The Amorous Busboy of Decatur Avenue

by Robert Klein

  It was decided that the three of us would make a trial run to 112th Street and Lenox Avenue, with the intention of testing the waters: a reconnaissance mission. We chose a Saturday night, our meeting place, and our subway route. The whole thing had the feel of a commando operation, complete with the element of secrecy. All that was missing were the ski masks. Forget about the furious feelings of lust and anticipation and fear that pervaded my thoughts and dreams: This was it. Put up or shut up.

  We sat silently on the subway, co-conspirators headed for destiny. I, in my self-consciousness and guilt, could have sworn that everyone on the train knew exactly why I was there and where I was headed. Moreover, I felt certain they would tell my parents. I was a victim of both my conventional morality and my New York liberal social conscience. I imagined that I had a large, brightly lit sign on my forehead: THIS UNDERAGE BOY IS TRYING TO GET LAID ON THE BACKS OF OPPRESSED MINORITIES. I was too uptight to make anything but minimal eye contact with the other passengers, so I couldn’t detect whether they were reading my forehead or gave a shit about me at all, for that matter. We emerged from the train, the only Caucasians among two hundred brothers and sisters, and as we poured from the 110th Street station, I could have sworn I heard a booming voice: “White boy, what do you want?” I felt conspicuous, to say the least, and I was now certain that everyone had gotten a good gander at me.

  We had a brief huddle to get our geographical bearings, having several blocks to walk, but the passengers disgorged with us from the subway station seemed to have been absorbed into the buildings or taken off in other directions very quickly. The three of us were uncomfortably alone on the street. The dark street. At first we walked casually. Then we made a fairly brisk pace to 112th and Lenox, just short of a run, which we thought would attract attention. We adopted the technique of those schmucky-looking Olympic fast-walkers, which must have attracted even more attention in a neighborhood where people ran as a matter of course.

  We approached the appointed corner, which, much to our relief, was well lit and crowded with people and loud with conversation. A closer look revealed that the crowd was largely women, many of them pretty, none of them white; most were dressed in evening clothes of bright colors that starkly distinguished them from the drably dressed neighborhood civilians with their shopping bags, on their way home. The scene reminded me of primitive Caribbean paintings that I had seen in a book or museum.

  I realized that we had been noticed by the prostitutes, and after some conversation and giggling among them, two of the ladies approached: a buxom one and a thin, light-skinned woman who sounded like a Latina. They walked right up to us, and the one with the big breasts made a proposition—literally: “You goin’ up tonight, honey? Huh? Come on, baby, I’ll do somethin’ nice for you.”

  Her words surged through my body like an electrical charge. My legs shook. “No thank you,” I replied politely as if it were mashed potatoes I was declining. I could have kicked myself, having to refuse the first such offer of my life. Nonetheless, Manny and Joe and I exchanged glances of triumph, though they were couched in embarrassed smiles. After all, what that loser from school had told us was true: namely, that a bevy of loose willing women was there for the taking, albeit for a price. However, we were not prepared to take them yet; not that evening. We had purposely not even brought along enough money, because this trip was considered reconnaissance, and we were determined to stick to the plan.

  After a while, we began to feel more at home and at ease in the atmosphere, which was deceptively friendly. As we approached for a closer look at the women, we were even smiling and pointing at the merchandise like three adolescents at FAO Schwarz. It was like some Middle Eastern bazaar, with shady-looking guys—pimps? customers? There were offers and counteroffers and haggling, and one could hear snippets of gossip. Then a stereotypic Irish policeman sauntered by, swinging his nightstick, right out of a Hollywood musical, and spotted us. “Hey, you, get da hell outta here. I know why youse are here, and ya gonna get hoit,” he said. We had contemplated the possibility of being murdered, but we had not counted on trouble with the police. Nicky C. had said the cops wouldn’t care. Here we were surrounded by criminals, and the cop picked on us. “Let’s go! Youse better move it, or I start takin’ names!”

  “We’re not doing anything,” I protested mildly. Very mildly, as he had hit the trigger for us, the “taking names” part, which could only lead to family disgrace and irreparably ruined lives for all. Once again, we were slaves to our upbringing.

  “Go home, boys. This ain’t no place for you. You don’t want to have your mudda comin’ to the morgue to identify youse.” That was all I needed for my already damaged ego, a softhearted family-man cop. Then he said what I really didn’t want to hear: “If I catch youse down here again, I’m gonna lock youse up.” Boys with our level of experience took such a threat seriously indeed. We had now become a criminal-justice problem. Not only did we have to contend with the criminal underworld; worse, if we continued to pursue our rite of passage into manhood, we would have to do it in opposition to the overwhelming force of the NYPD. We retreated to the subway, under the policeman’s watchful eye.

  The train ride home was pervaded by a definite deflation of mood. I felt stupid and ashamed. The humiliating encounter with the policeman had been the worst part, because it confirmed our true status as powerless children and frightened novices with consciences. I looked at my hapless, unhappy companions. I cannot explain why, for I was in exactly the same situation, but I was overwhelmed with a sense of pity for them. Joe insisted with much bravado that unless the cop actually caught us doing something illegal, we were free to walk anywhere we wanted, but I could tell he didn’t believe it. Manny was afraid he might lose the chance of a college scholarship two years down the road because of a criminal record. I contemplated the awful and ever more likely possibility that I would spend my threescore and ten and die, never having had sexual intercourse.

  Such was the morale of the dispirited troops, in stark contrast to the weeks of hype and anticipation. That night I dreamed my old recurring forbidden sex dream. Not the one about hot dogs chasing doughnuts through the Lincoln Tunnel. This dream was so psychologically obvious that it came right off page 1 of a Freudian textbook. In the dream, I am at the center of beautifully sculpted bushes, like topiaries, the center of a maze. On a flat pedestal is a naked woman beckoning me to come to her, to make love to her. Not one to argue, I eagerly approach. At the very moment I try to touch her naked body, she turns to bronze, and I am feeling a cold statue. Any questions, students? Thank you, let’s move on.

  While my dreams tormented me with guilt and shame, my waking thoughts were of the streetwalking women on 112th Street, with their high heels and their pretty dresses, who told me they wanted my body. The cop had not reduced my ardor, so like General MacArthur to the Philippines, I vowed to return.

  By midweek the boys and I were still discouraged. We were also still horny, and there were gut decisions to be made. We decided that on the coming Saturday night, we would journey once again to 112th Street and Lenox Avenue. A few strategic adjustments were made, like dressing in jackets and ties to look older. Joe had suggested bringing a knife from his mother’s kitchen for protection, but the idea was voted down as ludicrous. Manny put a pipe in his mouth, which fooled nobody, and Joe allowed a five-day growth to mildly suggest a mustache, which made him look like a fifteen-year-old with a mild suggestion of a mustache.

  We were certain we needed to use condoms, but were unsure whether we should bring our own or if they would be supplied by the prostitute in an all-inclusive package deal. I pilfered a Trojan from my father’s sock drawer and counted the ones that were left. Unless my father was using them for water bombs, my parents were hot as hell. Joe’s older cousin supplied Sheiks for him and Manny after I refused to lift a couple more from Ben Klein.

  The boys and I had a strategy meeting to discuss our concerns. We were fearful about running into the same medd
lesome police officer again, yet his warning about the danger had resonated. Joe talked about hooking up with the buxom brown woman who had approached us the week before. Manny and I planned to take our time and look over the whole lot before selecting the whore of our choice.

  In a flash, it was D-day, and there we were on the train again. This time there was less sense of being conspicuous, and we sat on the noisy train like innocent citizens on our way from point A to point B. We seemed to have more confidence, borne of excellent planning, and when those subway doors hissed open, we disembarked as if this were our home station. Once again, out into the Harlem night. We had our bearings and proceeded to the theater of operations, ever watchful of who was around us—ironically, cops or robbers. We kept a brisk pace through the semideserted side streets. “What if they’re not here tonight? What if they don’t come every Saturday?” Manny said.

  “What are you talking about? Of course they’ll be here. Saturday night has to be the busiest night for whores, wouldn’t you say, Robert?”

  “Oh, yeah. Saturday night is entertainment night. Movies, theaters, nightclubs, whores. They all must clean up on Saturday night. I mean, I certainly hope so—I didn’t come down for the beautiful scenery,” I said.

  We came around the corner and there it was, the scene from the week before, plenty of chatty women looking for a score. There were a couple of policemen, but they were halfway down the block and walking the other way. I clutched the ten-dollar bill in my right pants pocket and felt for the circular bulge in my wallet, lodged in my buttoned back pocket. I had always been taught by my parents to be aware of pickpockets when in crowds.

  We waded into the swarm of women and potential customers and could hear the bargaining going on over the price. A few camels, and it could have been Baghdad. Apparently, everything was negotiable, from what was paid to what was performed, and the sweet smell of cheap perfume permeated the area, which I found exciting and titillating. What I really found exciting and titillating was passing through groups of women whose sole intent was sex, possibly with me, who would not metamorphose into statues or slap my hand away or say no. These women were yeses all the way. Joe looked the ladies over like an expert as we cruised through at a moderate pace. He was, at any rate, an expert as to what would satisfy him, looking like a buyer for Bloomingdale’s or an inspector from the U.S. Department of Agriculture. He also had a one-track mind with respect to locating the busty brown woman from the previous week. Then, bingo, there she was. He spoke up: “Hi, I’m Joe, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Desiree. You wanna go up tonight, honey?”

  “Maybe,” he said. I would have been mortified to bring up price just then, but not good old Joe. “How much?” he said.

  “Ten dollars. You gonna have a good time, baby.” She approached him and put her lips to his right ear. “I’ll do things for you, baby, that you don’t dream of.”

  “Ten dollars? Uh-uh. That’s too much, way too much,” he said, “and besides, there’s three of us, so maybe we can make a deal.”

  I was really impressed with Joe’s consumerist pursuit of a good prostitution value, worthy of Consumer Reports, but I noticed another woman. She was pretty, in her late twenties, with a tall slender figure like a fashion model’s. There was something almost classy about her, at least my fifteen-year-old idea of classy. She wore an elegant skirt and a blouse with a mink collar, which was very popular in those days, a subdued ensemble that made her look altogether out of place, as if she had mistakenly waded into this mélange by accident. Perhaps, I surmised, she was a student at Columbia University who had fallen on hard times and had to pay for books.

  Joe forged on. “How about this, Desiree: I got a deal for you. How about the three of us for ten dollars?”

  Desiree gave him a sneer, and as she turned away, she said, “Baby, for that money, you can take it and wrap it around the lamppost.” She and some of the other women started laughing hysterically, as if this were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Clearly these people were easily amused. We stood there with our mouths open, having been made to feel like perfect fools. The lovely thin one with the mink collar did not laugh, for she evidently saw a business opportunity, and the Columbia tuition is known to be heavy. “You boys together?” she said.

  “Well, sort of,” I replied. I wanted to keep all options open.

  “I’ll do each of you for five dollars, but no kissing and no French. You understand?”

  “Uh . . . sure. Could you give me a minute?” I said.

  “Sure, but hurry on up, ’cause you wasting time, and I got to make some money.”

  “Okay, but don’t go anywhere,” I blurted out. The three of us stepped to a private space to discuss the proposition. “I don’t want that one. She’s too skinny,” Joe said. “And I think we can do better pricewise.”

  “Pricewise? She’s charging half as much as yours,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but she’s got no meat on her bones.”

  Manny was too intimidated to say anything except “Let’s go home. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  I could have choked him. “Look, we’ve come this far, we can’t back out now. You want to get laid or don’t you?”

  “Why don’t you guys go with this one, and I’ll get the other one,” said Joe. “I’m sure I can get her down to eight bucks.”

  “Jesus Christ, Joe, can’t we simplify this thing with one woman?” I whined. “Besides, we agreed not to separate, for safety.”

  “And what’s the thing about no kissing?” Joe said. “For five bucks, you should be able to kiss her.”

  “Who the hell wants to kiss her?” Manny chimed in. “I guess I’d fuck her, but I wouldn’t kiss her. I don’t care if she doesn’t speak French.”

  “You idiot, she’s not talking about speaking French,” I said. At least he no longer wanted to go home.

  “Hey, boys, time’s a-wasting, and I got things to do,” shouted our lady-in-waiting loudly enough to be heard in Yonkers. “What do you want to do?”

  “We’ll be right with you,” I assured her. “Come on, Joe, let’s do it. It’s now or never, so let’s not be choosy. There’s no cops in sight, let’s make the deal.”

  “Shit, that Desiree has such a beautiful pair, though,” said the boy who always got everything he wanted.

  “To hell with her pair,” I said, exasperated. “We’ve got to stick together!”

  “Okay, let’s do it with her,” Joe said. “You in, Manny?”

  “I guess so,” he mumbled, obviously wishing he’d never come.

  We walked over to our woman. “We’ll do it,” I said. Maybe I expected joy or gratitude, but the news hit her like a ton of feathers. She showed not the slightest satisfaction in the score, from the perspective of either vanity or finance.

  “You see that building over there? I’m gonna walk into that building. You follow me about fifty feet behind. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “What’s your name?” “What the fuck you want to know my name for?” she snapped. I began to doubt the validity of my Columbia University “needs money for books” scenario. She relented. “Sheree,” she said. “My name is Sheree.”

  “Hi, Sheree,” Joe replied, “my name is—” Joe actually put out his hand to shake, but it shook thin air, because she ignored it. She turned and walked toward the apartment building, a walk I imagined she had taken hundreds of times before. I didn’t care about her other affairs; tonight she was mine—and theirs.

  We estimated the fifty feet and followed her. Joe warned us to be careful when we got into the building: “This is where she could have someone hide to jump us.” I began to worry that we would be prey for an easy mugging that the police couldn’t see. I even found myself looking for a cop until I realized where I was and what I was doing, then hoped I wouldn’t see one. I looked at Manny and was afraid he’d crack up. He looked terrified, and I knew somehow that his terror was more from potential sex th
an potential slaughter. But his stride was brisk as he continued the quest, brave and horny fellow that he was.

  The lobby was a beautifully tiled relic of a bygone era, circa 1917, marred only by an artless, and therefore useless graffiti. To my relief, the three of us and our escort were alone. I could see that there was no one behind the staircase. The elevator came and, as the old-fashioned accordion gate opened and we entered, a huge black man barged through the front door and right into the elevator behind us. I could tell instantly from everyone’s looks that we were all thinking the same thing, that this was the payoff of the setup. He rang the button for his floor and pretended to look unobtrusive. This guy was big, and we thought the worst through the longest thirty seconds of our lives. My heart felt like a kettle drum in my chest. The man carried a paper bag under his arm that I’m sure contained a weapon, though he hardly would have needed a weapon to intimidate us. Not a word was spoken; we all looked up or down, like you do in an elevator, but not at each other.

  Finally, the elevator stopped with a noisy screech and a lurch, and the gate opened. The mystery man walked out, turned, and removed the package from under his right arm with his left hand. We were frozen. With his right hand, he tipped his hat and said, “Good night to ya’ll. God bless.” Then the gate closed and we were off and up. We stopped at the next floor, and our hostess disembarked onto a landing with four apartment doors. Like the lobby, the floor had beautiful old tile, and it amazed me that just before the biggest moment of my sexual life, I could notice architectural details of a building.