The Wanderers

by Richard Price

  ***

  Friday night.

  "C'mon, C."

  "No!" She rolled onto her stomach. Richie had to be satisfied with stroking her back and grabbing her ass.

  "Look," he compromised, "I'll only stick it in ... this much." He narrowed the space between his fingers. She lay motionless like a corpse.

  "O.K., forget it." He started getting dressed, but she didn't move. He put on his socks and shoes. Then he put on his T-shirt. But she wasn't budging until she heard the metallic zip of his fly being closed.

  She turned over and Richie in his socks, shoes, and T-shirt dove between her legs like a sea gull swooping down for a clam in the ocean. His pants were on the floor, the zipper zipped. As he worked between her thighs with a maniac determination, there was a tremendous explosion and the room filled with smoke. C screamed. Richie jumped to his feet, his heart going crazy, his erection shrinking like a speeded-up film of a blooming flower shot in reverse. An acrid thickness filled the air. C clutched the blanket to her in wild-eyed horse terror. Richie saw the shreds of a firecracker by the door. On the other side of the door Dougie and Scottie made sounds of idiot glee. Richie's anger kicked the film forward, and he had a blooming-rage hard-on. C grabbed him by the T-shirt before he could fling open the door and drown them in the bathtub like two kittens.

  ***

  Lenny Arkadian had a sign-painting shop on Olinville Avenue. The Wanderers sometimes hung out at the shop after school because Lenny was a young guy who cursed like a sailor and knew the best dirty jokes. He was a big flabby shipwreck of a person who'd won a William Bendix look-alike contest in high school. He was usually covered from head to toe with red paint—the only color he ever used for his signs. His store had been condemned by the Board of Health six times since he'd opened up. This was no small accomplishment as the only things around were a splattered workbench, a few reams of blank poster board, and a pyramid of red paint cans. He'd framed the six citations and hung them around his expulsion notice from Rhode Island School of Design. He considered himself an artist, a cocksman and a real card—in that order. He'd had a barber pole tattooed on bis cock when he was in Tangiers with the navy, he could give out with a fifteen-second fart, and he didn't give a shit about business. He'd do anything for an audience. One time when the Wanderers were hanging around, an old lady came into the store for a sign. Lenny got down on all fours, barking and howling, snapping at her heels, chasing her into the street. Then he went after the guys, growling and snarling, scuttling across the floor like a crab until Joey emptied a gallon of red paint on his head. In five minutes, the walls, the floors, the reams of white paper and everybody present were soaked with paint Lenny ruined two days' work and fifty dollars worth of finished signs, but a good time was had by all. Since that day, Lenny had been known as the Wolf man.

  "Wolfman!"

  "Gennaro! How's she hangin'?" Lenny hadn't looked up when the sleigh bells over his door jangled, and Richie barged in, throwing his schoolbooks on the workbench. Lenny, up to his armpit in the stuff, was mixing a barrel of red paint with a wooden salad fork. He wore a paint-stiffened sweatshirt and gray chinos.

  "You seen Eugene?" Richie asked.

  "He was just here about ten minutes ago. I heard that was some wild party you guys had Saturday. How come you didn't invite me?"

  "It was a full moon."

  "Ah, you guys crack me up." He grimaced as the paint crept up to his shoulder. "Oh, Gennaro, I heard you got laid. I don't believe it but that's what I heard."

  "I didn't get laid. Who told you that, Eugene?"

  "Yeah, he says you got balled in his room."

  "Right, my fist got balled in his room." After wiping his sweatshirt and hand reasonably dry, Lenny laid out a blank poster on the workbench. "It was this close, Lenny." Richie held his thumb and index finger almost touching. "Ah dunno, I'm gonna join the monks." He shook his head sadly.

  "Gennaro, not to make you feel any more inadequate than you are, but I gotta tell you what happened to me last night." He worked as he talked, carefully printing the details for a linen sale at Lipschitz's department store down the block. Richie laughed. He knew a good story was coming. "I went out with this chick last night, a nurse from Jacobi. You know them nurses. You know half them operations where the patients die is because the doctors are too tired to hold a scalpel straight because they just been in the, I dunno, the sterilization room sterilizin' with the nurses? That's a fact. Yeah, I read it in Argosy. Anyways, I think Rochelle—that's the nurse I went out with last night as I started to say—Rochelle I think was responsible for half them losin' operations at Jacobi."

  "Hey, fuck you! My mother was a nurse."

  "Yeah, well, I got a story about her too. Anyways this Rochelle, like I picked her up in Manny's last night. You know, just put the old moves on an' I swear to God, in fifteen minutes I was back in my place, an' in twenty, I'd say twenty-seven minutes, I was gobblin' her clam like it was the last supper." Richie doubted the timing since Lenny lived in Westchester and the drive alone was thirty minutes. "An' I'm tellin' you I musta hit the bullseye because I never got hit with as much clam juice in. my life. I mean my chin was drippin' just like this brush."

  He dipped his brush in the barrel. The paint dripped obscenely over the floor and his blue canvas shoes. "Anyways, I get this idea. I get up and I got a butter knife and a piece of Wonder Bread, you know, builds your body twelve different ways and all that bullshit. Anyways, I get this knife an' some bread an' I stuck the knife up her ol' patoot, got a nice gob of clam squirt, an' I spread it on the bread." To demonstrate he slapped the wet paintbrush slowly back and forth across his palm. "Like this, see?" Richie shook his head in dumb amazement. "An' I did it until I got me a nice pussy on white sandwich. Then I folded the bread over an' I ate it. An' you know what that fuckin' cunt says to me after I finish? She says, 'Lenny, you shouldna done that ... I got gonorrhea.'"

  "Bleagh!"

  "I got gonorrhea," Lenny repeated grimacing, finishing the new poster.

  "Wolfman, you are not to be believed."

  "Yeah, that's what your mother said when I was done with her." Before Richie could protest Lenny continued. "Anyways, Gennaro, about your problem. You have come to the right party for help. I guarantee you if you follow the good doctor's orders your seemingly incurable virginity will be cleared up in a week."

  "You shittin' me?" Richie squinted skeptically.

  "I shit you not. We may not clear it up in the first treatment, but then again..." Lenny shrugged, looking at Richie.

  "Keep talkin'."

  "Now, are you talkin' about Miss Denise Rizzo alias C?"

  "Yeah, yeah." Lenny finished the sign and held it in front of him examining his work. "C'mon, c'mon."

  "Patience, mah man. You been waitin' sixteen years for this you can wait five more minutes. Besides, I gotta make a livin'."

  Richie sighed and looked to heaven.

  "This is a nice poster, ain't it?" He held it facing Richie.

  "Lenny," Richie begged.

  "You know how much that fat fuck Lipschitz takes in a year? A week? A day?" Richie scratched his head. Hard. Pulled at his hair. "I don't know either, but I betcha it's a titload," Lenny said. Richie got up to leave, "Vaseline a carrot," Lenny said quickly.

  "You talkin' to me?"

  "Vaseline a carrot, shove it up her snatch. Ml give her a taste of what the real thing's like."

  "You talkin' to me?" Richie pointed a finger at his own chest.

  "Make sure you stick the right end in. A banana's too soft. It might break off in the middle, then where'll you be?"

  "You ain't a Wolfman, you're a..."

  "I knew this girl once whose cunt muscles were so strong she could pick up a carrot off a table with her snatch and make it disappear. Of course an unpeeled banana will do the trick too but sometimes the ends are too rough. You see, the trick with getting laid is you gotta be gentle."

  The next day Richie went food shopping. All he wanted wa
s a carrot, but just so the cashier wouldn't get suspicious, he bought two pounds of squeeze oranges, a pound of turnips, and four heads of iceberg lettuce.

  ***

  Every Friday night, C's parents went to their cousin's club meeting, and every Friday night Richie would slip into C's bedroom for his weekly wrestling match. So far C was undefeated, but this time Richie brought brass knuckles into the ring. The warm-ups went as usual. With lights out and television on he took off her blouse and bra to the theme from "Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip." He took off her dress and drawers to the theme from "Twilight Zone" and by the time Zacherle's "Shock Theater" came on they were in the middle of a one-fall-no-holds-barred-Texas-Death-Match-winner-take-all, although all C had to do to win was hold Richie to a draw.

  "Hey, C?"

  "Huh?"

  "I'll be right back." Richie got up. He felt for the carrot, which he'd slipped into one of his socks while undressing. He dropped the carrot into the front of his pants and made it to the bathroom. The light made him squint as he searched through the Rizzo medicine cabinet for Vaseline. They had a large family-size jar. He smeared a fistful over the carrot until it had a dull, slimy glaze. He put the carrot in his pants, turned off the light, and went back to the bedroom. His strategy was to slip it in while fingering her, taking advantage of the darkness to pull the old switcheroo. He undressed again, keeping the organic dildo within easy reach. As he worked his fingers inside C, like the master finger-fucker that he was, and as a big-titted blonde was being eaten by Roachmen from Mars on "Shock Theater," he grabbed the slippery vegetable with his other hand and was about to make the switch from index finger to food when C turned on the light, catching him with the goods.

  "I just wanna ... what the hell is that!" Her eyes widened in disbelief.

  "What?" Richie said dumbly, his hand paralyzed, the carrot six inches from C's nose.

  "That!"

  "This?"

  "That."

  "Oh, that. Oh, it's a carrot It's a, uh, it's really good!" Richie took a large bite, chewed enthusiastically, wiped a dab of Vaseline from his chin, and offered it to C, a grin on his face like a mule eating shit. "Want some?"

  "Lenny! You fucker!" It was three in the morning, but Lenny answered the phone on the first ring.

  "Whosis? Sounds like Gennaro." Lenny was wide-awake. "Gennaro, say hello to Dolores." The phone exchanged hands and a husky female voice said, "Hi."

  "Lemme speak to Lenny," Richie said, for once unimpressed and unamused.

  "Gennaro, what's up?"

  "Me, you, Dolores, an' my dinner, you bastard."

  "What're you talkin' about?"

  "Glazed carrots."

  "You dope, you ain't supposed to eat 'em. Come in Monday, we'll talk." Lenny hung up the phone before Richie could say anything.

  ***

  "Gennaro, how many times I gotta tell you? I'm in your corner." Lenny put his arm around Richie's shoulders.

  "You really are a Wolfman, you know that?"

  "O.K., that's it, no more bullshitting around with amateurs, we go pro."

  "Whadya mean?" Richie felt a frightening tightness in his gut.

  "I'll be right back." Lenny left the store. Richie sat on the workbench feeling like he was on a doctor's examining table. Five minutes later Lenny returned. "It's time to harvest the cherries."

  "Whadya mean?" Richie's lunch was doing a mambo up his throat.

  "Whado I mean, whado I mean, whadya think I mean?" Lenny put the "will be back at" sign on the door, setting the movable clock hands for four thirty.

  "Whadya gonna do, close the store? C'mon, Lenny, don't go to no expense like that."

  Lenny slung his jacket over his T-shirt. "You comin'?" he snickered.

  Richie shrugged, took a deep breath that turned into a nervous shudder, and followed him out of the store. He walked behind Lenny, staring at the back of bis gray chinos, the big ass, the wide shoulders, the bird's nest of blond hair. Sensing Richie's stare, Lenny turned his head and smiled, motioning Richie to walk beside him. He put his arm around Richie's shoulders.

  "Hey, Lenny? I don't need no bag or nothin' do I?"

  "Nah, just relax. You'll be O.K."

  They stopped in front of a grocery store. Lenny went inside. "A fuckin' grocery!" Richie muttered to himself. Every woman coining out looked like a hooker. All the delivery boys were pimps. A police car pulled up and a cop went inside. Richie sprinted across the street into a pizza shop and waited for the paddy wagons: The cop came out munching a banana. "Payoff," Richie thought, going back across the street Lenny came out carrying a small green bag "Let's go." He started down the street. Richie declined a tangerine.

  They walked six blocks to a quiet residential street of old two-story wooden homes. Lenny ushered Richie onto the porch of a brown and yellow house and opened the door. They climbed a narrow, wooden stairway. Richie felt like he'd just sniffed glue. He held onto the banister for support. When they reached the landing they were faced with six doors.

  "Rhonda?" Lenny yelled, peeking into a few rooms.

  "Here, Lenny," said a voice from the room at the far end.

  He put his hand on Richie's shoulder.

  "O.K. I'm leavin'—the kid's here," he shouted.

  "O.K., send 'im in."

  "See you later, champ," Lenny winked.

  "Hey! Take my books?" He looked at Lenny with pleading eyes.

  "Sure." He took the books, winked again, and left. Richie knocked on the door.

  "C'mon in." Rhonda lay on an unmade bed in her underwear reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. She looked up. "Hello," she smiled, "I'm Rhonda."

  Richie felt like apologizing.

  She wheeled her legs off the bed and sat up, patting the sheet next to her. "Have a seat."

  Richie sat.

  She unzipped his ski jacket and began to undress him, all the time talking in a smooth, calm voice. "What's your name?"

  "Gregory."

  "Do you have a girl?"

  "Yes."

  "What's her name?"

  "Mary."

  "Is she pretty?"

  "No."

  "Do you like school?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you wanna be?"

  "A frogman."

  She put her hand in his underwear and played with his prick. He looked at her for the first time. She was about thirty, blond, with nice tits. She reminded him of a nurse. "Help me take my bra off?" She turned her back, looking over her shoulder at him. He unhooked her brassiere and felt the warmth of her back through his fingers. He hoped she wouldn't ask him to take off her panties. She stood up, slipped them off, and faced him. He stood up. She pulled down his shorts.

  "Do you want me on top? Or do you want to be on top?" she asked.

  "Huh? What? I dunno. Whatever you think is best."

  "We'll do you on top."

  She lay back, spread her legs, and brought her knees up to her chest. "Allaboard!"

  Lenny walked back wondering if he'd done the right thing. Shit, the kid's old enough. I got it when I was twelve. It didn't hurt me none. Rhonda's a good kid, shell take care of 'im. He reached his store at four o'clock. The sign read "will be back at 4:30." He shrugged and walked two blocks to Manny's. The bar was deserted.

  "How you doin', Lenny?"

  "Awright. Gimme a Jack Darnels, John." The bartender poured a jigger over ice. "Hey, John, how old was you when you got laid?"

  "Thirty-six."

  "No, c'mon, I'm serious."

  "You lookin' for some action?" John's voice went down a few octaves as he placed the drink in front of Lenny.

  "Nah, nah. You know those kids always hangin' aroun' my place? I just brought one a 'em over to some hooker I know on Colden Avenue."

  "First time?"

  "Yeah. The kid's sixteen. That's old enough, ain't it? I mean shit, I was twelve when I got my first piece."

  "I was twenty-one," said John. "In Japan, I was in the occupation troops, I'll never forget. Cigarettes use' to
be six-fifty a pack in Tokyo. We use to get 'em for a dime in the PX. You'd go over to Madame Soo's or the Blue Moon, and you could get a girl for five bucks." He laughed. "We use' to give the madame a pack of butts and we'd get a girl and a dollar fifty change."

  "You was twenty-one?"

  "Yeah. A beautiful girl named Sooky."

  "When I was twenty-one I had the clap twice awready." He finished his shot and motioned for another. "You think sixteen's too young?"

  "Who's the kid?"

  "Richie Gennaro."

  "I know his old man. He comes in here every once inna while."

  "What's his old man like?"

  John shrugged. "Nice guy. Drinks his drink and watches the fights."

  "Hey, don't tell 'im, awright?"

  "I'm gonna tell 'im?"

  Lenny threw a dollar-fifty on the counter. "Take care."

  John gave a quick wave as the cash register kachangged.

  Lenny went back to his store, knocked off two "sale" signs, and started to lock up. As he turned off the lights, the sleigh bells on his door jangled. Richie stood in the doorway.

  "How'd it go?" Lenny asked softly.

  "Awright ... awright." In the semidarkness Richie walked to the workbench. "Lenny?"

  Lenny's heart was pounding in his ears. "Can I have my books back?"

  "Sure, kid." Richie took the books and headed for the door. "Hey, Richie?"

  Richie didn't turn around, but he stopped, one hand on the doorknob. "Didja like it?"

  "It was fine."

  "You ain't a virgin no more. I don' hafta hear none a your bullshit no more." Lenny laughed weakly.

  "Yeah." Richie walked out the door.

  3. The Game

  JOEY CAPRA was a zip. Short, wiry, always moving, blinking, smoking, chewing. A hook nose and bad posture made him look like a comma. He never idled—he was always in gear, springing up and down on the balls of his feet even when standing in one spot. Any second like a road runner he was off, had a need to GO and FLY. Pure raw nervous energy; a precision honing job done by his father, Emilio Capra, Mister New York City—1940, who over the years would suddenly lash out with a punch, a kick, a slap, a word that would make Joey vibrate for a week. And Joey learned to duck, bob, weave, twirl, and dance to avoid pain. Now he was like a deer—trip wire reflexes to the slightest sound, sensitive to the smallest change in atmosphere, ready to zoom off, jump up, or leap out. In short he was a nervous wreck and one hell of a broken-field runner. The best hustler in the league, the league being a six-team North Bronx competition between the Stingers, Paragons, Velvet Sharks, Imperials, Red Devils, and Del-Bombers, no sponsor or officials. The teams were made up of different gangs and their nongang associates. The Wanderers were the Stingers with Buddy Eugene Richie Perry Joey and some part-time guys, George and Vincent Tasso, 'Lenny Mitchell Jo-Jo Kelsey Ralph Arkadian Lenny's younger brother Ed Weiss Ray Rodriguez Peter Rabbit and others Every Saturday three games were played in various parks in the Bronx—Bronx Park, Van Cortland, Macoombs—each team bringing a caravan of nonplaying friends, fathers, girl friends, and assorted neighbors.