and wrapped them around the go-cup, and he took a sip as he watched the fish swirling around inside a bucket.
"You were gone for quite a while," John's uncle said matter-of-factly. "Must have been one helluva pee."
Pee! Ohmawgahd. I forgot to pee!
John looked again at the wriggling fish and instinctively crossed one leg over the other.
"Say, how long do you think we'll be out here? I mean, the fishing seems a bit slow. Maybe we should ..."
His uncle waved him off. "Nah. It always starts out this way. Usually, they don’t begin running until after the sun's been up an hour or two. So far it's been only—" he hesitated as he checked his watch—"ten minutes. Let's give it another couple hours, anyway."
