Mirage

by Perry Brass

  I just smiled more. "Kinky?" I asked.

  "Yeah, you know, strange. Nuts. Listen, whatever turns you on. But not here, okay?"

  I began to pee. Then he stood back and watched with Wright, who looked embarrassed. Then Wright said in his most dignified manner, "You have to forgive Alan. He's a joker. He thinks just because we're new in this city, he can behave any way he wants to."

  I turned around and smiled. So, I thought, I'm the joker! Wright didn't even know what a "Men's Room" was, and he thought I was a joker. I was pissed off at his superior attitude and managed just to zip myself back up, when two wiry, frightening men—neither much bigger than me—came slamming out of the small closed partitions further down the room from the piss fountains.

  I'd wondered what these little rooms were for. Now I knew. Goddamn hide-outs! Everything had been a trap. No one—not even Jack—was interested in the least in taking my clothes off.

  One of them grabbed me by the throat, and the other one had a knife in his hand, threatening my friend with it. Wright looked stunned; unbelieving; his head frozen.

  "Okay, Maricones. We want money—now!" he demanded. "I mean, quick. Any slow shit—you won't like it." He placed himself in front of the door, so no one could come in or get out.

  My vestigial knowledge completely deserted me. Was Jack really in on this? What the hell were all these new words?

  "Wait a second," Jack said, his voice shaking. "Money? Okay, I've got some. But these guys, they're new here." He looked at me. "See, they're from Russia. Just came over. And they don't know much about America, and—"

  "Cut the shit. Bread, man! No stories."

  The one with his hands around my throat breathed into my face. He smelled of cheap wine and vomit. He was nervous; his hands shaking, dirty. His clothes looked straight from a trash barrel. His face was filthy. Even with his thin hands around my neck, I felt sorry for him. He opened his mouth. Bad cracked teeth. I thought: Suppose he gets scared and bites me?

  Jack took out his wallet—opened it—then handed his money over to the man at the door. The man passed his knife over to his left hand, then reaching with his right to grab the wad of bills, smushed the money into his grimy pants pocket.

  Greeland—himself—attacked.

  He knew the man's left hand was useless. He pulled it by the wrist, bending it back against the joint. Then he hit him in his face, until he looked like a sponge beginning to ooze blood. The knife dropped. It rang against the hard white floor tiles. Greeland grabbed it and raised it to kill him. The other man, completely terrified, released me. He jumped up and down and started screaming in a language I had no idea of.

  My friend stood for a moment with the first man's life poised at the end of his knife. He was not Wright McClelland Smith. We were back there, I knew. Back to killing the Off-Sexer. The transition was so fast, like a toss of dice; a flick of a whip. The silence and violence made the room start to shake.

  I ran up to him. "We got to get out of here now," I said. "You can't kill this man, don't you know that?"

  Greeland's eyes closed. His expression changed: it became lighter, almost jovial. He smirked. He was Wright Smith again. I could see it. "Sure, what do I think I'm doing here?" he said, and started to giggle.

  Jack watched, stone still. Then said, "Let's get out. I don't need the money. The cops'll make more trouble than this is worth."

  "Take your money," Wright said. "After all, I almost killed this poor schnook for it. Or he was going to kill you? Or all of us?"

  Wright bent over the man, who was now groaning. "Listen, sweetie, we want the money back, okay? You shouldn't bother with us maricones. We're a tough bunch of girls, you know what I mean?"

  The man clutched his head, and drew himself up. He reached into his right pocket, and got out the money. He threw it on the floor, and started to walk out. Wright—or was he Greeland again?—hit him again, this time in the soft of his stomach. "I shudda killed you," he said. The man ran out.

  I picked up a five-dollar bill and handed it to the other man. He was such a mess, I figured why not? He bowed his head, thanked me, and left, too.

  "You've got to help us," Wright said to Jack. "I'm not sure how to get back to where we're going."

  "Help you?" Jack started screaming with laughter. The three of us were rushing down the wide cascade of marble stairs, towards the main entrance of the Library on Fifth Avenue. "Are you two in some kind of problem with the cops? I didn't want to call the cops after those two guys because I know once you call the cops, they make an arrest and you go down to the station. Then you lose about a month out of your life before they let the crooks go. Besides," he smiled sheepishly, "I was really mostly cruising in the Library anyway."

  Wright shook his head. "Really?"

  "Sure. I mean I love the Library. It's a great place to wonder around and see things, but sometimes I get lucky. Like I did with you guys. Didn't you like the story about you being Russians? Frankly, I like Russians. They're cute. And very sweet. Your friend has some kind of funny thing about urinals though. Doesn't he know they're not fountains?"

  I decided now was the time to introduce ourselves. I told Jack Cohen my name was Alan Kostenbaum, and then introduced Wright Smith. He asked us where we were going. Wright stopped on the street teeming with people, and took out his wallet. He found his driver's license, and read off the address.

  "Bank Street? That's in the Village," Jack said. "I live nearby in Chelsea. Why don't I just take you down there?"

  He stopped a cab on Fifth Avenue. There seemed to be a particular way of doing things in New York. You pushed your way through crowds of crazy people, then acted like everything was normal. "Twenty-Six Bank Street," Jack said to the driver.

  The driver asked where that was near. We had no idea, so Jack suggested we go to Waverly Place, and walk some if we had to.

  The apartment, on an attractive tree-lined block, was not that far from Waverly Place. The address was an old town house. "Nice block," Jack said, while Wright surveyed our new neighborhood. Then the three of us—me last—climbed up the concrete stairs to an outer door. I wondered how I could explain any of this to Jack. And even more interesting, wondered what was Jack's own reason for being there.

  Wright had the keys in his pocket. He was nervous; the keys jingled ominously in his hand. A few tries, and he hit upon the right one. The outer door opened. We entered a dim outer hallway, lit by several dusty windows placed a distance above our heads. The hallway was marked with a line of small boxes, meshed with grillwork in front of each. Names on each box. "You're right here," Jack announced, reading our names. "Apartment 3E. Third Floor. Now, let me guess. Are you in the front or the back?"

  "Let's make it a surprise," I suggested.

  I bolted up the next two flights of stairs, until I saw doors marked "3." I saw our own door, and sat down on the hall carpet until Wright and Jack came up. "Your friend is very hot," Jack announced to me. I smiled knowingly, as Wright put exactly the right key into our door. He winked at me, turned the key expertly, and ushered Jack in.

  "Gorgeous place!"

  I followed Jack for a few steps, and then turned quickly to Wright, detaining him in the narrow hallway. "Go all the way in, Jack!" I said. "Relax! Make yourself at home."

  Jack disappeared down the hallway, exclaiming about the size of the kitchen, the bedroom, the fireplace, and the windows in the rear that overlooked a small, but beautifully kept garden. "How are we going to get rid of him?" Wright whispered to me.

  I told him I had no idea, but I would think of something. Wright looked at me. "Suppose he relaxes too much?"

  Wright had a point. When we walked all the way back to the living room, Jack had his shoes off, and was resting on the couch. He smiled at both of us. "Aren't you going to offer me something to drink?"

  I went into the kitchen, and tried to find my way around. There were more gadgets than I could imagine, even if I'd spent most of my life on earth, and—believe me, I hadn't. Ever
ything had a label on it. In fact, most things looked brand new, as if hardly used. There was an electric can opener, blender, drink mixer, ice crusher, sandwich griller, dough kneader, deep fryer, food processor, and something called a "Radar Range." The most frightening thing was the microwave oven, which had a whole list of warnings posted on it. I opened the refrigerator. It was wonderful. Filled with an array of jars, bottles, cans, and waxy looking containers with fine misty beads of water drooling down them.

  For some reason, I knew Alan Kostenbaum had to be the cook in this couple. I knew exactly where everything was: the glasses in about a dozen shapes, the dishes—three different place settings, including one with more gold than Jack's teeth; alcohol; set ups; even ice tongs. I also knew what everything was. Anchovies and cocktail onions. Little unnatural-looking red cherries. Angostura bitters. Everything flipped right into its proper place in my memory.

  And, how to put everything together.

  I found a small silver tray, and piled on three highball glasses, several bottles of booze, and a dish of snack crackers.

  "Beautiful," Jack said, when I got back. His button-down shirt was now off, and so was Wright's polo shirt.

  "How did all this happen?" I asked.

  "I couldn't resist your friend," Jack answered. Wright had a funny, guilty look on his face. "You two wouldn't be interested in a threesome, would you?"

  I know I must have looked very quizzical. "A what?"

  "You ain't that green," Jack joked. He started laughing very loud, and then dove into the drinks and the crackers. "Nice, real nice. One of my favorite people: Johnny Walker Black. It's that time of the day, isn't it?" He poured himself a generous amount.

  It came back to me: Wright was a Scotch man all the way. He liked the hard in hard liquor. He drank it straight enough so that the Scotch flavor really rang his mouth. Automatically, I'd put the Johnny Walker bottle on the tray first. Wright never wasted good money on anything, except good Scotch. Alan, on the other hand, liked fancier "M" drinks: martinis, Manhattans, margaritas—as well as sours.

  "Uh, the business at hand—he wants to do it with both of us," Wright explained. I already got that picture: there was only one little hitch. I arched my left eyebrow and managed to corral Wright into the kitchen. It was far enough down the hall for Jack not to hear.

  "Greeland!" I said, spitting out his name. He looked at me with this very dumb look. "Okay—Wright—you're supposed to be the jealous one. Besides," I paused, trying to think of the best way to put this. "We have some equipment that may be difficult for him to understand."

  "What?" Suddenly I realized Greeland wasn't there at all. Not even ten percent. No wonder Wright hadn't had a problem opening the door to our apartment. "I thought you were interested in him."

  "I'm interested in figuring out what's going on," I said.

  "Alright, I'll get rid of him, if you want. I thought he was kind of strange for you, Alan. He is a bit moldy around the edges, isn't he?"

  My face dropped. Back home, I would have thought he was a dish. Now, I was supposed to be into those things called chickens. "How are you going to get rid of him?" I asked.

  We walked back into the living room. This time, Jack, lying on his back on the couch, was in his underwear. They were bloomy boxer shorts, and he looked kind of adorable in them. Sort of big and puppyish, in a mustached, humpy way.

  Wright sat down on the couch next to him. "I'm embarrassed, Jack. You see, Alan and I are really monogamous."

  Jack's face registered more hurt than disappointment. "I wouldn't have guessed that from the way you were acting a few minutes ago."

  "I have lapses."

  Now I felt like a shit, like I had ruined the situation. Especially since I wasn't sure how Wright would handle it. Vestigially, I was aware that Wright and Alan were on different ends of the age pole: Wright liked older men—meaning, for most purposes, ones his age; Alan liked younger ones. Certainly the opposite situation of what went on back home.

  My immediate response was to go over and sit on the couch next to Jack. "You're really cute," Jack said to me, and then pulled himself up to kiss me. I knew I was getting a hard-on. Why was I such a horny bastard? Of course I'd never had any other experiences—except with Greeland—but Alan Kostenbaum certainly had. The problem was I wasn't remembering any of them.

  I started to kiss Jack back. He was big and the situation was very sexy. His chest was firm and for the most part hairless, except for just around his navel and tits. Alright, he started turning me on. Before I knew it, my shirt was off, too.

  Wright smiled. He literally jumped in. "So, we finally found someone we both like—and are willing to share!"

  Jack broke off kissing me. "I feel honored," he said, and then turned to grope and kiss Wright. Wright accepted the situation. He peeled off his pants. His skin, next to white briefs, glowed from the sun. We hadn't showered from the beach. I kissed Wright's warm back; it was both sweet and salty.

  Jack took off his boxers. He was nicely built down there, with a thick, circumcised male pipe; two low-hanging balls attached. The garden, outside the window, turned darker, as it got definitely hotter inside. I had to admit that people here—despite the crazy happening at the Library—were different from the inhabitants of our planet. Everything seemed unplanned here, including a very loud buzzer, which stopped everything.

  "Expecting someone?" Jack asked.

  Wright's face concentrated. "I knew there was a reason why we had to get back here...." He got up, put his pants back on, and stamped out to the hallway without a shirt or socks. I saw him press a button outside our bedroom door. Jack got up. He rushed back into his boxer shorts, giving me a real hurt puppy smile. I rebuttoned my shirt without tucking it in, while Jack grabbed the rest of his clothes. Then I pointed him into the bathroom.

  "Leticia!" a voice screamed from the hallway. "Keep your pussy covered in the living room!" Wright led in a short, jumpy man in his mid-fifties, stuffed into a pair of neatly-pressed jeans, with a tight Orlon shirt tucked in and a heavy gut poking out. The shirt was pink, splashed with menacing tropical flowers. He looked like a gyrating greenhouse. His hands switched nervously from his hips to his hair. It was thin, shoe-polish black, and popping out all over, so he had to pat it back into place.

  "This weather! Oy! My vig!" He smiled at Wright. "No wonder she's almost naked here." His eyes hit the floor, circled the room, and then went back to Wright. "If I had a chest like that, I'd go around like Miss America."

  Wright casually brought him over to where I was sitting. I wondered what to do next. But all I could say was, "Nice shirt."

  "This schmata! You've seen this before. I had this since before the Crimean War." He looked down at the tray of drinks. "My, you girls hit the hooch early, right after the plage."

  Who was he? I could only stare, and try to keep from giggling. Suddenly, I placed his funny nervous way of talking. It reminded me of some of the old men back home. Obviously, this was a Same-Sex phenomenon anywhere.

  "Alan?" Wright cleared his throat. "Remember Richard? Better known to the world as Ceil?"

  "Ce-cile to you!" He shook his head and started to laugh. "You really don't remember?" His eyes squinted around the room. Maybe it dawned on him that some odd change had taken place. I got up, and went over to Wright. I told Richard, or Ceil, to sit down. Make himself a drink. Make himself at home. I was going to have to talk to Wright. Alone, I announced. I was having a headache.

  "That's alright, darling. We all get the vapors."

  "It's from the beach," I explained, as I took Wright's hand and led him back towards the kitchen. In the kitchen, I closed the door. "Now," I said, "Greeland, who is he? Or she?"

  "Richard Halpern. You don't remember? He runs a gift shop in White Plains. We met him at a party two years ago. I'm not crazy about him, but he has a nice house on Fire Island that he occasionally invites us to." He suddenly stopped, as if in cold thought. "That's it. A party. He's inviting us to a party. That's why he
's here. I knew there was a reason we had to hurry back from the beach. Now, I know."

  "Jack's in the bathroom," I said.

  Wright looked stumped. "Oh, God..." he moaned. "I've got to get him out of there."

  I looked him straight in the face. "Listen, I don't want any hanky-panky with Jack in the john, Greeland."

  "Alright." He started to walk towards the bathroom. Then he stopped. "Since when did you get so jealous? And—tell me—who is this Greeland?"

  "You really don't remember Greeland at all?"

  Wright's face clouded over. His eyes closed tightly. Then as things came back into place, he relaxed. "Enk—?" he called me. He pulled me closer to him. "Enk." We embraced for a moment. I felt close to him again. I must have been shaking; this was all so strange to me. He asked if I felt better. I did. I wasn't sure who was I responding to. Wright, who I was so attracted to, or the force of Greeland himself.

  "I'll go back in with you to Richard," he said sweetly. "You need my support. I see that. Then I'll go get Jack."

  We returned to the living room with a frozen bottle of Gilbey's Gin, a crystal pitcher, some vermouth, a bottle of cocktail olives, and a full ice bucket. Richard had already made progress with the Johnny Walker. He had sunk down into a rattan chair, thick pillows on every side. He looked like a kid in a wading pool.

  We sat on the couch, and tried—gingerly as possible—to make conversation. How was the drive in from Westchester? How was business? It was easy to get Ceil talking. The hard part was getting him to shut up. I nodded my head and smiled, while Wright brought up details that, as far as I was concerned, could have come out of thin air itself. At times like this, I felt cheated: why did Wright have to have all the vestigial knowledge, and all I could do was make a martini?