Love Ain't Nothing but Sex Misspelled (29 page)

Robert unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off his underpants, and dumped them on the floor with his pants and socks. He came to the bed and looked down into the warm dark of her, and felt he should say something: was this the feeling you always got? Was this the way for all men about to know women? He had no idea, but he felt he should do or say something that would set him apart from all the other men who had been inside this girl.

"What's, uh, I mean how uh long am I supposed to be in here for uh four dollars?"

She looked up incredulously.

"Sweet baby," she demanded, "just what the hell are you talking about ..."

"Well, I--"

"Now, look, will you just kindly lock on here and stop all this laughin' and scratchin'."

She grabbed him by the thigh, and tumbled him onto the bed. His left hand came down hard on her breast, and she went oooof softly, but started moving around till he was firmly positioned. He had the overwhelming urge to talk to her, to make some sort of conversation to keep her from what she was trying to do to him, what he was trying to do to her.

Then she found him, and his body betrayed him as she took him in her hand and guided him. It was like soft polyps, down a slim dank tunnel very smooth yet ruffled. It filled him with sensations he had never before known, and all he could think of was that Sally Gleeson, out there in the bushes with New Jersey Dave, his friend, was even a failure at this, as well as a failure at being real to him.

And then she was moving quickly, expertly, but he wanted it to go on and on for a long time. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at her lovely face. "Where are you from?" he asked, conversationally.

"Oh, shit! A nut."

"No, really, where are you from? Come on, tell me."

"Texas. West Texas. Okay?"

"How'd you get here?"

"How'd a nice girl like me wind up in a place like this? Oh, shit."

"No, now come on, don't make fun of me. I wouldn't ask you a clich·é· like that. I know better."

"Oh you do, huh?"

"Sure. I know a little."

"Like that prostitutes are usually dykes, and are all fallen girls from good families and never kiss their johns even if they'll screw them?"

"Well, yes, I've heard tha--"

She took his face in both hands and pulled him down to her and kissed him full on the mouth, prying open his lips with her soft, agile tongue, and running it inside hot and moist. She kissed him for a long time, for a very long time, moving her hips in an anticlockwise direction all the while. It was the most thorough kiss Robert Hirschhorn had ever had. In all his twenty years. It did the work of all the women who had come before, how very few there had been.

While she was still kissing him, there was a rude slam on the door, as though someone walking past had idly banged a fist against the panel.

"Oh, shit!" Terry said. "That's the Missus. Come on now, sweet baby, make your seed and let's get outta here before she howls holy hell at me."

So he started working again, drilling and moving as he was expected to do--according to Van de Velde in IDEAL MARRIAGE, which Sally had brought him from her father's library--with too much frenzy and not enough skill. And still he did not finish. On and on he went, in a seemingly endless repetition of the same movements, until Terry slapped him across the backside. "C'mon, sweet baby, do it already!"

And he remembered the screwing scene from James Jones's FROM HERE TO ETERNITY, and the endless conversation the hero had had with the whore, and he burst out laughing, falling across her so his face was buried in her deep, rich black hair. "What the hell's so funny?" she demanded.

"Nothing. Nothing. Not a single solitary ho thing." And he continued laughing till she slapped him on the backside again and urged him, "Pleeeese, sweet baby, she's gonna raise holy hell with me," so he tried very hard, and she did weird things with herself, moving tightly against him, and in a moment it was over.

Then she was up off the bed like a shot, and at the sink performing her rituals with the tubes of rubber. He got dressed quickly, feeling a great affection for her, and said, "Are you coming hack to the bar? I'd like to buy you that beer now."

"In a bit, in a bit," she said, without turning.

So he left the room, buttoning his shirt.

In the bar, George and Cole and Teddy Bear were already waiting. "Man, did you get your money's worth from that sweet piece!" George caroled. "Or couldn't you get it up, Tiger?" They all three laughed.

"How did you guys do with the tattooed ladies?" Robert sneered at them. They shut up. And turned hack to their beers. At a dollar a split, they were leaving no dregs. The hogs with the tattoos were elsewhere. Robert decided to take a walk. There were other men in the barroom.

He walked outside and up toward the car, and received a half-dozen offers from the windows across the way. He waved at them in a friendly, magnanimous way. He was truly a man now. He had the secret. It was all warm and delightful, that's what it was. It was serene and lovely, with a lovely girl really. And then the idea hit him. He would ask her if she wanted to come with him to San Francisco.

She had to accept. A girl like that, with a sense of humor, couldn't really enjoy this life. He would tell her how he was writing a fine novel, and that he was twenty-four years old. No, better make that twenty-seven. Yes, he was Robert Hirschhorn, age twenty-seven, and he would marry her.

All that black hair.

West Texas.

Lovely. Really.

He sprinted back to the street and to The Combination Bar. He was inside and running through the barroom and down the short hall before the three minstrels realized he was back. He opened the door and stepped through and said, "Hey, listen, Terry, I have a wild ideeeee--"

The word shrieked off thinly, as he watched them and he realized how foolish he must have looked doing the same thing. She looked out at him from around the huge, tanned shoulders, and her eyes grew wide.

"Oh, shit!" she exclaimed.

The man's head twisted on the thick red neck, and he yelled, "Say what the fuggin' hell you mean doin' there, boy!" And Robert's tongue balled in his mouth and he felt as though it were full of dust again. And he felt very gone, like the jack rabbit that had crossed his path. Had it been a black jack rabbit? And was that bad luck as well?

He turned and ran from the room, through the bar and out into the chill Nevada night. He kept running till he came out on the main street of Winnemucca, and didn't stop till he had found a phone booth.

Collect. Station. Starkey, Ohio.

"Mom, Mother, hey listen, Mom, let me speak to Dad, will you. It's terribly important, it's awfully important, I have to talk to him ..."

The sound of his mother's voice was clogged with trembling. "Your father died last night, Bobby."

He wouldn't listen to the words. He wouldn't.

It was foolish. "No, listen, Mom, let me talk to him ..."

"Our daddy died last night, Bobby. He was sitting right there in his red chair, he was smoking his cigar, and he died, Bobby. He just died."

He would not listen! He wouldn't! Screw it NO!

"--thrombosis, that's what Doctor Fisher said. A coronary throm--Bobby, are you there? Bobby darling, are you coming home now, please come home..."

"No! No, I'm not coming home now, not now ..." he cried helplessly, and hung up the receiver. He laid his face up alongside the cool glass of the phone booth and he cried a very private cry for a while.

Then he went outside and looked up at the clear black Nevada sky, as black as Terry's hair, and he said to the sky and whomever might be there listening: "We never really we never really talked! Just talked!"

Then he walked slowly back toward Littletown, his hands in his pockets. He would go down to Frisco--hell!--with the three minstrels. and he would learn the secret from them, because they knew it and they'd tell him if he was a good guy.

And he would wait for another four dollar turn on Terry, because there was no communication, none at all with anyone, ever, and he was locked-in the same as everyone else, and all that mattered was laughing, so he would laugh.

So laughing, till his eyes hurt, he went back down the street. The sound of it did not reach very far in the night.

--Hollywood, 1964

When Mona was twenty-three, she had pleurisy, and the time in Women's Hospital had been violently peaceful: so calm and warm and tended that it made her shudder with pleasure to remember it. It was the one happy time--not counting growing up in Minnesota with Buddy and Eenor and the folks--she could remember. It was a period of placid contemplation of the way the world really was, and is.

It was a time in which the constant growing pressure of her ugliness came to her fully, completely. She had looked at the nurses, even the plain and unattractive ones, and had known they were more appealing than she would ever be. It was the days-long moment through which Mona told herself the truth. I am not just ordinary, I am really quite unappetizing. And she recognized the inevitable end result of having been born with the face she wore: she would never marry, she would perhaps never have a man (unless he was somehow deficient, for otherwise, why should he want her?) and she might never even experience the strange mystery of having a man enter her body. It was, at first, a realization so monstrous, so terrible in its ultimate thoroughness of destruction, that she cried. Not simple uncomplicated tears of sorrow, but a soulful emptying of her body that dried her, leaving her hacking, dry-sobbing, flushed and even sicker than she had been when admitted to the hospital. It was not a sorrow born of having been ill-treated, of being in pain, or of having lost something. It was that unnameable sorrow mixed with passionate fear at never having had anything to lose.

When she was released, she felt she must break away from the past, that she must begin a new existence, at the age of twenty-three, based upon the new truth she had discovered. This resolve was reinforced by the pitying stares of the homely nurses who said good-bye to her; women and girls who had hushed and soothed her during the nights of wretched crying. If these drabs could feel superior to her ... then finally she knew her place, and her fate.

So Mona moved out of her apartment and quit her job. She closed her checking account and paid off her charges at the market and Macy's. She left the tag-ends of hopes and desires she had known till then, and went to find a new subsistence, in the realm of realization of futility.

Mona took an apartment on a busy corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-third Street, and she decorated it with Spartan efficiency. No television set and no record player; no parti-colored pillows to decorate the daybed; no bookshelves stocked with glossy flashy paperbacks and philosophical tracts from Anchor or Yale University Press; no clever pewter coffee mugs and no Lyonel Feininger prints on the walls. Just the necessities of life that keep a person breathing and free of sickness.

But the windows ...

Ah, the windows!

Three seeing-out windows. Three constantly changing landscapes hung in the center of her walls. Three openings to the world. Three panoramic shadow plays, always new, always vivid. Into these three windows she poured all the unquenchable instincts a resigned soul could not damp.

She planted her flowerpots, and she set up the foam pillows on the floor, and day after day, night after night (when she was not at work in the catalogue section of the New York Public Library), she stared into the world.

Hidden, recording, devouring and ugly, she stared into other people's lives as they traversed from one side of her sight to the other, and then gone. She watched them with an intensity a casual observer might call psychotic. She studied the moles on the faces of delivery boys; she studied the rough-knuckled hands of cleaning women on their way home from swabbing office floors at five in the morning; she studied the exotic hatboxes and lustrous hairdos of the models, perhaps prostitutes, swirling and delighting their way away from passion; she learned the names of obscure freight companies and cartage firms from trucks roaring by; she absorbed the air and the beat and the life of the world, by osmosis and by rote.

As the months passed into a year, and that year gave way to a second, in the windows of her world, Mona found a particular pleasure in imagining herself one with the girls who lived their brief lives on the streets outside. A saucy brunette with a great flat leather portfolio under her arm would cross Mona's vision and in her window sanctuary Mona would merge with the brunette, knowing her feet were tired from having stood behind a perfume counter for eight hours. She would take heart, however, in the knowledge that now she was on her way to art school, where she would perfect her charcoal technique a little more. And one day I'll be a very good artist, and work for one of the big women's slicks, and one of the models will ask me for a date, and I'll go with him to the Chateaubriand, and then he'll ask me to ...

As the brunette passed out of sight around the corner.

With the lights out in the apartment, and darkness providing a mummer's cloak, Mona picked up a slatternly blonde shuffling up Seventh Avenue, pausing at the light, and empathically she entered the blonde's head, feeling her hands sinking into the side pockets of the Alligator raincoat, wishing I was home in Cedar Rapids instead of going to meet Arnie, that stupe, that creep. But I suppose I'll marry him because if I don't, I'll never get those bills paid at Saks and Klein's. He's not very good-looking, but at least he can make it in the rack, and hell, what am I after, James Garner, or a meal ticket? If only he didn't have that ridiculous astigmatism, those dopey glasses with the tortoise-shell frames! Well, hell, I can always make him go in for contact lenses after I get him ...

Into the restaurant and out of sight of Mona.

It went this way, hour and hour and hour after hour. One girl, two girls, three, four and more, always more, coming down the Avenue, crossing Twenty-third Street, leaving buildings and entering bakeries, pausing at traffic lights and whistling through the twilight mistiness.

It was a whole new, vicarious, utterly satisfying life. And soon, Mona began to realize that she was better than all of them down there.

For they only had one life each, but she had thousands. There were worse fates than merely being ugly, and lonely. She knew all of those fates, because she was Everywoman, and experienced their brief walking-past lives more totally than any of them could. She was each happy girl, every sad girl, all the pretty ones, and for change the not-pretty ones. She thought their many thoughts, wore their many expressions, loved their many lovers, lived life to its fullest. She thrived. Yet there came a night ...

In the dark painting that lived in her window, she saw, this night, a cheap-looking but sensuous Puerto Rican girl in a thigh-length black leather coat, beehive hairdo, smoky hose and overpainted face, strolling liquidly, languidly, close to the buildings. A pickup girl, a loose girl, a scarlet Miss looking for a five-dollar John.

Mona's pale eyes swooped down and slid inside the girl, knowing her soreness between the legs, knowing her weariness at having to make another ten tonight or they'll lock my bags in the room, and I'll have to find a flop somewhere till I can get my clothes out.

There was a stirring in the shadowed doorway, and the Puerto Rican girl who was Mona turned half toward the noise. A hand snaked out of the darkness and physically away! Mona was wrenched, back to her place high in the window, watching terrified and mutely as the man half-pulled the tramp into the doorway.

Mona stared disbelieving as the alter ego that had been hers, a moment before, was thrown to the sidewalk. The man descended on the leather car coat, tore it open and, as Mona stared in horror, violated the streetwalker with an animal ferocity that forced Mona to bite her fist, stifle a scream, and finally, as the man arched upward in climax, faint painfully away from her viewport into reality.

It could only have been a few minutes of unconsciousness, for when she pulled herself to her knees on the foam cushions, the Puerto Rican girl was still lying sprawled on the sidewalk, half into the doorway, her face hidden, but her nyloned legs sticking out, awkwardly spread and limp, into the light from the streetlamps.

Mona closed the window softly, pulled the shade, and went to bed.

When day came, it seemed somehow silent in her streets, and though Mona tried to regain a oneness with her women going by, it was useless.

At eight o'clock that night--finally--she knew she had reached another junction of her existence. There were things worse than being ugly and lonely, and all of them were here, before these windows.

That night the windows were empty for the first time in years, but the streets had a new walker seeking whatever Fate chanced by first.

If there was a God for women who lived in windows, He would send an ugly boy with tortoise-shell glasses, rather than a ferocious animal.

The windows were dead eyes; life meant darkness and the streets of the world. Mona said hello.

--New York City, 1962

WHEN I WAS A HIRED GUN

To be read in the style of a Dashiell Hammett story, featuring Sam Spade, "the hardest-boiled private eye of them all." Move it.

I was once a hired gun.

Restrain mirth, plug up your booze-funnel, and l'll lay it on you how it came to pass that a seventeen-year-old kid wound up packing a .25 Beretta for a pseudo-wealthy neurotic paranoid. (Yeah, that's right, it's the same model Beretta that Bond packed in the early Fleming books, till armaments experts pinned him to the wall with the skinny that that particular model automatic is a "ladies' gun" about as effective in stopping a determined thug as a hatpin; which I didn't know at the time, or I'd have crapped with terror.)

It was 1951, Cleveland. I was going to East High School, a pretty tough school even for those Blackboard Jungle days, and I was into science fiction. I was a charter member of the Cleveland Science Fiction Society. We called ourselves The Terrans. We'd gone from one member's house to another with our meetings, until one week an outré dude named Al Wilson showed, and offered us his pad for a regular meeting-place.

It was a converted dentist's office over a supermarket, on the second floor of a building somewhere around East 125th Street and St. Clair Avenue. Some of the facts blur, it's almost twenty-five years ago; but the substance is precise.

Wilson looked like a Martian to me. At least, what I had always seen represented in sf magazines as a Martian: skinny, large head, receding hairline, big eyes. He was, to me, a weird and fascinating man. He was into the Fortean Society and all its unexplained phenomena, Korzybskian General Semantics, heavyweight physical sciences, occultism, and he filed his socks under "S" in the filing cabinet. His place was a rabbit hole for me, and I fell down that hole willingly because my Dad was recently dead, I was lost and miserable, doing rotten in school, relating only to science fiction and the emerging world of sf fandom. So Al Wilson came around at just the right time. He wasn't close enough physically or emotionally to be a father image for me, but he was the guru I needed at just that time.

So I started hanging around Al's place all the time. He had a Multilith machine right in the middle of the floor, a Varityper for typing up issues of the club newsletter, and stacks of erudite and obscure books, like Tiffany Thayer's novels, Fort's studies of "excluded facts," what he called "a procession of the damned," James Branch Cabell, Lord Dunsany, Lovecraft, Lincoln Barnett ... that whole crowd. There was a cot in the middle of the "apartment." No sheets. Al slept whenever he felt like it, ate whenever he felt like it, operated off no known clock.

One day, after I'd been playing Roo to his Kanga for some months, Al sat me down and asked me if I wanted a job.

I was seventeen, my Dad had died leaving my mother and myself not too well off, we were living in a resident hotel on East 105th Street, The Sovereign (where Joel Grey also lived when he was Joel Katz), and the best job I'd been able to get was in a bookstore. "How much and what do I have to do?"

"Two hundred a month and you'll be sort of a bodyguard for me. Run errands. Be around when I need you."

I looked at him. Weird eyes looked back.

Al Wilson worked on the assembly line at Thompson Products--or maybe it was Fisher Body in East Cleveland, I don't remember exactly--and I knew he made a good wage, but two hundred a month for a gopher?

I said okay, and went to work for Al Wilson.

I didn't tell my Mother. She was always a little leery about those oddball sf people I was hanging out with, and if I'd told her I was making fifty a week, without deductions , for bodyguarding a Martian, she'd have ... well, she'd have done what she did later. So I kept it quiet and slipped a few bills into her purse when she wasn't looking. Made up in a small way for all the money I'd stolen out of her purse when she was sleeping.

I ran peculiar errands for Al Wilson. Food, sometimes, which wasn't peculiar, but books of a very peculiar nature other times, and strange messages to even stranger people. Then one day, Al brought home a package and unwrapped it on the feeder ledge of the Multilith. I came over and watched; it was a gun. And a shoulder holster. "What's that for?"

He looked at me with those weird eyes and said, "You'll need to wear this from now on when you're running errands for me."

"To the supermarket?"'

"You'll be flying out this week. Other things."

So I started packing the heat. I thought it was funny; and I dug playing pistolero. Sue me.

He also said, "From time to time I want you to scare me." It was in one of those moments when Al wasn't goofing or being weird. It was one of his pathetic moments. He was a lonely man leading an isolated life. He'd been married and divorced long before--even though he was only in his thirties--and now he was all alone inside his skull, thinking things no one else could understand, making friendships slowly, trusting no one. I didn't ask him what he meant, I knew. He wanted me to feed his strangeness, whatever that was.

So I would leave, during the dark of the evening, and I'd go down the long hall and down the stairs and go outside and around the side of the building and there, where they'd rolled up the awnings that shaded the big display windows of the supermarket, I'd climb up the ratchet bar that raised and lowered the canvas awnings, and I'd stand on the rolled-up awning, which brought my face to just the level of the second storey window, and I'd make hideous sounds and tap on the windows and scream and scare the hell out of him.