“Love one, thanks. What is it that you do out here, Mr. Easton?”
He shook the concoction, poured the chilled liquid into a glass, and offered it to her. “I have the dubious distinction of being a screenwriter. My raison d’être is taking an abysmal script and making it borderline mediocre.”
“Hmm, I may have seen a few of the films you’ve worked on, as they were all exceedingly mediocre.” She took a sip of her drink and gasped. “Great grandmother’s balls! This may be the driest martini I’ve ever had. Have you ever heard of a little thing called vermouth?”
“I’ve always been of the mindset that the proper ratio of vermouth to gin is achieved by running one’s hand over the label on the vermouth bottle just prior to filling the glass fully with gin.”
“Then why call it a martini?”
“My good woman, a martini is a drink of distinction, while gin is something slurped noisily by hobos and bootleggers.”
“By that logic, why not just refer to what you’re drinking as the queen’s vagina? That sounds frightfully regal and is almost never slurped noisily by hobos or bootleggers.”
He looked at her, his eyes filled with laughter. “Then the queen’s vagina it shall be. I’m having a party in my bungalow this evening, which makes it much like every other evening. Perhaps you’d like to stop in and enjoy the queen’s vagina with us.”
“Mr. Easton, how can I turn down an offer of such prim grandeur? I haven’t tasted the queen’s vagina in days.”
“Splendid. I’m in bungalow sixteen. I hope to see you this evening, and frequently after that.”
Violet liked this man quite a bit. “I believe that can be arranged.”
*
Moxie shuffled up the steps to her apartment building, utterly exhausted. It was after three in the morning, and she had sung her ass off all night. She unlocked the front door as quietly as she could and slipped through the darkened communal parlor.
The only people permitted to live at Mrs. Bennington’s building were unmarried women, a rule she made very clear when Moxie moved in. About sixteen of them resided there, all aspiring actresses, singers, and dancers of some kind. Some were earning their way as waitresses or cigarette girls until they could get a paying gig, so Moxie felt fortunate to have even secured a job singing.
The one thing Mrs. Bennington wasn’t too picky about, however, was the hours people kept. So as long as Moxie didn’t wake anyone, she could come and go as she pleased.
She paused at the foot of the staircase before beginning her long, tiring journey to the fourth floor. As she stepped, she tried to avoid creaky areas and was fairly pleased that she was, for the most part, successful. Finally at her apartment door, she unlocked it and opened it slowly, in an attempt not to wake Irene.
The dim light from the hallway cast a faint glow into the darkened room. On the small dinette table a few feet in front of her she saw a letter, and her mind lurched for an instant. Could it possibly be from Violet?
She turned on a small lamp and closed the door behind her, striding to the table to examine it. Her name was on the front, written in Violet’s ornate handwriting, and she couldn’t fight the broad smile that came over her as she tried to open the envelope as silently as humanly possible.
This letter was longer than the last, and Moxie sat excitedly at the table and angled herself so that the dim beam from the lamp shone directly onto the paper.
Moxie,
Greetings from the westward-bound Chief. I believe as I write this, I am somewhere outside of Kansas City, but I’m not completely certain.
How is life treating you? I do hope things are going well at the Luna for you.
By the time you receive this missive, I’ll be thoroughly ensconced in the Hollywood zeitgeist, though I plan to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut (as opposed to keeping my mouth open and my eyes shut, which is a much more common way to work your way to the top in this industry but, sadly, just not my style).
Actually, come to think of it, I’ve never been terribly good at the mouth-shutting part, but as I get older, I am getting better at the part where I at least regret whatever I just said that was either very inappropriate, scandalously untoward, or, in some particularly candid moments when the planets are aligned, both of those things. Remorse must count for something, right? Perhaps not enough to negate the verbal atrocity, but it’s certainly better than nothing, I would think.
I have to say that I am finding rail travel particularly tedious. For example, no one has publicly launched anything from their anus this entire trip, though, for a time yesterday in the dining car, it did sound as if an elderly man a few tables over was making a valiant attempt to. Nor has anyone engaged in any type of spectator sex act, not even the garden-variety, humdrum, man/woman kind.
The people onboard seem quite dour, actually. This morning at breakfast, I sat with a woman who for some reason did not want to hear my story about the night that Wil got so drunk that when she was overcome inextricably in a fit of laughter and unable to catch her breath, she peed herself. The woman just kept mumbling something into her pancake stack and asking me to be quiet. I found it all exceptionally rude, as I hadn’t even reached the part about her stripping down naked and trying to play the spoons with her ass cheeks, which really is the highlight of that story, as you can probably well imagine. The ass is, after all, a remarkable piece of engineering, but its musicality lies elsewhere. It’s simply not designed to play the spoons—or even the tuba, for that matter.
Clitty, however, seems to be taking this high-speed jaunt in stride. He has gone out of his way to try to make eye contact with every poor bastard in the dining car every time we pass through, in the hopes that they will share a morsel with him. I swear to God, earlier today I could have sworn I saw him suck in his cheeks in a superficial attempt to look like a hungry stray. When no one fell for his ploy, he promptly shat, as though editorializing what was clearly the breakfast of the walking dead. I, for one, applauded him.
Goodness, there has been a great deal of ass-talk in this letter. I would apologize for it, but upon rereading, those seem to be the best parts. Instead, I’ll advise you to wallow in the delicious assiness of this correspondence. Let it enfold you in its warm embrace.
Have you noticed that I’m just prattling on about nothing now? When all sense and courtesy should have dictated that I close this letter long before the mention of public sex acts, asses playing tubas, or Clitty’s act of civil disobedience, I clearly chose to continue.
Why, you ask? Well, I suppose that I’m having a hard time telling you good-bye.
Since I left New York, our communication has been, by necessity, one-way. I’ll not mail this without including my new address on the envelope, in the hopes that you’ve been thinking of me even a fraction of the amount that I’ve been reflecting on both you and the night we met.
If you haven’t been, and if my letters to you have become a nuisance, this is your chance to say so. I won’t contact you again unless I first hear from you. If you want to continue this correspondence and see where it may take us, you need only reply to this letter. To be certain, I would be elated if you chose to do so.
I do miss the sound of your voice and the gentle ease of your laughter. I hope to hear from you soon.
Violet
Moxie set the letter down as she finished reading and stared for a moment at the wall. What the hell was happening? Why was she so euphoric to hear from Violet?
She had, after all, spent only one evening in this woman’s company. It wasn’t as though they had known each other for years.
She drifted back to that night, now exactly a week ago. In fact, it was probably right around this time of morning when they had…well, when they had done whatever it was that they did.
Moxie flinched again at the realization. She had mentally pictured every imaginable sexual act and position, trying to spark some shred of a memory from that evening. Honestly, she was a little concerned at how much time she w
as spending pondering that event. Her imagination lingered there more and more.
She closed her eyes to replay a few of her favorite scenes. She imagined Violet over her, undressing her as their mouths met hungrily.
In a flash, they were both naked and glistening with sweat as Moxie rode Violet, their bodies moving rhythmically and with tremendous urgency.
Another flash and Moxie was lying on the bed, her legs dangling over the side, as Violet knelt on the floor before her, bringing her to climax with the prowess of her nimble mouth.
Her eyes flew open as her own carnal visions shocked her back into reality.
“Christ,” she whispered, putting her face in her hands. She was becoming an emotional mess. True, those thoughts highly aroused her, and she was slowly beginning to accept that fact. But these ruminations had begun to intrude frequently into her consciousness, and they were astoundingly distracting.
She had always been a romantic and had cared more for love than for sex. It was just unfortunate that love had never happened—nothing beyond fleeting infatuation or fancy. Perhaps she had sabotaged herself with her natural standoffishness. But despite her reclusive disposition, Moxie had never wanted anything as much as she had wanted to be cherished.
Instead, Moxie had been an object of lust. The dates in her past had been filled with stilted conversation, punctuated by awkward sexual fumbling. In fact, her minor experiences with sex didn’t merit any fantasies or daydreams. They simply hadn’t been that great. Now she found herself compulsively cycling through various erotic mental interludes with a woman she had spent only a matter of hours with. It was as though Violet had turned on a switch somewhere inside her.
If only she could remember what they did when they slept together. At least then, she wouldn’t have to speculate. What if she continued to guess like this? Soon she’d be imagining one of them bound and swinging from a chandelier while the other smeared her own body with maple syrup and Sen-Sen.
She closed her eyes to mull on this scene further, then slapped her forehead in irritation. She cursed this new low threshold for titillation she had developed.
Picking up the letter, she began to read it again. She chuckled as she counted just how many references to ass there had been in the letter, and she let it enfold her in its warm embrace—well, as much as that was possible.
She examined the return address that looked to be hastily scrawled.
“The Garden of Allah,” she muttered. What an intriguing name. She brushed the lettering with her fingers and contemplated what would happen if she did reply to Violet, as well as what would happen if she didn’t.
Chapter Five
Violet poured brandy, triple sec, and lemon juice into a cocktail shaker over ice, covered it, and shook it vigorously.
“Good Lord, Vi,” Peter said. “You’re not mixing that drink, you’re thrashing it.”
She poured the frothy concoction into a glass. “I like my sidecars somewhat demoralized.”
“Exactly how I like my women,” Peter murmured into his gin.
“That says so much about you.”
Fitzhugh sat in a chair in the corner of Peter’s bungalow, smoking a cigar with great zeal, and Violet turned her attention to him. “Did you want a refill, Fitzy? I made plenty.” She rattled the ice in the shaker at him as an added temptation.
“I don’t think so, Vi,” he answered. “Any more of those, and I won’t be able to drive the car back.”
“Fair enough.” She stepped away from Peter’s makeshift yet fully stocked bar and took a seat in the armchair between them, feeling momentarily pleased with herself. In ordinary circumstances, these two men would probably never have drinks together, but now, thanks to her, the class system was momentarily suspended. Violet always liked things best when everyone was on equal footing. She had been in town for just under two weeks, and she already felt like the great regulator. “So, Peter, did you actually go to work today?”
“I did. You’d have been proud of me.” He looked out the window at the last vestiges of sunlight hanging in the sky. “But of course it just brought regret.”
“What happened?” Fitzhugh asked, leaning forward.
“You’ll never believe the script I’ve been assigned. It’s a complete travesty.”
“ The House at Pooh Corner ?” Violet asked.
“If only it were that good. They have given me Husbands and Wives, apparently the next vehicle for William Haines. I’m just not sure if he’s cast as a husband or a wife. I’ll have to march in tomorrow and tell them I won’t do it.”
Violet’s good humor started to fade. “Why on earth not?”
“Please, Vi, the man’s a degenerate. I won’t be able to write dialogue that’s supposed to come out of his mouth. God only knows what, or who, he’s had in there.”
She blinked at him for a moment and drew in a deep breath. “You complete fucking hypocrite.”
He appeared stunned. “What?”
She looked to Fitzhugh, whose expression had rapidly changed to alarm and concern. He’d just have to be concerned, damn it. “Peter, do you really think you have the moral high ground here? Let me make sure that I have the complete picture. You sit here in this bungalow, living the life of a bachelor, with your dick in every mid-priced whore and naïve starlet who’s simple enough to believe your empty promises of furthering her career, and you— you dare judge someone? With your wife and children sequestered three thousand miles away and your liver full of gin, you honestly hold your lifestyle superior to a homosexual’s? You think you’re too good to write for someone because of the kind of sex he has? Let me explain a few things to you, Mr. Easton. It would benefit you to start measuring people by the things that really matter. Are they honest? Compassionate? Trustworthy? Or are they bigoted, close-minded, and cruel?”
She stood, setting her drink on the coffee table gently and straightening her dress with her palms. Clitty rose too, poised to go wherever she did.
“Vi—” Peter began.
“Mull on that.” Her extended palm signaled that she was done listening to him. “And do make sure you take into account that, by your definition, I too am a degenerate and apparently therefore worthy of your scorn and derision. So go ahead, but I refuse to sit here for it.” She strode to the door and opened it. “I hope to see you bright and early Monday morning, Fitzy. Good night, gentlemen.”
The door shut softly, leaving the two men to ponder her disclosure.
As Violet walked rapidly back to her place, she was livid, completely incensed that someone she had been developing such a pleasant friendship with had said something so callous and intolerant. She wished she had shouted everything she had just said, but that wasn’t in her. When she was happy, she was lighthearted and calm. When she was angry, she was stoic and grave.
She did possess the passion to really scream at someone. Somewhere along the line, no doubt amongst the many altercations with her parents, she had learned that it was better to simply shut down emotionally and walk away. That was how she was able to deal with most things. To become enraged would give people power over her. To look them squarely in the eye, tell them “bullshit,” and then leave gave her the upper hand.
As she entered her bungalow, she saw a piece of mail had been slipped under the door. A closer look revealed it was from Moxie, and she was unable to suppress a smile. “Your timing’s getting a whole lot better, toots.”
She sat on the sofa, and Clitty jumped up to sit beside her. Slowly, she slid her finger under the envelope flap and prepared herself for whatever Moxie had decided to write.
Violet,
To say that I’ve thought about writing you a hundred times may be an understatement, so let’s agree that the number is somewhere between a hundred and five thousand. Every time I considered not replying to your last letter, I experienced an overwhelming sadness. And every time I considered replying, I wondered what I would say and exactly what it would mean.
The truth is that I want
very much to correspond with you. I love getting your letters. I’ve never really received mail before so, yes, it has a certain novelty. But the stories of your comically tawdry exploits must unquestionably surpass what passes for a standard letter these days.
This may shock you, but most of us just muddle through our lives without a constant parade of anal artists, public fornicators, ass musicians, and pancake-eating corpses vying for our attention. I’m still not certain exactly what quality you possess that attracts these kinds of people, but it wouldn’t be truthful if I said that I didn’t find it fascinating, in a bizarre, carnival-sideshow sort of way.
I suppose I should try and catch you up on things here. Julian has started coming into the Luna a couple times a week. He’s almost always on the arm of a fella named Gary, who’s fairly easy on the eyes.
According to Julian, Wil is a hair’s breadth away from getting canned from Secrets and Lies. Apparently her drinking (and God only knows what else) is becoming increasingly detrimental to her performance. She drinks to steel her nerves, does poorly because she’s sozzled, and then gets even more nervous for the next night’s performance, so she has a little more. I don’t know if you’ve spoken with her since your arrival in California, but perhaps you could contact her and offer her some consolation or advice. It’s ironic that a woman who seemed so self-possessed when I met her can deep down be filled with such self-doubt.
I got my third set at the Luna, and I hear that I may have you to thank for that. I appreciate anything you may have told my boss to make him consider it. So far, things are going well. While I’m busy now, and the money’s better, I worry that I may be running myself ragged. Cotton, my agent, says he’s trying to get someone from the Kasbah to come out to see me perform in the hopes that I can transition from upscale juice joint to upscale supper club. It would be fantastic if that happened, if just for the shift in clientele—to work for people who weren’t necessarily criminals. After the supper club, who knows? Perhaps I could even put out a record.
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