Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  Lena packed up the house so quickly, ready to move on, undeniably future-oriented. It’s not what he needed. He wanted her to hesitate, to share in the defeat of it. Instead, she bitched about why he didn’t tell her sooner. He couldn’t. True, he kept silent to protect her, but that was only a part of it. Mostly he couldn’t bear to acknowledge the loss. After twenty years of marriage, why couldn’t she get that? She still doesn’t understand. And for the first time ever he’s fucking angry with her. Maybe even outraged, except he isn’t sure what that’s supposed to feel like. He is sure that he can no longer accept her cold distance. All he ever wanted for both of them was to land somewhere safe. Now he knows there’s no such thing. She needs to hear all of this and more, even if it means she eyes him with pity, or worse, wonders why he can’t suck it up and go on like other men do. Well, he can’t, and that’s too fucking bad for him, but also for her. And if anyone cares to ask, he’s pissed, furious. Yet he feels righteous, determined, invincible, and weird.

  He leans further over the railing and takes a few deep breaths. No, he telegraphs to anyone watching, he’s not jumping. Why should he? They owe him, and he wants to retrieve what’s his. Besides, he can swim and the plunge isn’t that far. No, he’s not about committing hari-kari or whatever it’s called. He’s already slid down the long rope and reached absolute bottom, and he’s not going to take this shit anymore. Wherever that leads him, so be it.

  He heads downtown, intent on reaching the tip of Manhattan, where the Hudson and East River meet. No idea why, except it’s what he wants to do. And he’s determined to do what he wants without defending his actions to anyone, including himself.

  At the South Street Seaport he considers the few moored boats and one lazy tug. What would it be like to own a houseboat? Would it feel the same as owning a house? He doesn’t believe so. Boats represent luxury, what one does with extra money; the peel on the peach one can afford to throw away.

  He doubles back through narrow streets, where shop windows offer sweaters and shirts resting in flakes of gold paper. He passes a bank. It’s a storefront with a few ATMs inside and not a teller in sight. The door’s unlocked. He walks in, eyes on one of two machines. “Please insert your card.” He chuckles. He stares at the screen. If he bangs it hard, the way they did the phones in the old neighborhood, will it release cash? He bats it lightly, nothing; slaps it harder, not even a rattle.

  A man enters and goes to the machine next to his. The guy inserts his card, thumbs the screen a few times, and money slides out. He’s transfixed by the transaction. The guy feels him watching. “Anything wrong?”

  Zack shakes his head. “Just taking in some extra A/C.” The man nods curtly, clearly wanting out. Let him go. He has nothing to do with Zack’s life, nothing at all. Yet he follows him out. The guy’s BMW is parked right in front, a woman inside keeping the A/C going. The guy probably has a boat. He stands there till they pull away, then continues walking.

  Stuck like a fat finger between two shops is a run-down bar with a dead window sign advertising Schlitz Beer. Does anyone drink that anymore? In his pocket are fourteen singles plus some coins. A bottle of Bud shouldn’t cost more than three dollars tops, if that.

  He pushes open the wooden door. The place is dark, damp, narrow as a train car and not much longer. Two stepping-up-to-old-age men sit at one end of the bar. At the other is a woman whose age is indecipherable in the darkness. There aren’t any tables, and he slips onto a stool closer to the woman than to the men. The bartender, hitting on seventy he’d say, waits quietly but expectantly.

  “I’ll have a bottle of Bud.” Which is delivered promptly. He places four singles on the table and even gets back some coins. There isn’t much scenery to take in, but the woman is eyeing him. He tries a smile, and she moves a few stools over to sit next to him. Shit, now he has to buy her a drink, too? But her mouth is aiming for his ear and he listens intently. “Ten dollars standing up in the storage room.” As soon as the offer is made he feels his prick waking. Then she smiles and he’s relieved to see all her teeth, but what if she has some sexual disease or worse, AIDS? He’s about to shake his head when she presses a little square packet into his palm, a condom, and suddenly he’s hard as a rock.

  He drains the beer in three long swallows and follows her into an even darker back room, where the mingled smells of whiskey, beer, and dampness make breathing a chore. He can just make out whiskey cartons and empty beer cases piled floor to ceiling, and wonders where is this get-together going to take place. But she has it all figured out. First, she extends her hand for the money, which he places in her palm, and it disappears so quickly he can’t say where. Gently, she tugs him into a narrow space between two columns of boxes and leans against the wall. He gets a whiff of some heavily scented perfume that reminds him of maple syrup. She waits for his fumbling hand to unwrap and roll the condom up over his penis, then lifts her skirt and wraps her arms around him. She’s not into foreplay or make-believe talk, thank god. He’s inside her in a nanosecond, and after one, two, three, maybe four grunts—she doesn’t make a sound—it’s finished. She moves away quickly and disappears. He isn’t sure what to do with the condom and finally drops it behind some boxes.

  When he re-enters the bar, she’s in the same spot as when he first entered. He feels the men’s eyes on him, forfeits the coins, and hightails out. A few deep breathes of fresh air and he begins to walk uptown. Who would believe it, but he’s never been with a prostitute. Not ever. A first and last, he promises himself. Still, something glows inside, a feeling he can’t quite put a name to, though it might have a tinge of revenge to it. But no regret. In fact, he’s proud of himself. He needed the release. He met the need. Pat on the back is what he decides.

  He heads for Chelsea Piers. The walk will take him past the docks. He can remember when no one lived around there, just water, old piers, and dry-docked boats. Now, tall buildings as slim as giant three-ply Kleenex boxes dot the landscape. Posh restaurants offer glass-filled glimpses of nirvana.

  He turns east on one of the side streets, passes a meat market with open doors, and peers inside what looks like a warehouse. Two big trucks are unloading huge sides of beef. His eye is caught by a stained cardboard sign taped on the outer door: “Help Wanted.”

  38.

  In the car Stu hands her a two-thousand-dollar check. Lena gives him a wide smile. His mind, a camera, freezes the light in her eyes. Her gratitude is his reward, be content with that. Except her naked arm, round and soft, her faint scent, almond—or is it vanilla?—is torturously close. A drive-by fantasy enters his head: he’s nuzzling the secret space behind her ear. Isn’t that where perfume’s dabbed, or is that just in the movies? He could ask her. No, he can’t. Lena isn’t the romance-soap-opera type, whatever that is. Well, he knows what that is. His mother watched them daily. It was her hour of living with other people’s misery.

  “My friend is real happy with your car. He couldn’t wait to drive it away.”

  “Sort of sad, though, as cars go. We’ve had it for years. Of course, I’m one hundred percent thankful to you for setting up the deal. I keep touching the check to make sure it’s there. I guess that’s sad, too.”

  “Lena, you’re a trooper, making the best of all this crap.”

  “You think?” her voice softer than usual. What’s that about?

  “Listen. We should celebrate, have a beer, a glass of wine, toast to the check being a harbinger of better and bigger to come. What do you say?” A brief halt to his breathing while he waits. The right answer will send him over the moon. The wrong one will be what he expected in the first place. The next few silent seconds …

  “Absolutely, Stu. Why the hell not? Where?”

  “Let me consider the universe for a moment.” But it’s his rising excitement he considers. When he glances at her, she smiles. At his words? At him? It doesn’t matter. He’ll take either or both. He’ll take whatever he can. Oh, sweet Jesus, the prospect of Lena and him at a bar toge
ther, alone, raises a bagful of thoughts. Primary among them is the need for him not to drink too much, to stay in control of what he says. He’s known her long enough to understand that a wrong word on his part will turn her off. If he remembers the past correctly she tends to be unforgiving. Right now, though, she’s willing to spend time with him. That means he has to listen real closely, show how interested he is in her turn of mind. God, how ridiculous he’s being. He’s embarrassing himself to himself.

  They’re coming up to Fordham Road. “There’s a corner pub near Kingsbridge, across from the old VA Hospital and by a tiny park. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Why?”

  “You would complicate my life by asking.”

  She says nothing.

  “It’s wood-paneled and has those fancy stained-glass windows, like in a church.”

  “Religious figures?”

  “If you drink enough.”

  She laughs. “I see. Okay.”

  She’s staring out the window and he wonders if there’s anything in her mind that would match his thoughts. He decides not. He also decides not to complicate or fuck up the possibilities by saying another word till they arrive, at least five minutes.

  The universe is with him, a parking space right in front. Then again, not many people in bars at two in the afternoon. He opens the door for her. She looks inside. He watches her every move.

  “If you don’t like it, we can find another …”

  “Actually, I’m quite taken. It has atmosphere. How do you know about this place?”

  “A story not worth telling.” He touches her elbow to guide her into the rear where, at this hour, the few tables are vacant. The only other human in the place is the bartender, who doesn’t rush to take orders. That’s good, too. “What’ll you have?” he asks her.

  “I’m toying with the idea of a glass of Merlot, but it’s awfully early, don’t you think?’

  “Not when it’s a celebration.”

  At the circular bar, he orders the wine and a Sam Adams, though bourbon straight up would be a gift. He sees her eyeing the windows, the swan-like turn of her neck. Her bare-shouldered sundress moves when she does; cool and colorful, it demands a beach house where gentle breezes would wind the fabric around her legs.

  “So tell me the story of this place,” she says taking the wine from him.

  “First the toast.”

  “Of course. You make it.”

  “To old friendship and the strength of a shared past.” When did he become so poetic?

  “That’s beautiful, Stu.”

  She appreciates the finer things. He knew it.

  “So … the story, please.”

  “What story?” he pretends.

  “Is it lurid?”

  “No. It’s sad, I think.”

  “Good.”

  “Why good?”

  “I hate shallow anecdotes.”

  Christ, does he have to come up with some deep shit? Just tell the truth, as his second grade teacher said every day of that year, or it least it felt that way.

  “This is the place I come to after work when I’m feeling empty, which can be more often than not. It’s never too crowded, though there are always people at the bar willing to spin their tales. After an hour or two of listening to improbable events, which a few drinks will make essential to share, my life seems fine. I’m ready to face the future—or the lack of it.”

  “Stu, that is sad. What do you mean lack of future?”

  “The sameness, Lena, the same crappy job that can disappear any time, the same route back and forth, the same fucking worries about the same problems that never seem to be solved.” Oh shit, is he whining? “Can we talk about something else?”

  She looks at him for a moment. “I saw Rosie yesterday. She was living with an older guy, a rapper of some sort. I threatened to go to court and slap him with cohabiting with a minor and said I’d be back to take her home.”

  “She’s one determined girl, isn’t she?”

  “Don’t say ‘like her mother,’ because I was never that stupid.”

  “That’s just it, you couldn’t afford to be. You had to take care of so much so young …” He sees the shine leave her eyes. “What can I do to help?”

  “That’s sweet, Stu.” She touches the back of his hand, pats it actually, and he resists the urge to take hers and fold it beneath his. “Zack should be asking me that. Zack should be worrying about his children. Zack has become some kind of phantom. Who is he? Where is he? What is he fucking doing all day long? I’m so angry I could haul him before a judge.”

  To agree with her is clearly stupid, to disagree no less so. “I asked him to meet, but he said he couldn’t.” He glances into the middle distance, fearing she’ll see in his expression how glad he was for Zack’s lack of response. “Why don’t I go with you to pick up Rosie?”

  “You would, wouldn’t you? But she’s back at Mirabelle’s.”

  And in the wonderment of her tone he hears what he’s been waiting for. He can’t be sure, of course, but it feels like Lena’s finally taking him in. Actually doing it. It’s all he wants. He finds her hand, squeezes it, does not let go. “Yes, I would’ve.” He has no idea what his face reveals, but hers seems surprised though not offended. She isn’t pulling her hand away. Yet. Unfortunately his heart is pumping so fast that he’s surely headed for a stroke. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Tragic, he decides, looking at her.

  “Stu? What’s going on?” Her hand retracts, her tone soft, questioning, maybe confused, and who could blame her?

  “I can’t even begin, Lena.”

  “Begin what?”

  “I don’t want to upset you.”

  She shrugs, and he has no idea whether that’s a go or a no.

  “Something I’ve been living with,” he says.

  “What?”

  Is she being polite? Does she really want to know? Does it matter? He drains the beer, looks around quickly, as if someone might stop him. “The need to be close to you.”

  “Stu … I …”

  “I know, I shouldn’t share stuff like this …”

  “What are you saying … since when?” He’s bewildering her, but he can’t stop now.

  “Since you were seventeen.”

  “Stu, come on.”

  “It’s true. You loved Zack and I loved you and Zack was my friend.”

  “And Dory?”

  “That’s just it, I love Dory. A wonderful person, more than great, and I can’t imagine hurting her in any way. But lately I’ve been thinking I married her to stay close to you. I know, don’t say it.” This is the first time he’s thought this. He’s not even sure it’s true. Is he going to regret this?

  “Stu, I don’t … I mean, after all these years …” Her eyes steady on him, her face serious as hell.

  “My feelings for you … well, I buried them …”

  “Stop.”

  “I don’t mean to shock you.”

  “Shock …? Your words are … I don’t know … indigestible.” She looks past him. “These last months have been awful. You and Dory offering us your house has been pure survival. And survival takes up all the space in my head. I don’t know where to put your words. I don’t even know what they mean.”

  “They mean I want to be with you somehow, somewhere.”

  “Stu, there’s Dory …” her tone close to a cry.

  “I know.” So this is how it ends. Fuckfuckfuck. But he can’t give up. He’ll never have another chance like this. “Do you feel anything toward me?”

  “What is it you want me to feel …”

  “Tell me how to please you.” He’s going for broke here.

  “Stu, we should go.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s have another round.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too weird ending the afternoon this way. I mean … there’s probably more we need to say to be easy with each other again.�
�� He sounds like an idiot.

  He watches her consider.

  “Okay, one more round. Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  Locking the bathroom door, she leans against the wall to take a breath. How to react to an old friend hitting on her and sending a shiver of excitement into her dull plod? How to read the unexpected, scary, pleasant buzz it gives her? It’s not just the wine. Stu’s an appealing man; any woman would cop to that. She has to admit, if only ever to herself, that his attentions are flattering. The last time a guy overtly flirted with her was at a gas station a year ago, and what was that about? Telling her of all the beautiful women who came into the place, she was the one he wouldn’t forget. The guy meant nothing to her, yet his words lifted her spirits, which nearly shamed her. Is that what’s happening now, the woman in her being noted? But this is Stu, not some stranger offering bullshit compliments, an old friend she always found attractive, maybe more than attractive. Damn his sincerity, it’s disturbing, disarming. Lord above, has she gone bonkers? Why is she even pondering this? Dory’s her dearest friend. Forget the drink. Go home. She stares at her face in the mirror. It offers no guidance, none whatsoever.

  The second round is already on the table.

  “Have I scared you appropriately?” He doesn’t sound glib, but vulnerable.

  “You have. I’m too fragile for this.” She means it to be a joke.

  “You’re not fragile.”

  His tone too serious to ignore. “Stu, we need to rein ourselves in here.” His second bottle of beer remains untouched. “Aren’t you drinking?” she asks, then gulps down the wine.

  “I want to remember everything I say and everything you say.”