Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Don’t worry,” the man smiled. “I’ve seen it all.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind… ”

  He set a piece of paper on the counter. “This’ll only take a moment.” He paused. “Recognize any of these names?”

  AURORAS

  Aimee *

  Bonnie *

  Candi ?

  Chitty *

  Cindi ?

  Destiny *

  Felicity ?

  Gigi *

  Jacqui *

  Loni ?

  Marjori*

  Nanci *

  Rubie *

  Stephanie *

  Suzy *

  Tiffney *

  Tracy *

  Valerie *

  Wendy*

  Zuri ?

  Spotswood ran a finger down the list. “Most of them.”

  “Notice anything else?”

  “They’re in alphabetical order.”

  “Makes my job easier. Anything else?”

  He glanced to it again. “Uh, they all seem to end with a hard E pronunciation.”

  Reynolds leaned in for a look. “Interesting. Y’know, that never occurred to me.” He paused. “Any names followed by question marks jump out?”

  Things were in an uproar at Pinkiefinger following the blizzard. Between most of the leaders of the Tech Team stranded in Detroit along with a major mainframe failure which in turn led to a virus managing its way into the system, Spotswood was putting in eighteen hour days, each afternoon turning down Cassie’s invitations to come over for dinner. By Wednesday, however, the site was almost back to normal so he finally accepted.

  When she greeted him at the door, he was again struck with how appealing she appeared—almost as if customized to meet his version of what a physically perfect woman would have been conjured in his imagination. After once more finishing a bottle of Dom Ruinart—our Dommer she now called it—along with elegant appetizers she’d had delivered from Chat Éclair and shared at the kitchen island, they moved into the great room, sitting across from each other on the facing love seats. “I’ve got a treat for you,” she’d said as she lifted the UPS International Next Day envelope from the coffee table then peeled away the seal. It contained a pair of square boxes marked L and X in addition to three pieces of clear, molded plastic. Excusing herself, she’d went to the bar and poured two glasses of the Scotch from the encrusted bottle then returned with them and a pair of unopened Bradean-4s.

  “Open yours,” she suggested, gesturing to the X. Inside were what looked to be sixty or so of small marbles colored red, blue, green and purple.

  “Now open mine.” He did, the contents looking the same as the first.

  “Are these more of those fancy candies you like?”

  “You might say that,” she smiled. “Candies for your mind… and for your body.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Trust me. You will.”

  She unwrapped one of the Brads, pressed it open, inserted one of the plastic forms into the chambers then tossed it across to him. “Why don’t we start you on your way with one of the greens.”

  “What are they?” he responded as he removed a sphere from the box, eased it in then closed the lid.

  “Lucioles,” she grinned. “Fireflies.” She paused. “Remember when I took that swab? I sort of fibbed about what I wanted it for. Wasn’t to find out who your relatives were.” She paused again. “It was to get a perfect match when the fireflies were formulated.”

  He said nothing.

  “I remember you saying you weren’t very keen on recreational drugs so… but these aren’t like that. Well, I guess it depends on how you look at things. They have no addictive qualities, if that’s what worries you. Here. I’ll show you.”

  She unwrapped the other Bradean, inserted a mold, took a green pellet from the L box, loaded it, lowered the tip to her wrist and pressed the activation button, making the device crackle. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back into the cushions and eyed him. “See, honey? Please. Just try it once. If you don’t like the effect, we can move on to other… activities?”

  Other activities was what he’d been thinking about for days so he followed the request.

  The first sensation was a slight tickling in his cheeks which was quickly replaced by an unbelievable sense of well-being. Between the recent problems at the office and the preparations for the anchoring duties approaching a dangerously close month and change distant, he’d felt wound like a cheap alarm clock. Suddenly, all of the anxiety and stress seemed to evaporate like a cold breeze having passed over a warm pond in autumn while the tenseness in his shoulders which had been plaguing him for weeks felt to float away as if it’d never been there.

  “Wow,” he exhaled. “That really took the edge off.” He thought a moment about how great he felt, then another about how really great he felt.

  “Told ya’.”

  He tried to think of a clever reply, but was too fascinated with his perceptions to bother.

  Cassie moved across to join him then snuggled close, leaning to whisper “There are certain combinations of the candies that are quite intriguing. Care to indulge me?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She removed a purple from his box, dropped it into a cylinder, flipped it shut and injected him. He sensed a tickle again, though this time in the hips. But aside from that brief flutter there weren’t any additional sensations.

  “So?” she asked.

  “Not quite as impressive as the green one.”

  “We’ll see.” Placing a hand behind his neck, she eased him closer and gently kissed his lips as she rested the other just above his knee and slowly began to move it toward his waist. Halfway to its destination, he took an involuntary breath as the erection pressed hard against his jeans; one that felt as if it belonged to a fourteen year-old boy rather than a thirty-four year-old man.

  They enjoyed sex three times over the next seven hours—the last adding a new line to his personal record book—each go-round seemingly better than the preceding one. When they finally decided amid teasing laughter to call it a night, he’d fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep. Then waking only three hours later, he felt as if he’d slept for eight. And aside from a bit of soreness, as if it had all been a wonderful dream.

  They showered together—another first for him with anyone—and after a quick coffee he headed home to pick up his briefcase and put on some fresh clothes. Before leaving she’d placed a blue pellet into one of the Brads then tucked it into his jacket pocket advising Just in case you run into one of those writer’s block things. He wasn’t certain what that meant, but added it to his files then dialed up a limcab for a lift to the office.

  Around two o’clock that afternoon, he was already a few hours behind schedule due to an all-staff update meeting Zeiger called that had refused to end. Finally back in his office, he closed the door and sat down at the desk to compose his weekly thousand word column parodying celebrities’ outrageous demands. Deciding a spoof about a washed-up rocker and a guitar pick that he’d lost in childhood would be fun he started typing but couldn’t focus, his mind stuck on replaying highlights of the previous evening. Recalling Cassie’s suggestion, he removed the Brad from his briefcase then after a hesitation, injected. All he sensed was a dim ringing in his ears along with the scent of the exhaust, the aroma similar to that of a freshly sliced orange.

  He waited a few moments for something else to occur but nothing did, so he grabbed a legal pad to handwrite an outline for the article before taking another shot at it, scribbling Title: Stevie Santagomez and His Search for Precious Plastic.

  “Nah,” he mumbled. “You can do better than that.”

  Setting his fingers on the keyboard, he deleted the hundred words he’d already completed when everything suddenly dropped into place.

  Here Comes Santago, Right Down Fendiepick Lane.

  Riffing first on sly lampoon of Pam Watts’ quest to locate her missing bass guitar, he transitioned into a complicate
d series of short vignettes that eventually circled back to the payoff of Santagomez never having lost the guitar pick as it was resting safely in a bezel hanging from one of the numerous necklaces he frequently wore. The first draft was completed in half an hour and except for a pair of verb tense changes ready to be published as written.

  Cassie dropped by his condo the following night with Chinese takeout. They made love once without the assistance of any magic potions and made a date to maybe meet at her place the following night. It was then that he sampled the final flavor, one of the reds, which filled him with an extraordinarily subtle wave of energy that prompted him—after she’d injected one herself—to suggest they go out for a walk around the neighborhood despite a wind chill bordering on zero degrees Fahrenheit. An hour into the stroll, she’d dragged him into a tony clothing shop where she purchased them a pair of pricey, matching Swedish down jackets along with identical mittens, scarves and earmuffs. As they stood gazing into a mirror at their outfits before exiting, and despite his disdain for any manner of Couples ensembles, he felt so invigorated that he didn’t give it a second thought. Following another 50 minutes roaming the streets, they arrived at the entrance to Wilson Towers where after a brief kiss he instantly agreed to come back the next evening.

  When she phoned the next afternoon to say she might not be home at seven but that a friend of hers would be there, he didn’t give it any regard. Nor was he surprised as Cassie answered the door when he arrived until she said, “Hi. You must be Jonathan. I’m Loni. Cassandra won’t be back until later but she told me to keep you entertained.”She was dressed in a classic parochial school girl’s uniform—blazer, white button-down shirt, pleated skirt and penny loafers, her hair pulled back in a ponytail highlighting her modest makeup. Rather than asking what she was up to, he simply smiled, holding out a hand and saying, “Very nice to meet you, Loni.”

  In the great room, she asked if he wanted something to drink and he agreed a scotch on the rocks would be fine, prompting her to ask if he minded if she had one too, adding that despite being only seventeen her parents allowed her to occasionally have alcohol as long as there was adult supervision. Returning with the glasses, she sat on the opposite love seat and took a sip. “This is really good. I had something like this the first time I ever had a cigarette.” She paused. “With a girl I knew.” She paused again. “Do you ever smoke?”

  “Once in awhile. Depends who I’m with.”

  “Like who would be your favorite?”

  That was easy as any reader of Wheels Up would know. During the time he’d spent with CCBBA working on the book, the easiest way to get some quality face time with Polanski was to join him for a cigarette break away from the others. The band rode him mercilessly about his habit, never passing on a chance to point out the severe warnings printed on the British Dunhills he preferred and often riding him with an a cappella taunt lampooning The Police classic Every Breath You Take, swapping in Drag.

  “Friend of mine. Andy Polanski.”

  Her eyes widened. “The rock star?”

  He nodded as she then gestured to the corner of the coffee table where he noticed an unopened pack of Dunhills resting in a crystal ashtray beside a silver lighter and a pair of Bradean-4s.

  “Cassandra left those for us… I mean for you.”

  Not wanting to interrupt whatever game he was now enjoying, he peeled off the ribbon, removed one then lit it up, inhaling deeply then exhaling off to the side just the way Polanski usually did. “So tell me about yourself.”

  She said she was in senior year, liked all kinds of music, hadn’t decided on where she’d attend college but would have to choose the following month, had met Cassie in France the previous autumn at a spa her parents visited a couple times a year and didn’t have many friends because she was very shy, though her best one was named Wendy who was a few years older and quite worldly.

  “How about boyfriends?”

  She blushed and looked away. “I’ve gone on a few dates with guys but they all seem so… ” She returned her gaze. “Immature.” She shook her head. “I mean, all they’ve got on their minds is one thing and one thing only.”

  “Like… well, I suppose I can guess. But you’re very attractive.”

  “Really think so?”

  She took a gulp of her scotch then removed her jacket, revealing a fitted blouse his nuns back in high school would never have approved. “Sure, I’ve done some kissing and the like but they always want… something else. Wendy explained all of that to me, I mean the types of things guys want you to do with them or do to them but… well, maybe someday.” She hesitated. “Would you pardon me a moment while I visit the ladies’ room?”

  “Fine.”

  She stood, lifted one of the Brads, headed toward the powder room then stopped, turning sassily. “Cassandra said the other one was for you.”

  As soon as she closed the door, he reached for the other device. He thought to open it to check on the payload but didn’t, figuring it must be one of the purples. Lowering it to his wrist, he pressed the injector button. He waited for the tingling sensation he’d felt the first time, but none came. And instead of the carnal rush he recalled, he sensed an absolutely delightful wave of…

  Sitting on a beach in the late afternoon without a care in the world. But then he felt a pleasant stirring down below as if he knew his lover was waiting back in a cabana to satisfy his desires. And while Cassie/Loni’s masquerade had begun to creep him out a bit, especially as to her supposed age, he now felt much more comfortable with the scenario she’d set up; nothing more than quirky woman playing dress-up to entertain him.

  She approached, her makeup much more prominent, especially from the lipstick she was touching up with the help of a tiny mirror. Setting it and the tube on the coffee table, she eased beside him, lazily placing a palm on his shoulder.

  “Cassandra told me that if I wanted to learn about how to please a man, I should probably find one who could… someone mature that wouldn’t think I was… who would be patient with me.” She paused. “Instruct me.”

  He didn’t respond. She unfastened the top two buttons on her blouse, brushing it open revealing a lacy white bra, capturing his attention in more ways than one. Then she slipped to her knees and softly toyed with his belt buckle, whispering “How about if I start here.” And seven minutes later, she’d ended it.

  Running the cuff of her shirt across her mouth, her eyes seemed troubled as she turned away.

  “I’m so ashamed of myself,” she moaned. “I just couldn’t… I just wanted to see what it was like.” She seemed to shiver.

  “Don’t worry about it. You… we all have to start somewhere.”

  “And I probably did it all wrong. I’m so ashamed.”

  “No, no,” he said, realizing it wasn’t Cassie he thought he was advising. “You did just fine.” He paused. “In fact, that was great.”

  “But I’m so ashamed,” she said for the third time.

  “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

  She looked back at him with a broad smile and mischievous eyes. “Maybe you should give me a spanking?”

  Reynolds tapped on the list. “Jip, I ain’t got all day.”

  “Hmm? Oh. Loni.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “It was like, uh… she liked being called that sometimes.” He paused. “Sort of a nickname.”

  “Okay. We’re making progress.” He paused. “Did Wendy ever come up in conversation?”

  Spotswood nodded. “Said she was a friend of hers. Said she was very… experienced or something along those lines.”

  Reynolds folded his arms. “Any other aliases, nom du plumes… what is a nom de plume, anyway?”

  “A pen name.”

  “So?”

  “Candi and Cyndi.”

  “You met them too?”

  “No. More nicknames.”

  “Sounds like young Cassandra’s got some identity issues.”

  “It
wasn’t… it isn’t like she’s crazy.”

  Reynolds raised an eyebrow.

  “Well maybe she is but these names she… I’ve really got to get to an appointment.”

  Reynolds patted his shoulder. “Then unless you’re auditioning for a porno loop, you probably ought’a get dressed.”

  ***

  Polanski sat on one of the couches in the great room of the suite watching ESPN, Mike and Mike discussing the upcoming collegiate football championship between his alma mater, the University of Illinois, versus Notre Dame, as Lera paced slowly back and forth in front of a pair of huge white magnetic display boards resting on easels, thoughtfully tapping a pointer in his hand.

  “Defense wins big games and the Irish have five cannons on the D-line and secondary that’ll be lobbing enough shells at the Illinois offense to leave the Big Ten with another bridesmaid year,” Gollick predicted.

  “You’re out of your mind,” Polanski said to the television. “C’mon, Greenie! Straighten him out.”

  “The Illini have their best O-line in history, the top QB in college football and a Heisman-winning running back to boot. The only thing your boys can count on is a very long, quiet post-game flight back to South Bend Airport,” Greenberg countered.

  “Could we please move along with our Gantt?” Lera said, pointing to the boards. “All we’ve got left is set, warm-up and battle.”

  His partner muted the screen. “Alright, alright.”

  “I’m going shopping, babe,” Lera’s wife Deb said as she exited their bedroom, stepping to him and kissing his cheek. “None of my earrings are working with tonight’s ensemble.”

  “Pick up a pair for him too, girl,” Polanski deadpanned.

  “He only wears those on weekends, Andy,” she winked.

  “It is a weekend.”

  “Yeah! It is! How about I pick up two pair, babe?” She and Polanski laughed as Lera shook his head in resignation.

  “Okay. Get two. And if you pass a Frederick’s, get Andy a new camisole.”

  “I only wear those on weekdays, Dave. You know, when we have our usual Wednesday business meetings?”