She kept waking him up for more.
He gave her more.
In the morning, he said, ‘Are you trying to kill a guy?’
‘There are some I’d like to kill,’ she told him, thinking about her boss, ‘but you, I just want to love you over and over and over again.’
She called in sick to work and they stayed in bed all day, except when they went out to the corner liquor store to get some beer and bourbon.
4
David Challon lived in a $10 a week room up on 114th Street, near Columbia University. He said it was a good place to write, and there were two other writers there; the rest of the tenants were old people, drunks, and college kids.
‘What do you mean, “write”?’ Jill asked.
‘That’s what I do, I write.’
‘Write what? Laundry lists? Christmas jingles?’
He laughed. ‘I should, that’d be more honest and worthwhile. I’m a hack, a pulp hack. I have no delusions, I’m not Hemingway or Wolfe, I write trash and people buy it and like it and the pay is okay, the pay is better than breaking my back in some ditch.’
‘You write …?’
‘Books, sweetie. Paperback junk. You name it, I’ll do it if there’s a paycheck: science-fiction yarns, hard-nosed detectives, manly cowboys, wayward wenches, troublesome trollops, hellcat hellions. That was the title of my first sexy novel: Hellcat Hellion on Sin Campus. It just came out a few months ago. A lost masterpiece, I’m sure. There have been half a dozen since, half a dozen forthcoming, half a dozen yet to write. I do one a month.’
Jill didn’t know whether to believe him or not but he didn’t have a day job, that was for sure; he woke up and drank whenever he wanted, and he wasn’t broke, he always seemed to have money on him and he spent it without a worry.
Nice things end too fast and she had to go back to work and he said he had a novel he had to finish this week, adding that it usually took him ten or twelve days. ‘A twenty-page chapter a day,’ he said, ‘it’s amazing how quick you get to 50,000 words.’ Now she knew he was joking around; who writes a novel that fast? Who writes 20 pages a day? She had heard that novelists work years on books.
She was curious to know more and they made a date for Friday after work; she would go up there to see him and they’d have dinner, drinks, whatever happened after that.
5
At work, she avoided Hudson’s remarks and glances and winks. When he wanted to have a session in his office, she said she was on her period and had a headache. ‘Darn,’ said her boss, ‘Next week. What a wait!’
She looked at him differently; he was not the man she thought he was. He was too old, too flabby, too sure of himself, and she never cared for that horrid cologne he liked to wear.
She had David Challon on her mind every minute of the day. She couldn’t wait for Friday.
She would wear something tight and sexy; she had just the plaid skirt and black sweater to do the trick.
6
He wasn’t fooling her. David Challon was a writer all right.
His rented room was on the fifth floor of the building on 114th. The halls smelled like cooked chicken and flour and mould. At his door, she could hear a typewriter clacking away and, whoever it was, they sure typed fast. At first she felt a pang of jealousy, thinking some girl was in there, but then realized David was doing his own typing.
She knocked.
The typing stopped.
The door opened.
‘Oh,’ he said, looking surprised, ‘Hi. Hello. Come in.’
He wore a dirty T-shirt and khaki pants. He had two or three days of unshaven beard on his face. She liked the look.
‘Did you forget our date?’ she asked.
‘No, no,’ he said, smiling, touching her shoulder, ‘I lost track of time. Happens sometimes when I’m on a roll with a novel, or even a story.’
A black Remington typewriter sat on a card table, the table next to the window. Also on the table were various stacks of tying paper, white and yellow, and carbon paper. There was a single bed in the corner, not unlike the bed in her room. There were also several hundred paperback books scattered all over the room; on two small bookshelves, on the floor, in boxes, some on the sink, some on the bed, some under the bed, some on the windowsill.
‘Don’t tell me you wrote all these,’ she said.
He laughed at that. ‘I wish. I’d be dead by now from exhaustion . But I did write some of them,’ and he gestured to one of the small shelves. ‘These are all mine.’
There was pride in his voice.
Only three had ‘David Challon’ on the covers, two science-fictions and one mystery: Revolt on Beta Moon 13, To Kill a Galaxy and Death Never Turns the Door Knob. The rest had other men’s names: as Al Dwight, there was Invasion of the Radioactive Slugs from Deep Down, The Falling Aliens Are Dizzy, Diary of a Teenage Martian Psycho Killer, and I Will Blow Up Your Sun or Rule Your World – Choose! As Dan Hawthorne , there was Hellcat Hellion on Sin Campus (which David had mentioned), Lust Among the Wanton Sinners, Desire My Sire, Bad Sexy Girlfriend in White Shorts and Yellow Halter, I See You Naked and I Love It …
He explained to her these were pseudonyms, pen names, and why they were used: ‘Mostly the publishers prefer it. Some are ‘house names’ that many fellows, and gals, write under; some are just trash I wrote based on an idea or outline some editor gave me and I’d rather not have my name on; and some, like the, uh, more explicit books, well, I don’t want the police to come knock down my door and take me in for obscenity.’
‘You can get arrested for writing this?’ She picked up Lust Among the Wanton Sinners and leafed through it.
‘It happens.’
She spotted a love-making scene. ‘Racy.’
‘Sleazy.’
‘How much do you get paid for these books?’
He shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘$500–700, depends. One I only got $250 for, the damn publisher went out of business and still owes me $300 that I’ll never see.’
‘And you write one a week?’
‘More like two a month: one sleaze, one mystery or sci-fi. The rest of the time I work on short stories or my big fat serious novel, it’s about the Civil War.’
‘Really?’
‘Called The Sound of Distant Drums.’
‘I like Civil War stories. I loved Gone with the Wind.’
He made a face. ‘Frankly my dear …’
She giggled. ‘I don’t give a hoot.’
‘You don’t swear?’
‘Hell no.’
He laughed and grabbed her and kissed her.
She handed him the racy book back. ‘That’s pretty good money, so why do you live … here?’
‘This dump?’
‘In a manner of words.’
‘Habit and familiarity,’ he said. ‘I lived here when I hadn’t sold a word. I had seventy bucks to my name. I was hungry, crazy, scared. That was two years ago. I wrote a dozen stories over three weeks until I finally sold one. Good thing, too, as I had five dollars and two cents in my pocket. Yes, that was two years ago. I’ve barely gotten away from this typewriter since.’
‘You’re up on your feet now.’
‘And I have money to take a beautiful dame like you to a fancy schmancy restaurant tonight.’
‘Oh really now?’
‘Let me change.’
He took his t-shirt off. She licked her lips. She liked what she saw. He was so much more slender, with muscles, than Hudson.
‘Wait,’ she said, going to him. ‘No need to rush,’ and she pushed him onto the bed.
‘Aggressive,’ he said.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It’s different.’
‘I’ll show you something different, big boy.’
She started kissing his chest, kissing
down his stomach, unzipping his pants.
‘Cripes,’ he said, his eyes wide.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing, just …’
‘Just?’ she said. She reached into his pants, pulling away at his boxer shorts, reaching into the front opening, grasping his manhood with an her eager, wanton hand.
He said, ‘Just not many girls do this … with their … you know …’
‘Respectable girls, you mean?’
‘I mean …’
‘I’m not most girls,’ Jill said. She’d never done this, either, but she’d read about it, and now was the time to give it a try.
David didn’t complain.
7
They walked down 115th to a restaurant he knew and she took his arm and squeezed. She looked happy. ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing a real bona fide writer,’ she said. ‘If my parents could see me now!’
‘I don’t know about bona fide,’ he said. He was amused by the label.
‘How about ‘real’?’
‘I’m just a hack. I’m not delusional.’
‘You’ll be famous one day,’ she told him. ‘Famous and rich.’
‘I’ll settle for rich.’
‘Is it just about the money?’ she asked.
‘Money you can’t shake a stick at, pretty lady.’
‘What about art?’ she asked.
‘Good question,’ he replied. ‘What about it?’
8
They saw each other two or three times a week for the next month. The love-making was passionate and fulfilling and Jill found herself not needing any other man, especially her boss. But it was hard to keep coming up with excuses to not have sex with Hudson. She gave in now and then because he was so forceful and insistent. She felt guilty after. But why? She and David had not made any exclusive agreement, although she wanted to.
She was thinking of marriage to the writer; she could see herself as an author’s wife, even the wife of a great novelist. She imagined The Sound of Distant Drums read in college classes, professors discussing the symbolism and importance of such a tome. The dedication on the book would read: ‘For my darling wife, Jill, who stood at my side and made this possible.’ She would be immortalized! A hundred years from now, scholars and students would do research on her, wonder who the real Jill Challon was.
Jill Challon.
Nice.
So one day after giving in to Hudson, after a quick two-minute lay across his desk, she said, ‘Mr Hudson, I can’t do this any more.’
He gave her a funny look. ‘Mr Hudson?’
‘Evan,’ she said seriously, ‘this is the last time. I can’t … not any more.’
‘What? Why?’
‘I’m … seeing someone.’
‘So?’
‘It’s serious.’
‘This is just sex.’
‘Well …’
‘You love sex.’
‘I’m in love with him.’
‘Do you plan to marry the lucky fellah?’
‘I …’ She stopped. ‘Yes.’
‘So. I’m married. Married people have their affairs. No reason for us to stop.’
‘I have to stop … Evan. Please.’
‘You like your job?’ he said.
She was surprised by the question. ‘Are you threatening to fire me, if I don’t …’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled. ‘This has always been physical. I know you could never love a man like me, although I could give you the world.’
‘And you have a wife.’
‘Think about this. You’re being … emotional. Just look at it as part of the job, keeping the boss happy. I like to be happy. When I’m happy, paychecks sometimes have a bonus.’
She knew she had to find another job. She had to quit. Now. Before she left for lunch, after Hudson had stepped out for a client meeting, she typed up a letter of resignation, asking for her last paycheck to be mailed.
She felt an incredible weight lifted from her heart when she walked away from the office.
9
She thought she’d surprise David, now that she had the rest of the day free. She went to her room and changed into the blue summer dress he liked. It was a warm day in Manhattan, the kind of day for such a dress. She didn’t wear a bra, so that her nipples were visible. She couldn’t take the subway like this, having men and boys leer at her and trying to cop a feel as they sometimes did, so she splurged and took a cab uptown. It would be her last big spend until she found a new job. She had enough saved to last her two months, but she wanted to be working again by next week. What else would she do?
She heard voices in David’s room. She pressed her ear to the door. His voice, and a woman’s, and classical music on the radio. They were both laughing. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She felt ugly pain in her chest.
She touched the doorknob. It wasn’t locked. She thought about the title of one of his books: Death Never Turns the Door Knob.
Turn around and leave, she told herself. Don’t go in there. Forget about it. He wasn’t expecting you.
She turned the knob and opened the door.
She walked in.
They didn’t see her at first.
David sat at his card table, a woman in his lap. The woman only wore a black bra and garters.
David was naked.
They were giggling and kissing and sharing a bottle of wine.
‘David?’ she said.
They stopped and turned to her.
‘Jill, my God,’ David said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘And who is this?’ the half-naked woman asked. ‘Another one of your floozies, Davey?’ The woman was drunk. She was older – in her mid-thirties, wore a lot of make-up. Her hair was reddish-brown and her breasts were so small that Jill wondered why she bothered with a bra.
David gently pushed the woman off his lap and stood up. ‘Jill, what are you doing here?’
He found a pair of pants on the floor and put them on.
Jill was in tears. ‘David, how could you?’
The woman giggled. ‘Yeah, David, how could you? You did it again. You broke another heart. Tsk tsk, you naughty sexy boy.’
‘Who are you?’ Jill nearly screamed at the woman.
‘I should ask you the same,’ the woman said, and took a long drink from the wine bottle.
David put a shirt on. ‘This is the definition of awkwardness.’
‘I’ll make it easy for you, you cad you.’ The woman handed him the bottle and started to collect her clothes.
The clothes looked expensive; a matching aqua blue skirt and jacket, a white silk blouse.
Jill noticed the jewellery the woman wore – two necklaces, earrings, and gold watch on her wrist – all with diamonds.
‘Oh my,’ David said. He sat on the edge of his bed and put his face in his hands. ‘I’m too drunk to deal with this.’
‘Deal with it,’ the woman said, dressed now. ‘Explain to this poor little girl the rules of the adult world and the facts of eros. See you tomorrow?’
David didn’t answer.
The woman turned to Jill. ‘Don’t feel too special. He does this to every woman he meets. This isn’t the first time we’ve … well ...’
The woman left.
Jill stood in the centre of the room, unable to move, tears still in her eyes.
David looked up. ‘What are you doing here, Jill? Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘I quit,’ she said softly.
‘You did what?’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘Well, you did that quite splendidly.’
‘Who is that woman?’
‘No one. Just a … woman. Someone I know.’
‘Did you make l
ove to her?’
He groaned. ‘What do you want me to say? Are we married?’
I’m a hypocrite, she thought. She’d just had sex with her boss two hours ago, and had been the past month: her dirty secret. David wasn’t guilty of any sin she hadn’t committed herself.
Married …
‘No, we’re not.’ She sat down next to him and touched hid hand. ‘But we could be.’
‘Eh?’
‘Do you love her?’
‘Who? Diane? No. Hell, no. She’s just – she’s just this wealthy widow I know from the Village. She lives by you, actually. Sort of. Same area.’
She nodded. ‘Were you seeing her the day we met?’
‘I had broken up with her.’
‘So you don’t love her.’
‘She’s a vampire,’ he said. ‘She sucks … life out of you.’
‘Then why …?’
‘She showed up at my door. Like you did. This is the day for big surprises, huh? Jesus, I should’ve never gotten out of bed.’
‘You don’t need to see her any more, David.’
‘I don’t want to. Believe me. Look what she did, talked me into wasting a writing day, talked me into drinking …’
‘I don’t want to know,’ Jill said. She took his hand in hers. ‘I forgive you.’
‘Do I need forgiveness?’
‘I want to be your wife,’ she told him, ‘I want your baby.’
‘Gee, no gal’s ever put it that way.’ He grinned.
‘I’m serious.’
‘You want me?’
‘I love you.’
They embraced. He tasted of wine and he smelled of that other woman’s perfume, but she put it out of her mind.
10
She spent the night there and they ordered a pizza and beer and they laughed it all off – that other woman, Jill’s job (she didn’t tell him the real reason why she quit) – and they made love and talked marriage and babies and everything seemed perfect and nice.
David woke up at seven in the morning and told her he needed to catch up on the writing time he missed yesterday. He was all business. He seemed distant but she didn’t fault him. He had to work and make money. And she had to go and find another job.
She kissed him goodbye.
‘See you tonight?’ she asked.
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