The Perfume Burned His Eyes

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The Perfume Burned His Eyes Page 9

by Michael Imperioli


  I went to the basement and found Rogelio. He gave me a dolly to use but said he was too busy to help us with the amplifier. Back upstairs I relayed this info to Lou, who had now sprung to life.

  “Rachel can help us. She’s strong. Aren’t you, baby?”

  “I have my moments.” A Mona Lisa smile as she said it. She had cleaned up the smudged mascara and reapplied it neatly. But the bluish stubble of her beard was coming through her flesh-colored makeup. It didn’t seem to bother her but I’m sure it was a constant challenge to keep it concealed as much as possible.

  I could see why he liked her. She was an innately kind person with a soothing presence; very easy to be around. Except today she was wearing an excessive amount of a sharp, sweet perfume that smelled like clove. It didn’t agree with me.

  Lou played the role of foreman and began barking out instructions to me and Rachel. The first step was to get the amp onto the dolly. Lou offered no physical assistance as we struggled to haul it onto the set of wheels. It was very hard to do this. And it hurt. The amp was somehow even heavier than it appeared.

  Rachel was indeed strong. Her hands were smooth and fleshy and were bigger than mine or Lou’s, though not by much. They were not really masculine hands nor were they truly feminine. They fit who she was perfectly.

  “Excellent, kids! Very well done. The worst is over. Let’s get it downstairs!” Lou exclaimed as we began to push the load into the hallway and onto the elevator. He kissed Rachel on the lips as we descended.

  I tried to give them privacy and just faced the door with the two of them behind me.

  Right before the door opened to the lobby he said to her: “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  She didn’t reply.

  We pushed the amp through to the front of the building with Lou still calling the shots but not lifting a finger. Rachel, Freddy, and I struggled to get it up off the dolly and into the back of the van.

  “Use your legs!” Lou kept shouting, though I didn’t know what he meant by that.

  Freddy was groaning and huffing under the weight of the thing. A slight, bookish-looking guy with thick-lensed glasses and bad skin, Freddy was the weakest of our crew and his end of the amp kept sagging. Rachel was the most stoic and maintained her poise and grace throughout the ordeal. She never questioned why Lou wasn’t helping us, like she somehow understood that it was better this way. I didn’t understand and I resented doing it without him and having to listen to his orders.

  “Heave . . . ho . . . heave . . . ho . . .” Lou was the slaveship drummer pounding out the beat as the chained rowers sweated to reach ramming speed.

  We got it up and slid it into place in the van’s cargo hold. Freddy was pale and looked like he was about to keel over. Rachel said I was a strong young man and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I felt a slight scrape from her stubble.

  Lou took a small piece of paper from his pocket and pointed out to me what he’d written down. “Okay. Here’s where you’re going and here’s the total price. That’s what you’re collecting. In cash. No checks.”

  So Lou was not driving or even coming with me. Neither was Rachel, who had already run back inside. I was to do it all alone. He handed over the slip of paper.

  “Ask for Al when you get there. Him and his guys’ll unload it for you. Make sure he gives you all the money. Don’t let him haggle you, it’s already been negotiated so don’t take a penny less. And don’t listen to any cockamamy bullshit sob story about why he’s short or when he can get us the rest.”

  I was to meet Al at an address on the West Side across from the pier on 48th Street. In miles it wasn’t so great a distance but I’d have to traverse the entire width of Manhattan through the heart of Midtown at the height of the evening rush hour. It was an insane prospect.

  “Lou . . . I really don’t think I should be doing this.”

  “Nonsense, Tim. Nonsense. I am 100 percent certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that you will successfully complete this mission. Don’t fall for any of Al’s pathetic cripple routines. He’ll try and hustle you, play on your sympathies . . . but just stick to your guns and tell him you are on strict orders from me. I gotta go.”

  He slapped me hard between my shoulder blades and disappeared back into the building. I felt trapped and claustrophobic. I didn’t have the strength or the will to confront and refuse him. And it wasn’t because I was afraid of him, I really wasn’t. I guess I just really wanted him to like me. I hadn’t even heard any of his music (that’s not true, I had heard one of his songs a few times) outside of the droning-feedback massacre of sound. Still, I was enchanted by him, bewitched and under his spell. He mesmerized me. When I was with him it was like being in another world altogether. Like time had slowed to a stop and I was oblivious to anything else going on in my life or in the world at large.

  I couldn’t let him down, yet I was sure that the crosstown journey would end in disaster. I would be fired by Ciro for crashing the van—assuming I survived the accident—and I’d owe him money for the damages; I’d be arrested for driving recklessly without a license and would have to call my mother to bail me out ’cause, god knows, Lou was not going to do it. I couldn’t even be sure he’d answer the phone when I made the one call the police would allow me.

  On top of all this, it was Friday the thirteenth! And that started to fuck with my head. The walls were closing in; my pulse quickened and my temples throbbed. My heart felt like it had swelled to fill my entire thoracic cavity. There was pain in my jaw, my left arm, and my groin. It was the beginning of a heart attack, I was sure. I was short of breath and afraid I was about to die.

  I told Freddy I needed five more minutes and didn’t wait for his answer. I ran into the building and pressed for the elevator.

  twenty-six

  She was in her bed. The curtains and shades were drawn, the room dark except for the flickering of the television. Her head was propped up high on several pillows and she sipped from a big glass of iced tea with no ice.

  “Hey, Matty. How’s my love today?”

  “Can I ask you for a favor, Ma?”

  “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  “Can you drive me to West 48th Street and the West Side Highway? It’s very important. Ciro said we can use his van.”

  “A van? What do you need a van for?”

  “It’s a favor for a friend. It’s really important.”

  “Which friend? . . . Oh, Matty, I’m in no frame of mind to drive a van right now.”

  I was too late; she was sedated for the evening. I was hoping I could catch her before she dosed herself with whatever tranquilizer she had become partial to. She was right; absolutely in no condition to be driving.

  “Why don’t you take a cab, sweetheart?”

  It started before I could answer. First they welled up in the corners of my eyes, at the ready, drawn and cocked though not breaking the boundary of the eyelid. But once the butterflies in my solar plexus took flight, there was no way to reverse the flow and in an instant I was sobbing out loud. Blubbering like a baby, like a fucking little boy, my face striped wet. I was an infant, a child, and a runt to boot. Humiliated and disgusted with myself.

  “What is it, my darling boy? Come here.” She sat upright looking very concerned and reached for me. “Let me hold you.”

  I couldn’t allow myself to do that. The tears, the choking sobs, they were bad enough. There was no way I could sink into my mother’s arms and let her hold me. I couldn’t bear that. I tried to speak but the weeping was too much for my words.

  “It’s fine . . . I . . . I just . . . I have to . . . it’s . . .” I was hiccuping and couldn’t complete a sentence. It was horrible.

  “Sit down, Matt. Tell me what happened.” Worry enveloped her face.

  I couldn’t look at her. I hated myself and hated her for pitying me. I stopped trying to talk and tensed all my muscles to stifle the crying. I had to get control of myself. Had to snap out of it. This was such a defeat. I took a
deep breath and glanced up at her. Relaxing my muscles, I said to her: “It’s okay. I’m fine.” I wiped my face.

  “No. You’re not fine. You’re scaring me. Where do you need to go? Why is it upsetting you so much? I’m gonna call your boss.”

  “Please don’t. It’s okay. He has nothing to do with it.”

  I felt bad that I asked her in the first place and was sorry I got her so worried and confused. I had to cut the cord and get away. I had to get downstairs and into the van. I had no choice but to drive the fucking thing crosstown. The hell with it. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. But I had to get out of there. Anything was better than this.

  My mind raced to concoct a lie that would allay her fears and allow me to get downstairs without her calling Ciro and asking him questions. I went into a song-and-dance about how the favor I was asking her for had nothing at all to do with my tears. I confessed that I was missing my father lately and the last few days especially. This could not have been further from the truth but it was a convenient excuse that was there for the taking. I went on to tell her that my friend was a musician who was selling an amplifier and she needed someone to drive it crosstown but it was fine if it waited till tomorrow when her brother would be back from Milwaukee.

  She looked at me with big, sad, narcotized eyes. “You can talk to your father, you know. I’m sure wherever he is, somehow he’s able to hear you.”

  I didn’t believe this for a second. But I nodded and leaned over to give her a kiss.

  “I love you, Matt.”

  “Love you too.”

  “Give me my pocketbook. It’s on the chair.”

  I left with thirteen dollars in my hand.

  twenty-seven

  Traffic was awful. I barely had to step on the gas at all. I drove the crosstown distance mostly using the brake pedal and the bit of forward momentum offered by the drive setting on the van’s transmission. I didn’t crash and completed the first leg of the odyssey without incident. I was proud and surprised.

  I pulled up to what seemed to be some type of garage. A man in eyeglasses began screaming at me for blocking his driveway. Al was a tall man with one leg, his pants altered with the empty side neatly folded and pinned just above where the knee had been. There was a crutch beneath his armpit and his long, rectangular face was tinted jaundice yellow.

  Par for Lou’s course, Al was not expecting me. Nobody in Lou’s world outside himself ever expected anything. His whole operation was run on a whim, on impulse and the assumption that things would always go his way in the end. No coordination or prearrangements were needed because Lou was certain that everyone else would anticipate and understand his needs through some form of telepathic communication. It was a system that proved to be an abject failure, malfunctioning every step along the way.

  I tried to explain to Al who I was, who sent me, and why I was there, but he wasn’t at all interested in hearing me. His lone concern was to get my van the fuck away from his driveway. This meant parking two long blocks away because my attempt to double park on the West Side Highway was met with the wrath of the evening commuters. I locked up the van and walked back to deal with my new friend Al.

  My timing was incredibly bad, my visit a terrible inconvenience, and Al was holding me personally responsible. There was disgust and disdain in every word he slung at me.

  “What the fuck do you think, that I’m at every asshole’s fucking disposal? . . . I don’t want to hear it . . . I don’t run a fuckin’ clinic that’s open to the public without appointment! . . . Do I have to fuckin’ cater to every jerkoff, dopehead, and drug addict?”

  This went on as I followed Al through his warehouse and toward his ringing telephone. I was to blame for everything wrong with his life, including the mental deficiencies of his nephew and probably also his missing leg, which I began to think was several pounds of flesh exacted by the universe for some heinous crime he’d committed against nature.

  “Cuntlapping faggots!!!” he exclaimed after answering the phone only to discover that he was too late. He banged the phone down and with rage-shaking hands reached for his cigarettes. He turned to face me and took a long drag. By the time he exhaled he had calmed down a little. I once again explained to him why I was there and who sent me.

  “I shoulda fuckin’ known. The blind leading the fuckin’ blind.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a little chuckle.

  “Well, what are you standing here for? Bring it in” was his reply.

  I asked if there was anyone to help me unload.

  “Yeah. You’re looking at him.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. I didn’t want to offend him so I just said, “Okay.”

  He looked away from me and bent his mouth into a thin, crooked grin. “Yeah, right. My numbnuts nephew is on his lunch break.” He took another deep inhale and coughed loud. “You’re gonna have to wait for him if you can’t bring it in by yourself.” His words came out mixed with long trails of smoke.

  “I can’t lift it by myself,” I confessed.

  “Isn’t it on casters?” he said, but I didn’t know what he meant so I just shrugged. “The amp. It should be in a case with casters on the bottom. Little wheels.”

  “No, no case with wheels. We used a dolly when we brought it down from his apartment.”

  Al shook his head, smiling sarcastically. “Your boss does everything bass-ackward, you know that? I was supposed to get the case too. That was the deal. It’s always some shit with him. That’s why they call it dope . . . you know what I’m saying, right? I should send the fucking thing back.”

  I was happy that the verbal abuse had stopped so I agreed with him.

  “Okay, pull it into my driveway and let’s see what’s what,” he said as he walked me to the door, steady and nimble for a man on one leg.

  I was able to drive the van the two blocks back to Al’s pretty easily. I felt some new confidence in my driving ability and thought that maybe I had underestimated myself and what I was capable of. Al was waiting beneath the open garage doors. I got out of the van and walked around to its back doors.

  Al was giving the van a good once-over. “I like your truck. What do you charge?”

  “For what?”

  “For hauling. I need another backup ’cause my main guy is retarded and my backup is a borderline moron. What do you charge?”

  I didn’t know how to answer his question. I didn’t even know if I was getting paid for this at all. Lou didn’t mention money. I asked Al what he paid his regular guy as I opened up the van’s rear doors.

  “Depends,” Al replied as he came around to look inside at the giant amplifier. He shook his head.

  “I can’t believe that jackoff forgot the case. Can you bring it by later?”

  “Sure,” I lied through my teeth.

  “Course, I’m not gonna pay you extra ’cause that was part of the deal. That’s his fuck-up, not mine.”

  “Of course,” I said matter-of-factly. Al and I were on the same side now.

  “Arright. Close it up and lock it. We gotta wait for my nephew.” Al sighed heavy. “Let’s go relax till dipshit gets here. You like root beer or Pepsi?”

  “Root beer.”

  “I got orange too. You like orange?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  “Nehi, not Crush. That okay, Hopalong?”

  Al had one leg but I was Hopalong.

  twenty-eight

  The first film Smitty showed us was of a blond Swedish-looking woman going down on a black man. The movie was silent and must have been made in the early sixties, maybe even before then. I had never seen this kind of thing on film before so at first it was a shock to my system. Veronica sat quiet between me and Smitty on the edge of the bed. She didn’t comment at all on the movie. Smitty just stared at the images on the screen and sipped his drink.

  It was dark. The only light in the room was the flickering from the projector bulb and the pornography on the wall. The first film
ended how one would imagine it to, but despite the predictability of the conclusion it was still strange and surprising to see it actually happen. Smitty stood up and asked if I wanted another drink or if Veronica needed anything. She shook her head but I asked for another. Smitty told me to help myself as he pushed some buttons on the projector and the reel started to unwind.

  I tried to grab Veronica’s hand before I got up to make my drink but she subtly moved it away. I was just trying to see if she was okay. There was a distance growing between us. She didn’t look at me at all during the first film, even when I tried to make eye contact with her. She did give my hand a squeeze just after the lights first went out, right before the initial image of the Swedish woman’s painted face. But that was it. Now she chose to ignore me.

  Smitty was using his cigarette lighter as a flashlight to examine the many small reels of smut he had in his box. I thought that the name Smutty would be a more fitting moniker for the man and I chuckled at this revelation. But I knew it wasn’t funny and I wasn’t having any fun. I realized it was the pill taking its effect.

  I made my drink. I was waiting for the lights to come back on but they never did. The record reached its end, the needle quietly spinning and skipping on a groove near the spindle. Smitty lifted the arm and dropped it where the first song started. We were about to be subjected to the same dreadful ELO all over again.

  twenty-nine

  “Guy can build a Geiger counter out of a fuckin’ coconut but they can’t build a boat and go home? Come on. He don’t wanna go home! He’s living in paradise and fuckin’ both them broads! Who’d want to go home?”

  We were watching a television placed on a high shelf in Al’s office. I sat in a beat-up black desk chair on wheels and sipped my second orange Nehi. Al was stretched out on a couch, his lone foot in a black sock and propped up on a pillow. His crutch was laid out on the floor next to the couch, parallel to his body. We were passing the time, waiting for Al’s nephew Norman (who he called “Ab-norman, the dumbest thing on two legs”) to return from his break. It was getting later and later and Al finally determined that his nephew wasn’t coming back and the two of us would have to handle getting the amplifier down off the van and into his shop.

 

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