by Ritz, David
“He doesn’t really talk about it. But I can imagine . . .”
Jason continued. “It’s hard to imagine how it fucks you up. You can’t perform. You just can’t. You close your eyes and try to imagine something that has nothing to do with sex, something like your aunt’s funeral, anything to keep you from getting too excited too quickly. You have foreplay for a half hour, an hour. You give her head forever. You work on your mind, you tell yourself, Take it easy, go slow, give it time. And then the second you go in, you explode. You cum before she can feel a thing.
“Do you have any idea what that does to a man, Power? It’s the most fuckin’ humiliating thing in the world. You beg the girl not to say anything to anyone. You pray to God she won’t because you don’t want your friends to know. You live in fear that this thing’s gonna haunt you your entire life. I’m telling you, man, there’s nothing good about it.
“I’ve read dozens of case studies on men with this syndrome. There have been instances when they’re so enraged with themselves they wind up beating women. Even killing them. Don’t get the wrong idea, Power. That’s not me. I’ve never done as much as screamed at a lady, much less hit one. But I can understand it. I can understand why men—men who can’t satisfy women—go crazy.”
“Does doing lines help or hurt?”
“I’ve tried it both ways. I started in tooting because, after years of struggling with this thing while I was dead sober, someone said toot helped. They said if you snort it or even put it on your cock you’ll last longer. Well, it didn’t work—not one fuckin’ bit. But the blow did do something—it washed away my bad feelings. Made me feel great. It became a substitute for sex. Maybe it’s even better than sex. Less complicated. But then I started to get a thing for you and started thinking, Hell, maybe I’m not straight after all. Maybe I cum quick because I don’t want a woman. Maybe I want a guy like you.”
Here we go again, I thought.
“How do you know you’re not gay, Power, if you haven’t tried?”
“Jason,” I said firmly, “back the fuck off.”
“Oh, well, you can’t blame me for wanting to experiment, can you?”
I didn’t answer.
While Jason got lost in his sandwich, I kept thinking of Slim and the medical report I’d found in the garbage. Slim and Jason had the same problem. Jason was saying how cumming too soon could drive a man crazy, twist his mind into knots, and turn him violent. I didn’t know what to think about the problem. But I did know one thing—I needed to keep making it clear to Jason that, no matter how confused he might be about his sexuality, I wasn’t confused at all. I liked women.
While Jason went up to the deli counter to order another pastrami sandwich, I realized that I was about to fall out. I’d been up for nearly twenty straight hours. I needed to sleep. I needed Jason to finish his food so he could drive me back to his loft, where I’d left my car. Fact is, I was so exhausted that for a moment I closed my eyes and actually nodded out. When I opened my eyes I looked at a man who was walking through the front door of Eisenstock’s. I had to be dreaming. I squeezed my eyes closed and opened them again. I wasn’t dreaming. It was Irv, and he was walking right to me.
By then Jason had returned to the table, and I had gotten up to greet Irv. I was so shocked I could hardly speak. Had Irv been transferred to a hospital in Miami Beach? Had he wandered out of his room? Was he sleepwalking? Would he even recognize me?
“Power,” he said, “introduce me to your friend.”
I stumbled before I calmed enough to say, “Jason, this is Irv Wasserman.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Jason. “Care to join us?”
“Oh, no,” said Irv. “I couldn’t sleep so I came for a little tea and maybe a piece of cheesecake. I don’t want to bother you boys. I’ll give you my number, Power. Call if you get a chance. No hurry. No worries.”
As Irv walked to the counter to order, Jason asked me, “Who’s that?”
“Just a guy,” I said.
Next day I slept past noon. My dreams—about tornados and earthquakes, fires and floods—were intense, though I couldn’t remember the details. It just felt like the world was coming to an end. When I opened my eyes, I forgot where I was. Atlanta? Chicago? No, I was in Miami Beach, in my apartment in Sugar’s Shack. I was working for Sugar. I was his most trusted customers’ man. He let me service his best clients. When he went to the celebrity parties where movie stars and athletes hung out, he took me along. He introduced me to the finest ladies on the planet. He gave me a crazy salary, he leased me a Jaguar, and he had me living in a luxury apartment rent-free. Even if he did call me his assistant, I couldn’t complain about the way he treated me any more than I could complain about the way Slim treated me or, for that matter, the way Irv treated me. I was a blessed man. But on this particular morning, after a long sleep filled with end-of-the-world dreams, I was a confused man. I didn’t know why in hell Irv had turned up. I didn’t know if he knew I was going to be at Eisenstock’s Deli or whether it was pure coincidence. I didn’t know if he was in his right mind—he had, after all, recognized me and sounded normal—or whether he had escaped from a nuthouse. I didn’t know anything except that he had given me his number, and before I did anything, I found myself reaching out to him. I had to know what was happening.
He answered on the first ring.
“Irv, it’s Power.”
“Glad you called.”
“You okay?”
“As okay as an old man can be. Better that I see you in person. The phone’s no good. Can you come over?”
“Sure. Just tell me where.”
“Palm Beach. You know where Worth Avenue ends at Ocean Boulevard?”
“I can find it.”
“There’s an apartment building. The Kirkwood. Ask for Milton Eisenstock.”
“That was the name of the deli from last night.”
“Owned by my late uncle Milton, may he rest in peace. Don’t come too late. I go to sleep early.”
“How about in a couple of hours?”
“A couple of hours is good. By then I’m up from my nap.”
The huge apartment overlooked the ocean. Irv looked tired. He wore a navy sports shirt and black pants. He walked slower than I remembered. Lumbering, he led me to the living room furnished with overstuffed chairs and an L-shaped couch the color of golden wheat. The sliding glass door was open to let the ocean breeze blow through. In the middle of the floor was an easel that held a painting of an old man with a gray beard who sat alone in a boat in the middle of the sea. The figure of the man was small in comparison to the size of the sea.
“You like art, Power?” was the first thing Irv asked as he sat on the couch. I sat on a chair across from him. We both stared at the painting.
“Don’t know anything about art,” I said.
“Me either. But today I bought a painting. I bought this painting. I can’t tell you why except that when I saw it I knew I had to have it. I saw it at an art gallery down the street. I’d walked by that gallery a hundred times before, but never once did I think about stopping in to buy or even look. But today this picture was in the window. Today I stopped in and looked, and today I had them deliver this painting into my living room, complete with an easel. I bought it for one simple reason.”
“I guess that’s because you liked it.”
“No, Power, it’s not that I like it. Of course I don’t dislike it. But I bought it because I have to look at it. It’s saying something to me that I have to hear. And do you know what it’s saying?”
I didn’t know what to say. I still wasn’t sure about Irv’s mental condition. I figured it was best to let him do the talking.
“What’s it saying, Irv?” I asked.
“It’s saying that I’m alone, Power, that’s what it’s saying. It’s also saying I better get used to it. There’s no way around it. You want a cup of coffee, Power? A cup of tea?”
“Coffee would be great.”
“C
ream and sugar?”
“Please.”
Irv raised his voice and called, “Maria . . . bring us a tea and coffee . . . both light and sweet.”
Irv kept staring at the painting. “So now you understand why I had to buy this thing,” he said. “You’re seeing what I’m seeing, aren’t you?”
I looked at the painting and then I looked at Irv. “You’re seeing yourself,” I said.
“I’m seeing myself,” Irv confirmed. “I’m out there sitting in a sea of nothing.”
“But you have a lot. You have your health back.”
“My health never went away.”
“The last time I saw you in Chicago, though, you were acting like—”
Irv stopped me and said, “Acting is the right word.”
“But why?”
“Well, Power, if you act one way, sometimes people act another.”
“I see,” I said as the tea and coffee arrived on a silver tray with an assortment of chocolate cookies.
“I saw plenty,” said Irv. “I saw things I didn’t want to see but things I needed to see. There were things that made me sick, the same things that put me in the boat and blew me out to sea. So that’s where I am now, drifting. Just drifting.”
“And what about the others?” I asked.
“Which others?”
“The ones who didn’t understand you were acting.”
“Gone.”
“John Mackey?” I asked, remembering the pale-skinned consigliere who smoked those skinny cigars.
“Terrible accident. A truck ran him off the road. His car went up in flames. Nothing left of anything . . . or anyone.”
“And Judy?”
“Gone.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Last I heard, Dubai, but I don’t ask. What’s a Jewish girl doing in Dubai? Pretending she’s not Jewish—that’s what she’s doing. I don’t care. I cut her off. My own blood, but I’m through. Not another cent.”
“And your business?”
“Sold.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Ask the man in the boat why he’s alone. If the painting could talk, he’d tell you that’s because there’s no one left to trust. That is the great fact, Power. That is the reason God woke me up in the middle of the night to get a piece of cheesecake at my late uncle’s deli, may he rest in peace. God wanted that I should bump into you. He wanted that I should tell you the Great Fact. Your uncle Slim wanted me to teach you, but I couldn’t teach you until I learned it myself. And what I learned was the people—the very person—I trusted most fucked me the worst. Three words, Power, three little words that took me a lifetime to learn. Don’t trust anyone.”
“But aren’t you trusting me by telling me all this?” I asked.
“I don’t need to trust you. I don’t need to trust anyone anymore. There’s no more operation. No more merchandise. No more Candy Girl and no more interest in the music business. Nothing to buy, nothing to sell, nothing to steal. No businesses, no budgets, no P&L statements. Only a little account in a bank in Switzerland.”
I wanted to ask how “little” that account really was, but of course I didn’t. I could only imagine. I didn’t say anything while Irv nibbled on a chocolate cookie and took a sip of tea, all the while staring at the painting. “Judy was in on it,” he finally said.
I kept silent. I knew I didn’t have to say anything. Irv needed to tell someone—and I just happened to be that someone.
“Judy and her mother both. Judy, her mother, and her mother’s fuckin’ husband, Harvey, the guy with the car dealership. They were in on it with John Mackey. The whole thing had been in the works for months.”
“What made you suspect?”
“I saw a couple of e-mails from Judy to Mackey. Because I never had a computer in the office, and because I never told Mackey I can use a computer, he thought I didn’t know how to use one. But when everyone started using them, I got a teacher who came to my home. I learned how to use a computer. I started smelling shit on Mackey’s computer. That’s when I knew if I wanted to find the truth I had to lose my mind.”
“Or make it seem that way,” I added.
“Sometimes it felt like I wasn’t acting. Like I really was going crazy. To have a daughter do this to you. To have your most trusted man stab you in the back and try to rob you blind. This is something no man can endure. But I endured it. I looked at the situation and said, ‘This is happening to you. This is real. You are not as smart as you thought you were. People fooled you. People used you. People cannot be trusted. So just get in your boat and sit. Get used to being alone.’ ”
“Did you say anything to Judy or her mother?”
“What could I say? It was enough that Harvey, the Cadillac dealer, suffered a great misfortune. A disgruntled employee went crazy, put a gun in Harvey’s ear, and shot him dead. They never caught the employee. But the whole thing scared Judy and her mother. Her mother moved to Bermuda and Judy went off to live with the Arabs.”
I finished my coffee. I didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve called you out here on this beautiful day,” said Irv, “to tell you a sad story. I’d like to sweeten the story. I’d like to make it prettier than it is. But I owe you the truth. Now come, let’s look at the sunset. Looking at the sunset is the highlight of my day.”
I followed him out to the balcony. As the sun slipped behind the horizon, the sky turned purple-pink. “It’s worth living in Florida,” said Irv, “just to see these sunsets.”
After a few minutes we went inside and took our seats. “I haven’t asked you what you’re doing in Miami, Power. I haven’t asked you any questions because I don’t need any answers. I figure you’re here because Slim sent you to keep learning. I figure you’re still following Slim’s lead.”
“And shouldn’t I be?”
Irv offered a half smile. He didn’t answer my question but instead said, “I have a present for you. The painting. I want you to take the painting.”
“But I thought you loved it.”
“I didn’t say I loved it. I didn’t even say I liked it. I said I had to look at it. Now I’ve looked at it enough. I want you to have it. Hang it on your wall. It’s not ugly. It’s well done. The man in the boat looks real. The sea around him looks like a real sea. It tells you a story you can’t forget. It’s my story, Power. It’s my gift to you.”
Irv stood up, signaling that this encounter was over. I thanked him for the coffee, the cookies, and the painting. I lifted it off the easel and carried it out. When I got back to my apartment at Sugar’s Shack, I hung it on the wall across from my bed. Before I fell asleep that night I looked at it for a very long time. It got into my dreams. I got into that boat. The boat started shaking. I looked down to see a killer shark was after me, like in that movie Jaws, a killer shark going for my throat. I woke up in a sweat.
Ride Wit Me
My encounter with Irv took place toward the beginning of winter. I’d been in Miami for slightly over a year. Two weeks after Irv had given me the painting, I called him, just to see how he was. The number was out of service. I waited awhile but decided to visit him again. But when I went to the Kirkwood in Palm Beach, the building manager said that no one was living in the apartment of Milton Eisenstock. It had been sold and was presently being renovated for its new owners, a family from Melbourne, Australia. When I asked if he had forwarding information for the man who had been living there, I was told that the gentleman specifically did not leave a new address or phone number.
“Did he say whether he was staying in Florida?” I asked.
“He didn’t say anything. One day he was here, the next day he wasn’t.” I wanted to talk to Irv because our last meeting left me unsatisfied. I understood how being betrayed turns your world upside down. I understood how it can make you do things that you wouldn’t normally do. You wanna strike back the way you were struck. You wanna get even. You get crazy
and violent and you’ll stop at nothing to see that justice is done—whatever it is you consider justice to be. I understood all that.
What I didn’t understand, though—and what I desperately wanted to know—were the details of the betrayals. I wanted to know more about the relationship between Irv and John Mackey. How long had Mackey worked for him? As I remembered, it was decades. During those years when things were going well, didn’t Irv have at least some suspicion that Mackey might be plotting against him? I kept hearing those three words he had left me with—“Don’t trust anyone.” But there had to be exceptions.
Okay, his ex-wife and his daughter and his consigliere had been out to get him, but when he was a kid he trusted his mother, just like I had trusted my mother. Or did he? Was that a mistake? “Don’t trust anyone” sounded smart, but was it practical in the real world? You have to trust the elevator repairman at Sugar’s Shack to fix the thing so the cables don’t snap. Driving down I-95, you have to trust that the drivers going in the opposite direction aren’t going to switch sides and hit you head-on. Without some trust, you lose your mind. Without some trust, you never leave your apartment. You become a recluse.
Maybe Irv had become a recluse. If so, I wanted to find him and learn more about him and this latest change in his life. I felt like he had more to teach me than “Don’t trust anyone.” I guess I was feeling that, strange as it seems, I trusted Irv to teach me about trust. But most important of all, I wanted to ask why, when I asked him if I could trust Slim, he didn’t answer me. He just gave me this half smile. Maybe I was making it up, but I thought there was something behind that half smile—and I had to know what it was.
My last weeks in Miami went by with the speed of high-powered blow. I could see that the drug, even though I thought I wasn’t overdoing it, was creeping up on me. It sure as hell was creeping up on Sugar.
I had learned to like cocaine. If I had the cheap stuff, maybe I’d have had negative associations, but I didn’t. I had the best. I liked the way the best stuff lightly burned my nose; I liked the drip that came after the first few snorts; I liked the rush to my heart and the heady excitement to my brain. With just a single line, all the red lights turned green. I’d take off from that first line and run through an evening of good vibes with clients and good sex with one of a half-dozen women waiting for me to call. I got into threesomes. I got into X. I went way to the other side of wildness. I drew the line when it came to men though. If it was a scene of more than two players, I’d have to be the only man. I got no complaints. Fact is, I got rave reviews.