Ladies' Man

by Richard Price

She read my eyes and I was in like Flynn. She stopped smiling. “Come on in.”

  I sat at a round Formica table in her kitchen under a six-bulb fake brass chandelier. As she made coffee she sneaked glances at me as if she were going to slip me a Mickey Finn.

  “It’s cold out.” I rubbed my hands. The kitchen dinette was wallpapered with black and white flowers on a mustard gold background.

  “I was out earlier,” she said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She tightrope-walked back to the table, a brimming cup in each hand.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Black’s good.” I slipped my hand over hers.

  She looked at me as though she wanted me dead, as though she was already nude hugging a pillow on her bed as I remade my Windsor knot in the mirror, hemming and hawing about not being able to make a definite time to meet again because the next five weeks were going to be so crazy for me. But she didn’t slip her hand away.

  It would be a most unhappy and rageful screw, a grudge hump. But I could have given two shits. Without dropping my stare I nodded toward some vague bedroom over my left shoulder as if to say “Let’s get it over with.”

  She drummed her fingers under my hand. I heard footsteps approaching the dinette. The walk was an unsteady shuffle. I fought down a, cooling shudder. A kid appeared in the doorway. He was mongoloid with small, glassy, unfocused pig eyes and a saliva-slick tongue pro-trading slightly from a small goldfish mouth. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and cocked his head at me, his mother, than back at me.

  She stared at me and withdrew her hand, like he was my fucking fault. .

  “Herbert, what do you want?”

  He stared at me, raising and lowering his eyebrows. “Who a you?” in a loud singsong croaking splutter.

  “Herbert, what do you want?” Flat and icy.

  “Who a you?”

  “Hi, Herbert!” I sounded weak and self-conscious nice a game-show contestant unexpectedly forced to sing on television.

  “Who a you?”

  “Excuse me.” She shepherded him back down the foyer.

  “Who was him?” In that-same brassy dingdong singsong. I heard a door quietly close.

  “I’m sorry.” She stood in the entrance.

  “For what?” I shrugged like I ate with mongoloids three times a day. “How old is he?” I tried to make light conversation. “Fourteen?”

  “He’s twenty-six. I think you’d better leave.”

  She paid me and as I left I kissed her on the cheek like a jerk.

  I stood out in the hallway and for a second I felt as if I could have been anywhere. I didn’t even know what part of Manhattan I was in. That anarchy rush got stronger. I could have either killed or gone to sleep with equal gusto. I found a cream sachet foil in my coat pocket, walked down the corridor and knocked on a door.

  “Yeah?” A male voice answered.

  “Free gift from Bluecastle.”

  “Slip it under the door.”

  “You got it.” I placed the foil halfway under the door and stomped on my end. I was walking to the elevator when the door swung open; the guy popped out into the hallway in T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He was about my size. His hair was wild and his face was turning colors.

  “Whata you, a smart son of a bitch?”

  He was in a slight crouch. I turned slowly. I was up for it.

  “You ruined my fucking rug!”

  “Oh yeah?” I felt sleepy. “That’s too bad.”

  “That’s…” he sputtered.

  “Larry! Come inside!” a lady yelled.

  “I’ll kick your fucking ass!” He moved toward me. I took off my jacket and extended my arms, palms up like a saint.

  “Anytime.” I nodded serenely.

  He stopped, enraged and flustered.

  “Larry!”

  “Listen, you Bastard! I know karate!”

  “Anytime.” He wasn’t going to karate shit.

  “I know your fucking boss!” He pointed a finger at me.

  “That’s too bad.” I smiled.

  “Larry!”

  “It’s gonna Be too bad for you!” He stormed back into his apartment and slammed the door.

  “Anytime.” I continued to stand there like a plaster saint as the two of them screamed at each other behind the door.

  I didn’t make the rest of my deliveries, just headed home instead. I felt bushed.

  There was a funny smell in the kitchen. The broccoli floated in the pot in a puddle of melted ice. The salad dressing had been out all night and there was a two-inch layer of sediment in the old fashioned glass. I opened the oven door; the half-baked chicken thighs looked nasty and withered. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any roaches. They must have eaten themselves to death overnight.

  After trashing the food, I did two hundred and twenty-five sit-ups; my usual hundred and fifty and the seventy-five I couldn’t do the previous night because of the dope.

  My phone rang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Kenny, what the hell happened?” It was Fat Al.

  “What?” I felt sleepy again.

  “You fucking know what.”

  “The guy got pissed.” I shrugged.

  “He got… We’re getting sued, Kenny.”

  “That’s too bad.” I ran the edge of my pinky around the square corners of the Touch Tone digits. There was silence on both ends.

  “ ‘That’s too bad.’” Al read back my quote. “Whata you goin’ mental on me, Kenny?”

  “Nope.” I wiped the accumulated dust off my finger onto the couch.

  “Well, what the hell do you suggest?”

  “I suggest we have his legs broken.” My eyes focused on a slick of sunlight on the polished wood floor.

  “What?”

  “And then you know what I suggest for you, you fucking hump?” The floor kept moving in and out of focus as if I was staring at it through unadjusted binoculars.

  More silence. Deep nasal breathing.

  “I suggest you strap a goddamn catcher’s mask to your butt because the next time I see you I’m gonna try to shove that motherfucking electronic watch of yours right up your ass.”

  “If I ever see your face around that diner again, I’m gonna take your fuckin’ case an’ I’m gonna shove it up your ass, you got that?”

  “That’s a very childish response, Al.” My voice was flat, but I could feel my heartbeat in my face.

  Al hung up. I was out of a job. Kenny makes a move.

  It was goddamn Friday afternoon. That used to be. the best time in the week for me. The beginning of the weekend. As high as Monday morning was low. Playground time. Why was it that everybody seemed to have more friends when they were kids than when they were adults? Adults never had buddies. I could have used some company.

  The house was freezing. I sat on the couch, the living room phone in my lap. I sat there zoned out until the room was almost dark. I didn’t feel like calling La Donna. As isolated as I was it felt like the wrong thing to do, the wrong type of heaviness. My hands were icy and slightly moist My armpits smelled like coffee grounds. I needed a shower but I didn’t have the wherewithal to get my ass up off the couch. It was too cold. I wanted to call Donny but was too embarrassed about last night. I stared at my hand on the receiver, then both hands, the same hands I’d always had. They didn’t look thirty years old. I couldn’t imagine them getting arthritic, covered with liver spots. They were young man’s hands, teenage hands, finger-popping hands. Maybe I wasn’t really thirty. Maybe I wasn’t really aging. Maybe the aging process was purely psychosomatic, yeah, and maybe what really got you high was the rolling paper not the dope.

  My baby wants space from me, she got it.

  I had about $1500 to my name. I was unemployed. I was glad I didn’t have to door-to-door anymore, but that’s as far as it got in my head. I noticed the rest of Donny’s joints in the cigar tin on the wall unit.

  The job I had before Bluecastle was working with my uncle doing t
ax forms out in Queens. It was also an hour’s commute from where I was living, which was with those guys from college. That was a disaster. It wasn’t a total disaster. At least they were company. As a matter of fact, we used to have some pretty good times.

  I remember one guy, Alvin, was heavy into jazz. What were their other names? That place was okay. I didn’t spend much time there., and the minute I started making money I split, but somehow the bad memories didn’t hold up so strong over time.

  But the place had been a dump. Big deal. My joint was as neat as a pin, but I still wound up playing handball with my own shit. I wondered if they’d kept that place. It was almost, eight years ago. I had a fantasy of waltzing in and those guys still in long hair, sitting on pillows, eating wok-fried vegetables and grooving on Janis Joplin and Vanilla Fudge, as though I had just stepped out for some smokes. For the hell of it I got up, got my coat, and got ready to take a walk. I hadn’t been there since the day I left. Maybe I could move back in. I was jobless. I could use the rent break. Jobless. I kept waiting for a panic lick, but nothing happened.

  I walked over to Ninety-third and Columbus, where we had lived. The building was there at any rate, but the windows were sheeted over with gray metal and the building entrance was plastered with posters for long-gone Latino concerts. I guess they didn’t live there anymore.

  I was out of a job. That was serious stuff. Come on, Kenny, let’s get heavy here. I walked from Ninety-third Street to Twenty-eighth Street, worked up an appetite, decided to have a nice fish dinner. I was eating too much red meat anyhow. Walked back up to Columbus and Seventy-seventh Street. By walking I saved a dollar’s worm of tokens.

  I sat over my bluefish dinner remembering how much I hated fish. Behind me a gigantic plastic trout was mounted on a long oval board. To the left of me two thin faggots, one with a trimmed beard, discussed research grants. To the right, a young couple argued over a mound of steamers who relatively speaking had a better backhand, given the fact that she had been taking lessons for six years and he for less than a year.

  What I hated most about eating alone in a restaurant was the embarrassment. It was like announcing publicly how fucked up you were. If you’re eating alone, you should look for a place with a counter. Eating alone at a counter is less obvious. I’d bought a Post so I could at least bury my nose in something. I skimmed the classifieds. After two minutes I was sweating and felt like I was going to cry. I ran my fingers through my hair, tugging at the greasy strands. I had lost my job and I was all alone.

  “Are you okay?” The waitress stood over me, her short blond hair wrapped in a blue paisley kerchief.

  “No, I lost my job, and I’m all alone.”

  That took her aback.

  “Oh, you poor baby.”

  “It’s true. I just got fired and I don’t have any friends. I got fifteen hundred dollars in the bank and that’s the size of it.”

  She touched my arm. “Aw, I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You can go out with me after work.”

  “Naw, my boyfriend…”

  “You can treat me to dessert then.”

  “Dessert comes with the dinner.” - “Well, you can give me extra whipped cream on top. And I’ll take it now.”

  She laughed, I laughed. “Just bring me my extra whipped cream.” I turned to the movie page in the Post. I started reading the paper backward, skimmed the theater page. Then a whole page of announcements for singles’ dances, mainly in Queens and Brooklyn, about half in synagogues. Not on your life. I needed something hipper, faster, looser. I didn’t want to score in a bouse of worship. I needed a bar. A singles’ bar. A singles’ bar. It sounded like the first good idea I had had all night. A singles’ bar. It was eight-fifteen. Early. I passed on dessert and trotted home. Young man. I was a young man. Strong. Tight. White. And ready to love.

  I burst into my house like Eliot Ness, threw off my coat, dropped a Barry White and two James Browns on the machine, tore off the rest of my clothes, jumped into the shower and started to prep. No soap. That night I did Vitabath. It left a tangy essence. Organic Apricot Creme Rinse, Shampoo Gel and Conditioner. Three rinses, jump out. I had laid the bath towels on the radiator and they were as warm as muffins. James Brown was shrieking in the living room and I was standing in front of the mirror holding that fist mike, squeezing out high E over C, one shoulder up because I had a brand-new bag. I was gonna do the Mother Popcorn and I was going to a singles’ bar where I was going to find her.

  I shaved my face as carefully as if my skin were the turf around the eighteenth hole of a PGA golf course. Slapped Aqua Di Selva on my palms and drew my hands in a wet noose around the back of my neck, behind my ears and did a figure eight across my chest. Baking soda underarm spray. Talcum powder. I ran into the living room, raised the volume on the stereo, ran back into the John to do a twenty-minute hot comb. Into the bedroom where I slipped on white Jockeys. No good. Off they came and on went rust-colored bikinis. They made me look like I had acromegaly of the cock. I checked my front and profile in the full-length for possible paunch. Not a chance. Checked to see if I had a cute ass. Girls always notice a dude’s cute ass. I was in business.

  All the while I was fighting down a queasy feeling, as if I was about to reenlist or buy the Brooklyn Bridge. In the back of my mind I knew what I was doing, that I was blowing it again. Scared, I was trying to bury my brains by burying my dick. Trying to fuck my fear, but fuck it, I couldn’t deal with it any other way. So there I was dressing to the nines and trying to feel like Tony singing “Tonight” in West Side Story. It was Las Vegas night in my heart, and I had selective amnesia.

  I put on pearl gray continental slacks, a thick wool hot pink turtleneck and my black velvet sports jacket. I took off the jacket and changed the sheets on the bed to crisp cool chocolate browns, turned the reversible fake velvet bedspread from its print side to its solid beige side. Put on the jacket again, went into the kitchen, filled a brandy snifter with a triple shot of Lemon Hart white rum, a squirt of o.j., chugged that down for a nice buzz, went into the bedroom, pulled a college anthology of essays on modern theater from a shelf, dog-eared it in a few places, set it on my night table, turned off all but the dramatic lights and I was gone.

  I had a nice buzz in the cab over to the East Side. I loved rum. I fantasized about buying a lot of good booze. Scotch, gin, rum, vodka, whiskey. It was good to have a well-stocked bar. A well-stocked bar. That phrase had a nice ring to it. It sounded substantial. Solid. I got off on Second Avenue and Seventy-fifth Street. Dirty Ernie’s was supposed to be pretty good. It was set up as a fake English pub. There was sawdust on the floor and a dark-stained wooden chest-high room divider separating the place into a bar-pick-up area and a dining area. There were three tall bartenders—white shirts, thin ties, and towels hanging like miniaprons from their waists. A large color television over the bar.

  It was nine o’clock. Too early. There were only two or three women and eight or nine guys. The guys freaked me out. They looked like they came from rural Canada. Pressed chinos, crisp plaid shirts buttoned to the neck, glasses that caught the entire bar, short, almost cowlicked hair. They stood there swaybacked, one hip higher than the other, their arms folded across their chests. They stared hard across the barren floor with weird frozen smiles as if girls were going to materialize out of the sawdust.

  It was nine o’clock on a Friday night and those heart-breakers had been waiting for action for at least an hour. Them and me. Me in my velvet and continentals. It was nine o’clock and I was there, too. But I was different. I was special. They weren’t me. No sir. No way. The girls were blue-ribbon hogs, but in that place any girl became a hot number. Every- woman was the last girl on earth. One chick had a bare midriff and it seemed as lust-inspiring and provocative as a bikini in midtown.

  For the next hour I sat at the .bar, drinking rum and pretending to watch a basketball game which had orange guys against green guys. People started piling in. I was having a ha
rd time getting rolling so I continued watching the tube. A lot of guys watched the tube, leaning against the bar or the room divider, their drinks tucked under their armpits like footballs. There was no sound on, but we all watched that fucking game with a burning intensity like we were politicos and the screen was flashing election results. I didn’t even know who the hell was playing. My elation was taking a bath. Around me guys swamped girls like pigeons after croutons, blurting out lines so transparent and tacky that even I was offended. No wonder nobody ever got laid. I watched. I listened. I was an observer. A girl nearby, the brittle remains of an almost-melted ice cube floating on top of her half-hour-old drink, listened politely.

  “I’m thinking about goin’ back to work with George. You know, Harrison? I’m tired of Jaggers’ crap.- George owes me from way back. He called me this morning but I wasn’t in.”

  Her eyes darted like mice. A pocketbook dangled from the crook of her elbow.

  A fat girl walked in wearing one of those bright green phosphorescent chokers that the spades were selling in Times Square. Her neck glowed in the dark. Guys around her were suddenly obsessed with science. Frowned intelligently, opened their come-ons with ques-tions about the chemical properties of phosphorescent paint.

  I felt like I was coming down with lockjaw I felt so pulled into myself. I was a walking cave-in. A girl leaned against the room divider watching the game by herself. She was built like a bear but she was alone and if I didn’t make a move in the next few minutes I knew I wouldn’t make a move all night.

  “This place is something else, huh?”

  She made a noise.

  “This, ah, this is my first time here. I’m, ah, on assignment. I’m writing an article for Playboy on sex. You wouldn’t believe what I can write off as research, hah-hah.” What the hell was wrong with me? What shine.

  “Oh yeah?” She gazed over my left shoulder.

  “Do you, ah, do you like basketball?”

  “ ‘Scuse me.” She split.

  Who the fuck was she to walk away from me? I got laid more than God. I was deeper than the Pacific. I wouldn’t even have looked at her outside of a shithole like this. If La Donna were ever to walk into a place like this, they would shit. They would die. She had more class, more presence, was more beautiful… If She came through that-goddamn door the silence that would fall over this place would be religious. What the hell was I doing this for? La Donna was royalty. I was used to royalty, subtlety, refinement. A night in the sack with me changed women’s lives, gave new definitions to the word “desire.” On assignment from Playboy—sweet Jesus.