The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  Most of the girls in Allyn's group of friends had done everything except "it," but that was allowed. Unspoken. Ken Mitchell made Allyn come with his fingers under her short shorts when she was fifteen. She'd been doing it herself for years and it was wonderful to have someone else do it to her. She didn't know very much about sex and she was sure that Ken Mitchell's fingers inside her couldn't be as good as his penis, but penises made you pregnant so she'd have to avoid them. She was hot all the time, and very afraid the other girls would suspect how lusty she was feeling. She would rush through her homework, promising herself the reward, when she finished the last algebra problem, of locking the bedroom door, turning off the light, closing the venetian blinds and crawling under the covers to masturbate until she'd had three or four orgasms before falling asleep.

  She was afraid of Ken Mitchell even though his hands were magic inside her, because she knew eventually she'd have to return the favor in some way. In the back of his father's car her blouse was unbuttoned and her bra unfastened and Ken's mouth was sucking and drooling on her left nipple with his right hand manipulating her right nipple. She always kept her underpants on, but Ken's left hand was inside them rhythmically moving the inflamed button of her clitoris toward the explosion she had to have. And Ken was fully clothed, sweat shirt and jeans with that big bump in them that he rubbed on any part of her, or any part of the car he could get near.

  Pregnant. Allyn knew girls who'd been sent away for a year to have babies they gave up because they got pregnant. From having penises inside them. And they were never popular again. Yes, there were rubbers, but rubbers broke. There was "the rhythm method." Allyn knew that had something to do with figuring out when you ovulated, but everyone told the joke that went "What do you call people who use the rhythm method?" and the answer was "Parents."

  It became more and more difficult to avoid the issue. Especially when she got to college. Only a few of the girls in college were the disapproving and judgmental girls from high school, and there was much more freedom now, but there were still expressions like "the town pump" about girls, that made Allyn continue to say no during a session of heavy petting when a fraternity boy began to tug at her panties.

  In the dorm it was harder to find time alone to masturbate because she had a roommate, but Allyn copied her roommate Leslie's schedule onto a piece of paper she kept in her wallet so she would know exactly when Leslie would be in class and it was safe.

  One afternoon about two days before summer vacation, after she was freshly showered and sprinkled with Jean Nate the sight of her own body in the full-length mirror made Allyn hot. She wanted it. To come hard and strong. Instead of getting into bed she leaned against a wall a few feet from the mirror so she could watch. Teasing herself, she began pulling at her own nipples with the thumb and forefinger of each hand. Squeezing them hard, then pulling them outward, all the time feeling her clitoris swell, getting hotter and wilder. But she wouldn't touch it yet, because the wait was so agonizingly good. Finally, with her left hand still on her nipple, she slid her right hand slowly down to her pubic hair, pulling the hair hard to tease herself even further before she touched her clitoris, exquisitely hot, watching in the mirror as her fingers now approached the inside of the folds and entered them. Oh, God. She wanted it. She was unable to look in the mirror at her own eyes, which she knew would be filled with guilt. She would close them. Her nipple was hard in her fingers. Her clit ached for more, just a little more, and some more, baby, oh, God. Was it Ken she was picturing? Ken with the bump in his jeans? Oh, God, more, it didn't matter, the frenzy was filling her, she was close, oh, baby, I want it. So close. And, oh, my God. Now. It filled her. Exploded. Again and again and oh, God. Her insides were deliciously achy. And she slowly opened her eyes.

  "Hi."

  Allyn flushed from head to toe. It was Bob Burdett, Leslie's steady boy friend. She'd forgotten to lock the door and he had just watched her make herself come. She'd been so hot she hadn't heard the door open. Allyn started to grab for a blanket to cover herself.

  "Don't bother," Burdett said, locking the door behind him. "I came by to pick up a book, but God knows this is a hell of a lot better." He slid his arm around Allyn's naked waist, and with his body on top of hers dropped them both onto Leslie's bed. Burdett was a football player. Allyn weighed one hundred pounds.

  "Bob," Allyn said. She was so humiliated she could hardly speak.

  "I'm gonna fix it for you, baby," he said. "So you don't have to do that to yourself." Allyn felt his hard penis pushing against her leg. Everything about him was hard and she was afraid. He was all over her, his wet tongue on her face, in her ears, on her breasts, and trying to get his pants off at the same time. When he got them off, Allyn gasped. This was the first penis she'd ever seen. She was nineteen years old. It was leathery and shiny and Bob Burdett was holding it with his big pudgy hand and spreading her legs with the other. "Yes," was all Bob Burdett kept saying. "Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. Yes."

  Allyn was speechless. She didn't want this. This wasn't how it should be.

  "No," she said finally, finding her voice. "Bob. Bob. No. Please." Now she was talking fast. "Please, what about Leslie? She loves you so much. Bob?"

  Burdett was poking at her with his penis as if to tease her. Allyn was getting frantic.

  "Bob." He was heavy on top of her. She knew it was hopeless. What did it matter? Why had she saved it? For this? She began to cry. She was sobbing hard from all the embarrassment and anger and frustration.

  And Bob was losing his hard on.

  "Hey!" he said, looking at her. "What the hell is this?"

  "Bob, I don't want you. Please. I don't want you," she said. She was afraid. Maybe he'd hit her.

  His penis was shriveled now, and he put his feet on the floor and stood up pulling his boxer shorts up, then his jeans. Allyn was still spread-eagled and naked. She was afraid to move. He took a blanket that was folded at the bottom of her bed and threw it at her.

  "Here you go, you little whore," he said. "You can cover up now. You probably left that door open for me so I could watch you doing yourself. Boy, you are scum."

  Allyn was nauseated.

  "Please get out," she said quietly, pulling the blanket over herself.

  "When I'm ready." He walked over to Leslie's bookshelf and scanned it, found the book he wanted and walked to the door. Allyn hadn't moved. "You're lucky it was me," he said, shaking with anger. "Anyone else would have raped you," and he walked out.

  After that Allyn was certain Bob Burdett was telling everyone at school the story, and she was afraid she would be labeled scum. That awful name he'd called her. And then she would never find a husband, which was, of course, the plan that had been set for her life since the day she was born. So one week later, when she met Phil Gruber, older, presentable, Phil Gruber, ophthalmologist, there was no question in her mind that he could rescue her from scumdom. Make her appear respectable. Even though she'd been caught—No, she couldn't even think about it. Slowly, she let Phil Gruber think he was seducing her and finally he took her virginity, technical though it was, and told her he was "honored" to do it. Allyn remembered trying not to laugh when he said that.

  In the arms of Phil Gruber, she was able to release all of her sexual energy. Try everything. Experiment on his body. Act out all of her fantasies. After all. He said he was probably going to marry her. But he didn't. He broke up with her. And she hadn't been laid since. And the first man she wanted, had any sexual interest in since that day Phil Gruber told her goodbye, was David Kane. And he wasn't calling. So she was inured.

  She had run home from the studio that night he told her he might stop by, and started the tub running before she even put her car keys down. Then she took all her clothes off, put a towel down on the hardwood floor and did fifty sit-ups. Bath oil? She had some Estee Super she'd been saving. The water was steaming. Allyn looked at her body. Was it good enough? She did everything. Makeup. Perfect. Hair. Thank God for electric rollers. And then she s
at there. All evening. And the phone never rang. At ten o'clock she realized it had just been polite conversation. Maybe I'll stop by. And she went to sleep.

  Allyn had hoped David would come by her office the next morning with some excuse. But he didn't. In fact, he didn't deliver on her route that day. Or the next either. Ah, that must be it! Something was wrong. She'd ask one of the other guys.

  "Hiya, gorgeous, wanna fuck a rising star?"

  "Hi, Mickey," Allyn said.

  "Mail for Mr. Shear from the industry, and adoration for your gorgeous knockers from me."

  "Thanks." She was afraid to ask him. He was leaving.

  "Mickey?" she said. "How's David?"

  "You mean Arch, the old redhead? That David?"

  She nodded.

  "You having a thing with him?"

  "Mickey, is he—I mean, how come you're—"

  "Running this route? 'Cause we switch off for variety. Arch doesn't like the other routes, 'cause he likes coming up here to kiss ass and look for jobs—but he's running another section for a while."

  Allyn nodded. "Okay."

  That's when the ache began. And it wasn't gone yet. And it was three weeks later. So she was inured. Maybe coming down from the inurement now. Realizing she'd spent every night rushing home, pulling the phone on its long cord into the kitchen while she was cooking herself a meal, pulling the phone into the bathroom while she took her bath, and lying awake in her bed with the phone sitting right next to her. And it never rang. And it wasn't ringing now. And she was so lonely.

  The phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Allyn?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "David Kane."

  Allyn was grateful she was so mellow on the grass or she might have shouted, "Thank God!" right into the phone.

  It was eerie. He talked to her almost as if the three weeks that had gone by hadn't existed.

  "So what about our dinner?"

  "Dinner?"

  "Can we make it tomorrow night?"

  The double meaning wasn't lost on her. She was wishing she could pretend to be busy. Tomorrow was a Saturday. But she wanted, needed someone so badly.

  "Yes."

  "Where's your place?"

  "It's one twenty-nine South Oakhurst."

  "I'm on South Almont. That's really close by."

  "Yes."

  "How about Mario's in Westwood?"

  "Sure."

  "Seven thirty."

  "Great."

  "See you tomorrow."

  "Okay."

  He hung up.

  "David . . ." Why didn't she suggest making the dinner herself? It would have been cozier, different. It was too late. She didn't move from the sofa. She was thinking about that day three weeks ago when they talked. He really seemed interested in her then. What did she wear? Maybe she'd remember and wear that again. Maybe it was something she said that got his attention. It didn't matter. What mattered was that tomorrow night David Kane was taking her to dinner—and she'd obviously done something right to make him choose her.

  twelve

  Stan opened the heavy door to stage 15 and walked into the cavernous silent studio. There was no one around yet. It was just six o'clock. In one hour the place would be filled with the crew, cast and audience of Give 'em the Hook, a television show which, as Stan described it, "made nice ordinary people look like assholes."

  The show was a hit and it had been for years. Walter Barton, who produced Give 'em the Hook and hosted it, was a local Los Angeles personality. First he was a disc jockey who called himself Big Wally. On all of Big Wally's shows, Barton did the voice of a teenaged kid named Animal who pestered Big Wally. Animal was always getting into trouble and Big Wally would have to bail him out. The comedy relationship bridged the spaces between the top forty records in a funny way, and the teenagers loved it when Animal got the best of Big Wally which was always, so Barton achieved a kind of local fame. He made a career of doing personal appearances and was so available for any event it caused another L.A. disc jockey to say, "I was leaving for work this morning, and Walter Barton was there for the opening of my garage door."

  After a while, though, just being known on the local scene wasn't enough for Barton, and he came up with some ideas for television game shows and variety shows and took them to the networks. The best one was a show called Give 'em the Hook. Barton was such a colorful hustler and so charming in his sales pitch for the show that the network not only bought it but they bought Barton as well to produce and host it.

  Give 'em the Hook was a kind of amateur talent show where a performer would audition and act for the studio audience. If the audience didn't like the performer's act they would scream out, "Give 'em the hook," and a big hook would appear from offstage and pull the rejected singer or dancer into the wings. If the performer was a pretty girl singer or a pretty girl dancer, as the hook pulled her off the stage, Barton would run on as if in protest and shout at the audience, "Ahh, why do you wanta hook 'er?"

  And the word play made the audience scream with laughter. They loved the show's sexuality.

  "Make 'em hot and they love your ass," Barton muttered aloud backstage one day.

  "Sounds like a sampler in a porno shop," Stan Rose answered.

  Barton smiled. Stan was around the stage so often Barton felt like he knew him.

  "You're smart, kid. I like you."

  Stan visited the set of Give 'em the Hook for weeks. He continued to be fascinated with the television business, and live game shows were much more exciting than the WEBU history plays. He watched the frenetic little man with the gravelly voice who could say to a sexy female contestant before she sang, "Do your thing, honey, and remember, if you're no good I'm gonna get my hook into you," and the audience loved it, because Barton's delivery was boyish, and cute, and nonthreatening. And if a contestant looked offended, Barton would look offended, too, and then embarrassed and say, "Ooh, how awful. I'm the worst. Call the producer and tell him to fire me. Call the producer. Oh, no! I am the producer. Now what?" And everyone would laugh and the female contestants would hug him, and he'd rest his face on their bosoms and giggle innocently. Stan wanted to be Barton's assistant producer, but most of the time when he dropped by the studio Barton was too busy to get into a real conversation with him, so finally Stan left a note for Barton in his dressing room, asking for a few minutes of his time. Barton's secretary called the mail room the next morning.

  "Mr. Rose?" she said, "Mr. Barton will see you in his dressing room next Friday at six." Stan was pleased. He felt as if his career could go in any one of several directions, so there was no anxiety about the meeting. If it didn't work out with Barton there would be other choices. The dressing room door was open.

  "Hiya, Stanley!" Barton got to his feet as Stan entered the room. No one ever called him Stanley anymore but his father Albert.

  "Howsa bouta drinkie?" Barton asked.

  "No, thanks, Walter," Stan said. "Don't get up." Walter reminded him of an animated cartoon character.

  "So what's the haps?" Walter said. "Gettin' tired of runnin' the mail?"

  Stan nodded.

  "That's what I figured. So what can I do for ya?"

  "Well," Stan said, "how about making me assistant to the producer on Give 'em the Hook?"

  Barton pursed his lips, frowned and pursed his lips again. He stared into space thinking for a long time. Stan watched him.

  "I got a better idea," Barton said. "A much better idea than that for the both of us. Are you ready?"

  Stan was certain he was about to get a brushoff.

  "Did you go to the Beatles' concert last year?"Barton asked him.

  "No." Stan remembered reading about the Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl in '64.

  "Well, I did. And I'm gonna take you to the one this year," Barton said. "Because I want you to see something incredible. Bob Eubanks was the promoter and, boy, did he have a good idea. The rock 'n' roll business is the business to be in, not this television bullshit, St
anley."

  Stan wasn't sure he knew what Barton meant.

  "You mean producing rock concerts?"

  "Yeah."

  Stan was disappointed. Rock 'n' Roll. It was something he'd never even considered. He wanted to be in television. That's what he'd always wanted.

  "Let me tell you something, Stanley. There were over eighteen thousand kids there last year. The show grossed fifty-eight thousand. And the tickets were sold out three months in advance. You know what that says to me? It says a lot of little girls get hot lookin' at the Beatles."

  Stan laughed.

  "I'm not joking," Barton said. "They screamed their asses off. One little honey down in front took her shirt off and shook her tits at the stage. Police threw her out. Too bad. Cute tits." Barton smiled.

  "Here's what I'm proposing," he went on. "Eighty-six the mail room, and you become my legman. You and I will become promoters together."

  "Aren't the promoters the guys who put up cash?" Stan asked.

  "I'll be the cash. You be the front. I got contacts. You quit the mail room, you got time. Sound fair?"

  "Yeah . . . sure it does, but—"

  "But you're not sure it's the kind of show business you had in mind? Right?"

  Stan didn't answer. Barton picked up an envelope that was sitting on the dressing table. "See these?" he said, taking two tickets out of the envelope and handing them to Stan. "Bob Eubanks and KRLA present the Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl, August 30th, 1965." Stan read aloud from the ticket. It was a week away.

  "You'll go with me, and I promise you the next day you'll start looking for an office for our new company. Barton and Rose Concerts."

  Stan grinned at Barton's style.

  "Why are you smiling? Okay, you win. Rose and Barton Concerts."

  Stan and Walter got to the Bowl early but the place was already crawling with kids. Mostly teenaged girls, or at least that's how it looked. Backstage, policemen were milling and everyone had to have a special pass. The feeling of excitement was already generating. Walter knew a lot of the people and he introduced Stan to them. A few of them had something to do with the Beatles, others were people in the music business who had enough influence to get their names on the backstage list.