Sarah, ohhhhhhhh SAR- AH! How does that go with life imitating art or vise versa or “whatever!� remember the thread about the polish girl and the Metro? Well I was doing a little editing on Burnt Roof novel and I found this. This is a McCutcheon exclusive!!!! The version of Burnt on Pax is one-fourth of the first draft. This is a bit further down the line, about half way through and it's from the second draft. Never read before, until now. DRUM ROLL!!!!!!!!!!!
Now when people always ask me how I write and always think it's true and I always so ‘No!' damn you it's fiction, well what can I say now SAH-RA, SAH-RA, SARHA?
***************************************
A group of models stand erect and preening to my left. I overhear their conversation. They are talking pop culture politics.
“Oh my god! Yesterday I met Sean Lennon. He was so cute,� says a redhead beauty.
“Did you tell him you didn't like Asians?� asks the waif like blonde. I realize from her almost undistinguishable perfect features that she is the polish girl, the daughter getting her fifteen minutes.
Red with the pop star eyes looks puzzled.
“What?� she asks horrified, looking around to make sure no Asians are around.
“Well, when you got back from Japan you told me you hated the Japanese, you said they were all little and spoiled. That you were never going back to Asia.�
“Sean isn't Asian. He's British, his father was in the Rolling Stones. So there.� Says Red defiantly.
“Yes he is, his mother is Ono Yoko. His father was John Lennon, The Beatles.�
“Really?� Red asks.
“Yes?�
“Yes, but he is famous so it doesn't count.�
The Polish waif agrees with a mock smile and turns to me.
“You.�
“Yes?� I ask.
“Why were you talking to my mom?�
“We were just talking.�
“What are you doing here. You don't look like a model to me.�
“I'm not a model, I deliver pizza.�
“Oh thank God. I will talk to you then.�
She grabs my arm, leads me across the room to where the drinks are on display, grabs a bottle of Champagne and leads me out of the room. I'm escorted down the hallway and out to the fire escape.
Outside New York is glowing in the cold night with all the glory and majestic significance of the most important city in the world. This is where it all happens. This is it, the city of dreams. It's where a pizza guy can sit on a fire escape with some international model and drink champagne. I'm aware of the moment though it doesn't seem like a privileged one. I'm not sure I like her.
She pops the cork and the Champagne spills down her wrist. She puts her perfectly pouty lips to the top of the bottle and sips the sparkling bubbles. Then she hands me the bottle and lights a cigarette.
“So,� she says, “My mom is too old for you. Besides, she is taken.�
“I was not trying to pick up your mom.�
“What were you talking about?�
“I was talking about a girl and her mother. Your mother reminded me of this girl's mother.�
“Do I remind you of the mother's daughter?�
“Uh, no.� I didn't think of that before.
“Is this girl your girlfriend. The number one in your life?�
“No, well, maybe she is number one in my life but she isn't my girlfriend.�
“That is sad.�
“Yeah maybe.� I take another sip.
“So pizza boy, what are you doing here with your heartbreak?�
I look over the cityscape. It's a good question as far as questions go. I think she means it in the sort of rhetorical, how did I crash this party way, instead of what am I doing here, what is she doing here, what are we all doing here, philosophical Greek way.
“I came with my friend Mike.�
“I know Mike, he is funny and strange. Not around very much.�
“He doesn't really model anymore. I guess he has been lately, coming into the city. I didn't know about it.�
“Why should you know about it?�
“We live together.�
“I'm sure he comes and goes as he pleases. You are not his lion tamer.�
“Um, we live in the same room so I usually know where he goes.�
“You sleep together? Are you lovers?�
“No. He sleeps on the floor.�
She looks at me like she doesn't believe it.
“Mike never makes it with the girls, lots of the guys are gay,� she says in an understanding compassionate tone.
“Mike is not gay. I'm not gay.�
She goes in for a quick kiss. She presses her lips firmly against mine. First I'm taken a back by her rash action. Then she opens her mouth and I do the same. Our tongues circle each other in deep French kissing passion. It's a kiss that gives tingles. She pulls back.
“Okay, you are not gay,� she says, swigging more of the champagne.
“Thanks.�
“What is your name?�
“Trevor.�
“My name is Bi, not spelled B-Y-E, just B-I. You want to hear a Paris story, Trevor?�
“Sure. I'd like to got o Paris someday.�
“My mother was also a model. In the 70's she was allowed to leave the Iron Curtain to model in Paris. She was followed around the city by secret agents and spies from Russia. My mother had to occasionally sleep with these men so she was allowed to stay in Paris. Ironically when one of the bastards got her pregnant she was forced to go back to Poland. I never met my father.�
“So you were conceived in Paris, that's cool.�
“Is that the right way to use ironic? I don't want to be stupid like that Alanis Morrissette song.�
“I think that is right.�
“Good. I hate stupid people. You aren't stupid are you?�
“Sometimes.�
“Sometimes is good. To think you are stupid and question what you do makes you not stupid. It's people who think they are clever that are stupid. Let's leave here.�
I stand up to go back to the party but Bi starts to climb down the fire escape.
“What are you doing?�
“I want to leave,� she says still descending. “I want to be out on the streets away from these people.�
“What about your mom?�
“She is able to take care of herself.�
I believe that. I start to climb down the ladder. When we get to the first floor the ladder ends fifteen feet from the sidewalk. I am thinking we will have to climb back up when Bi swings herself from the bottom rung and launches forward into an open dumpster.
“Come on, jump!� she says. “It's clean garbage.�
New Burnt Roof Exclusive, or some more of the same old mccut
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mccutcheon
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
New Burnt Roof Exclusive, or some more of the same old mccut
more for sarah who sent me a picture of her and the hubby. this is for him too, whereever he is, not a second or inch away from her heart.
**************************************************
I swing myself for momentum and let go. I land right on top of Bi. I hope she isn’t crushed.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah I’m fine. You could have landed over there.” She points to the corner of the Dumpster where rotting food is seeping through a bag.
“It’s not clean garbage over there. It stinks.”
I help Bi up and she climbs over the edge. I follow her.
“I want to get out of Soho.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to go uptown.”
“We can get a cab at A block over there.”
“I want to walk.”
“It’s about thirty blocks.”
“So?’
So we walk. We walk past Union Station, up Broadway towards Columbia. After fifty or so blacks we are above 50th street.
There is a bar called the Broadway Tavern. We enter into the smoky dankness. It’s a run down joint without a hint of white trash irony. You would think it would be hard to find a bar like this in Manhattan, but here it is settled into one of the most famous streets in the world. I’m sure it’s the first time a model has ever been in here. This isn’t a place to come and slum it. The slumming slumps seem to have moved in. The few people sitting at the bar don’t look up from their drinks. (Author note* Use Val. Day. description in final draft)
A few barflies sip bottles of Budweiser. I wonder where they live. And how they can afford real estate on the most expensive and densely populated island in the world. From their dress and demeanor I can’t believe they live in the Dakota on Central Park West, located only a few blocks away.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Champagne,” says Bi.
We sit at the bar. There is plenty of room. The bartender leans our way.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have champagne?”
“We got Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.”
I look at Bi. I don’t want to push the issue with this guy.
“That sounds good,” says Bi. “It must be a very good beer.”
“No, it’s crap,” I whisper in her ear.
“How can they call it the champagne of beers if it is crap? I bet it is from Belgium”
“No, it’s from Milwaukee.”
“Milwaukee? Where is that? Is it a Bavarian city?”
‘No, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Above Chicago.”
“I know Chicago. It’s cold there like in Poland. They don’t even make champagne in The States. How can they make the best beer?”
“Let’s have vodka.”
“Okay.”
“We will have vodka,” I tell the bartender.
“Straight vodka. No juice, no ice,” Bi states.
The bartender doesn’t say a word. He brings over two glasses and a quart of vodka in a plastic bottle. He pours the vodka into the glasses.
“What kind of vodka comes in a big plastic bottle?” asks Bi.
“I don’t know, it’s the low end, it’s not a brand name.”
“Yes. This is bohemian. I love it”
So Bi is slumming it. She likes the atmosphere. I don’t know if it’s bohemian. It’s like a lot of the bars we go to in Jersey when not at the Blue Rose. It’s the kind of place Tommy and Tim usually makes their score from.
Sometimes when I sit in a bar like this and I’m alone, just to have a beer, I will think about money. The pizza and the trucks I drive seem worthless, creating the thought of my own worthlessness. I get a sense of that overwhelming sadness. It makes me miss my parents even more. I’ll take stock in a situation and feel how deprived and desperate I can become. Places like this reinforce the reality of poverty, the struggle to survive. It’s the place of broken down dreams. Now this model is slumming it, Bi is out for a laugh because within a few months of work she will be set for life.
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It’s an old fashion jukebox run down with records and old buttons that stick with the years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
We drink the vodka and talk.
“Have you seen the new Interview?”
“No.”
“I’m in it.”
“That must be nice for you.”
“It was started by Andy Warhol.”
“I know.”
“Do you like Andy Warhol?”
“Yes, but I’m going to Europe soon. I want to see the art there, like Van Gough. I think I would like Van Gouge much more than Warhol.”
“European artists are old and dead.”
“Warhol is dead.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I did not know this.”
“When did he die?”
“I don’t know, a while ago.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes, but unlike Van Gough he didn’t die from it.”
“Yes, he was shot. I saw the movie with David Bowie.”
“David Bowie. He doesn’t make very good movies.”
“This was good. It was real, based on a real feminist who everybody ignored. I can relate to her. I’m like that.”
“What was her name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“She was tough.”
“I’m tough.”
“You are not a militant dyke, are you? I actually don’t think you have too much in common with her. That girl didn’t even like the models Andy Warhol hung out with in the factory.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the movie too.”
“American movies are fake. I like European films. They are real. America is the land of plastic people.”
“I thought you liked New York?”
“I do. New York City is not America.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Where?”
“In New York.”
“Why?”
“Because Andy.”
“Aren’t you here because of modeling, the agency?”
“I could have moved to Paris, Americans always think America is the place to be.”
“I thought New York was the place to be.”
“Then why do you want to go to Paris. People in Paris smell like moldy cheese.”
“I am from here. I want to see more, learn more. I want to travel and see the world.”
“That is not a bad thing. I see lots of the big cities, though I hate to walk. I like to stay in the hotels and see how the room service is. I always like to get a bacon burger with Roquefort.”
“You eat that?”
“Yes, I love cheese.”
It’s at this point Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor. I was wondering why the conversation was going in circles. She never slurred her words even though she must have been very drunk. I try to revive her.
I cup her radiant head in my arms, place the back of my hand on her right check.
“Bi? Are you okay?”
She slumps in slumber. Nothing, there is no response.
“Bi wake up,” I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.”
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it’s his last two cents.
“I’m sure she will be okay.”
I pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We walk out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?”
“Hmm?” Is all she mutters.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I realize I have no money for a cab and wouldn’t know where to take her anyway. I look through Bi’s purse that is slung over her stooped shoulders. She has a Gold Visa card and platinum American Express and no cash. This is typical.
Two doors down from the bar a late night Video store is open. They don’t have triple X’s in their front window but I’m certain most of the selections lean toward porn. I rest Bi against the outside door and enter hoping to use the phone. I can call Mike on his cell phone to come to pick us up. He might even know where Bi is staying.
A fat woman with a massive ice cream ass, in her mid-thirties, with a Brooklyn accent stands in the doorway. She has the black, bad permed, curly hair of that borough- the worst hair do of the five constituent political divisions of New York City. I think of the Brooklyn bimbo girls I see on the subway and they always hurt my ears with their blabbering conversations. The woman is talking to the thin painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy candidate with his emancipated appearance and grotesque translucent skin. He also has radiation type patterned baldness.
“I want an Audrey Hepurny black and white, classicy, type of movie only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,” she says.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,” the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?”
“It’s a remake of Sabrina, with Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.”
“Really? When did it come out?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.”
“That’s not modern enough. Anything else?”
“Excuse me,” they both look up at me sort of startled.
“Yes?” The clerk asks.
“Can I use your phone?”
“The phone is for customers only.”
“Come on man, I need to help this girl.” I point to the sidewalk where Bi’s limp arm is partially visible.
“What’s wrong?” The woman asks.
“She drank too much. I need to get her home.”
“I’ll rent Sabrina,” the woman says. “I can use the phone, right?”
“Sure,” says the clerk. He shuffles to behind the counter to check out the movie. Then he hands over the phone.
I feel instantly guilty for my harsh assessment of the Brooklyn native. She has come to my rescue.
“What’s the number?” she asks.
I dig through my wallet and find the piece of paper the number is scrawled on. I rarely call Mike and don’t have it memorized.
She takes it and dials.
“Mike, is this Mike?”
“This is Babs Giovoni, I have someone who wants to talk to you.”
Babs hands me the phone.
“Mike, I’m with one of those Next models who has passed out. I need to get picked up.”
I explain to Mike where we are and he says he is still in the city and will be here in twenty minutes. I hang up the phone. Babs gets her movie from the clerk. Babs and I walk out of the store together. Bi is no longer there. I look both ways down the street and don’t see her.
“Thanks.” I tell Babs.
“No problem babe,” she says as she walks away.
I walk back to the bar to look for Bi. I enter and the few remaining drunks look up at me.
“Hey, have you seen that girl? That girl I came in with a little while ago?”
“No,” says the bartender. “Last time I saw her was with you when she was kissing the floor.”
“Bitch couldn’t hold her liquor,” Says the run down barfly who doesn’t keep to his own business. His malignant machismo is deep. He is a lifetime loser. Losing his women, jobs and dreams-whatever his personally tragedies are I don’t know them. Though personal pain is something we go through. The cycle of life hurts us all. To some it comes sooner than it should. I know this first hand.
I’m afraid of this man. Not in a personal threatening physical sense like with the bikers. The hesitation that scares me is the fine line that divides the look in his eyes I fight to hide. He is a person who greets the failing of others as welcome relief to his own grief and misfortune. Some people never recover from the first few bumps in the road. I have to watch myself.
When grandpa does die and I’m finally left all on my own it will be just another test. I have to keep my inside reserve strong. It’s easy to judge men with such weak character; it’s even easier to become one of them.
“Yeah, well if she comes in tell her I’ll be outside on the corner waiting for a ride.”
“Sure,” says the bartender.
“I’ll give that skinny little bitch a ride,” says the worn down drunk who probably hasn’t had a hard-on in years. He is anything but benign to the benighted vodka soaked missing model.
“Whatever.” I say turning around to leave.
I walk out of the Broadway Tavern and stand on the corner to wait for Mike. I look down Broadway and am overcome by uncertainty. It’s a feeling of loss and pain. I’m staring at the void, looking for and not seeing the Twin Towers.
Whenever I was drunk in the city and needed to find my way the towers always led me. They were my promontory beacons in the concrete jungle, sea of stone. Now the landmarks are gone. New York will never be the same. Of course, life goes on for those who lived through it, but the city has a strange depth of paranoia now. I love New York. It will never be beaten down like that old drunk. I can take strength from this city’s resolve.
Mike pulls the beat up car to the curb. The stereo coast more than the car itself. A Luna compact disc is playing loudly, and I can hear the poetic prophetic song through the closed doors and rolled up windows. Dean, the ex front man of Galaxie 500, is singing, “The twin towers are talking to each other.”
Not any more they aren’t, Dean.
I get in the car with one last look around for Bi. I don’t see her.
“Where’s the chick?” asks Mike.
“I don’t know. Lost her.”
“Lost her?”
“Yeah.”
“Good job smooth man, get in.”
Mike peels away from the curb and we are soon on beltway heading back home away from the city I was born in. Mike and I are not the bridge and tunnel crowd. That’s what we tell ourselves anyway. Though here we are going back to New Jersey.
(NEW CHAPTER) author note
Next morning I wake up and for a brief second everything is forgotten. I have no recollection of who I am. I’m lost in peaceful amnesia. Then I get my barring. I recognize the stains on my ceiling. I hear Mike snoring on the floor in the corner of my bedroom. The pleasure of being anonymous is gone. I wish I could get it back. Instead I’m stuck in my life.
It must be nice to go around in ignorant bliss. To walk, wander the countryside, smell the wild roses in a field. These are dreams. And I’m rational with it. I wonder if this is what happens to people who lose their minds. If they lose sense of reason does the other options a human being faces go out the window as well? If I was stuck in a small padded room lost would it matter to me. I don’t see how it could. But this is a soft option. The crybaby way loser thinks. There shouldn’t be anything that would keep me from going to a field and smell the roses. Except that I’m stuck in New Jersey in the middle of winter and the nearest field with roses must be over a thousand miles away.
The world can be a fucking deterrent so fight back with determination. The time has come. Not to drive to that field but to get my life in order. I’m sick of living in pepperoni anomie. I’ll contact Rachael and see if her twin sister can get me a job. She seems like someone who is willing to help me, and if her sister is really as loaded as she say, then maybe she has some job leads or new occupation connections. I need to make more money than I am delivering pizza.
I’m not sure what Mike is thinking about our trip or weather he even still wants to go. He might not if he can’t get his head in order long enough to sort out his heart. I know he knows what is right. It’s just the follow though, to keep with the functions of how to do it. I can’t help him if he doesn’t want it.
Mike stirs from his sleep like he is unconscionably rumbled from dream by my cruel hearted treatment of his failed love life. I look over at him and he opens his eyes.
“What’s up?” He asks wiping sleet from his eye sockets.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you staring at me when I sleep? It gives me the fucking creeps, man.”
“I was just looking to see if you were awake.”
“Well, I’m awake now.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you still want to go on our trip? I really feel like leaving.”
“Yeah I want to go, why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s just we haven’t talked about it lately, it used to be we talked about it everyday. And you are acting a little bit psycho about Bonnie.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. What was all that going to see those freaky love gypsy women?”
“Well, what was all that self-destructive, scoring drugs from Tommy and Tim shit you did. I heard you lost your mind on some girl you just met and ended up in the city,” he says. “Sounds like you are being a fucking hypocrite, especially considering the way you always go about how to live a decent life and all that.”
He kind of has me there. It is easy to judge other people and not follow your own conceited advice. If I am going to try to lead a good life I better get myself sorted out before I get on my high horse and claim to have found some enlightenment or whatever bullshit.
“Yeah, okay so maybe you are right.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says smiling.
“Listen, I met this chick Rachael, she used to by my neighbor when I was living in Manhattan, when my parents were still alive. I think she can help me get a job.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah I know, listen, if I get some money together fast can you go?”
“I should be able to. I am modeling a few gigs again, you know.”
“Yeah, I was there last night, remember?”
We walk upstairs and grandpa is sitting at the window, of course. I make him some oatmeal. Mike sits with him and I can hear them talking while I prepare breakfast.
Mike is telling grandpa I had this super fine drunk famous model on my arm last night who adored me and managed to lose her. He isn’t holding anything back and I’m not appearing to kind or bright in his little retelling story. Grandpa laughs at my misadventures. The bond between Mike and I, which was so close, seems to grow farther apart. Our friendship has been strained lately and grows even wider. The little chat we had down stairs seems all but forgotten to him.
Then I start to think. If the joke wasn’t about me and my stupidity, would I care. I might even laugh myself. Mike is telling this to grandpa because he knows it’s the stories grandpa likes to her, stories of beautiful drunk girls and the possibilities that goes along with that. And as I analyze the situation it dawns on me. I’m jealous of the rapport between Mike and grandpa.
As grandpa got older and evidentially closer to the inevitable, I drew away from him, spending less time. Mike drew closer. I have been too scared to lose grandpa. I thought if I created a distance between us gradually it wouldn’t hurt as much when he passed. That is a bullshit idea that would lead to feelings of guilt. I need to take advantage of the time he has left.
I finish the oatmeal and put it on a tray with three large glasses of orange juice. I carry the try into the living room. Grandpa and Mike both look at me with smiles. It actually warms my heart, gives me the warmth a good romantic comedy leaves me with. Another thing I won’t admit to Mike or anyone else is my love of chick flicks. I usually sneak off to see them during the matinee before I start work.
Grandpa grabs his oatmeal. He slowly takes small spoonfuls with great deliberation, masticating delicately. There are many quirks about the cycle of life. Most people that live out their lifetimes go out similar to the way they came into being. Grandpa eats like a baby.
Mike and I are in the prime of our lives. We gulp the orange juice. It washes away my cottonmouth and clears my head. Orange juice always refreshes me. It’s the natural nectar hangover cure. A big glass in the morning and you are ready to go. It’s also my age. I’ve heard that as you age the hangovers get worse.
“What are you boys doing today?”
“I’m going to talk to someone about a new job.”
“Really?” Grandpa looks hurt. Maybe he thinks he won’t be needed to cut out coupons anymore.
“It’s not a full time job. I’ll still keep the pizza job.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. I met this woman who used to be our neighbors in the city. She has a twin sister who is rich and always looking for people to do her odd jobs.”
“Like cleaning her pipes?” Grandpa chuckles and then chokes on his laughter. His jokes are crud as usually and painfully dated from his factory working days.
“I’m sure it won’t be anything as exciting as that,” says Mike encouragingly. “He will probably just do some chimney sweeping.”
They both laugh. I finish my juice and take the glass into the kitchen. I wash the few dishes that are sitting in the sink, dry them and put them in the cupboards. Then I go downstairs and get dressed. I find a clean pair of black blue jeans, a button down oxford type shirt and a pair of original Clark shoes from the sixties that were my fathers.
I walk to Rachael’s house. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the men are at work and the kids who will later be out playing aren’t outside yet. The day is bright and the sunshine bounces brilliantly off the snow banks. I wear expensive Ray Ban sunglasses. I traded them for a pizza with Tommy, who I’m sure never paid for them. I occasionally slip on the sidewalks that are not cleared of ice. My breath billows into the sky with every single exhale.
My nose goes cold and red. I get the sniffles and wipe it on my sleeve. It’s a kid’s behavior trait, and that is what I feel like. Walking down the sidewalk alone I’m taken back to a place I can’t quite place, it’s not a distinct memory, more a vague feeling of childhood and an experience of being young. A liberating tingle quivers down my spine. My troubles sort of fade away forgotten. It’s reaching a realm money can’t buy, people can’t force, and you can’t insinuate. I have a rush of sober happiness.
It’s a few more blocks to Rachael’s house. Not nearly far enough distance. I never want to arrive and just keep walking in this contented solitude. But I have a plan, and it is this purpose, finding a job and getting to Europe, that is allowing me this moment. I have to follow through.
When I get to Rachael’s house her kids and a few children from the birthday party are storming out the front door in a huff of giddiness. They are bundled up and ready for the backyard snow fight and fort building. As they run past I hear Rachael’s daughter remark to another young girl that I have ‘a big thingy.’
It instantly embarrasses me. I’m ashamed of my weakness and loaded loopy actions of crashing out on the train platform with my pants down past my waist. Some of my behavior is intolerable. If I weren’t me, myself, I’d probably kick my ass.
“Hiya! Says little Laura.”
“Hi,” I answer.
“My mom’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
I knock on the door. Rachael answers it. This time she is back into a loose tee shirt and jeans. She isn’t wearing make-up and in the hallway light looks a little haggard. Watching all these kids seems to have dragged her back down into the suburbia plight. She needs another weekend in the city.
“Trevor?” She says. She doesn’t appear to remember me that well.
“Hi, Rachael.”
Rachael looks around quick, then ushers me in.
“Rachael what’s wrong.”
“Oh God. I shouldn’t do this.”
I think she thinks I came over to fuck her. I’m ready to tell her I just came for the job, to have her hook me up with her sister.
“Listen,” I say.
“No, you listen,” She says. “I’m not Rachael, I’m Raquel.”
“What?”
“I’m Rachael’s twin sister.”
“Oh.”
“But don’t tell anyone.”
“Um,” I’m starting to think that Raquel has the eccentric qualities of the very rich, which is money fed schizophrenia. Why would anyone care if Raquel is babysitting the kids. Actually, it makes it easier on me. Now I can directly ask for a job.
“No one knows,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that Rachael and I switch rolls and no one knows we do it. We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Years? And no one knows? You mean you switch rolls and pretend that each is the other and no one can tell, your husbands or her kids?”
“That’s right, we’ve been doing it for years and no one seems to notice. Rachael thinks that Laura might suspect, as for our husbands they have stopped noticing us for years.”
“Wow.”
“Now listen up kid,” Raquel says sternly. “You are the first one to be told this and I don’t want you blowing our cover.”
“Mum’s the word,” I say.
“Nice pun.”
“What?”
Raquel looks at me like I’m making a joke.
“What?” I repeat.
“Nothing, You aren’t too bright kid, are you?”
“Well, I’m in school, I’m trying to better myself as a person through adult education,” I think I might have blown my job possibilities, so I add, “and I do all right on the streets.”
“Well, yeah that always helps.”
“So, I was wondering if, well Rachael told me, that you might have a job for me.”
Raquel rushes toward me. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses me to the door. Her hands start grabbing. Her right hand locks the front door to the house while her left hand starts undoing buttons and zippers. I’m getting stripped down before I can even protest. I know I have an overly healthy sexual appetite and Raquel is as beautiful as Rachael is of course, but this is passing into the realm of prostitution. This is not the job I was looking for.
We slide down in a heap all tangled up in clothes and limbs embracing each other, losing our balance. I’m trying to catch my breath as Raquel puts her tongue deep into my mouth. She is more forceful than Rachael, and even though Rachael was more into the kinky side of things, Raquel is in for the straight fuck. She wiggles her panties off, pulls my Levi’s down around my ankles and mounts me.
Raquel rides me wet and wild without a condom. Her tiny body violently thumps and her little buttock thwacks against my balls. It’s pain and pleasure mixed together. I think of Janis and I come. I come inside of Raquel and she doesn’t stop. Soon the sensation is too much, I start losing my erection.
“Come on motherfucker, I’m almost there!” Raquel shouts.
I grit my teeth, willing all the blood to rush into my cock. It doesn’t work. I go soft and Raquel only stops after I slide out of her. She remains on top of me.
“You’re not much of a gigolo kid, are you?” She says. “I’m not paying you for that.”
“I not a gigolo,” I say. I feel ridiculous even saying that. I wish Raquel would get off of me.
“Yeah, kid, that’s what Rachael said, but I thought I would give it a try.”
“Oh.” I’m relived. I had felt betrayed by Rachael. I like her and I’m glad she didn’t sell me out. I’m starting to dislike Raquel more and more by the minute.
“So you want a job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a passport?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well here is the thing kid, I have these parties and my husband is always inviting French fucking snobs, it pisses me off hearing of how we don’t have good food. I mean it’s New York fucking City after all, isn’t?”
“Yeah…”
“So I’m going to beat the bastards at their own game. You know much about cheese kid?”
“I like chevre, comes from the Loire valley, goes good with Sancerre wine.”
“Uh-huh,” says Raquel, “Listen kid, the way they process the cheese in France is with all kinds of mold, it gives it the flavor and smell and all that, but it doesn’t meet with FDA approval, you can’t bring it into the Sates. Now, I don’t give a shit about cheese, I’m lactose intolerant, but I want to show these French fucks we can have great smelly cheese in New Your just like in Paris. So your job will be to go to France, buy the best god awful ripe cheese that you can and smuggle it into the country for my husband’s parties. You will be well paid.”
“I get to go to France?”
“Yes, you know for a day or two and then you come back.”
“You want me to be a cheese smuggler?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t it be hard to smuggle cheese into the country with all the stepped up security at airports. I’ve heard since Sept 11th they have really got a lot of guards around and all that.”
“You are getting an adult education, use your street smarts,” she says condescendingly. “I mean if you get caught it’s only cheese.”
“Can you get off me now?”
This story of amour to be contiued...
**************************************************
I swing myself for momentum and let go. I land right on top of Bi. I hope she isn’t crushed.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah I’m fine. You could have landed over there.” She points to the corner of the Dumpster where rotting food is seeping through a bag.
“It’s not clean garbage over there. It stinks.”
I help Bi up and she climbs over the edge. I follow her.
“I want to get out of Soho.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to go uptown.”
“We can get a cab at A block over there.”
“I want to walk.”
“It’s about thirty blocks.”
“So?’
So we walk. We walk past Union Station, up Broadway towards Columbia. After fifty or so blacks we are above 50th street.
There is a bar called the Broadway Tavern. We enter into the smoky dankness. It’s a run down joint without a hint of white trash irony. You would think it would be hard to find a bar like this in Manhattan, but here it is settled into one of the most famous streets in the world. I’m sure it’s the first time a model has ever been in here. This isn’t a place to come and slum it. The slumming slumps seem to have moved in. The few people sitting at the bar don’t look up from their drinks. (Author note* Use Val. Day. description in final draft)
A few barflies sip bottles of Budweiser. I wonder where they live. And how they can afford real estate on the most expensive and densely populated island in the world. From their dress and demeanor I can’t believe they live in the Dakota on Central Park West, located only a few blocks away.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Champagne,” says Bi.
We sit at the bar. There is plenty of room. The bartender leans our way.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have champagne?”
“We got Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.”
I look at Bi. I don’t want to push the issue with this guy.
“That sounds good,” says Bi. “It must be a very good beer.”
“No, it’s crap,” I whisper in her ear.
“How can they call it the champagne of beers if it is crap? I bet it is from Belgium”
“No, it’s from Milwaukee.”
“Milwaukee? Where is that? Is it a Bavarian city?”
‘No, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Above Chicago.”
“I know Chicago. It’s cold there like in Poland. They don’t even make champagne in The States. How can they make the best beer?”
“Let’s have vodka.”
“Okay.”
“We will have vodka,” I tell the bartender.
“Straight vodka. No juice, no ice,” Bi states.
The bartender doesn’t say a word. He brings over two glasses and a quart of vodka in a plastic bottle. He pours the vodka into the glasses.
“What kind of vodka comes in a big plastic bottle?” asks Bi.
“I don’t know, it’s the low end, it’s not a brand name.”
“Yes. This is bohemian. I love it”
So Bi is slumming it. She likes the atmosphere. I don’t know if it’s bohemian. It’s like a lot of the bars we go to in Jersey when not at the Blue Rose. It’s the kind of place Tommy and Tim usually makes their score from.
Sometimes when I sit in a bar like this and I’m alone, just to have a beer, I will think about money. The pizza and the trucks I drive seem worthless, creating the thought of my own worthlessness. I get a sense of that overwhelming sadness. It makes me miss my parents even more. I’ll take stock in a situation and feel how deprived and desperate I can become. Places like this reinforce the reality of poverty, the struggle to survive. It’s the place of broken down dreams. Now this model is slumming it, Bi is out for a laugh because within a few months of work she will be set for life.
We drink the vodka. When the drinks are finished we order two more. Bi wants to play the jukebox. It’s an old fashion jukebox run down with records and old buttons that stick with the years of spilled alcohol and drunken serenades. The selections are country songs that predate the crap that made Garth Brooks a millionaire. These tunes are from the days when the good old boys had soul. I pick Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. Bi chooses the blues with three Blind Willie Johnson selections.
We drink the vodka and talk.
“Have you seen the new Interview?”
“No.”
“I’m in it.”
“That must be nice for you.”
“It was started by Andy Warhol.”
“I know.”
“Do you like Andy Warhol?”
“Yes, but I’m going to Europe soon. I want to see the art there, like Van Gough. I think I would like Van Gouge much more than Warhol.”
“European artists are old and dead.”
“Warhol is dead.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I did not know this.”
“When did he die?”
“I don’t know, a while ago.”
“Was he shot?”
“Yes, but unlike Van Gough he didn’t die from it.”
“Yes, he was shot. I saw the movie with David Bowie.”
“David Bowie. He doesn’t make very good movies.”
“This was good. It was real, based on a real feminist who everybody ignored. I can relate to her. I’m like that.”
“What was her name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“She was tough.”
“I’m tough.”
“You are not a militant dyke, are you? I actually don’t think you have too much in common with her. That girl didn’t even like the models Andy Warhol hung out with in the factory.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw the movie too.”
“American movies are fake. I like European films. They are real. America is the land of plastic people.”
“I thought you liked New York?”
“I do. New York City is not America.”
“I guess so.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Where?”
“In New York.”
“Why?”
“Because Andy.”
“Aren’t you here because of modeling, the agency?”
“I could have moved to Paris, Americans always think America is the place to be.”
“I thought New York was the place to be.”
“Then why do you want to go to Paris. People in Paris smell like moldy cheese.”
“I am from here. I want to see more, learn more. I want to travel and see the world.”
“That is not a bad thing. I see lots of the big cities, though I hate to walk. I like to stay in the hotels and see how the room service is. I always like to get a bacon burger with Roquefort.”
“You eat that?”
“Yes, I love cheese.”
It’s at this point Bi falls off her stool and passes out in a heap on the grimy floor. I was wondering why the conversation was going in circles. She never slurred her words even though she must have been very drunk. I try to revive her.
I cup her radiant head in my arms, place the back of my hand on her right check.
“Bi? Are you okay?”
She slumps in slumber. Nothing, there is no response.
“Bi wake up,” I say gently.
“Try giving the little bitch a slap.”
I look up. One of the barflies has come over to give me his advice. From the look of him it’s his last two cents.
“I’m sure she will be okay.”
I pick Bi up. Of course she is easy to move around. She can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. I support her lithe form against my sturdier frame. We walk out of the bar.
Outside the air is crisp and cold. Smoke exhaust and smog swirl together in a late night slow dance. I hope the cold temperature will wake Bi up.
“Bi, wake up. Are you okay? Hey Bi?”
“Hmm?” Is all she mutters.
I try to hail a taxicab. No one stops. Then I put my hand down. I realize I have no money for a cab and wouldn’t know where to take her anyway. I look through Bi’s purse that is slung over her stooped shoulders. She has a Gold Visa card and platinum American Express and no cash. This is typical.
Two doors down from the bar a late night Video store is open. They don’t have triple X’s in their front window but I’m certain most of the selections lean toward porn. I rest Bi against the outside door and enter hoping to use the phone. I can call Mike on his cell phone to come to pick us up. He might even know where Bi is staying.
A fat woman with a massive ice cream ass, in her mid-thirties, with a Brooklyn accent stands in the doorway. She has the black, bad permed, curly hair of that borough- the worst hair do of the five constituent political divisions of New York City. I think of the Brooklyn bimbo girls I see on the subway and they always hurt my ears with their blabbering conversations. The woman is talking to the thin painfully pale employee. The clerk looks like a chemotherapy candidate with his emancipated appearance and grotesque translucent skin. He also has radiation type patterned baldness.
“I want an Audrey Hepurny black and white, classicy, type of movie only in color and maybe with Julia Roberts,” she says.
“We have Sabrina, that one with Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond,” the clerk tries to help.
“What is that?”
“It’s a remake of Sabrina, with Humphry Bogart and Audery Hepurn.”
“Really? When did it come out?”
“Nineteen ninety-five.”
“That’s not modern enough. Anything else?”
“Excuse me,” they both look up at me sort of startled.
“Yes?” The clerk asks.
“Can I use your phone?”
“The phone is for customers only.”
“Come on man, I need to help this girl.” I point to the sidewalk where Bi’s limp arm is partially visible.
“What’s wrong?” The woman asks.
“She drank too much. I need to get her home.”
“I’ll rent Sabrina,” the woman says. “I can use the phone, right?”
“Sure,” says the clerk. He shuffles to behind the counter to check out the movie. Then he hands over the phone.
I feel instantly guilty for my harsh assessment of the Brooklyn native. She has come to my rescue.
“What’s the number?” she asks.
I dig through my wallet and find the piece of paper the number is scrawled on. I rarely call Mike and don’t have it memorized.
She takes it and dials.
“Mike, is this Mike?”
“This is Babs Giovoni, I have someone who wants to talk to you.”
Babs hands me the phone.
“Mike, I’m with one of those Next models who has passed out. I need to get picked up.”
I explain to Mike where we are and he says he is still in the city and will be here in twenty minutes. I hang up the phone. Babs gets her movie from the clerk. Babs and I walk out of the store together. Bi is no longer there. I look both ways down the street and don’t see her.
“Thanks.” I tell Babs.
“No problem babe,” she says as she walks away.
I walk back to the bar to look for Bi. I enter and the few remaining drunks look up at me.
“Hey, have you seen that girl? That girl I came in with a little while ago?”
“No,” says the bartender. “Last time I saw her was with you when she was kissing the floor.”
“Bitch couldn’t hold her liquor,” Says the run down barfly who doesn’t keep to his own business. His malignant machismo is deep. He is a lifetime loser. Losing his women, jobs and dreams-whatever his personally tragedies are I don’t know them. Though personal pain is something we go through. The cycle of life hurts us all. To some it comes sooner than it should. I know this first hand.
I’m afraid of this man. Not in a personal threatening physical sense like with the bikers. The hesitation that scares me is the fine line that divides the look in his eyes I fight to hide. He is a person who greets the failing of others as welcome relief to his own grief and misfortune. Some people never recover from the first few bumps in the road. I have to watch myself.
When grandpa does die and I’m finally left all on my own it will be just another test. I have to keep my inside reserve strong. It’s easy to judge men with such weak character; it’s even easier to become one of them.
“Yeah, well if she comes in tell her I’ll be outside on the corner waiting for a ride.”
“Sure,” says the bartender.
“I’ll give that skinny little bitch a ride,” says the worn down drunk who probably hasn’t had a hard-on in years. He is anything but benign to the benighted vodka soaked missing model.
“Whatever.” I say turning around to leave.
I walk out of the Broadway Tavern and stand on the corner to wait for Mike. I look down Broadway and am overcome by uncertainty. It’s a feeling of loss and pain. I’m staring at the void, looking for and not seeing the Twin Towers.
Whenever I was drunk in the city and needed to find my way the towers always led me. They were my promontory beacons in the concrete jungle, sea of stone. Now the landmarks are gone. New York will never be the same. Of course, life goes on for those who lived through it, but the city has a strange depth of paranoia now. I love New York. It will never be beaten down like that old drunk. I can take strength from this city’s resolve.
Mike pulls the beat up car to the curb. The stereo coast more than the car itself. A Luna compact disc is playing loudly, and I can hear the poetic prophetic song through the closed doors and rolled up windows. Dean, the ex front man of Galaxie 500, is singing, “The twin towers are talking to each other.”
Not any more they aren’t, Dean.
I get in the car with one last look around for Bi. I don’t see her.
“Where’s the chick?” asks Mike.
“I don’t know. Lost her.”
“Lost her?”
“Yeah.”
“Good job smooth man, get in.”
Mike peels away from the curb and we are soon on beltway heading back home away from the city I was born in. Mike and I are not the bridge and tunnel crowd. That’s what we tell ourselves anyway. Though here we are going back to New Jersey.
(NEW CHAPTER) author note
Next morning I wake up and for a brief second everything is forgotten. I have no recollection of who I am. I’m lost in peaceful amnesia. Then I get my barring. I recognize the stains on my ceiling. I hear Mike snoring on the floor in the corner of my bedroom. The pleasure of being anonymous is gone. I wish I could get it back. Instead I’m stuck in my life.
It must be nice to go around in ignorant bliss. To walk, wander the countryside, smell the wild roses in a field. These are dreams. And I’m rational with it. I wonder if this is what happens to people who lose their minds. If they lose sense of reason does the other options a human being faces go out the window as well? If I was stuck in a small padded room lost would it matter to me. I don’t see how it could. But this is a soft option. The crybaby way loser thinks. There shouldn’t be anything that would keep me from going to a field and smell the roses. Except that I’m stuck in New Jersey in the middle of winter and the nearest field with roses must be over a thousand miles away.
The world can be a fucking deterrent so fight back with determination. The time has come. Not to drive to that field but to get my life in order. I’m sick of living in pepperoni anomie. I’ll contact Rachael and see if her twin sister can get me a job. She seems like someone who is willing to help me, and if her sister is really as loaded as she say, then maybe she has some job leads or new occupation connections. I need to make more money than I am delivering pizza.
I’m not sure what Mike is thinking about our trip or weather he even still wants to go. He might not if he can’t get his head in order long enough to sort out his heart. I know he knows what is right. It’s just the follow though, to keep with the functions of how to do it. I can’t help him if he doesn’t want it.
Mike stirs from his sleep like he is unconscionably rumbled from dream by my cruel hearted treatment of his failed love life. I look over at him and he opens his eyes.
“What’s up?” He asks wiping sleet from his eye sockets.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you staring at me when I sleep? It gives me the fucking creeps, man.”
“I was just looking to see if you were awake.”
“Well, I’m awake now.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you still want to go on our trip? I really feel like leaving.”
“Yeah I want to go, why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s just we haven’t talked about it lately, it used to be we talked about it everyday. And you are acting a little bit psycho about Bonnie.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. What was all that going to see those freaky love gypsy women?”
“Well, what was all that self-destructive, scoring drugs from Tommy and Tim shit you did. I heard you lost your mind on some girl you just met and ended up in the city,” he says. “Sounds like you are being a fucking hypocrite, especially considering the way you always go about how to live a decent life and all that.”
He kind of has me there. It is easy to judge other people and not follow your own conceited advice. If I am going to try to lead a good life I better get myself sorted out before I get on my high horse and claim to have found some enlightenment or whatever bullshit.
“Yeah, okay so maybe you are right.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says smiling.
“Listen, I met this chick Rachael, she used to by my neighbor when I was living in Manhattan, when my parents were still alive. I think she can help me get a job.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah I know, listen, if I get some money together fast can you go?”
“I should be able to. I am modeling a few gigs again, you know.”
“Yeah, I was there last night, remember?”
We walk upstairs and grandpa is sitting at the window, of course. I make him some oatmeal. Mike sits with him and I can hear them talking while I prepare breakfast.
Mike is telling grandpa I had this super fine drunk famous model on my arm last night who adored me and managed to lose her. He isn’t holding anything back and I’m not appearing to kind or bright in his little retelling story. Grandpa laughs at my misadventures. The bond between Mike and I, which was so close, seems to grow farther apart. Our friendship has been strained lately and grows even wider. The little chat we had down stairs seems all but forgotten to him.
Then I start to think. If the joke wasn’t about me and my stupidity, would I care. I might even laugh myself. Mike is telling this to grandpa because he knows it’s the stories grandpa likes to her, stories of beautiful drunk girls and the possibilities that goes along with that. And as I analyze the situation it dawns on me. I’m jealous of the rapport between Mike and grandpa.
As grandpa got older and evidentially closer to the inevitable, I drew away from him, spending less time. Mike drew closer. I have been too scared to lose grandpa. I thought if I created a distance between us gradually it wouldn’t hurt as much when he passed. That is a bullshit idea that would lead to feelings of guilt. I need to take advantage of the time he has left.
I finish the oatmeal and put it on a tray with three large glasses of orange juice. I carry the try into the living room. Grandpa and Mike both look at me with smiles. It actually warms my heart, gives me the warmth a good romantic comedy leaves me with. Another thing I won’t admit to Mike or anyone else is my love of chick flicks. I usually sneak off to see them during the matinee before I start work.
Grandpa grabs his oatmeal. He slowly takes small spoonfuls with great deliberation, masticating delicately. There are many quirks about the cycle of life. Most people that live out their lifetimes go out similar to the way they came into being. Grandpa eats like a baby.
Mike and I are in the prime of our lives. We gulp the orange juice. It washes away my cottonmouth and clears my head. Orange juice always refreshes me. It’s the natural nectar hangover cure. A big glass in the morning and you are ready to go. It’s also my age. I’ve heard that as you age the hangovers get worse.
“What are you boys doing today?”
“I’m going to talk to someone about a new job.”
“Really?” Grandpa looks hurt. Maybe he thinks he won’t be needed to cut out coupons anymore.
“It’s not a full time job. I’ll still keep the pizza job.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet. I met this woman who used to be our neighbors in the city. She has a twin sister who is rich and always looking for people to do her odd jobs.”
“Like cleaning her pipes?” Grandpa chuckles and then chokes on his laughter. His jokes are crud as usually and painfully dated from his factory working days.
“I’m sure it won’t be anything as exciting as that,” says Mike encouragingly. “He will probably just do some chimney sweeping.”
They both laugh. I finish my juice and take the glass into the kitchen. I wash the few dishes that are sitting in the sink, dry them and put them in the cupboards. Then I go downstairs and get dressed. I find a clean pair of black blue jeans, a button down oxford type shirt and a pair of original Clark shoes from the sixties that were my fathers.
I walk to Rachael’s house. The neighborhood is quiet. Most of the men are at work and the kids who will later be out playing aren’t outside yet. The day is bright and the sunshine bounces brilliantly off the snow banks. I wear expensive Ray Ban sunglasses. I traded them for a pizza with Tommy, who I’m sure never paid for them. I occasionally slip on the sidewalks that are not cleared of ice. My breath billows into the sky with every single exhale.
My nose goes cold and red. I get the sniffles and wipe it on my sleeve. It’s a kid’s behavior trait, and that is what I feel like. Walking down the sidewalk alone I’m taken back to a place I can’t quite place, it’s not a distinct memory, more a vague feeling of childhood and an experience of being young. A liberating tingle quivers down my spine. My troubles sort of fade away forgotten. It’s reaching a realm money can’t buy, people can’t force, and you can’t insinuate. I have a rush of sober happiness.
It’s a few more blocks to Rachael’s house. Not nearly far enough distance. I never want to arrive and just keep walking in this contented solitude. But I have a plan, and it is this purpose, finding a job and getting to Europe, that is allowing me this moment. I have to follow through.
When I get to Rachael’s house her kids and a few children from the birthday party are storming out the front door in a huff of giddiness. They are bundled up and ready for the backyard snow fight and fort building. As they run past I hear Rachael’s daughter remark to another young girl that I have ‘a big thingy.’
It instantly embarrasses me. I’m ashamed of my weakness and loaded loopy actions of crashing out on the train platform with my pants down past my waist. Some of my behavior is intolerable. If I weren’t me, myself, I’d probably kick my ass.
“Hiya! Says little Laura.”
“Hi,” I answer.
“My mom’s inside.”
“Thanks.”
I knock on the door. Rachael answers it. This time she is back into a loose tee shirt and jeans. She isn’t wearing make-up and in the hallway light looks a little haggard. Watching all these kids seems to have dragged her back down into the suburbia plight. She needs another weekend in the city.
“Trevor?” She says. She doesn’t appear to remember me that well.
“Hi, Rachael.”
Rachael looks around quick, then ushers me in.
“Rachael what’s wrong.”
“Oh God. I shouldn’t do this.”
I think she thinks I came over to fuck her. I’m ready to tell her I just came for the job, to have her hook me up with her sister.
“Listen,” I say.
“No, you listen,” She says. “I’m not Rachael, I’m Raquel.”
“What?”
“I’m Rachael’s twin sister.”
“Oh.”
“But don’t tell anyone.”
“Um,” I’m starting to think that Raquel has the eccentric qualities of the very rich, which is money fed schizophrenia. Why would anyone care if Raquel is babysitting the kids. Actually, it makes it easier on me. Now I can directly ask for a job.
“No one knows,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that Rachael and I switch rolls and no one knows we do it. We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Years? And no one knows? You mean you switch rolls and pretend that each is the other and no one can tell, your husbands or her kids?”
“That’s right, we’ve been doing it for years and no one seems to notice. Rachael thinks that Laura might suspect, as for our husbands they have stopped noticing us for years.”
“Wow.”
“Now listen up kid,” Raquel says sternly. “You are the first one to be told this and I don’t want you blowing our cover.”
“Mum’s the word,” I say.
“Nice pun.”
“What?”
Raquel looks at me like I’m making a joke.
“What?” I repeat.
“Nothing, You aren’t too bright kid, are you?”
“Well, I’m in school, I’m trying to better myself as a person through adult education,” I think I might have blown my job possibilities, so I add, “and I do all right on the streets.”
“Well, yeah that always helps.”
“So, I was wondering if, well Rachael told me, that you might have a job for me.”
Raquel rushes toward me. She wraps her arms around my neck and presses me to the door. Her hands start grabbing. Her right hand locks the front door to the house while her left hand starts undoing buttons and zippers. I’m getting stripped down before I can even protest. I know I have an overly healthy sexual appetite and Raquel is as beautiful as Rachael is of course, but this is passing into the realm of prostitution. This is not the job I was looking for.
We slide down in a heap all tangled up in clothes and limbs embracing each other, losing our balance. I’m trying to catch my breath as Raquel puts her tongue deep into my mouth. She is more forceful than Rachael, and even though Rachael was more into the kinky side of things, Raquel is in for the straight fuck. She wiggles her panties off, pulls my Levi’s down around my ankles and mounts me.
Raquel rides me wet and wild without a condom. Her tiny body violently thumps and her little buttock thwacks against my balls. It’s pain and pleasure mixed together. I think of Janis and I come. I come inside of Raquel and she doesn’t stop. Soon the sensation is too much, I start losing my erection.
“Come on motherfucker, I’m almost there!” Raquel shouts.
I grit my teeth, willing all the blood to rush into my cock. It doesn’t work. I go soft and Raquel only stops after I slide out of her. She remains on top of me.
“You’re not much of a gigolo kid, are you?” She says. “I’m not paying you for that.”
“I not a gigolo,” I say. I feel ridiculous even saying that. I wish Raquel would get off of me.
“Yeah, kid, that’s what Rachael said, but I thought I would give it a try.”
“Oh.” I’m relived. I had felt betrayed by Rachael. I like her and I’m glad she didn’t sell me out. I’m starting to dislike Raquel more and more by the minute.
“So you want a job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a passport?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well here is the thing kid, I have these parties and my husband is always inviting French fucking snobs, it pisses me off hearing of how we don’t have good food. I mean it’s New York fucking City after all, isn’t?”
“Yeah…”
“So I’m going to beat the bastards at their own game. You know much about cheese kid?”
“I like chevre, comes from the Loire valley, goes good with Sancerre wine.”
“Uh-huh,” says Raquel, “Listen kid, the way they process the cheese in France is with all kinds of mold, it gives it the flavor and smell and all that, but it doesn’t meet with FDA approval, you can’t bring it into the Sates. Now, I don’t give a shit about cheese, I’m lactose intolerant, but I want to show these French fucks we can have great smelly cheese in New Your just like in Paris. So your job will be to go to France, buy the best god awful ripe cheese that you can and smuggle it into the country for my husband’s parties. You will be well paid.”
“I get to go to France?”
“Yes, you know for a day or two and then you come back.”
“You want me to be a cheese smuggler?”
“Yes.”
“Won’t it be hard to smuggle cheese into the country with all the stepped up security at airports. I’ve heard since Sept 11th they have really got a lot of guards around and all that.”
“You are getting an adult education, use your street smarts,” she says condescendingly. “I mean if you get caught it’s only cheese.”
“Can you get off me now?”
This story of amour to be contiued...