The Demon

by Hubert Selby Jr.

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  Earps greatest weapons were his eyes, which were light blue and seemed to stare right through people and immobilize them. That is what Harry did. He just stared at women and thrust all his lust at them with his eyes. She tried to look straight ahead but was forced to follow his approach. He sat next to her and she girded herself for the usual opening line of, Its a lovely day, or do you have the time, or some such thing, but Harry threw her one of his curves: Your husband sure is a lucky man.

  She turned her head and looked at him, startled, a smile softening her face. I don't understand.

  Well, staring into her eyes, his lust tangible for a moment, then smiling and gesturing with his hand, what I mean is he has you to come home to. Her eyes questioned him, but her mouth relaxed slightly. Harrys face opened in a sparkling smile. With you to go home to he must just whistle through the day.

  She jerked her head back slightly with a: Huh, fat chance.

  O, comeon, now, I know he does.

  You must be kidding, raising her eyebrows and smirking.

  No, Im not. Im serious. I just know it must make his whole day worthwhile knowing that youll be waiting for him when he gets home.

  She relaxed a little more and chuckled, and Harry could see the tension slowly drain from her body as he smiled at her. Youre really something else, shaking her head and smiling, a real joker.

  O, you shouldnt say that, putting his hand on his breast dramatically, you hurt me to the quick. She suddenly started laughing out loud, and as Harry watched her laugh he noticed a few pigeons from the corner of his eye as they swooped around and above them and wondered what she would do, and what she would look like, if one of them suddenly shit on her head, or right on her nose . . . but then he realized, almost simultaneously, that it might shit on him, so he quickly replaced the image with the obvious thought that she and her husband had a problem or two. He smiled and gestured, See

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  what I mean? With that laugh you just made my life worthwhile.

  She smiled and shook her head, Youre really something else, then stood, looking at her watch.

  Youre not going, are you?

  Thats right, time to get back to work.

  O, what a pity, looking sad and forlorn.

  Sorry, smiling warmly, but a jobs a job. Youre more fun than a barrel of monkeys, but I got to go.

  Well, at least allow me to call my coach so you dont have to walk through these sordid streets.

  Youre too much, smiling and starting to walk up the path to Fifth Avenue.

  Please dont mock me, you might be accosted by ruffians. She continued laughing, and he bowed low and gestured with his hands. At least allow me to protect you, me lady.

  Now youre calling me names, laughing out loud.

  Well, with a hurt expression on his face, if you wont allow me to call the coach, how about a rickshaw—looking into her eyes with an expression of mock seriousness on his face— a bicycle—she nodding her head and chuckling—a skateboard —both smiling, Harry spreading his arms—how about a piggyback?

  Thanks, but no thanks. I think it would be safer if I crossed the street on my own two legs.

  O.K., laughing. Do you usually sit by the lake at lunch time?

  Uhhhmmmm, shrugging, it all depends.

  Well, why dont we make it tomorrow, the same time, same bench?

  You never can tell, shrugging, smiling, if the weathers nice.

  O, it will be, I guarantee it.

  I have to go, smiling and joining the crowd crossing the street.

  Harry watched and as she turned before going into her building, he waved, returning her smile, then started back to the office.

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  He was much more animated, and felt looser, on the way back to the office than he had been just an hour before. He got back to the office ten minutes late, but did not notice the time and got involved with his work and did not give another thought to whatever-her-name-is for the remainder

  of the day.

  The following day Harry strolled over to the park and saw whats-her-name sitting on the bench. Krist, she must really be bugged with her old man. Harry smiled to himself and strolled down the path to the bench. Excuse me, madam, but would you be so kind as to allow a weary proletarian to share this bench with you? She looked up, annoyed, then suddenly broke into a huge smile, shook her head and laughed. Whats so funny?

  She shook her head and continued to laugh for another moment. You just dont look like a proletarian.

  He adopted an attitude and expression of mock injury and pouted, You hurt me to the quick. After all, while she giggled, its better to be a proletarian than a codfish. She continued giggling and waved at him and shook her head, and his face cracked into a smile and he laughed as he sat down next to her.

  By the way, my name is Tom, whats yours, laughing girl? smiling and looking into her eyes.

  Laughing girl? Now isnt that something? I havent been accused of that in a long time, but I guess I have been laughing.

  Yep, you sure have. Just like a proletarian. Before Harry finished the word she was laughing and fumbling around in her pocketbook to get a handkerchief, Harry watching her and laughing. Eventually she sat up straight and took a few deep breaths, dabbing at her eyes and nose with her handkerchief. She blinked a few times then turned to Harry, O, my God, I laughed so hard Im in pain. My muscles are killing me.

  You must be out of practice.

  Yeah, I guess so, wiping her eyes and nose, then putting her handkerchief back in her pocketbook, then smiling, care-

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  fully, at Harry. No more, O.K.? I don't think I can stand it.

  O.K., smiling, but you still havent told me your name. I guess I/ll just have to go on guessing.

  No, no. Please, Harry chuckling, my name is Mary.

  Well, thats better. I/d feel funny calling you buddy or Mack or—

  She started chuckling and put her hands up in front of him. You promised. No more.

  O.K., raising his right hand, no more. So, youre Mary and you work across the street.

  Thats right, nodding, I'm a secretary. And your name is Tom and you work—

  Down the street. Armstrong and Davis. A small engineering firm. Mostly consultants in highly specialized areas.

  O, that sounds exciting. . . .

  They

  continued to chat until Mary suddenly looked at her watch and said it was ten after, I have to get back to the office.

  That late, eh? I/d better get going too.

  They walked up the path to the street, and Harry waited until Mary had crossed the street and entered the building before he started to walk back to the office, not wanting her to see the direction in which he was walking.

  He rushed back to the office, realizing he was late, and got back to his desk about twenty minutes late, but for the most part it went unnoticed and he attacked his work with vigor.

  The following day was Thursday, and Harry decided he would cool it for the remainder of the week. For one thing he did not want to be late again. And for another, he wanted to let Mary dangle for a while. His evenings were when the real work was done, and he got an additional thrill out of just letting her dangle, knowing she was frustrated, that she and her husband werent making it and that she was chomping at the bit for a little action, any kind of action, even if it was just sitting on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon and have someone show a little attention. Krist, the more he thought about it, the more it excited him.

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  But, he did have some time to kill, so he thought he would walk over to the park and make sure she was there. He was smiling and glowing inside as he walked toward the park, and then a slight feeling of apprehension started to sneak in behind and under the glow and he started to quicken his pace slightly, anxious to see if she was really there. He had planned to be extremely circumspect, to be absolutely certain that she did not see him, but when he vaguely thought that she might not be there, he lost tra
ck of his perspective and instead of walking along Fifth Avenue and peering over the hedges, he walked down the path, unable to see the bench because of the people strolling and standing around, and he was only a few feet from her when the crowd suddenly thinned, but she was looking across the lake and he managed to regain control of himself in time to turn and leave the park before she saw him.

  When he was out of sight of the park, he stopped for a moment and became aware of the quickness of his pulse and how he could feel it in his ears. He looked in a store window, took a deep, slow breath, looked at his reflection and smiled at the thought of whatser-name sitting there, waiting for him. He chuckled, then spent the remainder of his lunch hour strolling along Fifth Avenue, looking in store windows and at the women, enjoying his feeling of power.

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  2

  Harry sat at the table, his mother serving, his father carving the roast and putting meat on the plates. Harrys parents were especially happy this evening. They were going to the fiftieth anniversary party of a couple who were friends of his mothers parents, and whom she had known all her life. It was going to be a truly gala celebration, with family and friends of a lifetime, most of whom they only saw on special occasions such as this. But the one thing in particular that was the cause of their happiness was the fact that Harry was going to go with them. Harry was a good boy, and always had been, and because he was an only child he was the apple of their eye and the center and focus of so much of their hopes and dreams, but now that he was a man he spent less and less time with them and usually had some place to go, especially on weekends, and so they were excitedly happy to be going out with their son,

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  their pride and joy. Tonight was going to be a real family night. It was going to be a family celebration, and they were going to go there as a family.

  When Harry finished eating, he patted his stomach and told his mother that it was delicious. Youre the best cook in the world, Mom, smiling at her.

  Thank you, son, I'm glad you enjoyed it, beaming as she picked up the plates. Coffee?

  Yes, please.

  They sat smoking and drinking coffee, music from the radio faintly audible in the background, each one enjoying the others company and conversation. Three people sitting at a dinner table, a man and a woman; a husband and a wife; a father and a mother—and their only child, a young man who adds joy to their lives. The atmosphere was calm, relaxed, the cigarette smoke drifting almost straight up, moving abruptly only when the air was disturbed with sudden laughter. There was love at the table.

  When they arrived at the party, Mrs. White took Harry from one old friend to another, introducing her son proudly, telling them of his fine position and future and what a wonderful son he was, his mothers and fathers pride and joy, Harry smiling enthusiastically when old friends shook his hand, smiled and told her she was fortunate, yes indeed, quite fortunate to have such a wonderful son, a regular chip off the old block, eh? Looks just like his father, doesnt he? Spittin image. But he has your eyes, Sara. Yep, he sure does. No mistaking that. Could tell he was your son a mile away in a blackout. Sara White beamed, and indeed, you could see her smile a mile away in a total blackout.

  And Harry followed his mother obediently, and happily, feeding off the joy that his being there made possible. He was making her happy and this in turn made him happy, and making his mother happy was something that he would try to do from time to time—or at least want to try—but somehow he could never seem to accomplish it, at least not on a consistent basis. For some unknown reason something

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  always seemed to happen to prevent him from bringing the smile to his mothers face, or if he did, he usually did something that would, at least, turn down the corner of her smile.

  But tonight he was not going to allow that to happen. He felt good, loose, relaxed, and was going to make this her night. And he smiled appropriately, at the proper time, and answered the usual queries with a bow, a smile, a quiet laugh and then an, Of course, now I remember. Sure. Mr. and Mrs. Lawry—or Little or Harkness, or whatever or whomever. It did not make any difference, the anecdotes were all pretty much the same about how he looked and what he did when he was two or three or four or whatever cute or fanciful age they remembered. And as Harry and Mrs. White left one couple to go to another, Harry knew that they were smiling and saying what a nice guy he was.

  Harry pretty well had his smile fixed for the night, so even after his mother finished with her introductions he continued to smile through the room full of familiar and unfamiliar faces. When he spotted his grandmother, his smile broadened and he put his arms around her and kissed her and kept his arms around her for a few moments. How you doin, grandma?

  O, just fine, son. You know, you cant keep the ol girl down, her eyes sparkling.

  Thatta girl, kissing her on the forehead.

  How are you, son? Everything going all right?

  Yeah, just great. Couldnt be better.

  O, thats good to—

  HEY! HEY EVERYBODY!!!!

  the oldest son of the

  golden anniversary couple waved his hands above his head, quiet for a minute ... we have to give a toast. Hey Mom, Pop, come over here. They walked across the room, dressed in their finery, faces and eyes glowing, as pleased and excited as children on their first Christmas morning as they stand, amazed, looking at the tree, the balls, tinsels and lights, the stockings and presents and feeling the excitement of Christ-

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  mas all around them. The son stood behind them and put his arms around them. Now everybody take a drink if you havent got one. The other children passed around with trays of manhattans, and then they went to stand near their parents. Mr. and Mrs. White joined Harry and his grandmother. O.K., everybody got a drink? ? ? ? Good. He raised his glass high, the others joining him. A toast to Mom and Dad for fifty short and beautiful years of marriage. For loving each other and loving us, and making the world a better place, and a little more crowded—chuckling and laughter—we all wish you all the joy of Gods blessing... your five children ... your twelve grandchildren . . . your twenty great grandchildren . . . and all your in-laws and out-laws. YEAH! SALUTE! LUCK! YAAA! SALUTE!!!! and everyone cheered and sipped their drink or emptied their glass and continued cheering as each one of the family kissed the golden and radiant couple, and with each kiss another cheer went up. When the endless parade finished, the Anniversary Waltz was played and they spun around the floor, slowly, but joyously, and everyone reached for someones hand as they watched the couple dance, their eyes looking into each others with the fire of endless joy as husbands and wives, parents and children, hugged each other and watched with moist eyes.

  Harry had his arm around his grandmother while his mother held his other hand. When the song ended, everyone cheered and the golden anniversary couple bowed slightly, like timid children, and were eventually absorbed by the people. You know, son, looking up at Harry with a hint of tears still in her eyes and the softness of fond memories on her face, your grandfather and I would have been married fifty years this October if he were still alive, God bless his soul.

  Harry smiled at her for a moment, then took her half empty glass and put it on a table along with his. Comeon grandma, lets dance. They joined the others who were dancing, and Mr. and Mrs. White beamed with pride as they watched them merge into the crowd; then they too joined the dancers.

  It seemed like every time Harry put an empty glass down,

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  someone was handing him another drink, and so he felt looser and looser and looser. And so was his grandmother. The half of a manhattan she had went directly to her head and she was dancing, sort of, with an old friend, kicking and wiggling in a confused version of a Brooklyn cancan. Harry joined the others, including his parents, who were clapping their hands as they watched her dance, but after a few minutes she stopped with a long wwwhhhheeeewwwwwwwww, and sat down, enjoying the laughter and attention.

  Harry continued to cir
culate among the guests, calculat-ingly sipping on his drink, slowly, not wanting to put an empty glass down and have another full one shoved in his hand. He was starting to feel the drinks and wanted to be careful. He put a cigarette out in an ashtray on a coffee table, and when he straightened up, he almost fell into the arms of a woman who was more than feeling her drinks. When he bumped her, she instinctively reached out and put her arms around him to keep from falling, Harry supporting her by holding her under the upper arms. When they finished with their, ooops, sorry . .. look out... are you all right? and stopped swaying back and forth, Harry withdrew his hands, but she continued to keep hers on his shoulders. Gee, I'm really sorry. I hope I didn't mess you up or anything.

  No, no. No harm done, smiling, everythings fine.

  Whats your name, tilting her head to one side, looking into his face, her lips slightly parted.

  Harry. Harry White, returning the smile and look.

  Mines Gina. Gina Logan. It used to be Gina Merretti, but thats a long time ago, gesturing with her hand. You can call me Gina.

  Glad to meet you, Gina, nodding his head and smiling.

  Harry, a quizzical look on her face, thats not so bad.

  Thanks, laughing.

  Why dont you dance with me, Harry? Come on.

  O.K., why not? shrugging his shoulders, then putting an open hand on her back as they eased themselves into the group of dancers.

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  Harrys reaction to Gina was Pavlovian, and his evaluation and assessment of her attributes were instant. She was probably in her forties, early forties, but looked at least five years younger, maybe even more, even though it was obvious she had a little too much to drink and it altered her appearance. All in all she was not a bad-looking head—her left hand clung to the back of his neck, moist and warm and alive—and his eyes roamed approvingly over the parts of her boobs visible above her low-cut dress. He tried to penetrate the darkness between them, but was unable, and so he simply used his imagination, and experience, to mentally construct the roundness and fullness of her boobs and the purplish-brown nipple in the middle. Twenty years, or so, ago, she was real cunty Italian—his open hand pressed against the bareness of her back and his cheek was brushed by her black hair—and still had that look in her eyes and ass—and krist, her box was hot as it rubbed against his crotch while passing from one thigh to the other. He could feel the cold, metallic security of her wedding ring on his neck—he knew that somewhere between those luscious tits were a couple of short, black hairs, and he would love to jerk them out with his teeth—youre a good dancer, looking up at him with half-closed eyes and half-open mouth, I like the way you move your body—he could open her zipper just a little and slide his hand down her back and under her pants to that nice round ass and just lay his hand between her cheeks, feeling the small beads of sweat, and feel her ass grind his hand as he kept her tight against him—you make it easy. I fit right in. My husband doesnt dance. Used to a little bit, but no more. Says hes too tired. Well, I guess he works hard, (not as hard as my dick). But you need a little fun once in a while too, looking up at him again with the same open invitation, if you know what I mean? Yeah, smiling and nodding, I do. And anyway, who knows what hes doing right now in Poughkeepsie? (POUGHKEEPS1E! Holy shit!) Whats he doing there? really and truly wondering. Business. Always business.