by Dan Fante
While the other guy stood there, she came over and sat down next to me on the couch, grabbed my hand, kissed me, and pressed the hard little nipple of her tit into my upper arm.
She was whispering. She wanted me to know how very happy she was to see me again. She giggled about missing me and my funny jokes.
Then she kissed me again, harder this time, deeper, sliding her tongue under my tongue. After the kiss she looked up at me - she had big eyes. Sandy wanted to know if I would mind coming back later that day, or maybe even later that night. She was sorry, she said, the man in the suit was a very big tipper. Japanese. He didn’t like waiting. If she didn’t take him right away ahead of me he would leave and she would lose a very big and impressive tip. Then she kissed me again and handed me back my massage fee - a twenty and a ten; ‘You come back later. Okay, baby?’
I looked up at the guy, standing there with his arms crossed staring at the ceiling, impatient, like some spoiled jerkoff waiting in front of the Plaza Hotel for his limo.
My mind started talking. First it suggested that I act nice and just get up and leave. Be a good guy. Walk out. No problem. Sandy would be grateful and when I came back next time she would demonstrate her thanks by doing some special sexual favor for me. But that message was overridden by a second quick message. The new message said: ‘Fuck these cocksuckers! Fuck them for embarrassing you and treating you like a second-class piece-of-shit trick.’ Added to this message was the information that within a few minutes after I’d gone the other man - the rich Japanese guy - would be licking and kissing Sandy, fingering her pussy; maybe even feeling her tongue on his butthole. I began to experience a wrenching in my stomach accompanied by the bite of something sour in my throat.
I looked over at Sandy. Then at the face of the partition lady and then over at the big tipper. It didn’t matter any more. None of it. Fuck it!
I stood up and unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick. Sandy stood up too. They looked surprised but no one did anything because they didn’t know what to do.
First I urinated on the couch where I’d been sitting, then I twisted my stream to the floor by Sandy’s feet. She stepped back. Then I pissed on the coffee table and the magazines.
When I was done I zipped up and walked out, slamming the door behind me.
Two blocks down Broadway there was a ginmill off the corner of Forty-fifth. A spot where during the day you could get one-for-one until 5 p.m. It was hot outside and the Clint Eastwood movie didn’t start for at least another hour.
I went in, found an empty stool and put a twenty-dollar bill face up on the deck. I ordered three shooters with a beer back. The bar guy had the Yankees on. New York at Baltimore. Third inning. The goddamn Orioles were already ahead six to one.
He set up my beer and whiskey and I tried my first sip in almost three weeks. It was awful, like the taste of cigarette ashes in an inch of water at the bottom of a glass. Stale. Stabbing. Heinous. A taste completely unlike any whiskey of any kind.
I knew it was the hypnotism. Some fucked saboteur reprogramming message Harry had pumped into the depths of my brain through the earphones.
I didn’t know what else to do so I hammered the rest of the shooters and gulped down a swig of the beer. It was rank shit too. Disgusting. Like kerosene or liquid rat poison or dwarf piss. Awful.
I waved for the guy and when he came over I switched to vodka shooters, plain water back.
He set me up again and I hit the first sip hoping the vodka would at least taste different from the whiskey. But it didn’t. It was the same. I tried the water. Only it seemed uncontaminated.
When I’d finished the drinks I ordered more. My head pounded and my heart raced like the way you feel when you’ve just mainlined half a gram of coke.
The second vodka shooter wasn’t as bad as the first. Like before, like rancid wet ashes but not quite as bad.
It took another fifteen minutes and two more sets of shooters until the stuff tasted halfway normal.
Then I was okay again.
I continued going to the hypno because I had to in order to stay qualified to receive my Workman’s Comp checks. But I kept on with the booze too. I just didn’t tell Harry. The adjustment was simple: on the days I had my sessions I’d hold off getting drunk until after I left his office.
Chapter Twenty-five
I STARTED TO become a more frequent visitor at Bert’s downstairs manager’s apartment. We were both sports fans and his most recent and prized possession was a big-screen TV - a forty-six-inch job he’d confiscated in lieu of back rent. Sometimes it happened that when a roomer got locked out or vacated suddenly, Bert would procure his belongings: a racing bike, boom-box radios, a computer. Sometimes he’d sell the stuff if it was electronic, sometimes he’d give it to one of his kids, and sometimes he’d lock it in his storage room in the basement. Bert excelled at fist fights which helped if the ex-tenant returned for his stuff and began complaining regarding who was entitled to what.
Angel-Lee was working nights waitressing at her titty-bar job and Bert knew I followed the Yankees and Mets and liked boxing so I had an open invitation to drop in. I was okay. We’d sip Bert’s beer and watch the game on his monster TV. Sometimes during the commercials he’d mute the sound and dispense advice about my case and brag about outsmarting the Workman’s Comp people and the welfare department.
It would be me and Bert and the twins, Carrie and Connie. After the girls fixed dinner and did the dishes they would confine themselves to their big bed in the rear area of the apartment. They had learned to keep a low profile around their daddy when he drank, which was mostly day and night. He could easily become a mean-spirited and belittling prick when it came to criticizing his wife and kids.
The twins liked having me around. I’d make up preposterous yarns about their favorite TV actor or rock star and say he was my cousin or I went to school with him or I’d once driven him to the airport in my cab. When they would challenge me I’d concoct a personality characteristic or a tattoo the guy had and go on about it until they were convinced that I was really telling the truth. Then I’d make a face to let them know that I’d fooled them again. Then too, me being in their apartment made it easier with their dad because it took some of the heat off.
Bert’s three-year Workman’s Comp lawsuit finally got settled and the amount came out to be forty thousand dollars. Robert Edward Francis Duffy took his one-third off the top which was the agreed split but Bert was left with almost twenty-seven K, which, according to him and Bob Duffy, was a decent hit.
He celebrated by staying drunk and snorting coke and vanishing from the building for seventy-two hours. After he sobered up and got contrite he bought rollerblade rollerskates for his girls and a pearl necklace for beautiful Angel-Lee.
One morning several days after the check was safely in his bank, I accompanied Bert to the OTB on Broadway. It was not yet 10 a.m. but he was half drunk and snorting crack again.
He wasn’t much of a gambler and due to his coke and booze problem his relationship with his family had gotten worse. The next day when he came to with a new hangover he discovered that Angel was gone and his savings account was at zero balance.
She’d had enough. It turned out that her and Tall Jimmy, the bartender at her job, had been having a thing and what was left of the settlement cash had provided them with the motivation to relocate together to the southwest.
Bert stayed drunk and high on coke for another week, ignoring his manager’s job and his kids. When he was completely broke and his credit was gone, he started in on wine. The girls, in fear of their dad, came up to my room. At night they slept on my floor in their sleeping bags.
Chapter Twenty-six
IT WAS RAINING so I had my jacket on and I was on my way out to a hypno appointment with Harry when I opened my door and saw Bert moving the twins’ mattress and two boxfuls of clothes up the stairs.
He was real bad: shaking, hung over, his dick in the dirt. But he had a plan.
Angel’s welfare check had just come in the mail; two hundred and ninety-seven dollars. Bert had signed his wife’s name on the back and cashed the check at the liquor store on Ninth Avenue where they knew him. He handed the wadded up allotment money over to me. Mostly all twenties.
That morning he had quit his manager’s job. He was setting out to find Angel and bring her back. Part of his plan was for me to look after the girls for a couple of weeks.
I watched him shake, then took the money. Together with the girls we moved the mattress and the boxes the rest of the way into my room.
But Bert was gone longer than two weeks and my own checks were barely enough to cover expenses. It was almost a month before we even received a call on the hall pay phone. Two hundred and sixty of the two hundred and ninety-seven dollars had gone out immediately to pay for an emergency room visit when I came home buzzed, tripped going up the stairs, and hit my forehead on the banister. Twelve stitches.
I had the key to the building’s storage room and Bert’s permission, if necessary, to sell or pawn his stuff, whatever was there. Twice that first month the girls and I had to appropriate one of D’Agostino Market’s shopping carts and wheel a load down Ninth Avenue to the hock shop. First thing was their dad’s big TV and speakers, then a VCR and a fax machine with the dial buttons missing.
There was more stuff but when Ed Dorobek, the new rooming-house manager, discovered me going into the storage room, he replaced the padlock. I was denied further admittance unless Bert was present.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I KNEW EXACTLY nothing about eleven-year-old girls.
It was summer. The end of June. Having twin girls around, out of school, in and out of my room, was annoying at first. The up side was that with less time by myself my drinking and my mind’s raging and crazy self-talking stayed pretty much under control. They were good kids so I made the adjustment. The hardest thing for me was the heat at night and not sleeping.
During the day I maintained on cheap whiskey and the occasional short dog of Mad Dog 20-20. I worked on my play as much as I could, and I always kept my appointments with Harry.
Sometimes, in those first weeks after the girls moved in, the sweltering afternoons were so fierce that sitting around in the closeness of the rooming house induced my brain’s software to thoughts of suicide and homicide. My solution was for the three of us to walk to Times Square to play video games or go to the $2 air cooled movies on Forty-second Street.
The twins would skate down Broadway on their rollerblades with me following. They were heartbreakers, always cheerful, friendly to everybody, with beautiful smiles and big eyes like their mom’s. The tourists and the people on the street loved them.
The only real children’s book I owned was The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz. At night Carrie was having bad dreams, being terrorized by spiders and two-foot-high red insects sucking her face off while she slept so, before lights out, to get her and Connie to relax and drift off, I began reading out loud from Oz. One chapter a night. They loved it. Right away the magic of the story had us all under its spell. When I’d get tired or too drunk to do a good job with the reading, one of the girls would take over. It became a nightly ritual.
Then our finances got worse and I had to pawn my electric typewriter and my own TV to raise money for food. I’d fallen two weeks behind on the rent for the second time. Dorobek, the manager, a jeweled scumbag at heart, exalted in his moment of victory by sneering as he delivered a pink, legal, three-day eviction slip to our room.
It was the next morning, early, when we heard a noise - the girls heard it. It woke them up. A scratching and a sort of whimpering drifted up from below, through our room’s two big open windows by the fire escape, then skidded across to their sleeping bags. The source appeared to be the garbage cans outside the first floor that Dorobek kept stacked near the rooming house’s entrance.
The girls shook me awake wanting permission to go downstairs to investigate.
Six kittens were the origin of the disturbance. Gray tabbies. The entire litter less than a week old. They’d been dispatched by their passing owner in a brown, taped-up grocery bag, then dumped in one of the heavy metal garbage cans. A cowardly act. And maybe a fatal crime too except that the perp lacked the balls to smother his victims by sealing the can’s lid.
The cats were orphans like the twin girls who would save them from the trash. Abandoned Munchkins. I never had a chance to say no.
Having more new roommates only worsened the financial deal. We were nearly penniless. My next Workman’s Comp check was still four days away and it had been weeks since their dad’s last phone call.
I decided to convene a house meeting. Each of us took a pen and paper and wrote down suggestions; every way we could think of to bring in some money. Connie acted as recording secretary for the best ideas.
We were unanimous. The proposal we all chose as number one was the one that would provide immediate cash. My idea. A street hustle. A way to use the twins’ personalities and little-girl appeal to mooch the New York tourists. I was sure it would work.
The story I made up for them was simple; the girls would say that their mom and dad had just been in a car wreck. The parents were driving back to the city from a weekend trip visiting family upstate. They’d run into a sleet storm on the thruway in their old Ford wagon with the bald tires. The car slid across the roadway head-on into a retaining wall. Both Mom and Dad were in the hospital in Albany. ICU. One (they chose their mom) had a punctured eye and grievous internal organ damage. She might also never walk again. But Dad was much worse off. A coma. Over the phone the ER doctor had mentioned the prospect of aneurism and extensive brain damage.
The scam went as follows: the twins would work their way up and down Broadway and Seventh Avenue in Times Square stopping to pitch anyone who was well dressed or looked like an out-of-towner. They’d act upset and show a palm-full of crushed bills, ones and fives, saying all they needed was twenty-two dollars and eight cents more to have enough money to catch the six o’clock (or four-thirty or two-fifteen or whatever) Greyhound leaving from the Port Authority Bus Terminal for upstate. It was vital that they get to the Albany hospital ICU as soon as possible to see their dad for maybe the last time before he went into the probably-fatal brain operation. Carrie, always the more dramatic of the two, volunteered to be the one to start out doing the pitch. Connie would back her up with nods and whimpers. When they both got good at presenting the hustle, they’d switch off.
The twins loved it. The only adjustment I had to make was allowing them to use their rollerblades instead of walking.
We spent three hours that night, between chasing kittens, flattening out the details. I pre-asking all the questions I could think of that the tourists might have. We rehearsed everything. Carrie wanted to use the name Dorothy and take one of the kittens along and call it Toto. Connie and I vetoed the idea. Her tendency was to overdramatize. By the third dry run she’d already taught herself a way to sob and tear-up every time she or Connie used the word ‘aneurism.’
The next morning at eleven o’clock, check-out time at the mid-town Manhattan hotels, the girls began skating around Times Square going up to anyone who appeared to be a mooch or an out-of-towner with luggage.
It was a strong scam. Sometimes the kids raked in as much as two hundred a day. Twenties and tens. The tourists and the mid-town shirt-and-tie crowd were unable to say no to twins in pigtails.
Chapter Twenty-eight
WE HAD BEEN through The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz three or four times. I’d tried to introduce other stuff, some Brontë, Margaret Mitchell, even some creepy Ann Rice but they would have none of it. Oz was too powerful. And, of course, the kittens were living proof of the existence of Munchkins.
Most days, in the afternoons, after their Times Square hustle, because of the sopping heat, we’d walk cross-town to our rooming house on Fifty-first Street, pick up the cardboard TV crate with the holes in it where they housed their kittens, mount the
box on a supermarket shopping cart, then roll up Eighth Avenue to Central Park. I’d count the day’s cash while the girls played with the kittens and had a contest to see who could eat the most Eskimo Pies and Orange Sherbet push-ups. They’d made a rule for me. It was based on an incident I’d had with an asshole clerk at the video arcade. I’d argued and gotten punched and inadvertently misplaced a hundred dollars in cash. The rule was: no wine drinking in public.
We met Elizabeth in Central Park. She was pushing a stroller along the walkway. The twins ogled anything that was a baby, anything in a diaper, so meeting her was as unavoidable as breathing smog.
Her job was being the full-time nanny to a baby named Sven, the eighteen-month-old son of a European magazine CEO guy who lived in the Essex House on Central Park South for four months out of every year. Sven had a seven-year-old brother named Erik. He had a spinal disease and stayed at home at the apartment most of the time with his mother while Elizabeth spent the afternoons wheeling baby Sven around in the park.
Elizabeth was Cuban. From a town outside Havana. She was smart and spoke decent American. Twenty years old and she had already had three children of her own that she’d left with her mother back on the island. Elizabeth was a bit overweight and she had sad eyes but the twins, who were always good at deciding such matters, liked her right away. And Elizabeth’s smile was like a beam from Venus.
It turned out that she loved whiskey too.
After the first day or two, the two of us sat on a long bench, laughing and sipping Ten-High out of Coca-Cola cups while Carrie and Connie played with Sven and the kittens on the grass.
