by Lorcan Roche
She wants to know what I woulda done if she hadn’t stepped up when she did, so I say I don’t really know but I would’ve thought of something, and she says, ‘Like what, be pacific’ I’m tempted to correct her pronunciation, or at least to do an impersonation of an ocean, but I just say, ‘Well, basically it boils down to a case of fight or flight and I’ve got extremely long legs.’
‘That so, huh?’ Then she blows smoke without looking at me, for effect. ‘Pete has a button under the bar, it locks all the doors and windows automatic. Plus, ya oughta know Gordy is a real piece of work, used to be a vice cop, always has somethin’ tucked up in his boot, ya really should be more careful. Ya know, this ain’t Ireland, things ain’t settled with fists and sticks no more.’
‘How do you know I’m Irish?’
‘I seen The Quiet Man, OK?’
Her eyes are a strange cabbage green like seaweed after the tide has gone out and I’m wondering is she just trying to freak me out? If she is, she’s doing an excellent job: all I can see is this little white button being depressed, locks whirring internally and well-oiled bolts sliding across, click. And I suppose one of my Achilles’ heels is that I can’t see the Danger! High Voltage sign until it’s way too late, and my stomach is in a terrible tea-towel knot, it won’t go away especially when she puts her warm hand on my arm and pulls the red hairs, softly.
‘Where d’ ya learn to arm wrestle? Ya don’t have to tell me if ya don’t want.’
‘It’s OK, I don’t mind.’
She exhales, only this time she doesn’t narrow her eyes, her way of pretending to be interested.
‘I was working in Stuttgart for a while, in a car factory, Mercedes-Benz. There was this old Turkish dude beside me on the assembly line who took a bit of a shine to me.’
‘I can see that happenin’.’
‘He used to be in a circus, he was the strongest man I ever met, I mean, the guy could actually bend pig iron. It was him who basically showed me how.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. He said I already had the hands, but that what I really needed to acquire was the grey matter and he used to tap the side of my head like this, tap-tap. Then he’d say all I had to do was close my eyes and picture their bones turning to chalk dust.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah. It really is that simple. Will power. Mind over matter.’
What I don’t tell her is, the same guy sometimes used to shout, ‘Russian tank, Russian tank,’ then point his polished head and run at the brick wall of this bier keller on Königstrasse. And sometimes what we don’t reveal is more important than what we do, like food labels in a supermarket.
She’s considering things, you can see she’s one of those people that has to break it down then put it all back together again in little boxes inside her smoky brain, which means she’s probably used to being lied to.
Finally, she says, ‘Weird fuckin’ thing ta teach someone.’
She takes a greedy sip of her drink, you can see thick liquid moving up the straw, and for some reason I’m thinking of liposuction in Hollywood, plus I don’t like the way she leans forward and pulls her hair back with one hand – it reminds me of this curled-up earthworm of a woman at the Clinic who had sick in her hair at the Christmas party but still had the nerve to suggest a blow job. And some of them really were relentless, seriously, seduction for them was a form of attrition, trying to wear you down every day, Why not Trevor, don’t you like me, just try kissing me, my lips are normal, see what that feels like first, come on no one will ever know.
‘Maybe you’re the kinda kid people teach weird shit to.’
More of a statement than a question, which kind of kills the conversation for a while. We sip and smoke in silence until she shouts, ‘Hey Mike, anyone been in askin’ for me?’
And did you ever notice how incredibly rude Americans are, the way they leave you out of the loop? It’s like when you’re out on a date and the girl meets some ancient fuckin’ school-friend and it’s all that Jesus, do you remember the time we did this, and Oh-my-god hands flying up to their geisha faces and Tell us, whatever happened to so and so …
I tap her elbow and enquire, ‘Would you like to accompany me to Chinatown for something nice to eat?’
Rat Head vanishes.
She looks straight at me without blinking and you can see this big book inside her head, it’s a red ledger with Debit and Credit accounts, and she’s slowly weighing up the odds.
Then she says, ‘Sure, I like you plenty, why not?’ She puts her drink down and with her cigarette still in her hand she rubs my head roughly then she leans in a little to kiss me, her lips parting like those red corduroy ropes they place outside night clubs.
It’s an underwater feeling probably because of the seaweed in her eyes and it lasts about nineteen seconds. I’m pretty accurate about time due to the fact that when I was on the school swimming team my Jesuit coach used to count out loud the time that elapsed between me touching the cold silver bar and the next guy: Two, one thousand, three, one thousand four, one thousand. He had this real snotty sneer in his voice, sonorous, you can imagine how popular that made me in the dressing-room there was always some fucker staring, you’d swear winning a tacky little gold medal at sixteen was a matter of life and fuckin’ death. Then again, for guys whose fathers were waiting just inside the door with hazel-rods and switches, maybe it was.
Her mouth is much wider than mine, her lips are amazingly soft, her lipstick tastes sweet, and it’s one of those kisses that when you open your eyes you’re quite surprised to find yourself in a bar, in daylight, in America.
She says, ‘That was nice. But before we eat there’s something we should take care of, less a’course you don’t find me attractive?’
‘No. I find you extremely attractive.’
Which isn’t strictly true, but it was a very good kiss; not greedy, but not too lazy either, bit like a pike tugging on the bait but being real careful not to swallow the hook.
‘So. You a lover as well as a fighter?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re not sure, huh?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Say the word.’
‘Fuck. Now you say it.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Slower.’
‘Fu-uck.’
‘Harder.’
‘I get the picture.’
‘Good. ‘Cause some guys don’t. I like someone I can talk to when I’m doin’ it. It’s more grown-up that way, don’t ya think?’
‘I suppose so, yeah.’
‘We can leave now if ya want.’
‘Maybe we should get to know each other a bit better?’
‘We will, don’ worry. An’ afterwards ya can go on your merry way an’ ya never have to concern yourself ‘bout calling me or any of that shit, OK? Maybe if you’ve been a real stud Ma will fix breakfast, I might even bring it in on a tray with a flower, what do ya say?’
‘Sounds truly wonderful, but do me a favour?’
‘That depends.’
‘Drop the Ma stuff. It’s kind of unsettling.’
She laughs, and it’s a surprisingly soft sound, even if there are too many Boogie Nights and tangled sheets in it. When we stand up she goes, ‘Ooh very nice, I must say,’ in this bad Eliza Doolittle voice as I put her coat on.
Out in the street she can do that wolf-whistle thing. I know it’s childish but I’ve always wanted to be able to do it so now I’m looking at her thinking, I dunno, you tell me, is she kinda cool or just a walking cliché?
Too late for debate, we’re sitting in a yellow cab heading uptown, less and less white faces. Amazing how an un-emptied trash can or two hooded guys leaning against a corner changes the landscape goes from doorman to dingy in a set of crookedly hanging traffic lights.
Outside her building there’s a delay when we go to pay, I’m thinking, No fuckin’ way, she can stump up this time, I coughed up for all the drinks, p
lus she rang up twenty smokes on top. She mutters under her breath as she fishes out a crumpled note. ‘Cheapskate fuckin’ Mick.’ The inside of her handbag is a complete and utter mess.
There’s a reinforced door she needs her shoulder to open, then it’s up the stairs behind her, thinking, yep, definitely the type who would’ve had her name on the side of a B-52, put there by a some lantern-jawed jock who comes home to a ‘Hero’s Welcome’ except he’s no longer able to get it up five flights of stairs, after which there are an awful lot of locks and bolts. At one stage she looks back over her shoulder and smiles, except I can’t think of a single thing to say, I mean absolutely nothing springs to mind as I watch her hands move up and down the door frame I feel it in my spine, like a xylophone.
Finally we’re inside, it’s much cleaner and brighter than you would’ve thought. ‘Home sweet home,’ she says and throws her bag on an overstuffed chair. She’s more relaxed now that she’s let go of the Barbara-Stanwyck impersonation, although she still makes a production out of lighting a smoke and putting it between my lips. Then she kicks off her shoes and disappears in the kitchen I can hear a bottletop hit the floor, like brief applause.
When she comes back she takes a long drag from my cigarette. The smoke goes curling into her eyes as she pours my beer but she just closes both of them and doesn’t spill a single drop.
‘Got everything ya need?’
‘I think so. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She leaves the bathroom door open as she cold-creams some of the war paint off she calls out, ‘G’head, snoop around, put on some music why don’t ya flick through a book or somethin’?’ There’s lousy taste on her shelves, apart from some Carl Hiassen and Elmore Leonard it’s all shite on how to improve this, how to transform … that’s when she reappears.
Minus her blouse.
Her body at least from the waist up is even better than you would’ve imagined. She stands there in her skirt and black bra which has little serrated flowers around the edges, and the titles that appear below her amazing breasts say: Extremely hot in the sack, play your cards right and this could be something to write to Dalek and The Captain about.
‘What? I remind you of somebody?’
‘No. It’s just, you look …’
‘Younga than ya thought?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s ‘cause I am.’
She steps out of her skirt like Lucille Ball she has black stockings and suspenders, the whole shebang, and I’m a sucker for all that old-fashioned stuff, I’m getting hard.
‘Say somethin’.’
‘You look lovely.’
‘Lovely?’
‘Yes.’
She turns sideways and puts one surprisingly long leg out in front, like a can-can dancer.
‘Ya like my legs?’
‘Yes. They’re long and lean. Like a racehorse.’
‘That’s nice. Nobody ever said that before. What else do ya like?’
‘I like your breasts.’
‘Tell me more.’
Which is a line from Grease, isn’t it?
‘They’re full and round and very inviting.’
‘Ya wanna feel them?’
‘Yes please.’
She repeats yes please like a fat kid who has just been asked Do you want more chocolate-chip ice cream? or maybe it was me that sounded like that the first time, I don’t know.
Then she walks over to me, slowly. At the risk of repeating myself it really is first-rate, I mean she could be on a ramp in Paris with all that jutting hip, pouting lip stuff going on.
She takes my hands and she places them on her damp soft face, then in her hair which has sticky gel in it, not that I care. She’s telling me not to be afraid, which I’m not, then she takes my hands again, she places them over her breasts, which sort of vanish underneath. That’s when she whispers, ‘Jeez, poor Gordy’ and I’d completely forgotten about him, but at this stage who gives a shite? She’s on the verge of unhooking her bra, however, I can’t wait.
‘Don’t move.’
‘Ya gonna take a leak?’
‘Yeah.’
She kneels down suddenly she starts to unbuckle my belt all the while staring up like Linda fuckin’ Lovelace. She slides the belt out of its loops, lets me know it can have other uses if I want it to, and, in terms of communicating with eyes and eyebrows, she’s definitely an exception to the rule.
I step out of my combats, I still have my sneakers and socks on. I realise this isn’t a particularly good look, but she doesn’t seem to mind since she’s suddenly all folded out on the floor, like yesterday’s news.
Her perfect breasts are cupped in her thin, white fingers, but I have to go, I mean, I really have no choice, except she catches me looking in the direction of the bathroom so she moves one hand down to her crotch; see the white spider crawl across her hard belly and down.
‘Do it.’
‘What?’
‘Rain on me, baby. Not in my mouth though.’
‘I don’t think so. No.’
‘Don’t be such a square. I like it.’
‘I dunno …’
‘Come on, baby. You’ll like it too.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You don’t want to make me happy? I’ll make you happy after and…’
I don’t care if we’re going to shower together, then fuck and suck like demented Duracell bunnies. I don’t care if she is going to tie me up and do it ‘til the cows come home wagging their tails behind them. The truth is, I’m sick and tired of everybody in this kip putting themselves first. Anyway, I’ve got so much beer sloshing around inside I’d probably drown the wagon, plus there are an awful lot of gaps in her floorboards and you never know who might live below, knowing my luck one of those survivalist fuckers with a big beard and a Bowie knife stuck ‘tween his teeth.
‘I’m going to leave now, OK?’
‘G’head, ya might miss choir practice at Saint Patrick’s.’
She’s telling me I’m an asshole, and a fag, as I step back into my combats I’m searching around for Alan White and she’s back on the sofa, fiddling with her bra. She lights a cigarette, takes a huge drag, releases hardly any smoke and says, ‘You’re a total loser, what’s worse, you’re a lousy fuckin’ kissah.’
Apart from the magical moment in the Chase Manhattan, I’ve been restraining myself all day so I tell her a few home truths, including my theory as to why she wants to be pissed on, because ‘that’s what you do to everyone you meet, in fact your vocation, your fuckin’ calling in life, is to urinate all over people’s hopes and dreams, and by the way your hair smells of piss and your apartment smells of piss, while I’m at it your whole fuckin’ life smells of piss.’
She says, ‘Yeah whatever, shut the goddamn door behind ya, jerk-off.’
‘Right, I will.’
And I nearly take the thing off its hinges, except halfway down her stairs I realize it can’t wait a second longer, shite, there’s no way I’m doing it outside in an alleyway, not in this part of town – never know who the fuck might decide to appear just when you have your dick in your hands. No, I’m going to have to go back up, knock on her door, push past and say, Hey, I need to use the jacks so shut the fuck up and go back to imitating a Welsh fuckin’ dragon, alright?
Music is coming from inside. P.J. Harvey’s ‘Tales of the City’ which I quite like.
I’m knocking with my knuckles, now the palms of both hands, plus my sneaker, but Polly Jean is screaming her lungs out about how badly she wants a pistol and Rain on Me Baby can’t hear; or maybe she can and she’s just sitting there releasing dragon smoke, going, Fuck him.
So I do it against her door, not in her mouth, and I’m laughing so hard I can hardly maintain a flow and I have to keep moving out of the way of the stream, then river.
The noise on her door is like a monsoon, then all of a sudden there is no liquid left inside I feel empty and very weird altogether as I
’m walking back down the stairs I’m thinking, the stupid cow looked like the Crazy King’s wife in Chitty-Chitty, lying there cupping her thrupenny bits, fumbling with her brillo-pad.
And out on the screaming street I’m doing my best not to get shouldered by the loose-limbed brothers who’ve all gathered to gawk; it’s like a scene from a Spike-Lee joint, just before everything implodes.
And what I’d like to know is, what made Rain on Me Baby think I’d want to do something like that in the first place?
If you really want some free advice, when you feel like this you should avoid looking in shop windows and restaurant fronts, when you feel like this your reflection is always blurred, and wavy, like Ed’s handwriting you are unformed, you are unfinished, you may have the body and hands and other bits and pieces of a man but you have the blank face of a novice or wimpled nun, you have the twirling mind of a fool at an amusement park you are neither one thing nor the other, you are confusing reality with fantasy, you are not in control, not in possession of your faculties.
You can do nothing.
Except … Keep walking. And avoid the waving madly mirrors.
When things start to get all Lon Chaney and hairy, when the ticker goes into overtime, when strobe lights register doubt and flickering uncertainty behind your eyes you should visualize the surface of the sea.
You can let it be quite angry at the start, but gradually you should fight to make it calm. And steady. Atlantic to Baltic.
After the episode behind the school shed when the two whispering rich kids – the type that think nothing will ever go wrong in their gift-wrapped lives – tried to trip me up and one knelt slyly behind while the other tried pushing me over, but they didn’t quite get the timing right and something snapped inside, that was when I had to change schools and the family felt it best to move lock, stock and barrel. It was a bit lonely at the start but the best thing about moving to Wicklow was the sea, especially in winter, when in between the white waves crashing you had this awesome moment of respite; the harder you listened, the longer that interlude seemed to endure.
