“Normally there’s a cover charge to enter Green Apple.” He grinned in a slow and rich Southern slang. “But for you it’s free. Take a look around. I think you’ll like what you see.”
The way he locked cold eyes, it’s like he knew something about me. But unlike the homeless man, there was something deep and dark in his stare and capable of swallowing my entire world if I allowed it to.
“I’ve never been in a strip joint before.” Why did I tell him that? It’s like he pulled the rug out from under me.
“Ah yes.” He lifted a gloved index finger and grinned. “Your abstinence comes from a conservative upbringing. But you’re curious for knowledge, and there is nothing wrong in that.”
If this guy was a doorman, he was clearly the oddest doorman (or pimp) that I’d ever met. I stared through the open curtain and into the darkness that reeled me in. I gulped. Elise entered my mind. In the spring and summer of 2008, all thoughts led to Elise. I pushed her aside. Then God entered my thinking. All my other thoughts lead to God. Was that such a strange thing?
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
Why did I say that? Why did I say anything at all? I wanted to walk away. But then again, I didn’t.
“Chivalrous men rarely get pussy.”
“That’s not what I’m after,” I said. Why did I even answer him? Walk away. Just walk away, Joshua. His eyes were as mysterious and menacing as his fashion and tattoo.
“No, I suppose not. And if I said a nice pair of Babylon balconies, you’d disagree with that too. But what you are after, and tell me I’m wrong, is a little love and affection. There are those within this door who have no one to love them and want nothing more than to give it to the one who is willing to receive.” He held his cane out and grinned. “Believe me, among gentlemen there are no judgments here.”
I entered.
I probably don’t need to describe to you what a strip joint looks like, being as saturated as we are with the imagery of it all. Green Apple probably wasn’t much different than the others. It involved a woman who greeted me at the door dressed as the Yeti (if the Yeti were skinned only of its bottom shaggy paws for boots and furry G-string and bikini line) and a woman who straddled the pole, moving up and down the thing and sometimes horizontally with absolutely no thrill or artistry, yet contrasted by so much skillful flexibility, and dare I say huge outrageously fake watermelons for breasts, with apparently no intention to match its shape to the contortions of her rib-caged body.
Five pot-bellied men with sunglasses and absolutely no expression sat scattered about at various darkly lit tables, only one bold enough to sit on the edge of the stage making the silicon pole-dancer flex and bend for single dollar bills. He slid them out of his wallet and set them on stage with plenty of skill but not artistry. The same could be said of the topless dancer who reached for them, lots of skill…no artistry.
Really, her breasts just stood there in defiance of gravity, saluting whoever accepted the open invitation to look at them, not a hint of movement or clever fashion about them. I didn’t like that. I considered the immaculate slope of Elise’s natural breasts back home, the little intimate flaws here and there that made one’s bedtime lover immaculate, and the attention and affection that I clearly starved for. I took a second look, still starved. Then I took a third. I was starved after that look, too. On a side note, my stomach gurgled. Maybe what I really needed was a saucer that slowly lifted its lid and revealed a very sexy piece of mutton chop. CS Lewis had some clever words on the matter. Then again, I was really hungry for some Jambalaya or Shrimp Gumbo.
It was my first time in a strip joint. Let’s just say an intoxicating rush, though somewhat less on the scale of incredible, and an incarcerating guilt rushed over me. The guilt of what I’d done, and far more importantly, the knowledge that I’d openly drug God into that situation with me, far outweighed the thrill. On my way out I prayed for forgiveness and asked that the Spirit not be quenched. I was hungry too. I thought about that as I exited the curtains and set into the setting light of dusk. I settled for Jambalaya. Of course, if I were really living on the wild side perhaps I’d go all out and try some beignets for desert.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” The doorman said from his iron post as I left Green Apple behind, keeping my head down.
“No,” I told him as a matter of fact. “I didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t think much of it,” he said. “It’s not fair that your wife should seek her own personal curiosities whenever you’re away and yet you remain chivalrous.”
“What did you tell me?” I reeled into the street.
The man with EMINOR tattooed to one arm quickly changed his expression. “Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, sir,” he said in his rich southern slang. “Perhaps very soon.”
“Um, I don’t think you will. I’ll be flying all over the country this summer. Hawaii, New York, Washington DC.” I didn’t know why I kept talking to him or freely granting the sort of information that I did. It was his eyes – like he pulled the rug out from under me.
“My point exactly,” he grinned, this time with the hint of a fever perspiring from his forehead. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you again, sir…. and soon. Don’t be afraid to let yourself loose a little.”
This time I didn’t answer him. I kept on walking towards my hotel. It felt right that the homeless man should be there in the crowd. I looked for him. It suddenly occurred to me that his presence, though oddly mysterious, wasn’t at all troubling. Rather, it was soothing. I never once looked back at EMINOR, but felt his terrible eyes on me the entire way. That man, if he should be called a man, was anything but soothing.
10
At the commercial break I set my poetry notebook on the bed, left another viewing of Full House behind, stood on the balcony of my room to stare down from the Saint Eleanor Hotel and watch people pass in the streets below. People watching was a favorite pastime of mine. Nicotine and whiskey still filled my belly. I wasn’t a heavy drinker and rarely ever smoked, but after mixing the two I felt unusually lightheaded. I questioned if it was the guilt from my quick rotation through Green Apple, however scientifically unsound, and tried to push the thought of it away with a glass of water and two caplets of Advil.
“Watching Full House?”
I turned to look at the speaker. She wasn’t just any woman. She was tall, slender, youthful, and brimming with beauty. Long black hair draped over a wide set of shoulders, her skin was smooth and tan, her lips were thick and amber, and a healthy collection of beads adorned her neck, which in turn folded between her well-hung breasts. If ever I wanted to be a beaded necklace, it was now.
“Yes.” I smiled, a little embarrassed. “You caught me.”
“Too bad it wasn’t with your pants down,” she said.
Her candid statement caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure how to respond. But she took the hint.
“When I was a little girl,” she finally changed her offbeat comment after a pause, “I loved that show. I watched it all the time.”
“Me too,” I said. She looked at me funny. “Well, not when I was a girl.”
“Yes, I figured that much.” The woman smiled. “I wanted nothing more than for Danny, Joey, and Uncle Jesse to raise me. I hated my father.” Her cheekbones tensed as she said father. “If only life could be a sitcom like that.”
“Well, you may find this hard to believe….” I stopped myself. “No, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”
“What?” She smiled excitedly and then quickly frowned, as if it occurred to her that my unfinished thought might have indeed been of the judgmental nature. Her cheekbones tensed all over again and her eyes darkened into little lifeless pieces of coal. I got the feeling that she’d been judged a lot. I wondered how deep into that skull of hers she’d burrowed the tunnel to hide in.
“Promise not to laugh?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll bite.” Her face regained a posture of confidence.
“My wife
Elise and her twin sister Josephine, they grew up in San Francisco in that very row of houses where Full House took place.” The actual place in question is called Alamo Square.
“No.” She looked amused.
“They’re often referred to as The Painted Ladies.”
“So you’re basically telling me that you married one of the Olsen Twins.”
“I guess I never thought of it like that.” Actually I had. People reminded me of it all the time, even though Elise and Josephine resembled a mirror image of Carolyn Kennedy. I once even held a picture up of John F. Kennedy Junior’s wife for Josephine and convinced her it was my wife. I guess even twins at times get confused.
“You’re not some sort of pathological liar, are you?”
I held both hands up. “It’s true. I can’t make this sort of stuff up.” Schizophrenic maybe.
“And where’s this Olsen twin wife of yours?”
“She’s not fake, I promise. I’m just traveling alone.”
“Mm-hmm.” She smiled again. This time I read what one might label flirtatiousness in the posture of her voice and the way she was holding herself up. “Look, I just got back from a wedding recital, and I only stopped by my room to freshen up. I’m hitting up the town with a couple of friends, and you seem like a nice guy, so…”
“You’re here for a wedding?” I stopped her.
“Mm-hmm. I’m a bridesmaid. Everybody always wants me to be their bridesmaid. I’m practically a professional. Weddings are a drag and I can’t stand the thought of tradition marriage but it’s a great way to meet guys.” And then it hit her. It shouldn’t have been surprising, especially since an entire block of rooms were reserved for close friends and family of the bride and groom. “Don’t tell me you’re here for a wedding too.”
I started to tell her whose.
“No. Don’t tell me. Let’s say their names at the same time.”
We did. Travis and Debbie. Only she said it in reverse order.
“I’m actually here as their wedding photographer.”
“You’re that guy they sent all the way out from San Francisco?”
“Not exactly the bay area. Long Beach. But Governor Schwarzenegger commands rank in both west coast cities, so close enough.”
“I saw your website. Debbie’s been showing everyone. Your pictures are beautiful.”
“That’s probably because beautiful people keep jumping in front of the lens.”
The woman laughed. “Is it true? Are you really related to that war photographer?”
“Ira Chamberlain? He’s my grandfather.”
The woman beamed, but with more of a sexual gleaming than what one might interpret as strictly platonic or friendly. “So, as I was saying. My friends and I are on our way out in a few minutes to hit up the town. I know we’ve only just met, but would you be interested in coming along, Mr. Wedding Photographer?” She bit her lower lip after carefully pronouncing Mr. Wedding Photographer. I thought she might be trying to seduce me.
“Well, I don’t know. I was kind of hoping to get a good night’s rest for the wedding tomorrow. And I’m married, so…”
“I don’t bite.”
I almost tumbled into her eyes and right off my balcony. That would have been embarrassing, and deadly. “I’d really rather not. That Olsen Twin that no one can tell apart would kill me if she….”
“Oh stop it. I wasn’t referring to anything like that.” She flirtatiously waved me off, which kind of made her entire statement counter productive.
“No. It’s better that I get some rest.”
“Promise me you’ll go and see the city and have some fun before you leave then.”
I promised her I would.
“I’m Joshua.” I extended a hand from my iron balcony to hers. After all, some diplomatic relations was in order. “I’ll be excited to work with you at the wedding tomorrow.”
“I’m Marcia.” Our hands met in the middle.
“Marcia. Like the Brady Bunch.”
“Mm-hmm.” She grinned devilishly. “Only unlike that sitcom, when you’re working with me, I’m better than two twins rolled into one, something I take to understand you’ve never experienced before.”
11
Apparently it was a less than stellar review of the Saint Eleanor Hotel.
“Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.” Dressed in his tux, Travis leaned against an iron fence in the Saint Louis Cemetery No. 3, the world-famous burial ground where the psychedelic ending to Easy Rider was filmed, and frowned. Debbie reclined half of her face on his chest. “I mean, I booked us, you, every other member of our wedding party, and immediate families in the Saint Eleanor Hotel on the premise that it was listed as one of New Orleans ten most spirited haunts.”
“Congratulations.” A tourist tipped his Rangers baseball cap at the bride. His wife beamed with delight.
“Thank you.” Debbie’s teeth glistened.
“And I didn’t see any.” Travis spread both hands. “Not a stellar five star review if you bother asking me about it.” He turned to his bride. “And you do realize that guy was a Rangers fan.”
“Oh, please do stop it.” Debbie playfully slapped his arm. “It’s not exactly clockwork, you know. You can’t just call Madame Leota or set a soup can out in the street and wait for them to kick it.”
“You didn’t hear anything last night?”
“Well no, not exactly,” I answered him as I positioned their bridesmaids and groomsmen, ten altogether, in various locations around the crypt. Marcia was among them. “I can’t exactly say I’m much of an enthusiast for ghost tours and hotel hauntings to begin with.” I looked to Debbie and smiled. “I am a fan of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland though.”
“Well, if you do see one, be sure to take its portrait. I paid a lot of money for you to fly out here. I don’t want to see that camera out of your reach for a second.”
“Oh, stop it.” Debbie slapped his arm again.
“You’re not much of a believer in ghosts, are you?” Travis looked at me after a time. I liked the way the sun burned a pocket in a cloud and cast a narrow beam of light to the earth below. I clicked several pictures. “You’ve probably never seen one then. People rarely believe in that sort of stuff until they’re alone in the dark and its staring right back at them in a mirror.”
Actually, I was very much a believer in ghosts, and I’d seen my fare share of them, though I rarely if ever talked about my experiences. Elise and Josephine’s two aunts, Nancy and Patty, the ladies who lived in San Francisco, their house was haunted. I had absolutely no doubt about that fact. I’d heard him. I’d felt him. I’d seen him with my own eyes. We called him the Green Man. Not exactly sitcom material.
What separated my beliefs from his and so many others was the filter by which we viewed them. It was my personal statement of faith that God had created angels, probably billions in number, and many had fallen. There was something so demonic about them; the way people went about describing their spiritual encounters, that it made perfect sense as to why Christians and Catholics were cautious about openly inviting those experiences into their lives. But standing in the Saint Louis Cemetery, and on their wedding day, this clearly wasn’t the place or time to debate our differences.
“It just seems to me that no ghost is ever seen by two pairs of eyes,” I finally said. I didn’t fully subscribe to my own statement, but quickly corrected myself. “I guess the question isn’t what you’re looking at so much, but what you’re actually seeing.”
“Yeah, well if you do happen to catch sight of one,” Travis said, “don’t waste time on a second opinion or asking for a spit sample. Use your award winning skills and show it to the rest of us.”
I told him I would.
12
“Lame-o wedding, isn’t it?” Marcia mounted a barstool at my side, nursing the neck of a local brew from its bottle. “You likely encounter a lot of those as a wedding photographer.”
“They all seem to have thei
r own surprises.”
The bridesmaid laughed. “Well perfect, because I’m a bag-full of surprises.”
I muscled a laugh out of courtesy and then returned to my Samuel Adams Boston Lager. I wasn’t eager to spur her on and tempt myself further.
“So, Mister Full House. We’re hotel neighbors.” She sucked on her bottle, letting her toes brush up against my leg. “Isn’t that crazy?”
“About as crazy as Babe Ruth calling his shot.”
Marcia giggled.
“I know. What are the coincidences?”
“Of Babe Ruth calling his shot?”
“No, of us, silly. And Ansel Adam’s grandson, too.”
“Ira Chamberlain, but close enough.”
“You’re funny.” She brushed her fingers over my arm. Hairs stood on end. “I’m all alone tonight, and I’m pretty sure you’re all alone tonight, with Mrs. Olson being gone. And really, who wants to be all alone after a wedding?”
“I was never very good at twenty questions.”
“Look, I’ll make this easy on you.” She fondled my left hand, parading two fingers up and over my marriage ring. “I like you, and from the way you were looking at me tonight, I gather you like me. So why don’t we abandon this dump, find my room, establish our own private party in the tool shed,” she pressed her lips to my ear, “and screw.”
“That’s quite an offer.” I blushed.
“Isn’t it?” She laughed again. “I like it in the pie-hole.”
“Excuse me?” I choked on my beer.
She leaned back in, both breasts eager to combust from her bridesmaids dress, and slurred intoxications into my ears. “I get turned on when I get my a-hole primed and lubed. And F.Y.I. I’m a screamer.”
Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1) Page 4