“If you feel that way then why … that is, why’d you—”
“Go to Sal’s?” Her face reddened even more. “I went because of you, thinking I might get to know you better. In a social setting, I mean. You seemed, um, worth knowing.” Now came a wistful smile. “I’d even considered inviting you out for coffee or lunch or something. But girls aren’t supposed to do that sort of thing, right? Guys are expected to make the first move. And since you’re so shy, I was almost certain nothing would happen between us. But that Friday, when I heard you were going to Sal’s with the gang … the news made headlines, by the way … I figured if I went too, something good might come of it.”
I glimpsed a possible opening. “Something still might, Rachel. I—”
She stopped me with a raised palm. “I’m afraid that’s unlikely now. Look, I want you to understand something. My dad’s a shikker. That’s rare among Jews, but it happens. My mom must have married him for his looks … he’s a very handsome man. And he can be charming when he’s not all liquored up. She’s remained with him all these years because that’s what you do when you get married. You stay together, in sickness and in health.” Rachel’s tone turned scornful, a rarity for her. “And believe me, that man is sick, always screaming and yelling and throwing things around. Well, not always. It depends on whether he’s soused or not.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I’ve vowed never to date a drunk.”
I probably should have let it go at that, but of course I didn’t. “Hey, that was the first time I’ve ever been drunk, Rachel. What if it were the last?”
“You can’t promise me that, not and mean it. Especially the way you drank, which was … how can I put this? … greedily.”
Now that really annoyed me, even coming from Rachel. She obviously was obsessed with shikkers because of her father. I felt sorry for her, but I was not him, or Uncle Marvin, or any other drunk. In fact, I was not a drunk, not after only one night of drinking.
“Anyway,” Rachel said, “I’d like us to treat each other civilly from now on, okay?”
I guess, if treating each other lustfully was out of the question.
I felt a deep sense of regret, but before I could wallow in it someone rapped on the door. “Anyone in there? May we come in?”
The voice sounded familiar, but the courteous manner did not.
“Hold on.” Rachel hopped off the desk and opened the door, revealing Ellen Drury and Morton Steadman, of all people.
Ellen fixed her eyes on me for some reason. “Dr. Steadman and I have an interview scheduled for this hour. Sorry.”
Sorry?
What’s next—hey, let’s have sex?
For once screwing did not appeal to me, despite Wonderman’s theory that any woman would do in a pinch.
Meanwhile, Rachel glanced at me while addressing Miss Drury. “Right. We were just leaving.”
What could I say?
I followed her out.
Chapter 33
I took a large swallow of Coke and grimaced. Roy must have spiked it with granulated sugar. Or maybe I hadn’t noticed its cloying sweetness before. Or perhaps I just wanted a beer.
Wonderman and I sat in the same place as last time, at the end of The Cottonpicker bar, the gentle curve of which offered a clear view of the trough. My friend sipped his Pabst, then asked, “Whatsa matter, man? You got a tummyache or somethin?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Well, you look like you got one.”
“Coke’s too sweet.”
“Coke is what it is. Never could figure why a body wanna drink that piss, but to each hisn’s own is what I say.”
On that philosophic note, Wonderman swallowed more beer while I turned in time to see Scarface stroll in with the same two women who’d accompanied him last time, both still clinging to his spindly arms. He wore a light-green suit, yellow shirt and striped green-and-yellow tie, while the women sported bright-red, skin-tight dresses with necklines down to here and slits up to there; fishnet stockings and stiletto heels completed their ensembles.
Maybe Saturday was slinky night at The Cottonpicker.
For sure the place was packed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of cheap perfume. I sipped my drink, if you could call it that, and reacted with an “Ugh.”
“The Coke?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then order somethin else,” Wonderman said while ogling the two women flanking Scarface. “They got water, club soda, orange ju—”
“Beer.”
That got his full attention.
“Since when?”
“Since about a month ago.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
I’d prowled the streets near campus and found a couple bars kind enough to skip ID checks. After a while I suspected my Coke-drinking days were over, and tonight proved it.
“You what now, eighteen?” Wonderman asked.
“Nineteen, last month.”
“Gettin up there, but still too young for what you askin.” He played with his cocktail napkin. “Where you been drinkin beer?”
“Couple bars around school. They don’t card you.”
“Roy do.”
“Maybe you could, uh, help.”
“Maybe,” Wonderman said. “You sure you wanna do this?”
Everyone kept asking me that. Well, one other person had asked me that, namely Rachel Solomon.
“Yes, I’m sure I want to do this,” I said. Then remembered. “Especially with a sandwich.”
“Good combination. I’ll see what I kin do.”
I glanced at Scarface as he scanned the standing-room-only bar. He swaggered over to three men sitting abreast, two of them laughing at the third as if he were Red Foxx. Scarface leaned over and said something that made the threesome go silent, then something else that prompted them to swivel around and peer up at him. He faked a smile, then removed an object from his pants pocket and displayed it in his palm. The trio, now grim as gravediggers, stared at it and then at him. One of them shook his head, and all three got up, moved down the bar and stood around with their thumbs up their asses. Scarface and the two women grabbed the vacant seats and Roy ambled over to take their orders.
After he delivered their drinks—two glasses of amber liquid for the women, a beer and a shot for Scarface—Wonderman motioned Roy over and pointed at his empty bottle. “Hey, my brotha, get me another a these, and one for my honky friend here.”
With that The Mountain leaned so close to me our noses almost touched. “Sheeet. He ain’t even shaving yet. Shouldn’t be here in the first place … wouldn’t be here weren’t for you straining our friendship.”
Wonderman grinned. “Well now, maybe I kin remove some a that strain.”
He produced his wallet, dug out a five-dollar bill and laid it on the bar. “That ease things a bit?”
Roy’s eyes jerked toward the bill, which he snatched up and jammed in his shirt pocket. “It surely do. Two Pabsts coming up.”
I slid my half-full glass toward him and he grabbed it, along with the empty beer bottle, and lumbered off.
“Oh, and Roy?” Wonderman called after him.
The Mountain turned. “What now?”
“Let’s have a coupla them Polish sandwiches too. Them sausages, they’s the best in the whole damn world.”
Roy shook his head, reversed course and planted himself in front of us. “Now where in this whole damn world you been besides De-troit? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I been to Asia, thass where, courtesy the U.S. mother Navy. Them Japs don’ even serve hot dogs, let alone sausages.”
Roy placed his two outsized hands on his hips. “As usual, you ain’t making no sense. Where you been that does have sausages? Else you got nothing to compare—”
“Now don’ you worry bout where I been and where I ain’t been, and what I got and what I ain’t got. Juss bring them sanwiches, ifn you don’ mind.”
That got a derisive laugh. “You so f
ulla shit, man, it coming out your ears.”
After Roy left I turned my attention to the pair of women in red. The slimmer and prettier of the two sat to his right yakking to her next-door neighbor, a chubby guy with a bullet head and bulldog face. The two must have grown close in record time because his hand now rested on her thigh. A moment later it crept under her dress.
When our sandwiches arrived I chomped on mine while keeping my eyes on the scene.
“You get a pretty good show here once’t in a while,” Wonderman said.
In reply I took a swig of beer.
Red Dress eventually removed the man’s hand and slapped it, though in a manner more playful than angry. Chubby responded with a goofy grin.
Wonderman chuckled. “She got him hooked for sure now.”
I frowned but was too absorbed to ask questions.
Scarface regarded the man and said something. In return Chubby bobbed his head, paid his tab and turned to Red Dress with a slobbering smile. She grinned in return, got up and, slipping an arm through his, led him toward the exit.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“What don’ you get, my man?” Wonderman glanced at my empty bottle. “You want another, maybe taste it this time? “
I’d been too engrossed to savor anything but that scene, I guess. I told him okay.
Wonderman waved two fingers at Roy, who flexed his shoulders. Or maybe he just shrugged.
“I don’t get them.” I nodded toward Scarface and his remaining companion. “I thought the three of them were together, I don’t know, like a guy and two dates or something. But—”
“You kiddin, right?”
I let him guess by saying nothing.
Then, a moment later, I continued. “But even if they’re not together, like on a date, why would a pretty woman like her go out with, you know, a guy like him.”
“You mean with someone look like they been in an acc-see-dent?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ain’t hard to figure out, my man. Woman ain’t paid to be choosy.”
“Paid?”
“Yeah, paid.”
With that I realized how slow I can be sometimes. “Oh” was all I could say.
“Yeah, oh.” Wonderman followed up with a chortle.
Roy delivered our drinks, along with a suggestion. “Just don’t push it, brotha.”
After he departed Wonderman sampled his beer. “You ever been with a ho? Never mind, I done forgot. You ain’t never been with a woman.”
He laughed while I managed to keep a straight face. All this virgin crap was getting on my nerves. What I needed was to get laid once and for all, and at this point I’d even do it with a whore. After all, a pro might offer some advantages. Your looks and behavior wouldn’t matter to her, and you wouldn’t have to coax her into bed; if you had the money, she’d have the time. Some guys insisted they would never pay for sex, and I’d once thought that way too, only now I saw the benefit of a commercial transaction. So yeah, I’d do it with a whore—if I had the money. I wondered how much hookers cost anyway. Probably a lot, given the valuable service they provided.
“No,” I said, “I’ve never been with a woman, or a whore, or a hippo for that matter. But you don’t have to rub it in.”
“I’m sorry, man. It’s just that you is, well, tardy.”
We shifted our attention back to Scarface, whose profession was now clear to me and whose eyes, gazing in the mirror, began traveling in our direction. After running out of mirror he looked directly at us and smiled. Then he turned and said something to Red Dress Number Two. She leaned away from the bar, eyeballed Wonderman and me and got to her feet. Soon she was strolling toward us, a knowing grin on her face.
“Man,” Wonderman cackled, “you bout to meet yo Maker.”
#
Lola May led the way up the rickety stairs of the Rush Street Hotel, her ass wagging only inches from my face. I felt myself about to pop, which was all I needed after Wonderman paid good money for this gift.
“My treat,” he’d said with a wink.
Sheldon claimed he lasted longer by thinking of something other than sex, so I tried concentrating on something besides Lola May’s butt, like the fact that at long last I was about to lose my virginity. But this only aroused me further so I switched to observing our rundown surroundings—the frayed carpeting, peeling wall paint and flickering light bulbs, plus the ceiling fans, which for some reason remained inert even on this torrid summer day. The elevator was also immobile—out of order, according to the sign taped to its door—which is why we were using the stairs in spite of the heat. As we continued our climb a foul odor of unknown origin drifted toward us. Could have been urine, or refuse, or a decayed body for all I knew. But whatever its source, the stench succeeded where other distractions had failed.
After resting a moment on the fourth-floor landing, we forged ahead with Lola May in the lead by three lengths. She stopped at a room midway down the hall and waited for me to catch up, then unlocked the door and went in. I followed—sweaty, nervous and eager.
My paramour shut the door and hit the light switch on the wall. The ceiling fixture sputtered indecisively, then steadied. The room reflected the same high standards as the rest of the hotel. The wall paint was flaking, the ceiling cracking and the undersized bed—the room’s one piece of furniture—sagging. To the bed’s right a partially open door revealed a bathroom, whose condition I tried not to visualize. For a moment I entertained doubts about this rendezvous, but I dismissed them after casting my eyes on Lola May, standing in the middle of the room, all hips and thighs and swelling breasts.
I was admiring these assets when she became a whirling dervish, discarding her clothes and climbing into bed in what seemed like seconds.
Lola May looked at me and cooed. “C’mon, white boy, I ain’t got all day.”
I scurried over and gazed down at the woman with whom I was about to enter paradise. My enthusiasm, plus one other item, went flaccid. Uncovered and unconstrained, Lola May was a mass of blubber, plus her boobs resembled eggs-over-easy and her thighs wrinkled tinfoil.
“Well,” she said, “is you is or is you ain’t gonna fuck me, boy? Cuz if you is, let’s get to it. I cain’t be more’n half a hour or Switch, he’ll carve my black ass for sure. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
I did, but it was “Switch” that arrested my attention. Short for “Switchblade?” That would explain Lola May’s ass-carving reference, as well as the fright and flight of those three men at the bar.
“Also,” she said, “if you gonna do me, might help if you removed them clothes.
She had a point, so I shed them clothes. At which point she had another suggestion, one that stung. “Seeing as no way that little thang gonna stretch from up there to down here, you best get atop me.” She bounced up and down for emphasis.
While pitying the poor bed I did as Lola May instructed, climbing aboard with that thang, still shriveled thanks to her remark about its size.
Looking none too pleased, she grabbed hold of it. “Damn, I kin see this gonna be more work than it worth.” To my surprise, she stroked the object of her derision gently, almost affectionately. When it sprang to life, she guided it inside her like she might have done this before. “Say, you pretty big after all,” Lola May said.
This almost compensated for the slight, so in appreciation I bent to kiss her.
“Hey, there’ll be none a that shit.” She pushed my face aside. ”Just fuck me and git it over with, hear?”
My enthusiasm waned again, but rather than despair I sought to regain it. After a moment I closed my eyes and imagined Amanda Fontaine beneath me, she of the ample breasts, honeyed thighs (I imagined) and firm, rounded butt. The woman of my fevered dreams was with me at last, locked in my embrace as we kissed, fondled and caressed each other, then proceeded to move in unison, slowly at first, then faster, then faster still, until we crested together while shouting at the stars.
As the echoes reced
ed, another sound replaced them—a raucous complaint. “Boy, you ’bout busted my eardrum,” said the woman who actually lay beneath me. “Now git the fuck off.”
She reinforced this request by placing her large hands on my small chest and shoving. This merely threw me off balance, so she wiggled and waggled until she slid from under me. Then, with the speed of Supergirl donning her cape and tights, she slipped into her clothes and fled out the door.
While continuing to lie there I recalled something troubling—I hadn’t worn a rubber. Wasn’t Lola May worried about getting preggers?
Dum-dum me. She’d probably taken precautions herself. Undoubtedly all whores took them, or they’d produce more offspring than they could possibly handle, especially given their busy schedule. Maybe they used a diaphragm, or that new thing called The Pill.
Then it occurred to me that without protection I was vulnerable to disease. But I dismissed that concern in favor of savoring what just took place. The woman and surroundings may not have been ideal, but I’d finally done the deed and lost my virginity forever.
I felt like shouting hallelujah, but settled for a whispered god-damn.
Chapter 34
I boarded the Seven Mile Road bus bound for the Wayne State campus and deposited the exact fare, a nickel and a dime. Fingers crossed and rabbit’s foot in hand, I surveyed both sides of the aisle for a vacant seat. So much for magic or voodoo or whatever you called crossed fingers and rabbits’ feet.
The bus started abruptly and I rocked back and then forth into the first person in a line of other passengers awaiting a vacancy. My victim was a prune-faced antique with bluish hair and blood-red lipstick. “Do you mind, young man?” she asked.
I could tell she did, because instead of waiting for an answer she placed her veined hands on my chest and pushed, throwing me off balance and sending my latest English reading assignment, 1984, to the floor. I retrieved the paperback, straightened up and sat on my temper if nothing else. I even told the grouch I was sorry. She mumbled something, turned away and stared out the window, maybe at her youth.
Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 15
