Spondulix: A Romance of Hoboken

by Di Filippo, Paul

  Rory asked, “And the date?”

  “Week from tonight. Can you make it?”

  “Sure—” Hold on: a week from tonight was July 23rd, his fiftieth birthday. Could Erlkonig know, perhaps through Netsuke? Could they be planning a surprise party for him? Nah, the Nuts would never do anything so conventionally thoughtful. Sheer coincidence. Best to say nothing, and avoid looking like an egocentric fool.

  “Great! See you there. Meanwhile, stay swell, shell!”

  With this baffling new form of address, Erlkonig and Netsuke took their leave.

  Rory could only shake his head at how easily and completely he had been gulled. Five hundred sandwiches! Well, no remedy now except to try to make some sales.

  Nerfball returned with alacrity to his tasks, clearly seeking to forestall by hard work any recriminations for his part in the affair.

  Rory intuited with deep queasiness that the fatal climacteric he had long anticipated had come and gone. Yet he somehow simultaneously experienced a small twinge of relief. Now he knew the exact nature of his doom: to live beneath the Damoclean Sword of spondulix, with Erlkonig’s scissors-holding hands ready to snip the thread of safety. A cold comfort, but Rory determined to squeeze every drop of bitter solace from his fate.

  Which explained why when the delivery man from the bakery came that same day, Rory did his damnedest to persuade him to take spondulix in payment.

  And no one was more surprised than Rory when the guy eagerly did.

  Chapter Six

  Overlooking Sinatra

  Rory studied himself in the steamy mirror above the bathroom sink. For once his reddish hair—unstylishly long through cosmetic inertia rather than societal rebellion—was neatly combed. Good enough. His beard, though—highly unsatisfactory and rather ragged in its outlines. Over the years the bush had crept up higher and higher on his cheekbones like kudzu. Should he just shave the damned mask off? For the thousandth time he put aside the decision (the refusal to decide, he fully realized, a decision in itself). For some formless reason he quailed at the notion of confronting his naked face. He wasn’t sure which outcome appalled him more: that his face would look the same as it had at age eighteen, when he had first adopted his beard, or that it would look totally different.

  He swung the hinged mirror aside, fancifully exiling his reflection to stare at the wall, and took a razor and small scissors from the medicine-cabinet shelf. He drew new upper borders to his facial lawn with the Trac II blade and trimmed the frontiers of his furry face. Short red hairs littered the bowl of the sink like rusty iron filings on white paper. He washed the detritus down the drain with a surge of water. There, he looked as good as he ever would.

  Rory walked out of the bathroom and into his bedroom to dress. He wore only a tattered time-yellowed towel around his waist. The thirty-year-old towel bore the stenciled identifier property of toronto ymca. Rory superstitiously used the souvenir only when he prepared for a date, since it reminded him of happier times: the Pantechnicon, the Baroness, Kate. He couldn’t say why he had dug out the talisman now, prior to the Outlaw Party tonight. Certainly he had no romantic plans. And yet a nebulous sentimental impulse of the heart had awakened with him this morning. Intellectually, he knew he should not allow any hopes to flourish too vigorously. Nonetheless, he couldn’t entirely suppress his sourceless elation.

  In the bedroom Rory had previously laid out his clothes: Jockey shorts fresh out of the package, his best pair of Levi jeans, a clean white polo shirt unmarred by any trademark, and a crisp new pair of Gold Toe socks. Dropping his towel, Rory caught his reflection again, this time in a full-length door-mounted mirror. Why was he so self-conscious about his looks tonight? Generally he cared less than a gnat’s whisker about his looks. Living alone for so long, he had gradually lost traditional self-consciousness about his body. Yet now here he was, drawn to his reflection for the second time in as many minutes. Well, anyhow, he didn’t look so bad for a guy celebrating his fiftieth birthday tonight. (But was he indeed celebrating? All week long he had awaited hints from the various Beer Nuts he had encountered that some surprise party for him lurked in the works. But no such clues had fallen from their lips. And usually the gossipy squatters could hold a secret as well as a roomful of teenaged girls.)

  Rory found it easy to keep fit. Avoid fast times and hard living, and don’t soil your conscience. That was the ticket. Good health through boredom and namby-pambyism. Although he had certainly been violating the latter tenet lately, what with wild issuance of spondulix for debts and purchases hither and yon.…

  Determined to enjoy himself tonight, Rory pushed all thoughts of the comestible currency out of his head. Let all his financial worries go to hell!

  Rory turned around to admire himself from the rear. Suki Netsuke could have held no complaints against him in the body department. Certainly he was more attractive than Earl Erlkonig! Hadn’t she in fact expressed a certain satisfaction with their lovemaking? No cause for her desertion there. She must have left him for something else, something he did or didn’t do, something he did or didn’t say. Hold on one second, though! What was this new layer of fat around his waist? Rory pinched a modest fold between thumb and index finger. Better lay off those chocolate-chip cookies!

  Slipping into his clothes, Rory let his anticipation build. Tonight he would have a good time! Nothing would bother him for the duration of the party. Least of all the fact that he had crossed the half-century mark without a lover to accompany him.

  Rory reached for his sneakers, then had second thoughts. Maybe for an extra touch of class he should wear those Havana Joe boots his eternally surprising mother had given him for Christmas, although he wasn’t crazy about them. Now, where were they? The hall closet perhaps.

  The door of the coat-and-shoe closet hung slightly ajar. Rory swung it fully open and stuck his head into the winter-smell of musty wool coats and sweaters.

  A pair of demonic green eyes nailed him, followed by a mean hiss. Rory nearly yelped.

  “Jesus, Hello Kitty! What are you doing in there?” Rory pushed aside some hanging coats, the better to reveal the gravid cat. He quickly discerned that she had fashioned a nest for herself in a box full of potential Goodwill offerings. Hello Kitty obviously intended to have her kittens in secret sometime soon. Rory wondered exactly when she might deliver, and how he would find homes for her offspring. Maybe he could give away a kitten with every sandwich?

  Rory spotted the toe of a boot protruding from Hello Kitty’s nest. “Hey, sorry, Puss in Boots, but I need those. And your bed will be less lumpy if I take them.” He dug out the footwear from beneath the protesting cat, who settled back aggrievedly afterwards.

  “Even a cat may look at a king,” said Rory. He had no idea what the saying meant nor where it had come from, but it sounded apt and seemed to placate the cat.

  On the way out the door Rory grabbed his Mets cap off a hook.

  Rory’s apartment occupied the second floor of a Jackson Street brownstone. The first floor hosted Rothschild’s Drycleaning, which promised French-style Drycleaning On Premises. In decades of tenancy, Rory had always meant to enter the establishment and learn how French-style dry-cleaning differed from American, but had never once done so. He would not learn the answer tonight either, for he swung lightheartedly past the storefront.

  A gorgeous summer night, not yet fully dark; cool air tanged with the odor of roasting coffee from the Starbucks manufactory. Full-leafed urban-survivor trees cast thick shadows where they intercepted the streetlights. People sat peacefully on stoops and at the tables of outdoor cafes. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening.

  Rory walked down Jackson to the intersection of Eighth Street. He turned east, toward the river. In the next four blocks he crossed Monroe Street, Madison Street, Jefferson Street and Adams Street. Counting Jackson, that made five dead presidents. “Dead presidents” meant money. Why had he never noticed that before? Another six blocks brought Rory to Washington Street, where h
is store slumbered till the morrow.

  Mark Coyne, Rory’s landlord, had taken spondulix for all the back rent, plus some as an advance on August’s. Rory did not choose to examine this miracle too closely.

  The streets began to slope upward now. The climb felt good, stretching muscles in Rory’s legs which he used too seldom, although his boots pinched a trifle. Commercial establishments fell away to be replaced by residences, some single-family. Rory found he had become part of an incohesive yet undeniable parade of pedestrians, drifting innocuously through the cool and fragrant evening. The people who made up this unorganized procession plainly did not hail from the respectable neighborhood through which they moved. A motley collection of misfits, a heterogeneous herd of hippies, a paltry passel of punks, a gaggle of gogglers, a brace of bridge-and-tunnelers, a flock of fetishists, a covey of casuals, a pack of perverts, a miscellany of mods, a slumgullion of slumdwellers, a band of bohemians—in short, the attendees of the Outlaw Party, drawn by first-, second-, or nth-hand invitation, emerging from every part of Hoboken and its surrounds, congregating gleefully for the Beer-Nuts-sponsored festivities.

  Rory nodded companionably to the few figures he recognized from elsewhen, exchanged a few quiet greetings. He did not join any group, but pressed on alone.

  A parklike massing of trees bulked darkly ahead, their leaves rustling in the breeze. Pastoral cricketings competed with the swelling human chatter. Large buildings brooded among the trees. Mostly empty of students at this time of the year, the lonely campus of the Stevens Institute of Technology seemed happy to welcome these unexpected visitors.

  The crowd had funneled into a single line converging on the entrance to the grassy quad. Some kind of obstacle had slowed the line down to a shuffle. Rory pressed impatiently forward with the others.

  An airport-style metal-detector gate loomed ahead, manned by the kindly but firm Ped Xing. His sidecurls sported butterfly barrettes.

  “One at a time, one at a time, please. This is for your own safety. Thank you, thank you, mazel tov, namaste …”

  The partygoers passed obediently through. The gate buzzed on a fellow several positions ahead of Rory, a fat dirty bearded guy who looked like he had been born with a Harley between his legs. Rory noted that the back of his ripped tee-shirt read if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.

  “Just my chains, man, just my chains,” the offender explained.

  “Still, if you don’t mind.” Ped Xing calmly patted down the mean-looking biker. “Okay, you’re clean. Have a good time, but watch your karma.”

  Rory arrived at the gate. Ped Xing smiled. “I hear we’ve got you to thank for this party tonight.”

  Passing through the detector, Rory stepped to one side to chat with Ped Xing. “Hell, Ped, I only gave Earl five hundred spondulix. I don’t know how he parleyed such a small sum into all this.”

  Rory waved a hand around to indicate the high-security setup and all the dimly sensed activity deeper inside the campus.

  “Earl can maximize any investment. But this wingding is nothing. He’s been putting out some feelers—” Ped Xing stopped himself, a nervous look breaking through his usual serenity.

  “Feelers?” asked Rory warily.

  “It’s nothing, moll. Forget I said it. Anyway, I’m sure Earl intends to tell you himself”

  Now Rory grew a little scared. But anger tinged his fear as well. “I think I’d better have a talk with Earl as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him,” Ped Xing cryptically responded.

  The detector sounded its alarm again, drawing Ped Xing’s attention away. Rory stood quietly by while the Hasidic Zen monk confiscated a smoke bomb from a metalhead dude.

  “Ped,” said Rory when the monk had finished, “are you happy? Are you doing what you want to be doing with your life?”

  Ped Xing twirled a long curl thoughtfully around one finger. “Basically, I am at peace. However, samsara still holds out two alluring goals.”

  “Which are?”

  “I would like to open a Zen monastery in some tranquil rural setting.”

  “Uh-huh. And?”

  “I would also like to help out the Lubavitchers by building them a big new temple in Crown Heights.”

  Rory smiled and shook his head in wonderment. “Well, good luck, Ped. I wish I had such clear-cut noble ideals. Hey—are you on duty all night? No fun for you?”

  “Not at all. We’re gonna close down this necessary hassle once we figure most of the folks have arrived.”

  “See you later then.”

  Moving deeper into the murmurous, shadowy, parklike terrain (which seemed capable of absorbing large numbers of people and still affording privacy), Rory pondered Ped Xing’s dreams. Why had he bothered to inquire about them, the same way he had quizzed Nerfball? Could he lay his curiosity at the doorstep of his own directionless life? But why now? He had experienced this sense of drifting for years, but hadn’t let it bother him particularly. What had changed? Turning fifty? Maybe. The introduction of spondulix? A definite finger on the trigger, but not the problematic gun itself.

  Oh, just forget it, Rory told himself. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself tonight. Think about all the other people here instead.

  Ped Xing’s fancies continued to intrigue him. He compared them to Nerfball’s dream of owning a fancy restaurant. Did everyone harbor such secret desires? If so, what were his own? Why couldn’t he get in touch with them?

  A Frisbee skimmed low over Rory’s Mets cap, nearly snatching the hat from his head. Out of the concentrated dusk beneath a big beech tree off to his left came the brusque voice of Leather.

  “Sorry, Rory.’”

  From his left, Studs echoed, “Yeah, sorry, man.’”

  “That’s okay, girls,” replied Rory unthinkingly. But as soon as the words had escaped, he realized his fatal non-PC error. Regrets and apologies would count for naught though. Only flight could save him now. Rory gathered himself for a sprint, but too slowly. In a flash Studs ’n’ Leather had thrown themselves in expert tackles at him, one hitting high, one low. The turf walloped his back. Before he could squirm away, the women had pinned him. The heavier Studs straddled his hips, while the lighter Leather, kneeling by his shoulders, gripped his wrists above his head.

  “Girls!” exclaimed Studs. “Gee, you involve a guy in one little orgy and he loses all respect for you.”

  Rory felt his cheeks flush at the memory of their shared spontaneous sex. “Shhh! Please!”

  “You should know by now not to call us that,” advised Leather.

  “What punishment would fit the crime?” mused Studs.

  “Well, luckily someone revealed his secret weakness to us.”

  “Of course!” Studs peeled up Rory’s shirt, exposing his ribs, and the women began to tickle him.

  Rory began to squeal like an Iowa-bred male chauvinist pig. He was laughing too hard to breathe. How could he even beg for mercy? Damn them! Who had told them of his Achilles’ heel? Netsuke! Only Netsuke knew! Another strike against the little traitor. The very next time he stumbled across her nude body he’d tan her ass a darker pumpkin!

  “If you want us to stop,” Leather dictated, “you’ll have to say the Names of Power!”

  “That’s right! Say them!”

  Rory tried to drag enough air into his lungs to comply Gasping, panting, shrieking, he managed to squawk the Names.

  “Melissa Etheridge! k. d. lang! Anne Heche! Catherine Deneuve!”

  The thousand tormenting fingers relented. The woman atop him dismounted, and Rory sat weakly up. His face felt hot as a furnace.

  “You forced us to do that,” said Leather, adjusting the slipping strap of her sleeveless tee-shirt upward.

  “But we had fun anyhow,” added Studs, straightening her dog collar.

  Rory’s breathing had slowed to merely post-marathon levels. He found that if he made a superhuman effort he could talk almos
t normally. “No hard feelings. I deserved it.”

  The women stood, and each extended a hand to help pull Rory up. Left humble, he accepted their help.

  Once standing, he tugged his shirt down. The white garment was now smeared with grass stains.

  “Hey,” said Studs affably, “wanna see what we taught the Cardinal to do?”

  “Sure, I guess so.…”

  The women began calling Cardinal Ratzinger, making kissing kitty-come-here noises. After a few seconds the cat came scampering across the lawn. The huge torn rubbed against the calves of Studs ’n’ Leather, ignoring Rory. The Cardinal had always favored the two women above all other Nuts. Watching the oversized arrogant cat made Rory angry, as he recalled the pitiful condition of his own Hello Kitty.

  When the Cardinal had absorbed a surfeit of affection the women coached him to do his new trick. First Studs showed him the Frisbee that had nearly decapitated Rory. The cat eyed it with acute intelligence. Then Leather said, “Okay Ratso, go long.”

  The cat trotted obediently off. When he had attained a fair distance Studs tossed the Frisbee. The Cardinal ran beneath its flight path. When the high-flying saucer had dropped to about twelve feet off the ground, Cardinal Ratzinger, a muscled silhouette, launched himself into the air and clamped his jaws on the platter. Proudly he carried it back.

  “That’s—that’s impossible!” said Rory.

  “You saw him do it.”

  Rory picked up the Frisbee. Cat-spit slicked its tooth-dimpled plastic.

  “Someday we’d like to run a cat obedience school,” Leather confided.

  “Big potential market. Lots of busy wealthy people who can’t take the time to train their own cats.”

  “We’d get rich quick.”

  “And have fun, too.”

  Rory could think of nothing to say in response to such a clear-cut vision.

  The women linked hands and moved off. “Time to ring the bell, shell. Catch you later.”