“It is magnificent. I’ve always been very proud of it, as if I somehow earned it, as if I wasn’t just born with it.”
“Oh you should be proud.”
She kisses him again, then taps his lower lip with her finger. “I’m pretty certain chemistry is on our side, but could you indulge me? Could we have a full-fledged romance?”
He kisses her just to have a turn at initiating. “Oh believe me. With my weird history, I’m going to need every stop along the way.”
“Excellent.”
Thirty Two
At 38, he is a born-again boyfriend, and Kerry is kind enough to take him right back to the basics. They begin with a movie date, and somehow end up watching a comedy about suburban parents starting a home casino. The choreography throws him. How to open a door for your date when it’s a push and not a pull. How to let her walk just ahead of you, holding a hand at her back. When it comes to money, the rules have been thrown out. At the ticket counter, at the snack stand, Kerry wields her credit card like a sword.
They settle into their seats, and here the rules have been suspended as well. He remembers the political implications of taking a girl’s hand at the movies, the understanding that this was a small declaration. Given Kerry’s assertiveness and a full year of him putting her off, this is not a question. She takes his hand during the previews and they spend the length of the movie exploring the variations. The finger-in-finger weave, fingers in palm, the fingerdance trace. He channels some Hollywood Casanova by opening her fingers and kissing her palm. She answers by taking his ring finger into her mouth. He wonders if he has violated their agreement by getting an erection, but then it’s her own damn fault.
On the fifty-mile drive home, they talk about everything and anything. She came from a broken home, but one that broke before the arguments became fights. She loves wine but also enjoys finding the little craft breweries popping up in industrial parks. They trade bits of shop-talk, she the increasingly hardy grass hybrids, he the fine art of manipulating lens flares.
She drops him off at midnight. He enjoys the gender-switch of the woman walking the man to his porch. In the spirit of their previous talk, he makes a point of not inviting her in, but they do spend a half hour exploring the art of kissing. He keeps going back to the word “chemistry,” how much of it is quite literal. Beyond the more external elements of attraction and complementary intellects, it seems that they have a taste for each other’s mouths, and saliva, things that might gross them out in any other context. At one point, he is using the tip of his tongue to count her teeth, and realizes that maybe he should save something for their next date. He pulls back and touches his lips to her cheeks, neck and nose. They try to separate several times and fail. How beautiful and silly, but how strong the attraction of orbiting bodies.
He leans back against the door and watches her go, giving special attention to that magnificent ass. Kerry is well aware of this, so she bends over the hood of her car and gives herself a single spank. She laughs, her teeth radiant in the parking lights, then gets in and disappears in the headlights.
Gerry turns and enters to a grossly neglected Sophie. Never mind that Karen came by twice, once for a walk, once for a feed-and-fetch. But she will receive much transferred affection, as he watches Seinfeld, drinks a beer and tosses the pink tennis ball.
The logistics for the shoot are trickier than most. First they have to wait for a certain mysterious dress to be delivered to Karen’s house. Then they have to figure out a time when one of Pete’s two craps tables will be available. This turns out to be Tuesday night. Then, Dr. Al has to entice twelve of his male workers to join them on their off days. The price ends up being twenty dollars each, free run of the bar and the chance to be immortalized. They fill the craps table halfway up with chips, Gerry carts in every light he’s got, and they await their star.
Karen makes her entrance through the buffet. She wears a strapless cocktail dress coated with silver sequins, silver horseshoe earrings, silver elbow-length gloves and silver stiletto heels. The men (who have already hit the bar a few times) stomp their feet and howl like wolves. Karen holds a hand to her mouth and laughs. Gerry could swear she got this move from Marilyn Monroe. He greets her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Now I know why we had to wait for the dress!”
“The boys seem to like it.”
Gerry turns and claps his hands together. “Men of Cactus Pete’s! I want you, in every shot, to look like you’re having a ridiculous amount of fun. But try not to drop the model.”
They nudge each other and laugh. It’s like a rehearsal for a high school musical.
“All right. First I’d like you to lift Ms. Roosevelt into a horizontal position. Pedro, can you coordinate this?”
Pedro is the tallest and most athletic of the dealers. He picks two cohorts and they line up at knee, waist and shoulders. They tip Karen slowly over and lift her up. Other dealers gather to offer support. Once Karen settles in, she has a great time, soaking in the adoration as they shift positions. They start her up high in an airplane pose, with four additional men holding her ankles and arms. Then a midway shot, with Karen held on her side. Pedro cradles her in his arms, newlywed-style, as two dealers toss chips into the foreground. Then they hold her at the edge of the table, threatening to throw her in. (Karen feigns great anxiety.)
They settle her into the chips as Gerry records the descent. She lies atop the pile as the dealers prop their chins at the rim of the table, gazing adoringly at their latest winner. The dealers make jazz hands (they’re really quite good) as they scoop handfuls of chips on top of her, leaving her partially buried. He takes a few shots from above, then he has the men grab handfuls of chips and toss them into the air. The effect is fantastic, until Karen finds a half-dozen of them dive-bombing her head. She yelps and flings up her hands, but one of them still nails her on the temple.
This gives Gerry an idea. He fetches a white parasol from his lighting ensemble and hands it to Karen. She lies on her side and holds the parasol in place as the dealers repeat their flinging. Chips bounce merrily off the parasol as Karen gives the magic smile.
“Can we do that one more time?” asks Gerry. But Karen seems to have switched off, her gaze fixed on the middle distance. “Karen?”
She climbs from the pit and crosses to a television over the bar. The face on the screen is Harry Optic, Famed Author, Dead at 42. Karen watches until they switch to weather.
Gerry returns to the craps table. “Gentlemen, I think we’re done. Thank you. You were superb. I’ll send some proofs of the final shots as we get them. Meanwhile, I believe we have four pizzas waiting for you in the sports book.”
The men rumble off in a pack. “This is great work,” says one. “I want to do this every night!”
When he gets back to Karen, she’s still watching the screen, as if she’s waiting for Harry Optic, Famed Author, Still Alive at 42. Gerry puts a hand on her shoulder.
“What would you like?”
Her look is frozen and blank. “Can we go to the roof?”
“Sure.”
The roof is problematic. Gerry has to climb the laddered steps with his boot. And it’s cold. He sends Kerry a text to cancel their date. He sits in a Nantucket chair and Karen, still in sequins, sits on his lap. He covers them up with a blanket and watches the bright star Sirius, the eye of the dog, peering over the eastern horizon.
She tucks her head into the crook of his collarbone. “How are things with you and Kerry?”
“Unbelievably good. Thank you.”
“Least I could do. Hey Gerry?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“I think I’m going to be sad for a while. Just let me be sad.”
“Okay.”
She kisses him on the neck. It sets off a neuron buzz, and he realizes that his time with Kerry has put him on a tactile hair-trigger. Karen trembles. He assumes it’s the cold, or the beginning of a well-earned cry, but in fact she’s laughing. She reaches into her clea
vage and pulls out a ten-dollar chip. After they’ve laughed for a while, she tucks it into his shirt pocket.
“A tip for my photographer.” She settles her face into his chest. “Life is so fucking weird.”
“Yep.”
Thirty Three
For Gerry, the next few weeks are a rollercoaster. He craves his time with Kerry. She is a wellspring of rough wisdom, class and bawdiness, laughter and seriousness. He has not met a more balanced person in his life.
And one thing is certain: the romance will not remain celibate for long. A lot of what they’ve done already, but for the barrier of clothing, would be called “sex.” Kerry lets her hands travel freely, taking fabric measurements of his erections (she seems pleased by the results). The exception to the clothing agreement is her breasts, which she takes out for occasional display. They are perfect white beings with small salmon nipples, and powerful conduits to her pleasure system. She lets Gerry play with them for extended periods, and one remarkable evening reaches orgasm. He is a lucky boy. And after he reports to the clinic to remove the boot from his leg, the possibilities multiply.
Were his penis an enfranchised voter, they would have had real sex a long time ago. The foreplay and weightlifting are doing a double-team on his libido. His masturbation rate has tripled. He’s also been getting erections at very inappropriate moments – like the Twin Falls prom, where the girls used the trip to Nevada as an excuse to wear dresses their parents would not approve of. At one point, he had to take an extended bathroom break to make use of some hand soap.
May also brings wedding season, and he’s much busier than he’d like to be. But then this is how he makes most of his money, so he knows not to give it short shrift.
And then there’s Karen. He drops by each evening and finds her cloaked in darkness, sitting in an armchair in the glow of a Kindle reader. He feels like Martin Sheen visiting Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. Karen has assigned herself the task of reading every single word ever written by Harry Optic. It’s a good debate whether this is tribute or punishment. Gerry has read several of Harry’s books, and though they’re madly entertaining, the punchy noir rhythms get a little annoying.
He’s never sure that she’s happy to see him – because nothing about her is happy. But she does accept his hugs, and offers him the shadow of a smile. Her answers to his questions are mumbly and vague.
“How are you?”
“Fine suppose.”
“It’s pretty sunny out today.”
“Nice.”
“Which book are you on?”
“Marigold Mountains.”
“Didn’t they make a movie of that?”
“Yeah Duchovny.”
He tries to stay twenty minutes, if only to guarantee that she gets some human interaction. He leaves feeling sad and anxious, but tries to remember that this was her plan, to wallow. Then he heads for the golf club, thinking of Kerry’s magnificent ass, and feels better.
By morning, winter is back, a cold, cold rain. He wusses out by taking his cart the entire two blocks to his studio. But then, for him, perhaps this is the opposite of wussing out. Today’s assignment is another gay boudoir session. Apparently, word has gotten out in Twin Falls’ modest LGBTQ community that the straight photog in Jackpot is gentle and unflappable. The shoot goes well. His subject is a personal trainer, and at times Gerry feels like the photographer should be paying the model. The sexting, the workouts and impending hetero encounters have given Gerry an enlightened view of male anatomy. He enjoys feeling this way about himself.
At two, he is done with the day’s work and hungry for a meeting with Kerry. But he knows he can’t interrupt her, because she’s madly busy, preparing a Memorial Day golf tournament. So he falls into the old ruts and heads for Cactus Pete’s and the Desert Room. He’s passing the buffet when he sees a small crowd gathered around a cart. The cart is manned by Karen. Gerry slips to the side and sees that it’s an espresso machine. Karen finishes a drink and hands it to an elderly woman, who coos over the heart etched into the foam. She drops a dollar in the tip jar.
“Thank you!” Karen says.
The lady smiles. “Can’t beat the price.”
“Better enjoy it before I get good. Oh! Hi, Gerry.”
“May I ask, What the hell?”
She holds up a finger and takes an order from a big lumberjack type. She talks to Gerry while constructing a cappuccino.
“Another step in Dr. Al’s make-work program. I talked him into getting this awesome machine and offering free drinks until I get good.”
The lumberjack laughs. “You mean you’re not good?”
“Don’t worry, cappuccinos are pretty foolproof.”
“Well,” says Gerry. “I better leave you to your job.”
“Oh, no, Ger, um…” She eyes the trio of customers still waiting. “Could you get in line and order a drink? I need to ask you something.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes later, he’s at the head of the line. “Um, a latte?”
“Gotcha.” She slows up a bit, taking her time packing the grounds into her espresso disc. “They’re having a memorial service for Harry.”
She locks the disc into the machine and sets a shot glass underneath.
“I know this is crazy to ask, but could you go? Could you be my eyes and ears? Hold on.”
She steams the milk, which makes a lot of noise, then talks as she pours it into a glass.
“You could use my car.”
“Car? Couldn’t I catch a train, or…”
“It’s tomorrow night. In Marin County.” She spoons foam onto the top and pours the espresso over the back of a spoon. It settles in a brown stripe between the milk and the foam.
“Wow,” says Gerry. “Pretty cool.”
“Parfait style. It’s amazing what you can learn from videos. Maybe think about my question while you…”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”
She falls silent, trying not to choke up in front of her customers. “Oh, Ger…”
“I love you too.”
An old dude in a tweed fedora leans in. “And I’d love to have a latte. Hey, are you making my barista cry?”
“Oh, hush.” She wipes her eyes. “You’ll get a salty drink and you’ll like it.”
The man laughs “She’s terrific.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Gerry. “Thanks for the drink.”
Gerry walks away, calculating all the moves he needs to make to clear his docket. He takes a swallow. The espresso, foam and milk mix in his mouth. Perfect.
Thirty Four
The elements are against him from the start. He gives up on the idea of sleep at three a.m. This brings the specter of black ice, but it also allows him to drive Highway 93 at a grandmotherly forty, and to minimize the number of oncoming cars passing mere inches away on the opposing lane. A big Fed Ex truck does exactly that, and it takes him fifteen minutes to calm back down.
Karen’s car is a mid-size Japanese sedan, and it’s not much more challenging than the golf cart. Still, he pulls into the truckstop at Wells, ostensibly for breakfast, but also to gird his loins for the higher speeds of Interstate 80. He takes a few sips of beautiful coffee, threads his way through a tricky intersection and hits the onramp. The big road turns out to be an even swap. There’s a generous meridian between the opposing directions, two lanes to play with and nothing much to hit even if he drove off the road. Perhaps some sagebrush. A couple of southward bends afford a view of the Ruby Mountains, raw eruptions of earth capped with snow.
His primary challenge is speed, or perhaps more accurately the idea of speed. He is not used to navigating a machine hurtling along at this rate. He begins at 50, but soon feels the pressure of passing vehicles and inches his way up to 60. This is still five under the limit. Other drivers pass him going 90, and he can feel the annoyance emanating from their ve
hicles, as if he were shooting puppies along the roadside. He has every faith in the presence of assholes in the human species, but this puzzles him. With two lanes and little traffic, it’s not like he’s holding anybody up. They’re like religious people who want to kill anyone who won’t join their cult. A couple of yahoos in a big U-Haul pass inches from his doors, sucking him in their direction. He finds a classical music station and tries to slow his breathing.
Just past Battle Mountain, he sees a hitchhiker near a rest area, all tits, hat and legs, and despite all reasonable thinking pulls over to pick her up. The hat is chocolate leather. She wears a plaid shirt knotted at the bottom to show her midriff. It takes him a moment to find the button for the passenger window.
“Hi,” he calls. “Where you headed?”
She smiles. She’s gorgeous. “Anywhere you go, Gerry.”
It’s Angela.
“Well hi! Get on in.”
She slides in and kisses him on the cheek. She wears denim cutoffs, which have been making a surprising comeback among young women. Gerry smiles and pulls back onto the road.
“I don’t recall you being quite so hot.”
She pats his thigh. “Well, since I’m a concoction, I believe it has something to do with your overstimulated libido. Dos the hair look familiar?”
She takes off the hat to reveal strawberry blonde, heavy on the honey.
“Well that’s just weird.”
“I also don’t remember having these.” She grabs her breasts and points them at the windshield.
“Maybe you shouldn’t do that. I’m trying to focus.”
“Whattya gonna hit? A tumbleweed? You better learn to relax, honey, or the Sierra Nevadas will give you a heart attack. Oh! Can I have that Red Bull?”
“Sure. I bought it for extra wakefulness, but abject terror seems to be doing the job.”
The Girl in the Flaming Dress Page 9