by Daniel Parme
Good thing, too. After a few seconds, Synchek poked his presidential head out the door. "Are you feeling any better, Travis? Dinner is going to be served, and you really ought to eat something."
No way did I want to go back in there. No way, no how, brother. "You know, Walter, I think I've had about all I can handle today. I mean, thank you for the offer and concern and everything, but I think I should call it a night."
It was the first expression of anything other than pride or contentment I'd seen him pull. He looked surprisingly disappointed, considering all I'd done was to pass on dinner.
"Well, I suppose I can understand that. It is a shame, though." He sighed and gave a shrug. "At the very least, allow me to pack up some food for you. It's really quite delicious."
I agreed to take some of the food (I mean, everyone had been talking it up so much that it had to be good, right?) but told him I'd prefer to wait outside, if he didn't mind. He didn't, and after just a few minutes, he handed me a white styrofoam box.
"We hope you'll come again, Mr. Eliot. Everyone appreciated your story."
"Well," I started, knowing full well what I was about to say, but for some reason unable to stop myself, "let me know when, and we'll see." I wanted to say no. Why didn't I just say no?
Synchek beamed. "Excellent. Have a pleasant evening, young man. Malcolm will be out to take you home shortly." He turned around and walked inside.
But I remembered something and caught the door before it swung all the way shut. "Wait. Walter. Who was that cute little blonde girl?"
"Cute little blonde girl?"
"Yeah. Fair skin? Big blue eyes?"
He thumbed his chin. "I don't know. Sometimes it's difficult to know who shows up. But, if she was here tonight, there's a good chance she’ll be here again." He handed me the blindfold and went inside.
Chapter 12
It was still early, and it was Thursday, and I knew that Virginia worked on Thursdays. That little meeting, with all the talking and the passing out and everything, had me in the mood for a few more drinks.
I had Malcolm drop me off at Carson Street news so I could pick up a pack of cigarettes and walk the handful of blocks to the Lava Lounge. I walked through the door a few minutes past ten to find the place about half full. The empty half of the bar was comprised of my friends, so I pulled up a seat at the bar.
"Here." Virginia slammed a drink down in front of me as if she knew exactly how much force it would have taken to break the glass. She’d obviously had practice with this.
"What's this?"
"Woodford Reserve. What do you think it is? I may have a weak mind, but I'm smart enough to remember what you drink." She was cold, but something about it seemed playful.
"You still upset about that sarcasm remark? It's not mine, you know. I stole that line from somebody. Don't remember who, though."
She poured a drink for someone while she spoke. "Doesn't matter. Whatcha got there?"
"Food."
"No shit, asshole. What is it?" She enjoyed this sort of patronizing conversation. It was easy to tell. You're only good at it, balancing on the fence between fighting and flirting, if you like it.
"Actually, I'm not sure. Someone packed it up for me." I opened the box. "Looks like some sort of steak, potatoes, and green beans."
She leaned over the bar, her dream-defeating breasts smashed between her weight and the dark, cool wood, and she took a whiff as I sliced a hunk from the steak. "Smells kinda funny."
"You smell kinda funny." I sniffed the air above the box. "Smells fine to me."
She snatched the first bite right off my fork and threw it into her mouth. She chewed it, a pensive look on her face. “Pork?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a bite yet.”
Some guy got her attention and ordered six Long Island Iced Teas. "So eat it, then," she said before making for the liquor.
So I ate it. Devoured it, actually. One, I was starving, and fainting hadn't helped. And two, it may have been the best meal I'd ever eaten. The potatoes, well, they were good, but still just potatoes. But the green beans were amazing – crisp and juicy and with just the right amount of garlic. As good as the beans were, though, they couldn't hold a candle to the meat. I'm talking tender, juicy, succulent bite of Heaven, here. After one bite, I could have sworn my forearms were about to triple in size and battleships were about to set sail on my biceps. I yam what I yam, and I yam a man who thoroughly enjoys a good steak.
"Holy shit, Travis. Hungry?" She took the empty box, held it upside down for a moment, and tossed it into the trash. Then she turned to grab a glass of water from the counter behind her.
She was wearing those tight black pants that some bartenders and most waitresses have to wear, and her ass just about sent me to the floor. It was smallish and round, and I would eventually come to make a habit of watching this cute/sexy little bum any time I had the chance.
This was my first really good look at it, though, and I wasn't the only one who noticed. Little Travis had finally awoken from his coma and was thrashing about in his little hospital bed, tearing hoses from his nose and tubes from his arm. "That's enough!" he screamed. "Let me the fuck out of here! Now, goddammit!"
And by God, I would have. Right there. I'd have thrown her against the wall, sending bottles of rum and tequila crashing to the floor, and let the poor little guy announce his presence with authority, just like that pitcher from Bull Durham.
This sudden rush of blood to the head left my own head a touch oxygen-deprived, and I had to steady myself by grabbing the bar with both hands.
"Whoa. You all right, Travis? That's your first glass, right?" Virginia placed her right hand on my left and gave a gentle squeeze.
I looked her in the eye, but I might as well have simply said to her, "I want you naked. I want you naked and sweating and screaming. And I want it now."
And she gave that shit right back to me. This look was nothing if it wasn't pure, dirty, raw sex. This look took the Lava Lounge and all its customers into its lungs and breathed them out as a fire that engulfed all of the South Side. The smoke could have been seen from Cleveland. Not that people from Cleveland even have a word for smoke that doesn’t rise from the flaming river…
This look was extinguished by the cool water of Adam's hand slapping me on the back, startling me enough to knock my drink off the bar, and Virginia enough to let out a little shriek.
"Sorry, guys. Didn't mean to interrupt." The kid was so genuine you almost wanted to hit him. "Who won?"
I shifted on the stool, working LT into a slightly more comfortable position. Hard-ons are a bitch to hide, unless you happen to be carrying a chemistry book, which I hadn't done in years. "Who won what?"
"You were in the middle of a staring contest, weren't you?" That’s just the kind of place Adam’s head was, you know? I mean, staring contest?! What the fuck?
Virginia jumped all over that the way she would have jumped all over me if Adam hadn't shown up just then. "We were, and I would have won. You, Travis, wouldn't have known what hit you."
It is innuendo – not opposable thumbs, the use of tools, or the mental capacity to understand the concept of numbers – that sets us apart from the animals.
She poured a beer for Adam and went to do what bartenders do.
Adam sat down, and we did what friends at the bar do. "So I guess you decided not to go to that thing tonight, huh?"
"No. I went."
He lit two cigarettes, handed one to me. "Really? It's over already?"
Sometimes, conversation gives me the same feeling I get when I look at a sink piled high with dirty dishes. I know I should wash them now, just get it over with, make them disappear into their respective cupboards. And sometimes I do just that. But not usually. "Yeah," I said. "It's over already."
"Well? What was it?"
I hit my cigarette twice before answering. "I'm not really sure. I think they're called PEP. I do
n't know what that stands for, though. And the people there were weird, man. They were rich, or at least very well-dressed. And they were older. Like in their forties and fifties, a lot of them."
"I guess that's sort of strange."
"I know, but..." It was going to take a moment to get this right. "They all seemed a little bit, well, off. I don't know. They all seemed like they wanted something. The same thing. Like they were hungry for it." I shook my head and took a sip of my drink. "I don't know. It's hard to explain."
"Yeah. Sounds like it."
"It was weird."
"Sounds weird. What did you have to do?"
"Oh. I just talked about the accident and everything. Then I answered some questions." I didn't want to talk about the questions leading up to my collapse. I wouldn't have been able to make Adam understand why they made me so uncomfortable, and I didn't want to try. I was having enough trouble trying to figure that out for myself. "I left around nine-thirty and came here."
"Righteous." Adam tilted his glass towards mine, we tapped them together, and we finished them off.
Before we had the chance to set the empty glasses on the bar, Virginia showed up with one more for each of us. We both looked a little surprised.
"What? I'm a good bartender. You should know that by now." She winked and smiled at what could have been me, or Adam, or both. She was a tough one to figure, all right. But the wink and the smile were just as attractive no matter who they were meant for.
I already had every intention of staying until last call, waiting for her to wash the glasses and wipe down the bar, then taking her home and tearing the shit out of her. It had been my idea before I saw that wink. After that wink, though, I had no say in the matter. Sure, the results would have been the same, but sometimes it's how you get those results that counts. I liked the idea that this girl – excuse me, this woman – was my choice. Maybe it's a power thing. I don't know. But that wink shifted the power into her hands. Or maybe her pants.
When it all boils down, though, this feeling that we were two unstable gasses wafting towards each other, eventually to meet in a violent explosion of noises and smells – I was totally into it.
"You, Virginia, are a fine bartender." I wanted to wink, but held it back.
"Yeah, well, you better give me a much better tip than you did last time, then." She raised her eyebrows and waited for a response.
"Wait. He didn't tip you last time?" Adam leaned away from me. "That doesn't seem like you, man."
Virginia laughed. "Oh, he left me enough money last time." Then she walked away. She had a real talent for closing the chapter with just the right words to make you want to keep reading. Unfortunately, she was the book, and it's difficult to read any book that up and decides to walk away.
Adam threw an elbow my way, which I caught with my ribs. "What was that, duder?"
It was not easy to answer him, my entire body taken over by the thunderous pounding in my chest. I'm surprised I heard him at all. "I don't know what that was, Adam." I leaned over the bar to get a better look at her ass. "Don't you worry, though. I'll find out."
"I'll drink to that." And he did. We both did. And we kept drinking.
The next few hours brought with them a good number of shots along with a slightly smaller, although equally as good, number of beers. Enough of each that there was no keeping track. Enough of each that we had to call a cab for Adam, right after I sent him to the ATM so we could pay the tab. I can't believe he made it there, remembered his PIN, and made it all the way back without severely injuring himself. All of Adam's sheets were in the wind, blowing around like enormous pieces of confetti.
I, however, had my sheets neatly stacked and under my arm. A few of the pages were wrinkled, one or two of them maybe even torn a little, but they were all there. I should have been slurring and stumbling, swaying on my stool. But I wasn't.
I couldn't figure it out, but the alcohol didn’t affect me the way physiology and conventional wisdom say it should have. It couldn't touch the energy that swelled inside me, filling my veins and my breath, my heart, my head, my libido. I was a juiced-up lion, ready for all the ladies in the pride, and maybe of the neighboring pride, as well.
And I still wasn't sure if it would be enough for Virginia. It seemed she could eat kings of jungles for breakfast and be angry when she found there were none left for lunch.
"You sure did a number on Adam tonight." She rested her elbows on the bar, her little chin on her hands. "How are you?"
I said the first thing that came to mind: "How much longer till I can get you out of here?"
She smiled, but tried to hide it. Or, maybe, she tried to make it look like she was hiding it. Those women, they're a wily bunch. "About twenty minutes. You want another drink while you wait?"
"Who said I was willing to wait?"
"You've been waiting since you got here. You think I've been bending over at the waist all night for nothing? It's bad on the back." Clever minx. "Boys are way too fucking easy. I almost feel like I’m cheating." And away she went, to pour another glass of whiskey.
I worked my drink as slowly as she worked the bar quickly. I paid close attention to her every move, although I couldn't tell you what she was actually doing. It was as if her closing duties were merely the music she danced to, the glasses and rags nothing more than excuses to extend her smooth arms, the lower shelves a reason to bend. It was all beautiful curves and lines. It was all a dancer's grace.
I was all surging testosterone and throbbing, uh, heart.
The twenty minutes went by quickly. "Let's go, daddy."
And we went, barely saying a word to one another as she drove her beat up forest green Jeep Cherokee to her place in Wilkinsburg.
I followed her up her front steps, through the front door. I started to follow her up the stairs, but couldn't take any more. I grabbed her waist from behind, spun her, and threw her to the floor. Those tight black pants didn't have a prayer. I was rabid, foaming at the mouth crazy, and after a bruising round of bites and slaps, I needed a break.
"What do you think you're doing? I'm not finished with you yet." She actually looked pissed.
I could barely speak. "No, but I need a break."
There was a flash in her eyes that the dark had no hope of hiding. "No. You don't need a break. "You..." she whispered into my right ear, "need..." into my left, finishing it with a bite of the earlobe, "me." She pulled me back inside of her, and as it turns out, she was right. Breaks are for the weak. And, for this night if none other, I was not the weak. I was king of the jungle, dammit. I was Goddamed Superman. And LT, well, he was back to being LT.
We went three times before we even made it all the way to her bedroom, and twice more once in the bed.
"Now that," she bit my chest, "was a good tip."
Chapter 13
The thing about having a whole lot of sex is it's not enough. Never enough. Especially if you haven't had any for, oh, let's say over a year. And it's not even the lack of sex, really. It's the lack of the ability to have sex. To make love. To fuck. Whatever.
There was a time, a long time, years and years, when you had no control over yourself. You remember those days of untucking your shirt and walking with your books held down below your waist. You remember those days when you'd be doing your geometry homework, trying to remember the Pythagorean Theorem, and he'd just stand up and say hello for no good reason. You remember those days. You can't forget those days.
You can't forget those days because these days there's no saying hello. They say you don't miss something until it's gone, and they're right, except it's not gone. It's there. You see it every day. You use it every day. It's there; it's just not working properly. And God, you miss it.
The thing about suddenly having a lot of sex is you don't ever want to stop. The last time you stopped, look where it got you. The last time you stopped, you couldn't start again.
The thing about suddenly having a l
ot of sex with Virginia is that it's good sex. Violent sex. Get all that frustration about the last year – the pain and loneliness and sense that you're eternally screwed – let it all out kind of sex. And she loves it. Screams things like "Fuck me, Daddy!" and "God, yes! Fucking hurt me!"
And you do, and you love it. You'd fuck her and hurt her until you've forgotten all about your dead friends and their blood the only thing that's kept you alive. You'd fuck her and hurt her until you've forgotten all about the nightmares that come from knowing what you've done, whether it was for survival or not. You'd fuck her until you've forgotten about how you used your memories, your dead friends, to get on television, to get famous. You'd hurt her until you got numb from it, numb from all of it, so you never have to feel any way about any thing ever again.
You would. If it meant you'd never have to think about those things again, you'd do anything.
And that's what I did for three days. Nothing but fuck Virginia. Nothing but hurt her. And it was great. It was great because she loved it. No harm, no foul. Of course, I never told her why I was so into it. I never told her that, although I did truly dig her, I was just using her as my scapegoat. My escape. My own little therapy session.
I never told her, and she never asked. She just took it. Again and again she took it.
And I never asked her why, and she never told me.
We did, of course, have a few actual conversations during those days. I mean, you can't have sex twenty-four hours a day. No matter how much you want to.
And these conversations, they were pretty run-of-the-mill. We talked about family (or her lack thereof – “Most people don’t have decent families anyway, so I really don’t mind.”) and friends and college. About exes and jobs and pets. We talked about all those things that don't make for a good story, so I'm not going to try to make a story of it. The end result, though, was that I really liked her.
