The Home For Wayward Ladies (18 page)

The way he groans to crank her window down, you would think he has bursitis. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asks, and is already exhaling before I realize the question was rhetorical. As I turn off Broadway and merge onto the George Washington Bridge, Eli’s got plenty more hateful thing to say about Tina Louise. “I don’t see why you bother to keep a car in Manhattan. It’s more fucking trouble than it’s worth. The only time you ever drive it is to find another parking spot on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

Although I dare not admit it, he is partially right about the inconvenience of harboring Tina Louise in the city. I graduated college summa cum laude, but it wasn’t until my fourth parking ticket that I began to grasp the concept of Alternate Side Parking. In Virginia, you park your car in your driveway where it rests under the shade of a hickory tree. In New York, however, three mornings a week are downright harrowing when, come rain or shine, the street sweeper truck bristles through. If Tina Louise is in its way, I am sure to pay the price. Her out of state tags serve as an additional guarantee.

“The reason I keep a car in the city is because it’s a comfort to know I can escape your clap-trap at a moment’s notice.” Eli attempts to ash his cigarette out the window and particles of the fuzzy gray matter blow inward, settling like confetti on my back seat. “And if you’re going rest your derriere upon her upholstery, you’re going to have to treat her with the respect that she deserves.” I stroke her dashboard to let her know how sorry I am she’s being subjected to such rudeness. “You keep in mind that, without her, we would be relegated to the Martz Bus out of Port Authority, filled to the brim with ne’er-do-wells that do needle drugs while they play their hip hop music. Lady, I shudder at the thought.”

I can see the city skyline disappear in my rearview mirror. For fear of being turned into a pillar of salt, I think perhaps it best to look away. I cannot. The thrill of escape leaves me utterly transfixed. It’s too much of a joy to leave the enormity of it behind. New York has offered me infinitely more symptoms than it ever has solutions. Whatever my reservations about Mr. Vallenzino and his Pocono Show Barn, I feel fortunate to be given a chance to break free. As I drive, I imagine the serenity of breathing in nothing but pine-scented air.

The air surrounding the Meadowlands in New Jersey, however, is anything but pine-scented and the traffic is far from serene. My patience runs dangerously thin. It doesn’t help that Eli is as bad a navigator as he is a DJ. In between excruciating excerpts from long-forgotten cast recordings (that are long-forgotten for a reason), I get the sneaking suspicion that we are lost.

“Oh, this is where the New York Giants play,” Eli says. I look up at the sky to see if I can spot their beanstalk.

“Eli,” I snap my fingers, “I need you to focus. I beg of you. My ears are going to bleed if you play one more song from
Henry, Sweet Henry.
And, God help me, but if I hear that C-U-Next-Tuesday on your GPS say that she is rerouting one more time, I’m gonna slap the both of you. How you ever came to be a director with your abysmal sense of direction is a mystery for the ages.”

“And yet choreography must be your natural calling because I’ve never met someone so capable of turning on a dime.” He shouts over the roar of his open window. “Last night you didn’t even want to go and now you’re in a race against the fucking clock.” He lights his umpteenth cigarette and simultaneously chomps down on a mint like that’s all it would take to make him kissably fresh.

“Perhaps I am eager to take a meeting with our new producer, the illustrious Mr. Vallenzino,” I say. “After the aggravation he’s already caused, I have a hankering to give him a real piece of whatever’s left of my mind.”

Eli is preoccupied, fussing with the navigation system on his phone. “When we get there, you’re going to shake that man’s dick so hard that, when you’re done, you’re going to need to hand him a towel. Do you understand? I’m not driving to Pennsylvania so you can burn a bridge I’m going to need to get back home, especially after I’ve already paid the toll.”

We sit in stony silence for miles, which causes us to miss another turn somewhere around the Delaware Water Gap. In almost any circumstance, Eli and I have evolved past the need for verbal communication. However, it is always much easier to get where you are going when the driver and the navigator are on speaking terms. I see a diner on the side of the road. There’s a sign that says Lorna’s Kettle, and it looks clean enough from the exterior to stop and get a milkshake. Without consultation, I pull over.

“Why are we stopping?” he aks, whipping his head toward me. “Where are we?”

Tina Louise crackles as we drive onto the pitted gravel lot. I pull the keys from her ignition. “All this bickering has made me hungry. As my granny used to say, ‘there’s no use in fighting on an empty stomach- if you let your low blood sugar do the talking, you’re liable to be break hearts when you intended to break bread.'”

He rolls his eyes and steps out of the car. After I perform Tina Louise’s locking ritual (unlock, lock, unlock, lock, tap the handle, tap, tap, tap- some habits die hard) I jog a few steps to catch up to him. The way he carries that cross behind him must be good exercise. I can’t help but wonder, after all these years, why it hasn’t led to a flatter stomach.

Before he opens the door to diner, he turns back to me and says, “Hunter, you and I were hired to be a team. From here on out, we need to act like one.”

His words cut with the precision of a bundle of TNT. It’s not as if fighting is something uncommon amongst us Ladies. Why, ever since that night at Mackinaw back in Nick’s dorm room nearly two years ago, Eli and I have maintained guarded positions in opposite corners of the ring. But he is right; on this journey, we have nothing but each other. I realize while roasting in the doorway of Lorna’s Kettle that it’s probably time for me to take off my gloves. Otherwise, the two of us will never find a way to shake hands.

22

NICK

“Slow down,” I tell him. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Danny replies, and gets back to thrashing his tongue so far inside me that I wriggle with glee. If my full weight weren’t supported on his chin, I’d be nothing but a puddle on the floor. Thankfully, a puddle on the floor is the anticipated result of being shoved nipples first onto the kitchen table. At least when we are finished fucking in the kitchen, there are plenty of paper towels handy for some quicker-picker-upping. I wonder in amazement how it is that Danny hasn’t gotten lockjaw.

With Eli and Hunter on their way to that gig Danny got them in the Poconos, the two of us have been left to our own devices. Danny’s device, in particular, is something worthy of worship. And that is precisely what he’d have me do. We make it our manifest destiny for him to plant a flag in me in every room. By 10AM, we have already crossed the living room, bathroom, and kitchen off our list.

I remember hearing that the time when you recharge your love-juice in between shooting and screwing again is called your “refractory period.” Well, as it turns out, Danny has more of a refractory comma, and it’s not easy on me. Around the time he had me folded like a pretzel on the love seat during round one, I thought my body might give way. His schwanzstucker is so big that if he fucks me hard enough, I can feel a tickle in my throat.

But my favorite part, and, seriously, I’ll eat a light bulb if this means I’m going soft, but my favorite part is how he holds me when he’s done. He cums inside me with our foreheads mashed together, congealed with perspiration. He collapses to my side and draws me close. When we begin to breathe as one, I see him as my primordial partner, sort of like a caveman that’s been sent to protect me, to use rocks to light a fire and make sure I’m always warm. Even when he’s deep inside of me, I don’t feel closer to him than when I’m in his arms. His arms are my home.

My stomach is growling like he’s caused it to spring a leak. “Baby, I’m ravenous. Can you go to the corner deli and bring us back some pastrami on rye?” As chief caveman, it is his responsibility to hunt and gather and mine to call Betty Rubble over to the prehistoric fence so we can pass the time while the octopus does the dishes.

As always, Danny is eager to please. “If it’s pastrami my man wants, then it’s pastrami he shall have.”

I walk Danny to the door so that he can kiss me goodbye. When he does, I taste myself on him. 

He says to me, “What do you say when I get back, we visit Eli’s room so I can fuck you in front of all those books? You’ll play Beauty, I’ll play the Beast.”

I kiss him again to make him linger. “I’m sure something can be arranged, although I was hoping you might say Harold Hill and Marian the Librarian. Now skidaddle, Mr. Music Man- we’ve still got 73 trombones to go.”

I am wearing nothing but the skimpy pink briefs that remind me I’m a Lady. Walking amongst the boxes stacked on top of more boxes that Danny’s movers have left in the hall, I catch myself humming “It Only Takes a Moment” from
Hello, Dolly!
My room is too small to fit any of his shit, but I will find a way. When you really love someone, you make the room to let them in.

I expect that Danny’s move today will prove mutually beneficial. Think of it: the Ladies have not been parted in accordance with our oath, and, what’s better, now I’m the last thing that Danny sees at night and the first thing he sees in the morning. Also, my rent is considerably cheaper than his was. With him staying here, even if he buys me jewelry once a week he’ll still be saving money.

Over pillow talk last night at his old apartment, he admitted to me that his investors took a dive when
Nautical Woman
closed on Broadway. “In the theater,” he said, “you’re only as good as your last show.” His last show was so notoriously bad that I’m guessing the next few months are going to be dedicated to starting over. Luckily, that list of new beginnings includes my tour of
Sing Louder Tomorrow: A Boy and His Bette Midler
. My new agent, Mr. Harrigan, has been working with Danny on finalizing a schedule. They both want me out on the road, and I understand the million reasons why; however, I hope Danny can set aside his business acumen to wax sentimental in the moments before he shoves me out the door.

“In the hinterlands,” he told me, “you’ll start make a name for myself. You’ll pick up admirers and maybe even get your picture in the papers in the places that still go for that kind of thing. Then, once you collect your reviews, we remount the show in New York and take a victory lap on your road to winning the MAC Award.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I say, dreaming of which shot of me the New York Times will use. 

Walking past the mirror in the hall, I pull down my pink briefs to make sure I’ve still got it, whatever “it” is. “Fucking A,” I say, proud that Danny has not caused me yet to prolapse. I waddle to the bathroom with my briefs around my ankles and leave the door open when I settle on the can. With no one home, there is no need to be modest. I don’t bother to run water when I let it rip. My ass conducts a symphony-- all brass.

A toot and a swipe later, I make my way to Eli’s room thinking it best to stage the scene. Maybe I can light a candle or something to rid space of Eli’s natural old man smell (which I am convinced has come from wearing all those drab cardigans). He’s left his closet door open, so I poke around pretending that I’m Dick Tracy and not just any old dick. At first, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, which, knowing Eli does not surprise me. He is so predictable that you can set your watch by his disapproving sneers. Even his clothes are boring. I have seen him cycle through the entirety of his wardrobe at least a thousand times. What’s left behind in his closet is categorized by girth. His constant struggle for a figure has forced him to buy the same pair of pants in at least four sizes. That way, he thinks we might not notice when he traverses from hourglass to bell jar in a matter of meals.

The upper shelves of the closet are home to an array of odds and ends: board games that haven’t seen a coffee table in years, books that he’s embarrassed to own (
Cosmo’s Guide to Gay Sex
), all those stupid old man cardigans that have been folded with utmost care.

But then I see a box I’ve never seen before. From what I can tell, it’s more of a case really, with a handle made of leather and sealed shut by two buckle straps. Well, if Eli didn’t intend for anyone to discover it, then he wouldn’t have left it hidden in plain view. And whatever its contents may be, I find it my pre-ordained responsibility as a Lady to stand on tiptoe like I’m wearing high heels when I reach up and pull that fucker down and rip it open.