by Al Riske
“Uh-huh. How would you describe that style of his? Inimitable, maybe?”
“I’d call it … appreciative.”
“Oh, that’s good. Yes, he seemed very appreciative. His eyes move more than his body does.”
They both laughed and drained their glasses.
“Yeah, we’re both out there making him hot,” Donna added, “but who do you suppose is going to reap the benefits?”
Therese followed Donna’s gaze to the bar.
JILL HELD THE tap open and waited for the amber liquid to fill the heavy glass pitcher.
“Having a good time?” she asked.
“You know me,” Stan said.
Jill smiled. She certainly did. She knew he was never going to ask her out again. But then it was her own fault. She kept encouraging him to open up—especially when they were in bed together. She wanted him to let her know what he liked, what he wanted, what his fantasies were. She wasn’t sure of herself with him, and he was hard to read.
Then one night he brought her a present: a campy black negligee. It was really too small for her, but she managed to get into it, if not to stay in it entirely. The trouble was she could not take the thing seriously and giggled frequently. To Stan, though, this was no farce. He left abruptly, and they stopped seeing each other. He didn’t even show up at the bar for three weeks.
TIM DEVLIN WAS shooting pool with a friend, Bud Freeman, and there was this guy, Glenn, waiting to play the winner. Didn’t say much at first, just watched and listened. He seemed distracted and nervous to Tim, in as much as he noticed him at all. Then, out of the blue, the guy says: “You play hoops in school?”
Tim sank the six in the side pocket, paused.
“I look like a basketball player to you?”
“Just because you’re short doesn’t mean a thing.”
“I played some in high school, why?” Tim said, looking over the table, lining up his next shot.
Then this guy Glenn says: “You were one of those speedy guards, right? The kind who like to drive the lane, shoot those twisting, hang-in-the-air, double-pump lay-ups.”
Tim didn’t like this guy’s attitude. Something in his voice. Like he was trying to sound real friendly, but wasn’t. And he kept looking off somewhere across the room while he spoke.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
Tim sank the eight ball to win the game.
“You’re not far off.”
Glenn nodded knowingly.
“How come you know so much?” Tim demanded. Glenn said, “I’m psychic,” and walked away.
GLENN WASN’T ABOUT to waste his time on pool when there was something better. He saw an opening and he was going to take it. He walked up to Donna and asked her to dance. Simple, clean, direct. And it worked.
“WHERE’S DONNA?” STAN asked.
Therese let him figure it out for himself.
“What’s she dancin’ with him for?”
Therese shrugged. “He asked.”
Stan filled Therese’s glass and then poured one for himself. He didn’t look too happy.
“Jealous?”
“Me? Of that? You gotta be kidding.”
Therese took a sip of her beer to hide her smile.
DONNA WAS FEELING lightheaded from hunger. That and drinking too fast. Louis didn’t look so bad to her anymore, and that made her wary. She told herself she couldn’t trust her perceptions right now, but there was no denying that Louis, or whatever his name was, was a good dancer.
Maybe he just looked better in motion. (She’d only had two beers, after all.) People always think more of you if you can do something well. It made you more interesting, more attractive—better looking almost. Donna was convinced of it. Put Dustin Hoffman’s face on somebody else and you wouldn’t think of him as handsome. Woody Allen’s face, even on Woody Allen, was not handsome, but it was interesting to look at. The best she could say about her partner now was that he was not unattractive—but a while ago she wouldn’t have granted him that much.
She hadn’t really wanted to dance with him, but then there wasn’t any reason not to, either. A dance was just a dance and, besides, she felt good when she was dancing. She even danced alone sometimes at home when she was bored or depressed. It made her feel better. She wondered if Louis ever did the same: crank up the stereo and get so hot you had to strip and dance naked because the sweat was just pouring off your body?
It really wasn’t out of the question the way he was dancing. He reminded her of someone. Mick Jagger. He moved like Mick. He didn’t look anything like him—too bad—but you could tell he’d been to a Stones concert or two. His vanity was surprising, considering his looks, but it made you watch.
She wasn’t putting much into her own moves, but he egged her on, so she threw in a couple of her lewdest hip thrusts.
SUDDENLY STAN WAS on his feet. “Let’s dance,” he said.
Therese stood and fumbled with her purse.
“Leave it,” Stan said. “No one will fuck with it.”
The song was almost over, he realized now, but it was too late to turn back. He led Therese out to the middle of the dance floor, holding her hand and practically dragging her, she moved so slowly in those “Fuck me” shoes of hers.
They bumped into a lot of people on the way, including Glenn Lewis, but the song ended before they got a chance to dance at all. Several couples left the floor, but not Donna and Glenn, not Stan and Therese. They stood and waited, wordlessly, for the band to go into its next number, “Good Golly Miss Molly,” and only then did they start to move again.
The first time Stan bumped into Glenn everyone pretended not to notice. The second time, glances were exchanged. More couples were coming back out on the floor and it was getting crowded—other people were bumping into each other, too—but Stan was moving around a lot more than he usually did. He bumped Glenn so hard the third time that he sent him careening into some chick who screamed and pushed him back the other way. She didn’t say word, but she glared at him and looked as if she’d kick the shit out of him if he touched her again.
When Glenn came at him, Stan just smiled and said, “Excuse me.”
WHEN THE SONG ended and Donna said she’d had enough, Glenn wanted to follow her back to the table, sit down, and have a beer to-gether—if the mustached man had a problem with that, too bad—but Donna put one hand on his chest and held him back.
She looked at him, and he waited for her to say something, but she just shook her head and walked away.
He let her go. Why? He wasn’t afraid of that son of a bitch in the silk shirt. What the fuck was his problem anyway? He was with the redhead, wasn’t he? Glenn decided to bide his time.
STAN HAD BEEN right, their purses were still there when they got back to the table. Therese picked hers up and said she was going to powder her nose. As if she were in some movie from the 1940s! “Right after I take a piss,” she added.
Stan thought that was funny, and it struck Therese that she rarely saw him smile. She turned to Donna then, who was already seated and looked exhausted, and said, “Care to join me?”
The place had good-sized restrooms, and the women’s room wasn’t as crowded as they’d seen it on some nights, but they still had to wait for a stall. Donna sat on the flimsy couch by the door, catching her breath while Therese checked her hair and makeup in the long mirror above the sinks.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Therese said.
“Do what?”
“You’ve practically got them fighting over you out there.”
“What’s gotten into Stan anyway?”
“He’s jealous.”
“I’m sure.”
“You didn’t see the look on his face when he saw you dancing with that guy.”
“What’s it to him? He’s gonna be shacking up with Jill tonight anyway.”
“So you like this new guy?” Therese brushed her hair and watched for Donna’s reaction in t
he mirror.
She lit a cigarette and shrugged.
“He’s a good dancer,” Therese offered.
“He’s not bad.”
“But you’d rather have Stan?”
“And so would you.”
“Oh, I don’t know …”
“Come off it, Therese. All he’d have to do is smile and you’d drop your drawers for him.”
“No, really. I know I flirt with him, but he scares me sometimes. I think he’s been in trouble with the police.”
“For what?” Donna didn’t want to believe it.
“I don’t know. Armed robbery or something.”
“I’m sure.”
Donna had a way of saying “I’m sure” that could get on your nerves in a hurry. “Well, that’s what I hear,” Therese said.
“Yeah, well, you can’t believe—”
“—everything you hear. I know. I’m just telling you …”
“Tell me you wouldn’t sleep with him in a minute.”
“I wouldn’t,” Therese deadpanned. “It’d take me longer than that to get out of my pantyhose.”
Donna laughed and believed her now, because she was back in character. Therese often made self-deprecating jokes about what a loose woman she was, but it wasn’t true. Not really. Oh, she was no Mother Teresa, but she was no tramp either. It was just a shtick she did because not that many men wanted her. It hurt a little that Donna bought the act without giving it a second thought. But then, Therese figured, she had only herself to blame. She flirted shamelessly with Stan and pretended to be really hot for him all the time. Well, she had her reasons, and there was no harm done.
MAGGIE HOLMES WAS the only one in the bar who treated Glenn with any regard for his feelings that night. And it didn’t take him long to figure out why. She was as much an outsider as he was.
She explained right away that her boyfriend was in the band but she loved to dance—as long as nobody got the wrong idea.
“Which one is he?”
“The drummer.”
Glenn caught the drummer’s eye and waved. He nodded back. They understood each other.
It was a great arrangement really. No pressure. He could talk to her easily, without trying to impress her. And what a dancer—she had more moves than Bekins! He told her that between songs and she chuckled.
“You’re no slouch yourself,” she said.
Why couldn’t sexy, tight-pants Donna be as nice? He didn’t care if she had tiny titties. If she’d only give him a chance, he’d show her …
THE BARMAID WITH the big green eyes knew all about the stupid gas station robbery that had landed Stan in the pen, and she knew he was wanted for something in another state, but none of that mattered. He had told her all about his past, leaving out a few of the specific details, and she understood.
As she gathered empty bottles off the bar, Jill noticed him sitting alone and looking lost. He was a hard man, but he had a tender side. She had seen him pick up her neighbor’s puppy once when he thought no one was looking, and the way he stroked and nuzzled the little Dalmatian gave Jill a soft feeling that came back to her just now.
THE THING THAT gnawed at Glenn most was the feeling he got sometimes that he was invisible. He was getting that feeling now dancing with Maggie, who always positioned herself so she was facing the stage. Her smile was saved for the drummer, and her body responded to every tap of his foot on the bass pedal. She shimmied for him and never looked at Glenn.
Like it or not, he could understand that. The ground rules had been laid out. But then Donna and her red-haired friend in the cable-knit sweater and the denim miniskirt came out of the bathroom, and they both looked right past him as if he wasn’t even there. He had hoped Donna would see him dancing with this fox—the only one in the place who could rival her as a dancer—and realize she’d better show a little more interest in him before someone else stole him away.
He thought the redhead was going to say something to him—there was a momentary hesitation in her step, her lips parted—but then Glenn realized what was happening: she saw someone coming her way and she wanted to say hello to him, but he didn’t see her. It was that guy from the pool table, the basketball star, and he was more interested in some perky little number with a sorority-sister smile.
The sparkle went out of the redhead’s eyes and she walked on, a little faster than before.
STAN WHEELER POURED the last beer from the pitcher and took a drink. Warm. Shit! His first impulse was to spew it all back out in one long stream, but he thought better of it and swallowed. It seemed he’d been drinking warm beer all his life. Warm beer in rooms where you could hardly hear yourself think.
He sat back with one snakeskin boot resting on his knee and tried to think just the same. He knew what it was now. Or at least part of it. This guy Louis reminded him of a guard at the Oregon State Penitentiary in Salem. A real mean little bastard, that one.
Without thinking, Stan took another gulp of beer—warmer than ever since he’d been holding the glass in his hand—and again had the urge to spit it out. If this were prison he’d have to kill Louis. Either that or find a shiv in his own back one day. You couldn’t leave that option open. But this wasn’t prison, he reminded himself.
A PART-TIME STUDENT at the University of California in Santa Cruz, Tim earned his money as a line cook at Callihan’s three, sometimes four, nights a week, and he often hung around after work to have a few beers at The Well. Stephanie, the tiny brunette he crossed the room to talk to, was one of the few full-time students in the place.
“What brings you here?” Tim asked.
“Dog Bite,” she said. “I saw them at the Stone in Palo Alto last summer. Aren’t they great?”
They talked a little about the sixties, which they were both too young to remember—much to their regret—and then Stephanie’s boy-friend showed up with two long-necked bottles of Pacifico. Should have known she wouldn’t be alone.
“Think I’ll get one of those,” Tim said.
Bud was waiting at the bar. “Told you,” he said. “Should have scoped out the situation first.”
Ignoring his friend, Tim ordered another beer.
“Therese is over there,” Bud said, but Tim wouldn’t even turn around.
SUDDENLY RESTLESS, GLENN went looking for that prima donna in the white pants, whatsizname, the hotshot pool player, to challenge him to a game.
He wasn’t interested. Neither was his friend.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t know you,” Tim said, glancing at Glenn, then returning his attention to the band.
“But I know you.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m psychic, remember?”
Bud snorted. “How come I never see your predictions in the National Enquirer?”
“You want me to predict the future? See the blonde over there. The one with the little tattoo. She goes home with me tonight.”
“Looks to me like she’s more interested in Stan.”
“That his name?”
“Thought you said you were psychic,” Tim said.
“Yeah, well, I’ll give you one more prediction: Stanley will settle for the redhead.”
“WHOSE TURN IS it?” Stan asked.
Both women stood.
Therese was about to sit back down when she spotted Tim over by the bar looking real dreamy in his tight white pants, and she couldn’t bear the thought of how it would look if she were left behind right now.
“How about two at once?” she said to Stan.
Stan liked the idea. Of course. They all want two at once. As if they wouldn’t have enough trouble satisfying one.
Out on the floor, Therese and Donna danced side by side beneath Stan’s appreciative gaze. His feet hardly moved, but his eyes were dancing like crazy, moving from one woman to the other, sweeping up and down their bodies. His grin looked so idiotic Therese wanted to laugh. Men!
Then Donna started circling to the left, m
oving around behind him so he couldn’t see her and Therese at the same time. Stan tried to give each equal time, but Donna obviously wanted him to choose and she wiggled her hips suggestively to influence the decision.
Therese looked over at the bar. Tim looked away, but she knew he’d been watching. There was no way she could match Donna’s moves, and she certainly didn’t have Donna’s tight little butt, but there was something else she did have. On impulse she pulled her sweater up over her head and dropped it at Stan’s feet.
That did the trick.
She had on a black lace bustier with padded cups that made her boobs look that much bigger. And she had Stan’s undivided attention.
Other men, too, were shouting and staring. The band seemed to play louder than before. Although she couldn’t hear it, Therese saw Donna’s teeth and tongue slowly form the word “slut” and expel it from her lips. Therese just tossed her head back, closed her eyes, and shimmied to show Donna why they’re called knockers.
GLENN WAS NEARBY, dancing with Maggie, the drummer’s girl, and was beginning to think he could steal her away if he really wanted to. But what he really wanted was Donna. Even when her slutty friend started to strip, Glenn kept his eyes on Donna and saw the flash of anger and envy everyone else missed.
THE NEXT THING Therese knew someone had scooped her sweater off the floor and thrust it at her. It felt gritty against her skin, but by reflex she clutched it to her chest. Then it was all she could do to keep her balance as she was propelled from behind.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tim demanded.
“Let me go,” she said.
But he was pulling her now, back toward the restrooms, into a little hallway by the pay phone.
“Put your clothes on.”
“Fuck you. I’ll do what I want.”
IN THE MEANTIME, Donna had peeled off her T-shirt and was swinging it over her head. Though her breasts were tiny, the men around her didn’t seem to mind a bit—Glenn, for one, looked as if he were about to come in his pants—and she felt very sexy showing off her red satin bra. In fact, if the music hadn’t stopped just then, the song resolving itself in a descending series of notes (not the usual crescendo of screaming guitars), she would have wriggled out of her jeans so everyone could see how pretty the matching panties were.