Can't Buy Me Love

by Chris Kenry

  The room I entered was large, probably intended as a dining room, as it had a large chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling, but now it looked like a cross between a sweatshop and an auto-body shop. In one corner there was a large, square table on which sat an old sewing machine. In an open cupboard above it there were spools of thread, clear mostly, like fishing line, and a case full of sewing needles, some large and oddly curved, others so small you could barely see the eyelet. On the floor was another cabinet, this one devoted to adhesives: glues in small tubes and large bottles, different sizes of glue guns and caulk dispensers, and roll after roll of duct tape. On the other side of the room there was a large workbench over which hung a collection of hammers and wrenches, arranged according to size. There were large rolls of chicken wire, bolts of burlap, and unopened boxes of clay (the same brand my mother had used during her stint as a potter). In one corner he had been welding something, as there was an acetylene torch, various pieces of metal, and a large spool of solder.

  In the middle of all this was evidently the piece on which all these tools were being used. It was a rather large diorama, much like those at the Natural History Museum, but this one was composed entirely of stuffed dogs. Some were complete and sat, unstirring, off to the side. Others were still in the process of being sewn together over their plaster frames, as evidenced by the body of some unfortunate cocker spaniel, the head of which gazed longingly down from the workbench at its corpse sitting obediently on the floor. Hanging from the ceiling, by an almost invisible thread, was a small white French poodle, forever frozen in the act of leaping forward. Attached to its back, and looking as if they’d grown there quite naturally, was a pair of soft white wings taken from either a duck or a goose. I batted the winged poodle gently and watched, awestruck and amused, as it swung to and fro.

  This will muddy the waters in the next millennium, I thought.

  A swinging door opened, from the kitchen I guessed, and Ray appeared.

  “You’re up,” he said brightly. “I was just coming to wake you. Your clothes are dry now.”

  He was dressed in a nicely tailored blue two-piece suit, the kind with small, high-cut lapels. In each hand he carried a mug of coffee. He handed one to me and we stood, side by side, examining the canine display.

  “It’s not finished yet,” he said.

  “So I gathered,” I said, pointing to the spaniel.

  “This is going to be Mary,” he said, picking up the floppy-eared head and gazing at it reverently. “Poor girl got hit by a car. Her body was pretty trashed but she has the perfect face, don’t you think? Serene. So I found another spaniel body and I’m going to sew her head on its body. Kind of like Frankenstein, eh?”

  I nodded and wondered if maybe I wasn’t quite awake yet.

  “Is this, by chance, going to be a nativity scene?” I asked, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face.

  “Yeah, it is,” he said proudly. “I’m having a hell of a time finding a Christ child, though. Puppies aren’t easy to find, and of course it can’t be just any puppy.”

  “Oh, of course not. Jesus and all ...”

  “I was hoping to have it done by Christmas, but obviously I didn’t make it. By next year it’ll be all set, and I’ll have a lot of other pieces to go along with it.”

  “Do the others have a Christmas theme?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He nodded eagerly. “It’s a perfect example of what I was telling you before when you asked about what kind of art I do.”

  “How so?” I asked. I was interested and tried to remember our conversation from earlier that day.

  “Well, it’s like this,” he said, his face becoming serious and intent. “There’s so much hypocrisy surrounding Christmas. Here we’ve got one of the two most sacred holidays in the Christian faith and yet it’s been mass-marketed and exploited in ways that are more offensive than any I could ever hope to dream up, so I’m working on a group of pieces illustrating that hypocrisy.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Hang on a minute; I’ll show you.”

  He set his coffee down on the sewing table and ran excitedly to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a large wooden wine crate that he rested on a chair in front of the workbench. With his back to me, his body shielding my view, he pulled several objects from the box and appeared to be arranging them. Then he stood back, assessed it, made a few alterations, and then moved farther back and lit a cigarette.

  What he’d composed was a colorful arrangement of dolls. There was a small toy sleigh, filled with tiny, painstakingly wrapped presents, in which sat a twelve-inch doll, which, I concluded from his Bedouin robes and small halo, was intended to be Jesus. In his hands, Jesus held little reins that were harnessed to twelve identical Ken dolls. Identical that is, except for the white names that had been boldly and painstakingly embroidered across their identical red sweaters. There were Peter and Andrew, John and James, Matthew and Bartholomew, and on and on down through the list of apostles, with Judas in the forefront, taking the place of Rudolph, his lips painted a bright red.

  “I’m actually working on several nativity scenes, most of which will be in Christmas-card form, and will of course be for sale at the show in boxes of twenty-five. One is of Mr. and Mrs. Claus in a stable with a little baby Santa in the manger, another with Barbie and Ken as Mary and Joseph, precious stuff like that. But this,” he said, gesturing grandly to the loose arrangement of dogs on the floor, “will be the bomb.”

  I looked at it, all of it, the strange room with its odd tools, the blasphemous displays, the maniacal expression on Ray’s face as he gently stroked the spaniel’s head, like Salome with John the Baptist.

  I should feel afraid, I thought, or at least alarmed. But I did not. I was amused. Amused and, to be honest, impressed by the effort he’d expended, the cleverness, the absurdity of it all. He looked at his watch and quickly snapped out of his reverie.

  “Shit!” he said. “I’m late again. I’m taking some old guy to the symphony tonight. Get dressed and I can give you a ride back to your car.” He set down the head and I followed him into the kitchen, which was a large but crowded room, a huge butcher-block table at its center. Shelves on the walls were lined with bottles of chemicals, each boldly labeled—ARSENIC, BORAX, LYE—and each marked with a skull and crossbones and lists of warnings. On a Peg-Board wall hung large knives and scissors and an assortment of odd-looking tools, the likes of which I’d never seen and could scarcely imagine a use for. He tossed me my clothes from the dryer and stood, calmly sipping his coffee and smoking while I dressed.

  “I wrote down the number of someone for you to call,” he said. I looked up inquisitively.

  “He makes amateur movies, just for his own kicks, and pays you a hundred and fifty bucks a pop. It’s easy stuff. Strictly solo the first time, and if he likes you he’ll call you back and hook you up with a partner. He never participates himself.”

  He handed me the piece of paper. I glanced at it and then folded it up and put it in my pocket, my stomach doing flip-flops.

  “Tell him you got his number from me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, thinking one hundred and fifty dollars would surely be enough to appease the people at Discover for another month. “I really appreciate this.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You may be cursing me by the time it’s over with.”

  I finished dressing and together we left the house. Outside, the rain had turned to snow, but as I sat in the cold hearse, listening to him scrape the ice from the windshield, I shivered—but more from excitement than from the cold. He finished scraping and drove me to the snowy parking lot where my car sat alone under a street lamp. I got out, opened my trunk, and removed the duffel bag containing the hyena pup. His face lit up when he saw it.

  “What will you do with it?” I asked.

  “Study it,” he said. “Then I’ll probably put it back.”

  He thanked me again, said a hasty good-bye, and then sped off. I
started my car and watched him drive away as I scraped my own windows, the huge red vehicle speeding up Fourteenth Avenue, fishtailing as it struggled to make it up the hill.

  As I got back in my car I thought back on the almost surreal afternoon. Ray was much more intelligent and complex than I’d assumed earlier that day in the cafeteria, and I was sorry I’d been so quick to judge him. Again I felt myself becoming aroused as I remembered the rain and the bed and the smell of the sheets.

  I guess I should feel relieved that nothing happened, I thought to myself. Something like that could really complicate things.

  I should have felt relieved, but I didn’t.

  15

  SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

  After much internal debate I called the number Ray had given me and described myself to the man on the other end of the phone.

  “That sounds fine,” he said, sounding very matter-of-fact. “Can you come by tomorrow about eleven?”

  I said I could, and he gave me the address, which was alarmingly close to my parents’ house. At the appointed time I arrived at the door of a sprawling one-story stucco house. I rang the bell and was greeted shortly by a small, weasely man, about fifty years old, wearing a boyish shorts-and-T-shirt outfit. He ushered me inside to a dark living room, the large windows almost entirely hidden by mustard-colored velvet curtains. The room was done in a Mexican style—rough stucco walls and tile floors, and filled with dark, heavy furniture, on which several cats were reclining. He offered me a drink and then, after some small talk, explained what Ray had told me the day before: he makes these movies for his own enjoyment, he never shows them to anyone else, and that in the event he should die suddenly he has a trustworthy friend who would destroy them immediately. To my surprise, I found I wasn’t really concerned about that. He then produced a rather large video camera and gave me my directions.

  “I’ll have you go back outside and ring the doorbell, see; then I’ll answer, filming all the while, and you just act natural and answer the questions I ask, okay?”

  I nodded and he led me back outside and closed the door. I looked past the house across the street and could see in the distance the turret of my parents’ house and the sloping roofline of my mother’s recently completed teahouse. I wished I’d parked my car somewhere else, but shrugged it off and rang the doorbell. He opened the door, camera in hand, an annoyingly bright light attached to it.

  “Why, hello, Jack,” he said, panning the camera slowly up and down my body. “What a nice surprise! Come in.”

  Oh, God, I thought. This is going to be corny. You need the money. Remember that. You need the money.

  “Thank you,” I said, and reentered the dark house, camera rolling.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  I did so, shooing away one of the cats. The light was nearly blinding me now.

  “And how old are you?” he asked, his voice booming.

  “Twenty-two,” I lied.

  “Talk a little louder,” he whispered. “This mike isn’t the greatest.”

  “Twenty-two,” I said, louder this time.

  “Twenty-two,” he repeated. “Ooowee!”

  I gave a sheepish shrug of the shoulders.

  “Any more at home as cute as you?” he asked.

  If you talk any louder, I thought, my mother can answer that question for you.

  “No, I’m the only one.” I smiled. “Made me and broke the mold! Ha ha ha.”

  He laughed, the camera bobbing up and down. I remember thinking that if this tape ever did come to light I’d surely be more embarrassed by this “small-talk” beginning than by any lewd acts that would follow, but I remembered Ray’s words: You have to make sure they’re having fun. And on I went.

  “It sure is hot out there today,” he said, panning to the window and the wan crack of January sunlight it admitted.

  “It sure is,” I said, “a real scorcher,” and wondered if this was his cue for me to remove my shirt.

  “Whaddaya say we go downstairs and turn up the heat a little more ...” he said suggestively, with a demented little laugh.

  “Sure!” I said, and, warming to my role, I gave a little wink to the camera. I rose and walked down the steps, feeling more like I was at the beginning of a horror movie than a porno, descending into the dark basement to meet an uncertain fate, a freak with a camera right on my heels, but the basement proved brighter and more inviting than the living room. He turned off the camera a moment and went ahead of me into a large room. On one side there was a raised landing—a sort of stage, I guess, about six inches higher than the floor, and on this was an overstuffed brown sofa (badly stained from the countless previous performances) and a large TV with a built-in VCR. He turned on the set, pushed the tape in, and a graphic porno movie began. I remember distinctly that the actors were speaking French and that I was somewhat distracted as I struggled to hear what I knew must be really naughty French words. He picked up the camera again and switched on the annoying light.

  “Okay, now just watch the movie and act natural, okay? Do whatever you want to do, okay? You want any lube or dildoes?”

  “Um, no, thank you.”

  I watched the movie, took off my clothes, and did what came naturally. Of course I enhanced the performance by caressing and probing my body, moaning and changing positions many more times than I ever would have if I’d been alone, and I have to admit it was fun. I felt so naughty, and he was so excited (even stumbling backwards off the stage at one point) that I, in turn, got excited and had to slow down to keep myself from coming too quickly. I was not attracted to him, but to the camera and to the money and to the vain fact that I was responsible for exciting someone so much.

  When it was over, I showered off, got dressed, and we met again in the dark living room, where he discreetly pressed a neatly folded pack of twenties into my hand.

  “That Ray sure knows what I like,” he said, sitting down opposite me, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. “You be sure and thank him for me.”

  “I will,” I said.

  “Say, any chance you two would like to do a duo together?”

  “Uh, maybe that’s not such a good idea,” I said rapidly, and then wondered why. Ray wasn’t unattractive—on the contrary—but there was something about this, the camera, the silly theatrics, maybe, that I didn’t really want him to see.

  “What about someone else, then?” Dave asked.

  “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Great!” he said. “Now, would you rather be on bottom or top, or does it matter?”

  “Top,” I said quickly, figuring that would be the easier and less embarrassing of the two, at least the first time.

  “Okay, then,” he said brightly. “I’ll see what I can set up and give you a call.”

  I left, having been there less than an hour. As soon as I’d driven a discreet distance I pulled over and counted the money. One hundred and sixty dollars. The easiest hundred and sixty dollars I’d ever made.

  I immediately deposited it in the bank and fired off a check to Discover.

  A little over a week later, Dave called back and arranged a duo. It was with a clean-cut, good-looking twenty-year-old student named Sean. It was great fun, and again I couldn’t believe someone was paying me to do it. Afterward I put Sean’s bike on the bike rack on my car and gave him a ride back to the DU campus. He was a political science major and said he went to Dave about once a month to supplement his student loan money. I myself returned to Dave’s about once every two months after that, mostly as a steady that he could call when he had someone doing a duo for the first time.

  As winter raged on, I got more work. I still saw Burl and Hole on occasion, and was still paid for it, but now there were others, too. After I’d cleared the Dave hurdle, Ray referred me to a few more of his regulars, some of whom lived in town and some of whom came into town on business. Most of these men were married and had families but obviously wanted something that their wives could not supply. I found I liked t
hese married men best, as opposed to men who were openly gay, as they were usually so nervous and excited that the sex never took long at all. I spent more time trying to prevent their orgasms than to bring them about. Later we’d usually just lie around talking for the rest of the hour in their hotel room or in my room, since, unlike Ray, I didn’t have a problem bringing someone back to my apartment, and I usually got more money when they found they wouldn’t have to spring for a hotel. I had quite a “lunch crowd,” and most weekdays I was booked solid from eleven to two, mostly with businessmen who worked downtown, and who were grateful to have a clean, safe place to go.

  One day, between lunchtime tricks, as I was changing the sheets for the third time, I got a page from Ray on my newly acquired pager. It was his cell phone number.

  “What have you got going this afternoon?” he asked when I called him back.

  “Nothing much,” I said, looking at my watch. “I’ve got one more lunch special, which shouldn’t take more than half an hour. It’s that accountant you sent my way. He’s usually in a hurry. Then I don’t have anything until seven tonight. Why?”

  “Well, something sort of came up. Look, I don’t have a lot of time to explain it. It’d be great money for you, but we’d have to travel a ways, and, um, he wants both of us.”

  I was silent, thinking of the duos at Dave’s and how I’d avoided doing one with Ray.

  “Oh” was all I came up with.

  “He’s pretty old,” Ray continued, “so I guess he can’t really participate. What he wants to do is watch the two of us together. I don’t know how far we have to go or if you’re even into it, but you’d really be doing me a favor....” He trailed off, waiting for my response.