Fridays at Enrico's

by Don Carpenter

  “Okay, honey, up and at ’em,” he said instead, wearing his Smilin’ Jack smile. It took nearly an hour to get her out. She wanted to shower, she wanted coffee and a cigarette, she wanted to talk, but all Dick could think about was his growing relationship with Hugh Hefner. He couldn’t get over the fact that the very first story he’d sold to the best-paying magazine in the country had actually gone for double. That was like Herbert Gold or Nelson Algren or somebody. From a small-time hack barely making a living he had become, in one telephone call, a literary figure. With the girl safely gone and the events of the night entered in his journal, Dick got out his carbon of The Story. He needed to know what made this one different from his other stories. They were all pretty much alike as far as he could tell.

  Dick’s apartment was a large studio on the second floor of an old wooden building near downtown, on SW Fourth Street. There were windows on two sides and plenty of light, important in Portland because of the weather. His bed was a mattress on the floor with a nice crazy quilt his mother had given him. There were a couple of old overstuffed chairs and a kitchen area with a small old refrigerator and stove. His desk in the corner overlooked the back garden, and now he sat at it, in jeans and white tee, trying to figure out how he’d hit the daily double. The story was about a man tricking a woman into bed by pretending he didn’t want to, surely nothing original, just an excuse for humor, he’d believed when he sent it to Bob. He’d hoped maybe Caper would buy it for two fifty. Instead, Playboy, king of the girlie books, had paid Three Thousand Dollars!

  By the end of the week everybody in Portland knew about it. Dick hardly had to pay for a beer or an espresso, people were so eager to hear about the sale. There were only a handful of writers or artists of any kind in Portland, and they all tended to know each other. Now they all knew that Dick Dubonet, not the most hopeful of the bunch, in fact often looked down on because he was willing to start at the bottom, had hit the jackpot. Even the most egregious Reed College aesthete would have to acknowledge that three thousand dollars was a lot of money for couple of hours of work. Well, five or six hours.

  The best part had been telling his friendly competition, Martin Greenberg. Marty was a wonderful guy, tall and thin, with sunken hungry eyes and a small delicate almost female mouth. Marty was contemptuous of Dick’s girlie book sales, having himself much higher ambitions. Meanwhile he lived off his girlfriend and if he was writing anything Dick hadn’t seen any evidence. He talked a good game, though, and was fun to argue with. And it could not be denied that Marty had a way with girls, especially intellectual girls. Hanging around with Marty had often gotten Dick laid.

  They ran into each other in the middle of the Park Blocks, Dick walking to Meier & Frank to buy some new jeans, Marty heading up to Portland State to spend the afternoon in the library.

  “Hello,” said Dick in his deepest voice. Marty was wearing his topcoat, and his somewhat thinning brown hair was blowing around. Rain fell lightly, but neither of them paid any attention. They shook hands formally and Dick wondered if Marty had already heard.

  “Let me buy you a cup of coffee,” he heard himself saying. Marty’s eyebrows went up. He knew Dick didn’t throw money around.

  “What happened, did you sell something big?” Smart bastard.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Marty just grinned, hands in his pockets, and so Dick told him the news. “Three grand?” Marty said.

  “Minus commission,” Dick said. Marty did not have an agent.

  Suddenly Marty looked serious. “Is this true?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dick said. It was a little infuriating that Marty didn’t ask about the story itself. Like most people, he seemed interested only in the money.

  “Listen,” Marty said. “I need to borrow some dough.”

  “You do?” Dick had walked into this one.

  “Fifty bucks,” Marty said, with a little of the New York guttural in his voice.

  Dick sighed. He’d lend his friend the fifty dollars. The price of success. Or, to be more accurate, the price of braggadocio.

  13.

  Too late. He’d boasted too much. When he walked into Jerry’s Tavern every head turned, or so it seemed. He showed his teeth in a smile. He even went up and ordered a beer, which he hadn’t intended doing unless there was somebody, preferably female, he wanted to sit with.

  “On the house,” said Nick the bartender, sliding the fifteen-cent glass of Blitz-Weinhard over to him. The first taste was delicious, as always. When he lowered his glass and licked the beer off his upper lip he found himself looking into a pair of eyes almost as dark as his own.

  “I’m Linda McNeill,” she said. Her skin was incredibly white, her hair black, cut in a pageboy bob. “I’m a friend of Marty Greenberg’s,” she said and smiled, showing deep dimples of amusement.

  How did you recognize me? he wanted to ask, but didn’t. Marty had been seeing a girl who played in the Portland Symphony.

  Dick signaled for two beers and escorted Linda McNeill to a booth. She seemed to have a nice figure under her winter clothes.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. “I’m leaving for San Francisco in a couple days, just to see some friends, you know, and here you are?”

  “How did you recognize me?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen you around. Here, the old Lompoc House, Caffe Espresso, you know, the regular places.” She went on to explain that while she wasn’t much of a writer herself, she knew a lot of writers, and was going to see them, a lot of them, when she went to San Francisco. In twenty minutes or so she mentioned Jack Kerouac, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, William Burroughs, and Gregory Corso. Apparently she knew them all, was one of the supporting figures of the Beat movement, which she discussed eagerly and incessantly, while Dick bought her round after round of beer. She’d removed her scarves and hat and dark blue coat, revealing a promising figure. Talking with great enthusiasm, she also from time to time lifted her hair in the back, showing a beautiful slim neck and also pushing her breasts toward him invitingly. She was taking a sheaf of her poetry down to give to Don Allen, San Francisco editor of Evergreen Review, and the reason she’d wanted to run into Dick was to see if he had any stories she could carry to Don Allen. Apparently she and Allen were close friends and he willingly took her advice on what to publish.

  Which Dick didn’t exactly believe. But Linda was such a vivacious talker and was so pretty and seemed to be flirting with him, though not in an obvious way, that he played along. Not that he wanted to be published in Evergreen Review. They paid almost nothing, he knew from reading Writer’s Digest. And though the Beat writers were getting a lot of attention, they were not his kind of people.

  “I went to high school with Gary Snyder’s sister,” he said at one point.

  “I’ll tell him hello for you,” she said.

  “I do have one story that might fit in,” he said later, when they were both a little soused and he’d gone through three dollars. “Would you like to read it?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m a good judge of material.”

  “I’d love to read some of your poetry,” he remembered to say. “I’ll take you home, if you like, and on the way we can stop at my place and pick up the story.” She agreed and they drained their glasses and went out of the tavern into a wet cold night. They drove the few blocks to his apartment in his little yellow MG, his pride and joy, and she was properly appreciative. “What a cute little car! I can’t get over how cute it is!”

  “Would you like to come up for a minute, get warm?” he asked as he parked outside the building.

  “I could wait right here,” she said. “Will you be long?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure where the story is.”

  He helped her out of the car. Her hand was warm and dry. Which meant she wasn’t at all nervous. A good sign, because Dick had every intention of making a pass. He was getting excited. He loved the chase. He followed her up the dark s
tairs not touching her. He did not want to make any mistakes now, no stupid moves. You had to herd them carefully into place, not spook them, then let the natural consequences of proximity do their work.

  “I love your apartment,” she said, when he turned on the light. “This is a real writer’s pad.”

  “Would you like to use the bathroom?” he asked politely. “I’ll start looking for that story.” She went into his bathroom, which he kept neat for just such occasions, and he looked into his refrigerator. One quart of beer. He hoped it would be enough. “Would you like a glass of beer?” he called out.

  “Do you have any coffee?” she asked through the door.

  “Good, I’d rather have coffee too,” he said, to put them both on the same side. He started boiling water, got out two cups and saucers, and spooned a heaping amount of Folger’s Instant into each cup. He wondered about all those famous poets she claimed to know. And Kerouac. She talked about Kerouac as if she had lived with him. He wondered what she was doing in Portland. Of course a lot of the Beat movement came out of Reed College, but that was all over with.

  She came out of the bathroom and stood in the middle of the apartment, her hands at the back of her neck, lifting her silky black hair. “I’ve been thinking about wearing my hair up,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in Portland.”

  She laughed. “No, really. Up or down.”

  “I like both.” He moved toward her and she did not tense up but smiled shyly and lowered her eyes, raising them again as their lips touched. He didn’t push it, just a nice gentle kiss, but as he was about to pull away he felt her hand on his cheek. That was the sign he’d been waiting for. He put his tongue into her mouth and she put her arms around him and pressed her pelvis into his, causing his penis to begin swelling immediately.

  “Oh, you feel good,” she said.

  It is so great being an adult, he thought, as they easily and happily went to bed. But while he might have gotten into bed with Linda McNeill feeling adult, by morning, after hours of lovemaking, he felt like a child. A happy child. The sex exceeded anything Dick had experienced, and Dick had been a ski instructor in Aspen, Colorado, and considered himself fairly sophisticated. But this girl was something else. It wasn’t the moves. He knew the moves. It was the passion, the spirit. All he could think of was the Kama Sutra, the Thread of Passion. She had lazily, sensually, humorously, lovingly, joyfully wrapped him in the silk threads of her passion, and made of him a cocoon.

  14.

  Dick Dubonet’s father had been a lawyer with a small personal practice. He died of a heart attack when Dick was seventeen, leaving trust funds for Dick and his mother. Dick’s became available to him on his twenty-first birthday, just in time to save him from law school. He finished his B.A. at Lewis & Clark and spent a couple of years skiing, first at Timberline, then on to Aspen and the ski patrol, where he was also a member of the Torch Team, holding a flaming torch as he and the other patrollers performed their nightly ceremonial, the Descent of Fire. He took a lot of notes for a novel about the ski patrol. He’d known for years he wanted to be a writer, and he made sure to do a little writing every morning. His trust fund gave him a little over a hundred dollars per month. It wasn’t great but it was a base. It took the major worry out of life, left him free to travel, to look around, to meet girls, to make friends.

  But instead of being a happy ski bum, Dick was miserable. It was a capacity of his, to be unhappy for no reason. Maybe that was why he saw himself as a writer. There was a famous novelist living in Aspen, Leo Norris, who’d written three best-sellers, big fat books Dick could hardly work his way through, but they’d made old Norris rich and famous, and Dick would always pay attention when Norris came around. He had a big spread outside town with a steady stream of glamorous visitors. When he came to town to party he was always surrounded by beautiful people, although he himself was a little gnome with fierce red eyebrows and voice that could slice bacon. The first thing Dick noticed about Leo Norris was how unhappy he seemed, how unsatisfied with all the things that should have made him happy. Dick once ran into Norris at the little grocery next to the Aspen Lodge. They were both buying instant coffee, and both wanted the last jar of Folger’s. Dick actually had it in his hand when Leo Norris pushed his angry face into his and all but snarled, “I was just about to reach for that.”

  Dick’s first thought was tough titty, but he didn’t say it. The man’s rudeness was shocking, even to a member of the ski patrol. He clearly wanted Dick to give him the jar and take some lesser brand for himself. He probably knew that Dick knew who he was, and was hoping his fame and wealth would entitle him to the Folger’s. But it was a cold morning, Dick had a slight hangover, and there was a nice girl waiting in his bed.

  “Better luck next time,” he said to Leo Norris, and was amused to see the famous writer actually bite his lip in frustration. “Oh, hell, take it,” Dick said, and handed over the jar. He made a mental note not to become an asshole.

  Eventually Dick grew tired of ski bum talk. He burned his notes for a novel and returned to Portland, found the perfect bachelor’s pad, and settled into learning to write. He was an orderly person, and knew that the best way to succeed was to work hard and be thorough. He kept records of his expenditures, which were few. Being a writer cost almost nothing: typewriter, twenty-five dollars, a nice little used Smith Corona portable; paper, a dollar a ream, plus carbon paper and newsprint for second sheets; manila envelopes and stamps; and that was about it. He was in business.

  Of course there were all kinds of writing. He wanted to try them all, but the important thing was to get some short stories written, to break through the publication barrier, to get paid for his work. Then branch out. He read all kinds of magazines, looking for ideas. Read mystery stories, science fiction, romance, straight fiction, everything from the Saturday Evening Post to Rogue. When he found a story that appealed to him, he’d sit down and doggedly retype it, learning the construction, learning the tricks. And every morning he’d get up, drink two cups of coffee, read the Daily Oregonian, then sit down at his shiny black typewriter, crack his knuckles, and write at least a thousand words. Seven days a week, no matter who stayed overnight, or how he felt, or whether it was a holiday. If there was a girl in the apartment, he’d explain to her carefully that he had this obligation to write. Most took it in good grace and found their way out. Some he had to indulge, even take home or sit over coffee with, but eventually they’d be gone and he could sit down at the machine.

  Tap tap tap, out came the stories, usually ten to twelve pages. Dick typed his first and second drafts single-spaced, with narrow margins, on both sides of the paper. The third and final draft he typed on fresh bond, double-spaced, formatted as he’d seen in Writer’s Digest. He kept a record of every story he mailed out. When the ten by twelve manila envelopes came back he slit them open without any hope in his heart, removed the story and the rejection slip, read the slip, and then put the story into a fresh envelope and sent it to the next magazine on his list, which started at Playboy and ended down among the pulps. There were magazines that kept your material forever, and others that would print you without paying. He avoided these, and carefully read the Writer’s Digest reports. He didn’t send his stories to the New Yorker, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly, or Harper’s. He didn’t consider himself good enough yet. He stuck to girlie books, mystery books, and sci fi books. Now that he was a pro he no longer thought of them as magazines.

  He could maintain this existence on his small inheritance because he was a careful spender. Much as he loved women, he’d resolved not to marry or even get serious until he had at least fifty thousand dollars in the bank. That was a comfortable distance and so he was shocked to find himself in love with Linda McNeill.

  After that first night together, Dick did not want to let her go. He wanted her here, in his apartment, where could look at her, touch her, talk to her. It was like suddenly discovering you
needed heroin, and lots of it. He knew it would be an awful mistake to let her know how he felt, but after only a little while he knew he could hide nothing from her.

  “I love you,” he blurted. He’d been looking at her skin, her incredibly white skin, just going over her body an inch at a time, stroking her, brushing his lips against her, while she lay back in his bed smiling.

  “You do, huh?” She touched him on the shoulder.

  “I say that to all the girls,” he said, trying desperately to recover himself, but she laughed.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Which don’t you believe?”

  She put her hands into his hair and turned him so their eyes met. Hers were calm enough, even amused. “I love you too,” she said. “But we aren’t going to get married, are we?”

  “Gee, I hope not,” he joked.

  “That’s good.” She pulled him gently up to be kissed. Her lips actually seemed to burn him, he was so sensitive.

  They stayed together for three days. On that first morning Dick had at one point said, “Well, here’s my routine. I gotta write for a couple of hours. You’ll have to leave, but we can get together this afternoon, unless you have something to do . . .”

  She was still in bed, covers pulled up against the cold room. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “I can stay here while you write,” she said. “I’ve been with writers before, you know.”

  Kerouac. He’d forgotten about her adventures with the Beat writers. But he didn’t know if he could write with her there. He had to bluff it out. He made coffee and brought her hers in bed, then went to his typewriter. He was in the middle of a story, for Playboy he hoped, so it was relatively easy to start working. Habit took over. She made no noise, and soon he had all but forgotten her. He turned in his chair, an old wooden folding bridge chair. She was lying in his bed, black hair against the white pillow, her hands grasping her shoulders. Dick had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.