This Other Eden

by Michael Hemmingson

  Mark stood and yelled, “"FUCK YOU! YOU HOMO!”"

  He stomped out of the bar. The bar was very quiet with surprise and amusement. The guys from the firm were wondering what the hell that was all about. What had he said to Mark? What had he done? The bartender on duty gave Edmond a towel for the blood, ice for the swelling. The guys from the firm were very curious. Edmond said it was nothing.

  He found Mark in the hallway at his building, leaning against his apartment door and pleading for Ivy to come out and run away with him.

  “"Mark Gerrick.”"

  Mark slowly turned toward Edmond.

  “"Get the fuck away from my door.”"

  “"I’ll have her. She’ll be mine,”" Mark said in a low voice. “"I have to take her from you, Eddy. You don’t deserve. —Llisten! You’re not going to marry her;, you’re not going to make babies with…—”"

  “"Are you crazy?”" Edmond said. “"What the hell is the matter with you?”"

  “"I’m a man who knows what he wants. Always been that way. I see something I want, I go and get it. I know what’s meant to be, I don’t hesitate to help God do his bidding. That’s the difference between you and me, Eddy. I know my place in this world and you’re still stumbling around with your head up your ass.”"

  Two NYPD officers showed up then; they said they’d received a call and what was the problem here?

  “"There’s no problems, officers,”" Mark said, straightening his tie. “"I was on my way home.”"

  “"Hold on,”" an officer said. “"Is everything all right?”"

  “"No,”" Mark said, “"but it’s not a problem.”"

  “"There’s been a misunderstanding,”" Edmond said, “"everything is okay. Thank you for coming by.”"

  “"Who lives here?”"

  “"I do.”"

  “"I’m on my way home,”" Mark said.

  An officer looked at Edmond’s face and said, “"Your nose is bleeding.”"

  “"Shit,”" Edmond said, touching his face.

  “"Somebody hit you?”"

  “"Door in a bathroom stall,”" Edmond said sheepishly.

  Ivy came out into the hallway and said, “"Officers, I called. I’m sorry but I made a mistake. It was a silly case of mistaken identity. This is my boyfriend and this here is our good and decent friend who’s on his way home to feed his dog.”"

  “"Yes, my dog,”" Mark said.

  “"Look, do you think we like wasting our time?”" an officer said. “"What’s the story here?”"

  “"There is no story,”" said Ivy.

  “"Don’t call 911 unless you really need to,”" an officer said.

  Mark left. The cops waited for Edmond and Ivy to go inside.

  “"Should I have told them the truth?”" she asked.

  “"I don’t know. Would they care?”"

  “"I was thinking it’d cause more trouble than good. You have to work with him.”"

  “"Work,”" Edmond said.

  “"Your nose. Did he hit you?”"

  “"Yeah.”"

  “"Did you hit him back?”"

  “"No.”"

  “"Good.”"

  “"I wanted to hit him,”" Edmond said. He wanted to inflict a great deal of pain on Mark.

  “"Maybe this will be the end of it,”" she said, but it wasn’t.

  The Set-Up

  When Edmond went to work the next morning, Grace stood up from her desk and held up her hand, shaking her head and biting her lower lip nervously.

  “"Mr. Foster,”" she said, “"you can’t go in.”"

  “"Why not?”"

  “"You can’t.”"

  “"What are you saying, Grace?”"

  She pressed something on her desk. The panic button, he thought.

  “"Grace,”" he said, “"I have to get on the phones.”"

  “"I’m sorry,”" she said.

  “"Talk to me.”" He knew what was happening. Perhaps he should’ve turned and left. He wanted to see it for himself; wanted to know how far Mark went.

  “"Grace?”" he said.

  She was very uncomfortable.

  “"All I know is...you can’t go in.”"

  Bradford came out from the large doors, and he looked pissed. “"Well, there he is. There he is. There he motherfucking is.”" Bradford took a deep breath and glared. “"Why don’t you turn your homo ass around, get on that elevator, and never set foot on my floor again, eh?”"

  “"I don’t understand,”" Edmond said.

  “"Yes, you do.”"

  “"Mark—”"

  Bradford led him toward the elevator.

  “"I didn’t know you were gay, Eddy. I have a sort of unwritten policy. Call me a homophobe, sue me for discrimination, but the men who work under me eat pussy, you know what I mean?”"

  “"I don’t know what you mean.”"

  “"You made a pass on the wrong guy! How foolish is that?”"

  “"I don’t know what you heard…—”"

  “"Oh I heard plenty, cocksucker,”" Bradford said. “"I see you got socked in the nose.”"

  “"Mark.”"

  “"Said you offered to suck his dick in the men’s bathroom. So he did what any straight guy would do. He socked you one. I would’ve done more. I would’ve broken bones.”"

  “"That story is bullshit.”"

  “"Bullshit you say?”"

  “"You believe Mark?”"

  “"There were witnesses!”"

  “"I have a girlfriend,”" Edmond said, “"and Mark has been harassing her. He’s been sending…”"

  “"Girlfriend, right.”"

  “"I’m fired?”"

  “"Yep. There’s the elevator. Have a good day, fruitcake. Oh,”" Bradford reached into his pocket, handed Edmond a business card. “"My lawyer. You want to sue me, go ahead. Have your lawyer contact my lawyer and we’ll play around in court for a decade.”"

  Edmond left the World Trade Center.

  A year and a half later, Bradford Berryman would be indicted by the Securities Exchange Commission and the Department of Justice, along with a lot of other fellows like Barry Minkow during the collapse of the whole junk bond fiasco.

  The Night a Very Bad Thing Happened

  Ten months later, a very bad thing happened to Ivy. She had gone to a cocktail party with her boss, Sarah Taylor; it was a small gathering for the publication of a book of short stories by Paul Miner. Miner was one of Sarah Taylor’s pet authors; his first novel had received some favorable attention and his stories were about the street bums, drug dealers, losers and prostitutes. No one at the party was really there to congratulate Miner or celebrate another book being thrown into the world; Ivy learned that these get-togethers were to gossip so you could say at another party, e.g., “"You won’t believe what an ass Miner made of himself and his new book - which isn’t all that good.”"

  Ivy thought Miner was a great writer, although socially awkward like most; he was six-foot-three with very thick glasses and a wandering eye. He liked to wear army fatigues, a long leather jacket, and a baseball cap. He appeared uneasy in this posh literary setting; he seemed like he’d be more comfortable hanging out in the Bowery or Hell’s Kitchen with heroin addicts and teenage runaways. She was amused at Miner’s attempt to flirt with her - —he was sincere like a little boy. His innocence surprised Ivy who was familiar with the sex in his work. She was talking with Miner and out of the blue, there was Alonzo Crews. Crews wore his trademark orange jumpsuit.

  “"Are you a slut?”" Crews asked her.

  The question caught her off guard. “"What?”"

  Miner adjusted his glasses.

  “"The way you’re holding that beer bottle, by the neck,”" Crews said.

  She looked at the bottle of St. Pauli Girl.

  “"Only sluts hold them that way,”" Crews said and smiled. “"So, again, are you a slut?”"

  “"You’re putting me on, Alonzo.”"

  “"I’m simply a curious man.”"

  She wanted to kick him
in the nuts.

  Sarah Taylor walked over and said, “"Alonzo, are you making trouble again?”"

  “"Who? —Mme?”" said Crews with a wide grin.

  “"He’s being an ass,”" Ivy said, dangling the beer bottle by the neck.

  “"Come,”" and Sarah took Alonzo by the arm, “"there’s someone I want you to meet.”"

  Ivy shook her head and drank her beer.

  “"Do you know Alonzo?”" Miner asked her.

  “"Yes. You?”"

  “"He’s published a few of my pieces in The Peach.”"

  “"Of course.”"

  “"He means nothing by what he said.”"

  “"I know.”"

  “"The St. Pauli Girl,”" Miner said, pointing to the image on the label. “"That’s not just a barmaid with four mugs of beer. Her sultry outfit with the cleavage indicates she’s a prostitute.”"

  “"What are you saying? She’s both a waitress and a whore?”"

  “"Exactly.”"

  They both laughed.

  She went home at eight. Edmond was at work, bartending again, this time in Brooklyn. At her door, someone grabbed her from behind. A hand covered her mouth, she was pushed inside. She was thrown to the floor, on her back; the intruder was on top of her. He had a hand under her skirt. He ripped her stockings, ripped her underwear; he was angry and determined.

  “"I’m going to fuck your brains out now, bitch.”"

  It was Mark Gerrick. She tried to push him off. She tried to scratch him but he slapped her hand away, then he slapped her twice across the face. She tasted blood. “"You want me to knock your teeth out? You want me to hurt you?”"

  “"Don’t,”" was all she could say.

  “"I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”"

  Ivy found herself standing by the couch. She was looking down at her body; she was watching Mark fuck her. Why wasn’t her body fighting him off?

  He stood up and zipped his pants and ran a hand through his hair. “"I know you liked it. You were wet. It was good. It was just like I pictured it. Did you come, baby?”"

  “"Please go away.”"

  “"I might want seconds.”"

  “"Edmond will be home soon.”"

  “"No he won’t. And so what? What will he do? I’ll break his nose again.”" Mark knelt down and touched her face, her hair. Ivy looked at the ceiling. “"If you call the cops, if you report me, it’ll be worse. First, I’ll deny it. I’ll say you invited me over and seduced me. Then I’ll take a baseball bat to your boyfriend’s knees and make him a cripple. Then I’ll hire a gang of bikers to snatch you up and make you pull a train with them all weekend. I bet you’d like that, huh? I’d like to watch that. How sexy would that be?”"

  She couldn’t speak.

  “"I’ll be going now. Think about what I said. Maybe we can do this again, Ivy Gaylord. Maybe we still have a future. Think about it, okay? I’ll be going now, sweetheart.”"

  She heard the door close. She remained on the floor for what seemed like hours. It wasn’t even ten o’clock. She could feel her legs and arms; she could move. She drew a bath and sat in the water until midnight when the water was very cold. She checked her face in the mirror; the cut on the edge of her lip was minor., Edmond would probably never notice.

  Edmond came home after two. She listened to him move about the apartment: getting food from the fridge, going to bathroom, undressing and sliding into bed like a long lost husband returned from the war.

  “"Hey,”" she said.

  “"You’re awake.”"

  “"I’ve been...thinking.”"

  He snuggled against her. “"About?”"

  She couldn’t tell him.

  He kissed her neck and that made her feel cold.

  “"We should move,”" she said. “"Get a better, bigger apartment. I think it’s time. We have enough money saved.”"

  “"Sounds good to me.”"

  “"Let’s start looking tomorrow. I want to be in a new place by next week.”"

  “"You’re in a hurry.”"

  “"I could use a change,”" she said. “"I hate this hole in the wall.”"

  “"Maybe I could set up a dark room, start taking photography seriously.”"

  He tried making love to her but she said she needed to sleep, she said not right now. She didn’t sleep, listening to Edmond’s heavy breathing and occasional snores. In the morning, she got dressed and went to work and forgot about the bad thing that happened to her last night.

  The Deal with Paul Miner

  He was born in 1955 on the island of Okinawa; his father was career military. He grew up in Texas because his father was transferred there. He was the middle child of two, had an older and younger sister. The older sister ran away or was abducted (he was never quite sure what was the real story) when she was fourteen. His younger sister died in car crash when she was ten; her mother, the driver, also died. Paul Miner felt he should have departed the earth with them, because he, too, was in the car; he was thirteen and survived and for the rest of his life he’d ask the cosmos: Why did I get left behind? The accident resulted in two broken legs, a few cracked ribs, a lot of cuts and bruises on his body, and the loss of his left eye. He wore a glass eye and the vision in his right was poor so he wore glasses. His father put on the tough act, saying things like “"we must march on”" and “"it’s just you and me against the odds, kid. It’s time for us to be strong soldiers.”" At night, Paul would listen, from his bedroom, to his drunk father talking to his mother’s ghost; his father would weep. During Paul’s freshman second semester in college (San Francisco State University) two men in army uniforms paid him a visit. His father had committed suicide.

  Paul asked, “"What kind of gun?”"

  He was told, “"A .38.”"

  There was some money and property left in a will, along with documents concerning his older sister, Irene; official police reports and some from a private investigator in San Antonio. The leads indicated that Irene had set her sights on Hollywood to become a star. He remembered that Irene loved the movies and used to say, “"Some day I’ll be on the screen and you’ll eyeball me and you’ll say, ‘Wow!, Tthat is my big sister!’”" According to the reports, the only acting jobs she’d managed were 8 mm loop stag flicks; and that she surfaced now and then as a stripper or a streetwalker.

  Paul quit college. The money his father left could last five years, ten if he was frugal. Paul wanted to spend it. He went to Los Angeles in search of his sister. He was eighteen, so she’d be twenty-two. All he had were pictures of her at fourteen and thirteen; he was thinking maybe she hadn’t changed all that much. He checked into a motel in the Fairfax district and hit the streets, showing his sister’s photos to every hooker and pusher around. No one could help him., Mmany didn’t trust him. Others thought he was on LSD. The hooker’s would sometimes ask: “"You wanna date?”" One night, he returned to his room with a girl who had platinum blonde hair, long white legs and a very ample bosom. He paid her $20 to take his virginity. Over the next three months, he had sex with many prostitutes, almost a different one each night, their ages ranging from twelve to fifty. They all had unique and sad stories and he would pay to hear these tales; when they left, he’d scribble down their histories into notebooks, which he labeled “'Case Studies of Whores.”' A few of them resembled his sister, or what he thought his sister might look like now. He had a perverse fascination with the idea that he may have paid his own sister for sex and she didn’t even know.

  One whore told him, “"I don’t think your sister would still be on the streets after all these years.”"

  “"Why?”"

  “"It’s not something you do for a very long time.”"

  “"What do you think happened to her?”"

  “"Honey, anything could have happened to her. She could have been murdered. You know how many of us get murdered every year? You don’t read that in the papers. She could have gone straight. She could have gone with an agency, the high-class stuff. She could have fou
nd herself a husband, got her act together, and now has a house and some kids. Bottom line, she ain’t out here, baby boy.”"

  Paul did notice the constant turnover of prostitutes. For those who stopped and did something else, every day the buses and trains brought in fresh new bodies. Paul had to leave L.A. His task, he now understood, was futile; and his inheritance was quickly disappearing from paying out to the daily hookers.

  He went to Las Vegas and lost more of the money to the black jack tables and expensive call girls.

  One night he ordered a redhead to his hotel room at the Stardust. “"She has to be a true redhead,”" he told the escort service. “"The curtains have to match the carpet.”"

  “"We can do that, sir,”" a woman’s voice said on the phone.

  “"She has to be young, eighteen to twenty-five, slender, with a round face and a very kinky mind.”"

  “"We can do that.”"

  He wasn’t disappointed in the woman. She looked at the two bottles of champagne and asked, “"What’s the occasion?”"

  “"You only live once.”"

  “"Yeah? I can dig that.”"

  “"Or twice,”" he said, “"if you happen to be James Bond.”"

  “"What?”"

  “"Forget it. Look.: I want a special evening, just you and me.”"

  “"I specialize in special, big boy.”"

  “"Do you do golden showers?”"

  “"I do anything.”"

  “"Golden showers and champagne it is!”" Paul said.

  “"Are we celebrating something?”"

  “"Yes we are. We’re celebrating the fact that I’m almost broke; that I have blown my father’s inheritance.”"

  “"And this is a happy occasion?”"

  “"It means I’m free,”" he said.

  He wasn’t that broke, but close to it. He went to New York from there, renting a room in the Chelsea Hotel (based strictly on the literary connections), purchasing a typewriter from a pawn shop and an acoustic guitar from the music store near the hotel. He didn’t know how to play the guitar. On the typewriter, he began writing two books: one transcribing his case studies on L.A. whores and another - a detective novel about a teenage girl who runs away from home. All the things that he imagined happened to his sister went into the book. When the books were done, he made photocopies and dropped them off at various publishers in the city. He never heard a word back. He tried to learn the guitar but could never get his big fingers to bend right. He discovered the whores living in the Chelsea so sometimes he’d pay them to stay the night in his bed. There were also other “’undiscovered”’ writers, actors, musicians and everything else inside the Chelsea walls; addicts, schizophrenics, and prophets - you name it. Paul felt at home; he was among people he understood, people who tolerated him.