by Dancer, Jack
“Yes sir, officer, whatever you say.”
Holy shit! This is great! Now what? Too many options. Okay . . .
“Now I’m going to frisk you with this washcloth.” That’s original.
“But you have your gun pointed at me,” she says.
I look down and sure enough.
“You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”
“Don’t worry there’s only blanks.”
She laughs and says, “stab me then?”
“That could happen so you’d better stay put while I wash this lady’s backside.”
“Ooh, la la.”
I run the cloth over her shoulders and the back of her neck then down to the small of her back where her figure closes to a “V,” before crossing her waist where it inverts into a perfect hourglass and the urge to take her right there is so friggin’ unbearable that no guy could be blamed for doing exactly that. Down the back of one leg, stooping as I go, then back up again and down the back of her other leg.
I let the washcloth drop to the shower floor and move the flat of my hand over her derriere, a finger trailing through her couloir brings a little shudder, and she presses flat against the shower wall with her fingers flared over the smooth wet plastic then slides down just enough that she folds into an offering, making her invitation known.
Her left hand comes off the wall and reaching between her legs, she takes me in her grip and guides me to her, rocking, teasing herself open and when I slip and nearly enter on one pass, she intercepts, and like a master craftsman with a familiar tool, uses me to brush and tickle her fancy in what seems an interminable solitary resolve until the quaking in her hand begins going seismic before dropping me like a hot roll and turning to face me.
“Arrggh.”
“Now you,” she says through a cruel smile. And grabbing both of my arms, she swings us around so that now I'm under the shower, and she's standing at the shower's entrance. She kneels down for the washcloth and lathers it up.
“Just stand there. I'm going to do the washing now.”
My throat’s too busy swallowing the frustration to answer, and my minds spitting, okay, but that’s a one-trick pony honey so don’t even think about saddl’n up that one again.
The soapy cloth in hand, she presses it against my chest and goes into the whole wax-on-wax-off thing then turns me around and beginning at my shoulders makes warm circles down my spine to my backside where she repeats my signature method, tracing her fingers teasingly over and through its netherlands.
She turns me around at the waist, so I'm facing her again and runs the cloth over the front of me before dropping it in favor of her bare hands. When her hands glide down my hips, and I feel her forearms pressed against my thighs, I open my eyes and there she is, like a praying Mantis, supplicating, a turn-on that throws my libido into a giddy moment of thanking God for ever thinking of giving we humans such dirty little pleasures.
And just as the wet auburn cylinder accepts the piston . . .
WHAM!
The train lurches forward throwing Monica across the wet floor and out the doorway into the cabin where she lands on the carpet sprawled on her back like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell taking one measured step over the slippery floor then two quick hops across the cabin's carpet until I’m leaning over her.
“You okay?”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. The train lurched like we were hit from behind.”
She assesses then says, “I think I'm okay. How about you?”
“I'm all right.”
She starts laughing.
“What's so funny?” I ask.
“I was just thinking that maybe it was my blow job.”
“What?”
“You think maybe my blow job was so good it blew me right out the door?”
“Yeah, that was it. Blowback, I think they call it. A kind of backdraft,” I say. Then . . .
WHAM!
The train lurches a second time throwing Monica back to the floor and sending me sideways onto the nearest open seat, my head falling across one armrest; my legs flung over the other.
At that same moment, a man, clutching a folded newspaper to his chest, comes crashing through the cabin door and drops to the floor and across Monica with the full body slam of a wrestler.
“Oof,” Monica's breath expels like bellows.
Her eyes are screaming bloody murder, and she’s thrashing like a landed tuna trying to free herself from under the weight of this unexpected intruder. And just as I've gotten to my feet in a desperate attempt to rescue her, I'm nearly knocked back a second time from the punch of a scream, so intense and loud, that it couldn't possibly have emanated from a human. But, it did. Monica caught her breath. And on the heels of that came a tirade of expletives that would've caused even cemetery residents to file complaints.
“The hell’re you doing?” I yell at the carcass as I’m in a mid-air, bare-ass leap over to free Monica. Grabbing the guy’s belt with one hand and spearing my fingers into his hair like a pitchfork into hay . . .
“Yuck! This guy’s got enough oil in his hair to lube a car!”
I had to grip hard to pull the 200-pound lump of flesh and raise it just enough . . .
“Slip out honey, QUICK!”
And she tries, but when the guy's head lolls over, and his dead eyes and sagging mouth pass within an inch of her face . . . “AHHH” she screams and comes out from under him like she’s kicking her way out of an open grave.
His oily head slips from my grip and hits the floor with an ugly THUD, hard enough that his eyeballs rolled and his face seemed to scrunch in pain.
I look up, and bunched in the doorway, their mouths agape like fish, are a dozen gawkers struck dumb with what’s sprawled out before them. When the guy’s face flips over and those dead goat eyes of his lands on ‘em, the collective gasp nearly sucked the air right out of the cabin. One woman faints dead away. Another screams.
And I holler, “Get the hell out of here, and get a conductor!”
A camera flashes,
then again,
and that triggers a round of invectives and expletives screaming out of Monica that hit the knot in the doorway like a live wire.
Someone yells for a conductor. Someone else drags the fainted one off.
A man pushes his way into the cabin; steps over, and looking at me to help, reaches for the dead guy’s arms. I take the signal and take his feet, and we move the corpse from the middle of the floor. Following this guy, a little woman scurries in with a blanket to cover Monica - the poor thing crouching in the corner, arms wrapped around herself shaking like a trapped mouse.
God! My heart takes a hit and when I move to take a step over to her . . .
FLASH, FLASH, goes off again, and I turn and spotting the guy behind it; I point an angry finger at him and yell, “One more time with that thing, and I'm going to shove it up your ass.”
He looks at me like a dare, and when I jump at him, he’s off like a Jackrabbit out of a woodpile nearly knocking down the conductor who’s pushing his way through the remaining knot of gawking hyenas still standing there like New Yorkers on the E-train; none of ‘em about to give up their spot at this once in a lifetime exhibition of naked flesh and death.
The conductor’s yelling something in French like, “get the fuck outta the way” until he reaches the doorway and gets one peek inside and . . .
POW.
He’s reeling with memories of scenes from the war, scenes he never thought to see again. And now he too is reduced to the same gaping maw and dumbfounded stare as the rest of ‘em.
And who could blame him when before him crouches a naked woman in a blanket with another woman trying to console her, a man hovering over what appears to be a dead guy lying on the floor and then there’s . . .
me.
Standing full frontal in my birthday suit like the welcome wagon for a nudist camp.
&nbs
p; For all there is in this little compartment for the poor bastard to take in, nothing could have shocked him more than the sight of me. Even the dead guy’s just background.
His eyes locked on me like an East German border guard, runs the length of me, then pauses in abject disgust at the sight of my deflated self, which probably resembles a clump of Spanish moss with a nut sack.
It is not a moment of personal pride I assure you.
Raising his finger like a meat cleaver, he takes aim and barks, “Cover you,” then, producing a whistle out of thin air, he blows a shrill so loud that had everyone been packing, he’d’ve been shot full of holes in a nanosecond. Hands shoot up covering ears, and a collective moan rises like an incoming tide.
Except the dead guy. He doesn’t even twitch.
When the second shrill cuts through the air with such anger that air molecules fall screaming to the floor in agony, the little woman kneeling next to Monica leaps up with the speed of a ninja and slaps the whistle right out of the guy's mouth shouting, “Stop que vous idiot.”
So stunned is the conductor by this blind attack from such an unlikely source that he freezes like a schoolboy slapped by a nun in front of all his friends.
The little woman then turns to the guy standing beside me and commands, “Veuillez retirer,” causing him to take a step back, and pulling me with him.
She then steps over the dead guy, and dropping down on top of him, straddles him like a bareback rider, tearing open his shirt and dropping her ear against the guy’s chest. A moment passes, two, and she bolts upright, places both hands against the man's sternum and begins pumping - un, deux, trois, and pauses. She repeats it - un, deux, trois, and pauses again.
After a couple more of these she whirls one leg behind her, so she's now kneeling beside the guy and pulls his head back like she’s gonna cut his throat but instead jams her finger into his mouth, clearing it. Then, holding the guy's chin down to keep his mouth open, she drops her mouth onto his like a brutal lover and gives him two hard breaths, his chest rising with each one.
She drops her ear to his chest once again and pauses. You could hear a pin drop in that compartment everyone was so stunned, quietly watching this little buzz saw of a woman working in fast forward. I can't tell if she hears anything or not, but again she swings herself around, straddling the guy - un, deux, trois, pause - and then again, to give him two more breaths, and listens to his chest.
Everyone’s so stunned by this little woman's cobra-like strike to the conductor and her seizing command over the situation; no one dares to mutter a word. Clearly, she's the only one with enough presence of mind to check if the dead guy's really dead, and to act.
Meanwhile, the pathetic conductor's standing there like a hapless eunuch but after my eyes are on him for more than a moment he turns, and with a scowl, stealthily points his finger at me again and mouths, “Cover you.”
Holy shit! I've been standing here all this time completely forgetting that I'm stark fuckin’ naked!
He didn't have to tell me a second time.
I turn and reach for the pile of clothes I'd dropped to the floor before jumping into the shower with Monica and start dressing.
When Monica sees me, she asks the conductor, in French no less, to please close the door, so we could dress. He could give a shit about me but with her asking he nods an approving smile - hoping to garner some small measure of kindness after the lashing he'd just taken from the pit bull. He ushers out the man who’d helped me with the dead guy then urges our gawkers to remove themselves while he closes the cabin door, but just before the door closes all the way . . . FLASH, FLASH The guy behind the camera has returned, and the conductor slams the door in his face.
When he turns around Monica signals for him to do an about-face and like a well-trained husband, he does and retrieves a walkie-talkie from a belt holster. “Je ferai appel à un médecin,” he says into it but before the radio has a chance to respond, the little woman performing CPR angrily spits back, “Je suis un médecin vous idiot,” causing the conductor to stiffen like he'd just been stabbed through the neck.
Poor guy doesn't say a word. He simply returns the walkie-talkie to its holster, opens the cabin door and steps through without looking back.
CLICK.
“The idiot just locked us in,” says the little woman lifting her head from the dead guy's chest.
“What? You’re kidding? Why'd he do that? Are we prisoners, or something? And, what about this guy?” Monica says pointing at the dead guy.
“There's nothing anyone can do for this fellow,” the little woman says.
“He's dead?” asks Monica.
“As dead as they get I’m afraid.”
“Yuck!” she says jumping back like the guys got cooties. “I had a dead guy laying on top of me?”
“I'm afraid so dear.”
And here I am thinking to myself, do you really think if he were alive this guy could lay on top of your naked body without moving a muscle? Silly girl. Hell, I'm impressed he restrained himself as much as he did!
“And why would the conductor just lock us in like that? I don't want to stay in here. This is too creepy,” Monica says to the little woman.
“He locked us in until we arrive in Perpignan (Perpinyá) and the police can take over,” says the little woman.
“Great,” Monica says turning to me, “this is all we need, Tucker, getting involved with the fuckin’ police.”
Her bluntness renders me momentarily mute.
“What do you mean, ‘all you need?’ “ the little woman asks.
After a little hemming and hawing, Monica says, “Well, you see; we're not exactly supposed to be here. Together I mean.”
“So, you two are off having a little tête-à-tête?”
“Something like that,” Monica admits.
“I see. So, was it when the train leaped forward like it did that this gentleman (nodding to the dead guy) fell through your door with cardiac arrest?”
“He had a heart attack?”
“I'm afraid so dear,” says the little woman, “probably from too much of the good life. You can see he's overweight, and he's a heavy smoker.”
“How do you know he's a smoker?” I ask.
“I could smell it on his breath, and his fingers are stained.”
“Holy moly,” Monica says, then turning to me. “You think seeing us like we were, gave him a heart attack, Tucker?” giving me a wink on the sly.
God, this woman, I’m thinking.
“Maybe. Naw. Couldn’t’ve been that. He came crashing through the door already clutching his chest,” I say.
“Was that when the train pitched the first time or the second time?” the little woman asks.
“Second time,” Monica says.
“But, he fell on top of you,” the little woman saays.
“Right. I’d fallen to the floor, and Tucker was knocked off his feet and landed on the seat.”
“But, from the looks of it, you were both showering.”
“Yeah, that's when the train jumped the first time,” Monica cut in. “I lost my balance and fell into the cabin. When Tucker came out of the shower to help me, the second lurch came, and I fell again. That's when this guy came crashing through the door and came down on top of . . .
“Fuck! He nearly crushed me! Fucker,” she says looking over to the prostrate body.
Damn woman! I thought she was going to kick the guy.
“Course, that may be speculation,” I say trying to cover my surprise at her callousness.
“Whaddya mean, speculation?” Monica says giving me a watch-it-buster-treading-there look.
“You know. Exactly, what caused you to go from the shower to the cabin floor,” I say grinning but also knowing I just fucked up opening my mouth at all.
“Get outta here, Tucker. You know it was the train. Stop joking. It’s not funny,” she says giving me that you have to go to sleep sometime look.
“Just kidding,” I tell
the little woman, “it was the train lurching both times. The first time was a big hit too. You remember?”
“I was in my compartment at the time. You're both very lucky you weren’t hurt. You weren't hurt were you dear?” she says turning to Monica.
“Not really. At least, I don't think so. Had the breath knocked out of me, but I think I'm okay.”
Changing the subject, Monica says, “Can't we have him removed? I don't like being here with him lying there like that.” Then turning to me, “What're we gonna to do, Tucker?”
“We’re not going to do anything. If we have to talk with the police, we’ll tell ‘em what we know. We haven’t done anything wrong. We didn’t cause this guy’s death.”
“And while you’re explaining that you’ll also be explaining why you were both stark naked when the guy came crashing into your compartment,” says the little woman with a sideways snicker.
This pissed me off but before I could respond, Monica jumps in.
“We were taking a shower. The train made that big, sudden jerk forward and threw us out of the bathroom. Next thing we know, this guy comes crashing through our door and lands on top of me,” she says in a way that we're all on the same page.
“That is an incredible story,” says the little woman.
“Why? You don't believe us?” I say losing my patience.
“I didn't say that. I just said it was an incredible story. No, I believe what you say. I’m just not sure the police will.”
“Why shouldn't they? That's what happened,” Monica says with more concern than a threat.
“I know dear. It's the unique nature of the circumstances that are at work here. You can bet it'll be fodder for the Perpignan police who probably haven't had a case involving foreigners, sex and death . . . I don't know . . . maybe never. Then there's the local newspaper. They've probably never had something this scandalous to write about in twenty years.”
“Scandalous?” says Monica, all the implications crashing forth.
“And what about the guy taking those photos? We need to find him,” I say.
And as soon as I say it, the little woman’s retrieving a cell phone from her pocket, does a two-digit speed dial and says, “Avez-vous obtenu le photographe?” Pauses to listen then screams into the cell, “Obtenir que baise caméra maintenant!” She then snaps it shut and calmly returns the cell to her pocket.