Chi-Town Blues

by D. J. Herda

  "You know. That thing that people who aren't ... careful ... can contract? I mean, no matter how particular a guy and girl might be, sometimes it just ... happens. You understand."

  Understand? Understand? Of course, I understand. But understand what? That the girl of my dreams, that my very own goddess, the one to whom I am ready to dedicate my life, my soul, and my dreams got the clap? From some guy named after some fucking cat? From some goddam plumber?

  "Uhh, I'm not sure," I say.

  "Well, I mean, you can't blame me. We were going to be married. I'd saved myself for just the right man. Just the right one, you know? Or at least I thought I had. And I probably would have married him, too, and had a wonderful life with him. A little home in the country. A couple of beautiful children. I always wanted a couple of beautiful kids. And maybe some kind of mutt. But after that, after he contracted that, that disease, well, it was just out of the question. I mean, I couldn't even look him in the eye anymore. Not like I can you."

  I nod, still too dumbfounded to speak. And then it strikes me. Did she say he got the disease or they got the disease? God, is this really happening to me? Why, Lord? Can you give me a hint?

  "So ...” she sighs, sending her swollen, perky, and possibly diseased tits heaving. "That was that. Pitiful, isn't it?"

  I nod my head again. "Awful." The consequences are simply too devastating to fathom. There he was, the lucky son-of-a-bitch, diddling the most stunning creature ever known to humanity, practically, on the very eve of tying the indelible knot to her for all time—because what moron in his right mind would ever even think about leaving her. Ever? Or even dying on her, for God’s sake? There he was, Fritz the Cat, tottering on the brink of nirvana, when suddenly he shows up with a big dose of the creeping crud. Jesus, what an idiot!

  "Just think. If only he'd been more discreet,” she says. But, then, of course, you know how men are." She smiles at me, as though suddenly able to read my mind. As though she'd been born to read my mind. All at once, I feel uncomfortable, as if I want to crawl into a hole or something.

  "Oh, no," I say, shaking my head. "Not all men ... I mean, I'm not really ...”

  "And that's alright," she adds quickly, taking hold once more of my arm. I wait for the tingle, but it fails to reappear. "I understand that a man has ... well, certain needs. That those needs are different from a woman's. And that's why our little talk here is so important. You understand, don't you?"

  "Important," I repeat.

  "Exactly," she says. "That's why I'm glad I met you today. People like you and me, we understand one another.”

  "We do?"

  “We know what we have to do.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I say. I feel a little like a right fielder in a game of right-handed hitters. Something is going on here, that's for sure. I'm just not certain it involves me.

  "Absolutely,” she says.

  "Why?" I ask, not particularly sure of my motivation. I mean, as far as I could tell, it was Game, Set, Match from the moment she mentioned that little “problem” her fiancé may have visited upon her. I don’t care how beautiful a woman is, I’m not sticking my pen into a dry inkwell. If you know what I mean.

  "Because, silly, I can tell you're a very macho, very virile man. And I know you want to be protected. And you don't want to have a relationship with anyone unless you're careful."

  I nod. "Sure. Of course. That's me, alright. That’s for damn sure."

  "I know you're a lot more considerate than Fritz was. I mean, I was lucky when you really stop to think about it. I never came down with anything, thank heaven.”

  What? Are you serious? Is she serious? Did I really hear her right? Did she really escape the Jaws of Death unscathed? Oh, yes, my God! Oh, thank you, Lord Jesus!

  I felt like high-fiving myself, but I figured that would look a little peculiar, so, instead, I nodded knowingly.

  “But all those tests and things,” she continued, “and all those embarrassing trips to the doctor. I could have died, you know?”

  Do we really have to go into all the details now?

  “But I know you’re different. I know you're concerned about your relationships. After all, if a woman is worth having ... sexually, well, you just want to be safe. Especially someone as experienced with the opposite sex as you are."

  "Of course," I reply, wondering just what the hell she was talking about. And why.

  "That's the reason I wanted to show you these."

  I watch as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small handful of colorful cellophane wrappers.

  "What are they?" I ask. "Bennies?"

  She laughs. "No, silly. They’re condoms. You know, for protection. Like I said. I could tell from the moment I first saw you that you’re different. You’re resourceful. You’re concerned and caring. I knew right away that you understand."

  I do not understand.

  "After Fritz and I broke up, I was so disillusioned with men, so disappointed that one human being could do that kind of thing to another that I joined the Sexual Protection League—the SPL. Have you heard of it?”

  The NFL? Sure. Who hasn’t?

  “Well,” she continues, “the SPL is just about the most wonderful group of people I ever met, you know? They started up on the north side of Chicago a few years ago, and now they’re national practically. Their motto is, 'A happy relationship is a disease-free relationship.' Cute, huh?"

  "Disease-free," I say, absently. “Yeah. Adorable.”

  "And so, of course, I offered to help out by doing anything I could. That’s when I began selling some of their products. For the good of humanity. And to make a little money to help pay my tuition. But mostly for the good of humanity."

  "Humanity.” I wonder just how on earth pimping for free sex benefits humankind.

  "What color do you like?"

  "Hmm? Color?" I ask.

  "I think mauve would be just perfect for you. Or maybe teal. Yes, that’s it. To go with your eyes. But, then again, a lady likes to have a selection to choose from, doesn't she? So, why don't we just choose three each from the seventeen different color groups represented in the collection?"

  I nod. "Three each. From the seventeen ...”

  “That should be enough to hold even a stud like you for a few days!” She throws her head back again and laughs before returning her attention to her purse. “Where is that ...”

  “Seventeen. Sure,” I say finally. “Why not. What the hell." I mean, how much could they cost? A quarter apiece? Three for a dollar? Besides, she was right. It was just good sense to play it safe. You never could tell. And if things worked out the way I planned, I could put them in a drawer somewhere and will them to our kids when I died.

  "Textured, ribbed, or plain?" she asks.

  I shrug. "Hell’s bells, I’m stumped. Surprise me."

  She laughs. "You are just so precious. I can see you really are a considerate partner. Let’s give you one of each. If you want more later, you can always reorder."

  "One.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Of each."

  "That’s right," she says. "And three of each of the different colors. You know, three red textured, three red ribbed, three red plain ...”

  "Three red ...”

  I watch as she pulls out her cell phone, opens up her calculator, and begins punching in numbers, her cute little Scandinavian nose bobbing up and down, her sexy red tongue dancing across her lips. "You know something? I was right. You're exactly the kind of man I thought you were, exactly the kind I admire. The kind of man I always hoped Fritz would turn out to be."

  "Really?" I say. By God, I think I’m gaining here. I think I’m I gathering some steam. And if my dream girl is a little eccentric, so what? Since when the hell has eccentric been against the law?

  "There," she says, totaling the order and holding it out for me to see. “That’s three times three times seventeen. That comes to $676.57, including sales tax."

  I gulp again, this ti
me harder than before and not caring at all whether or not she hears.

  "Six hundred seventy-six dollars ...” I repeat.

  "And fifty-seven cents. Including sales tax." She holds up a bagful of goods and waves it before me, like a farmer tempting an old nag with a sack of oats.

  "I ... I don't think I have that much cash with me."

  "Oh, that's alright," she says, stuffing the bag into her purse. "I take PayPal and personal checks."

  I stare at her blankly for a moment, and then I begin making motions as if searching for a non-existent checkbook.

  "By God," I say finally, after peering into every nook and cranny on my body. "Say, you're going to think I'm a real scatterbrain, but I'm afraid I ...” I look up at her, at her outstretched hand, at the shiny black leather case she's holding out to me.

  "Honestly," she says. "You men are all alike. You’re lucky to have us women around. Fortunately, I have this banking software installed on my phone.” She waves it in front of me like a matador flashing a cape before a belligerent bull. “Just tell me the name of your bank and give me your account number. The software will fill in the routing information. Then just type your e-mail address into the little box here—see?—and sign at the bottom, and the rest will be handled automatically.”

  “The name of my bank.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And my account number.”

  “Uh-huh. And your e-mail addy. And you’ll get your receipt instantly. Now, which bank is it?”

  “Uhh ...” I hesitate for only a moment or two, only long enough for me to question seriously whether or not I should go through with this whole thing. I mean, was she interested in me or wasn’t she? Or was this nothing more than a sales pitch? If that were it, if it really were only a sales pitch, I had to admit it was a damned good one.

  No, I decide. No, she’s on the level. She’s simply concerned about my being concerned about all the women roaring through my life and trying to help me out. I wonder if my chances of riding off with her into the sunset will somehow improve if I have a shitload of condoms in my saddlebag.

  “It’s the First National Securities of Chicago,” I blurt out finally, hoping against hope that she doesn’t realize there is no such facility anywhere within the entire bowels of the City of Chicago. For a moment, I toy with the notion of saying that it’s a subsidiary of the Amalgamated Bank of Syria and that the transaction will probably take an extra day or two to complete, but it dawns on me that my chances of scoring with my fantasy woman will go right down the tubes with that one. As will I, if she finds out the truth and decides to prosecute me for passing a bum check. But that’s another matter entirely.

  “Fine. Your checking account number?”

  “That would be ... uhh, one, one, seven ...”

  “One, one, seven ...”

  “Three, one, seven ...”

  “Three, one, seven ...”

  “Uhh, fifty-two eighty-four.”

  “Fifty-two ...” Her voice drifts off as I watch her manipulate her Asanti 4373K for several seconds before she taps a button and holds out the screen for my inspection. There, sure enough, right below the words, First National Securities of Chicago and the bogus account number I just gave her, is the sum total of $676.57 spelled out in good old U.S. of A. dollars. “Just put your John Hancock on the bottom line, next to the X,” she adds, and for a brief moment, I wonder just where the hell I am going to come up with $676.57 anyway once she finds out there really is no First National Securities of Chicago, and I have to devise a Plan B to produce the funds to keep me out of jail. My only hope is that, by the time the order is submitted and rejected and submitted and rejected a second time and possibly a third, my fantasy woman and I will have moved on to bigger and better things, such as mind-blowing sex and lifelong mutual commitments, and she’ll be mine. And we can have a good, long laugh about it together years later.

  "There," I say, motioning with the stylus across the solid black line at the bottom of the screen and handing the phone back to her.

  "Jack M. Blakely. Super," she gushes, pressing another button. She waits, watching, as I sweat bullets while taking in the remarkable sight of the twins struggling to free themselves even in the presence of such unbridled mendacity. Do they ever rest?

  “This is embarrassing,” she says, shaking her head.

  Oh, crap. I should have used that Syria thing!

  “I’m afraid I just lost my Wi-Fi connection. I’m going to have to finish running this off when I get back to the office. I’ll e-mail you a copy for your records and send you your order.” She shoves the phone back into her purse and pulls the latch closed. "If you don’t mind my getting in touch with you tomorrow.”

  I feel my lips purse and my head shake involuntarily.

  “Good, because I just know you're going to love them. And get so-o-o much use out of them. They’re just a super investment."

  Suddenly, a little birdie lands on my shoulder. It weighs roughly twenty-three pounds and has the wingspan of a Douglas F4 Phantom Fighter. And I realize at last that, for better or worse, I am not a creative writer for nothing.

  Goddamit, I curse to myself. Shit. It’s all a hoax. One great big, gigantic, unmitigated hoax. I watch her fiddling with her phone as my chin drops to my chest. She’s a con. Nothing but a fucking con. A scammer. She’s pulling a grift on me! She’s setting me up for the slaughter! She had this planned all along. I was nothing more to her than a mark from the very start! And a dumb one! What a jerk.

  Suddenly I feel as if I’m the lowest, most ignorant, most gullible person on earth. How ridiculously foolish I am. How fucking gullible!

  And then it dawns on me. It couldn’t be a scam. Not in a million years. All you have to do is open your eyes and take a look at her. She is honey and molasses, maple syrup and cherry jam spread out on a slice of freshly baked sourdough bread. She is goodness personified. What am I thinking?

  Besides, I remember, I’m the one who said I have an account at the First National Securities of Chicago, so when she does go to place the order, I’ll be the one running the scam.

  What the hell am I doing? What’s wrong with my brain? I just committed a crime. Or at least I think I did. Why did I do that? I could end up in prison!

  I am tempted for a moment to spill the beans about my own inherent dishonesty and throw myself on the mercy of the court, but I somehow manage to fight off the urge when I look deeply into her two eyes—and elsewhere—and realize I have to have her, no matter what, and hear my own words slipping from two very willing lips: “Which reminds me. I have these two tickets for Saturday's big game. You know, against Ohio State? And I was thinking ... wouldn't it be great to go to the game, then maybe out to dinner afterward? A little wine, a little dancing. And, who knows, maybe a relaxing evening at my apartment afterward.”

  This will tell the tale. This will wrap things up. This is where we separate the wheat from the chaff. Where the rubber really meets the road.

  She smiles, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I don’t think so. You see, as much as I’d like to, I have this strict personal policy of never dating my customers.”

  “Well ... I’m not a customer. I mean, not technically.”

  She lifts her shoulders and raises her brows. She holds up her phone with my signature still etched on the bottom and waves it gently from side to side. “Sorry. Afraid this says you are.”

  “But ... but ...” I frantically search for another way off the hook. Something to tell her I’m not who she thinks I am without telling her I’m not who she thinks I am. Instead, I find myself saying simply, “That order? It’s not ... really an order. I mean, not until I pay.”

  “It’s good as gold to me,” she says.

  “But ... well, it’s not any good. I mean, not really. Not technically.”

  She pauses, her eyes searching mine. If only I can convince her to cancel the contract. Negate our deal. That’s my one
hope for not blowing everything. Tear the thing up, marry her, and move to the suburbs. Buy a Mercedes, settle down to two-point-four kids, and live life happily ever after.

  But first things first.

  “And why do you say that?” she asks.

  I hesitate, preparing to bite the bullet. All my life, it seems, has come down to this one singular moment. All the days I spent manipulating my way through school, all the times I’d invested conning my way through various summer jobs, all the women I’d snowed. They all came down to this.

  “Because ... I made up the bank.”

  She raises her brows again.

  “And I gave you a phony checking account number.”

  She looks down at her phone.

  “And ... and ... and ... the name is fake, too,” I say. “It’s really Jake Striker.”

  She looks at me incredulously, as if I’d sprouted another head or at least a second set of ears. For a moment, I think she is going to cry. And then I see her lips curl down and her eyes narrow.

  “That wasn’t a very nice thing to do, Jake Striker.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? You caught me flat-footed. I’m between paychecks. I just didn’t want you to leave. You know, without having a chance to get to know you better.”

  “So, you lied to me.”

  I moved about uncomfortably. “Well, not lied, actually. More like ... failed to tell you the truth.”

  “Well, now I’ll tell you some truth. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go down to the bank together, your real bank, so you can draw out the cash and give it to me directly. In that way, we’ll both be living up to our agreement, and you won’t be guilty, you know? Of writing a bad check.”

  This time I feel my eyes turn to slits, wondering if I’d heard her correctly. Did she say, Of fighting a fat chick? I shake my head, my mind whirring as the reality of her words finally sinks in.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

  “Well, then, how about if we go down to the Third Precinct and have a little heart-to-heart talk with my uncle, instead.”