“I’d like so much to see a good film tonight,” said the girl.
“I don’t go to the films much myself,” he said. “Enjoy them, do you?”
“Well, of course, I only go to the art films,” said Candy.
“I see,” said Dr. Johns.
“Films like The Quiet One, and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.”
“Well,” said Dr. Johns, “would you like me to go and get a paper for you? It would probably be listed there.”
“Oh no,” said Candy, “that’s all right, thanks very much.” She was pleased by his consideration.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oh yes, thanks. I’m sure someone will come in who knows what’s playing there tonight. I know almost everyone who comes in here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the doctor. “Oh, you’ll get to know them,” said Candy, “they’re all swell kids.”
“Yes, I’d like to,” he said, rather dubiously. “Who is your doctor . . . perhaps I know him.”
“Well, I haven’t been to a doctor since I’ve been in New York . . . not to a gynecologist anyway. I’m not married, of course, and . . . well, I suppose a single girl doesn’t need to go to a gynecologist very often, does she?” In spite of her smile, the perfect girl was blushing. Dr. Johns frowned.
“Well, of course, you really should have a periodic checkup,” he said. “I mean certainly you should have that. When was the last time you did?”
“Oh gracious,” said Candy, trying to recall, “it must have been a year ago at least.”
“Far too long, far too long,” said the doctor seriously. “Gosh, guess I’d better make an appointment,” said Candy.
“Hmm. The difficulty is, you see, I’m off on two months’ holiday starting tomorrow,” said Dr. Johns. He looked around the bar. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, getting up from the table, “I won’t be a moment,” and he went out the door.
Candy was humming the theme music of Alexander Nevsky, one of her favorite movies, when Dr. Johns came back in the bar, carrying a little black bag. He stopped at the table and smiled at her. “We can give you an examination,” he said, “just over there.” And he assisted her up.
Candy was amazed. “Here? In the Riviera? Good Grief, I don’t . . .”
“Oh yes,” said Dr. Johns. “Just here . . . this will do nicely.” He had led the girl to the door of the men’s toilet, and quickly inside. It was extremely small, a simple cabinet with a stool, nothing more. He locked the door.
“Good Grief,” said Candy, “I really don’t think . . .”
“Oh yes,” Dr. Johns assured her, “perfectly all right.” He put his little bag down and started taking off her skirt. “Now we’ll just slip out of these things,” he said.
“Well, are you sure that . . .” Candy was quite confused.
“Now, the little panties,” he said, pulling them down. “Lovely things you wear,” he added and lifted her up onto the stool.
“Now you just stand with one foot on each side of the stool, limbs spread, that’s right and . . . oh yes, you can brace yourself with your hands against the walls . . . yes, just so. . . . Fine!”
He bent quickly to his kit and took out a small clamp and inserted it between the girl’s darling little labias, so that they were held apart.
“Good!” he said. “Now I just want to test these clitorial reflexes—often enough, that’s where trouble strikes first.” And he began to gently massage her sweet pink clit. “Can you feel that?”
“Good Grief yes!” said Candy, squirming about, “are you sure that this . . .”
“Hmm,” said Dr. Johns. “Normal response there all right. Now I just want to test these clitorial reflexes to tactile surfaces.” And he began sucking it wildly, clutching the precious girl to him with such sudden force and abandon that her feet slipped off the stool and into the well of it. During the tumult the flushing mechanism was set in motion and water now surged out over the two of them, flooding the tiny cabinet and sweeping out of it and into the bar.
There was a violent pounding at the door.
“What in God’s name is going on in there?” demanded the manager, who had just arrived. He and the bartender were throwing their weight against the door of the cabinet which by now was two feet deep in water as the doctor and Candy thrashed about inside.
“Good Grief!” she kept saying. They had both fallen to the floor. The doctor was snorting and spouting water, trying desperately to keep sucking and yet not to drown.
Finally with a great lunge the two men outside broke open the door. They were appalled by the scene.
“Good God! Good God!” they shouted. “What in the name of God is going on here!”
A police officer arrived at that moment and was beside himself with rage at the spectacle.
The doctor had lost consciousness by the time he was pulled to his feet. Both he and Candy were sopping wet and completely disheveled. She was naked from the waist down.
“He’s a doctor!” she cried to the policeman, who was dragging him about like a sack and pulling her by the arm.
“Uh-huh,” said the cynical cop, “Dr. Caligari, I suppose.”
Candy didn’t like this kind of flippant reference to an art film. “This happens to be an examination,” she said with marked disdain.
“You can say that again, sister,” said the officer, taking a good look himself.
“Good Grief!” said Candy, snatching the clamp out from between her labes.
The manager and the bartender were speechless with fury.
“You . . . you . . .” stammered the manager, shaking his finger at Candy.
“This so happens to be a private examination by my doctor!” said Candy with great haughtiness.
“You are barred from the Riviera!” he shouted with the finality of doom itself.
The doctor had regained consciousness now, but was still lost in his insane desire for the girl and flung himself against her in such ardor that they tumbled back into the cabinet with a splash, Candy shrieking, “Good Heavens!”
The policeman snatched them out again and drove them ahead of him with his club through the bar.
Near the door, still writhing about on the floor, were the two good-looking madcaps, Katt and Smart.
“Augh,” said the policeman in an expression of sheer disgust. And he struck a few blows at them with his stick a he might have at a reptile; but then he had to hurry on to see to his two prisoners.
“What the devil is he doing with that stick?” Jack Katt wanted to know, staring after them from where he lay in a great pool of stale beer.
“You poor sap,” said Tom Smart, “he’s going to put that stick in her honeypot, don’t you know that?”
“Goddam it,” shouted Jack Katt, “why didn’t we bring such a stick as that! It’s your fault, you swine!”
And so they fell to grappling about again in the mire of wet sawdust under their table.
On the street, Candy and the doctor were hustled into a patrol car, which departed with a roar.
12
IN THE POLICE CAR, the two officers were wide-eyed at Candy’s half-nakedness, as she still carried her skirt and pants in a dripping ball.
“Okay sister, cover it up!” said one of them brusquely.
“Good Night!” said Candy, “my things are soaking wet! How can I put these on?”
Dr. Johns, who had been securely pinioned in the corner of the back seat, suddenly lunged forward.
“Perfect!” he cried. “Perfect! Her tubes are perfect!”
“You’ve got a screw loose, buddy!” said one of the cops, giving the doctor a terrific blow on the head with his nightstick.
The car was plummeting down MacDougal Street, sirens wailing, so that Candy had to shout to make herself heard.
“Stop that! You can’t hit him like that. Let me see your credentials. . . . I don’t believe you’re even police officers!”
“Here’s a credential for you, momma!”
said the officer in the back seat with her, and he tore open his fly and forced her hand inside. Candy flailed at him wildly with her free hand, half rising and falling against the driver in her desperation to escape the obscenity.
“Look out!” yelled the driver, for the girl had half obscured his view and interfered with his control of the machine—but it was too late, for at that moment a truck pulled out of a side street directly into their path.
“Christ! Christ!” shouted the driver, swerving the patrol car sharply, and with an agonizing scream of brakes the car careened hopelessly sideways past the truck, righted itself momentarily and then crashed headlong into the San Remo bar,
There were two hundred and seventy-five homosexuals in the bar at that particular moment, and they thought it was a raid. About half of them rushed insanely about trying to get out the doors, and the other half began beating in capering senseless frenzy on the car and the policemen.
“They’re preverts!” shouted one policeman. “We’ll have to blast our way out!”
In the confusion that followed, Candy found herself being pulled away from the scene by an unknown man.
“Quickly, quickly,” he kept saying in an urgent whisper, and it was apparent he was helping her escape from the authorities. They were soon to Third Street, rushing down it toward Sixth Avenue.
“Oh, it’s simply a nightmare!” Candy was saying as she ran along beside him, modestly trying to conceal her sweet nakedness. Then they were at the avenue and the strange man assisted her into a cab.
“The Cracker Foundation,” he said to the driver, “and hurry!”
“Right!” said the driver, craning forward over the back seat for a moment, trying to see through the half-light of the cab into Candy’s little honeypot.
“I’m putting on my things,” exclaimed the girl, “wet or not! Good Grief!” And she began to get into them, the man beside her helping with the pants.
“Thanks,” said Candy, feeling a good deal more secure once she had them on again, “and thanks for the rescue! Good Gosh, I thought we were going to jail!”
“So you were, my dear,” said the man. He was a very fat man with a tremendous shock of white hair. “Now let us introduce ourselves,” he went on, extending his hand, “my name is Pete Uspy.”
“My name is Candy Christian,” said the girl, “how do you do?”
“Glad to be acquainted with you,” said Pete Uspy. He had a sort of Russian accent. “Yes, you were going to the jail all right, that much is certain. Now we’ve got to get you out of this town. Tonight.”
“Out of town?” said Candy, “Good Grief, what have I done?”
“Ho,” said Pete Uspy, putting one hand to his great brow, “who can say? All of that is mere mirage anyway. The point is this, that these authorities, whoever they were, policemen or whatever you wish to call them—is only a name—have the material viewpoint only and so would have put you physically in the jail. That much is certain.”
There was something in Pete Uspy’s manner which reminded Candy of Professor Mephesto, despite the former’s atrocious accent, and she felt a confidence and rapport warming inside her.
“Yes, they certainly weren’t very spiritual,” she agreed. “Certainly not,” said Pete Uspy. “They had no spiritual advancement whatever!”
“I’ll say,” said Candy. She began trying to smooth out her skirt, which was wrinkled and still quite wet. “Ugh, these things are all icky,” she said. “I don’t know whether to keep them on or not!”
“No matter,” said Pete Uspy, “is mere appearance. We are almost to the Foundation.”
The cab pulled up in front of a large brownstone on 73rd Street and stopped.
“Here you are,” said the driver.
“Good,” said Peter Uspy, “here is the Foundation. Come, we must go inside it.”
He got out and paid the driver and helped Candy out. “Good Night, I hate to go in like this,” she said, “I must look a sight.”
“No, is very good,” said Pete Uspy, “is material pathos. The Crackers are fond of this. Come.”
He led the way up the steps and into a large foyer. A receptionist was there and he went directly to her.
“This girl is in need,” he said, “and she wishes to help others. Have you material work for her?”
“Well,” said the receptionist, “we have that crew in Minnesota. They could certainly use help out there.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Pete Uspy. “She must go at once. Tonight.” He seemed to have a strange hypnotic power over the receptionist.
“Yes, of course,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I will arrange for the transportation.”
“Good,” said Pete Uspy, “we will wait here.” And he led Candy to an alcove in the foyer, where several chairs and a table were placed.
“Are you familiar with the Cracker work?” he asked when they were seated.
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, “they’re pacifists. . . . I know that much anyway.”
“Ah yes, they are pacifists, but also they do much work in helping others. They have fine spiritual advancement, and you will find great camaraderie among them. It will be much fun for you.”
“Yes, I am interested in their work,” said Candy, “but I don’t see how I can go there now. I mean, Good Grief, what about my apartment and all my things?” She was thinking too now of Derek.
“You must go,” said Pete Uspy, “it is the only means of escaping the physical jail. Then when this affair has blown over, you will come back. Only a few days perhaps. Give me the keys to your apartment. I will see to it.”
“I don’t know,” said the girl reluctantly, “I should at least go by there and pack some things.” She felt her sopping skirt again. “These things are so icky, you have no idea.”
“The Cracker people will give you something dry to wear,” Pete Uspy promised. “A simple cloth shift.”
“I like simple clothes,” Candy admitted, nodding.
“Yes, clothes do not matter; it is folly to judge the pork chop by its wrapper.”
“Is that a Cracker saying?” Candy asked.
“No, that is a Chinese proverb—I have taken it from the book of the I. Ching.”
“I love the Chinese,” said Candy, “I think they are the most spiritually advanced of all people—the man in the street, I mean to say.”
“The Chinese-man in the street!” said Pete Uspy, chuckling. “Very good.”
“Chinese cooking is very good, isn’t it?” said Candy. “I can make several Chinese dishes.” She wanted to name some of them for him and perhaps arrange for him to have dinner with her and Derek, but Pete Uspy said:
“Now, we have little time. The car will be here in a moment to take you to the airport. They will tell you what to do and, in fact, someone will be at the plane to meet you in Minnesota. When you get to the camp, you will find a friend of mine there among the common workers—he will help you. His wisdom is infinite and he is the greatest spiritual teacher of our times.”
“Good Gosh,” said Candy, “you mean I really must go? Tonight?”
“Oh yes, that much is certain—you cannot risk going to jail. It would greatly damage your spiritual advancement. For me it does not matter, I see through the mirage. But for you, a beautiful sensitive girl, it would be terrible. They would do terrible things to you, undress you and everything.”
“Good Heavens!”
“Yes, so you see we must fight fire with fire. They wish to confine you in physical form, we will escape in that form!”
“Gosh,” said Candy, “I don’t know what to say.”
“He who knows need not speak; he who speaks does not know,” said Pete Uspy, . . . “give me the keys.”
Candy fished them uncertainly out of her bag. She was wondering if she shouldn’t tell him about Derek, and leave a message of some sort; but then she decided she would write a letter of explanation as soon as she reached the Cracker camp.
“The small one is the
mailbox key,” said the girl, handing them over. “I’ll be writing to someone there . . . a friend of mine. Will you give him the letter when he comes to see me? His name is Derek.”
“Of course,” said Pete Uspy, “that shall be as you wish. Now we must get you a dry shift.”
He got up and went again to the receptionist’s desk, where he spoke briefly to the attentive woman. Then he returned to Candy.
“Good,” he said, “she will give you dry.”
“Oh that’s wonderful,” said Candy.
Pete Uspy remained standing.
“Now I must go,” he said. “I have much work before me this night.”
“How will I know your friend at the camp?” the girl asked anxiously.
“Ho,” said Pete Uspy, “you will know him—he will know you, that much is certain. Do not worry, I will contact him that you are coming.”
“Well,” said Candy, standing and shaking hands, “thanks for everything.”
Pete Uspy shrugged.
“Is nothing,” he said, “is mere appearance.”
“Well, you did save me from the jail and all those other things,” Candy insisted.
“That is my pleasure,” said Pete Uspy. “Now I say good night to you. Write to me before you return.”
“Oh yes, I will,” said Candy, “I’ll write as soon as I get there!”
“Good,” said Pete Uspy, turning to go. “Good night, and bon voyage!”
“Good night,” said Candy, feeling again that tinge of wistful regret she always felt when she parted with anyone. She stood for a moment looking after him, before she was aware that the receptionist was trying to get her attention from the desk. She went over.
“Here is something dry and serviceable for you to wear,” said the receptionist, handing the girl a folded garment. “You can change in the dressing room behind that alcove.” She indicated with a nod a small door nearby.
“Thank you very much,” said Candy cheerfully, and she crossed over to the dressing-room door and went inside. She began to feel a growing excitement about her work with the Cracker group. Inside the dressing room, she slipped off her skirt and panties.
“These prissy little panties are still wet!” she said, squeezing them into a tiny ball and giving them a kiss. Then she took off her sweater and brassiere and put on the simple garment, a sort of formless sackcloth shift with three buttons at the top. There was a mirror in the dressing room and she studied her appearance in it. She loved the simple garment. It must have been such a garb as this, she reflected, that Joan of Arc had worn to her execution. She began to feel quite like a saint. Wrapping her other clothes in a bundle, she went into the foyer again and to the receptionist’s desk, presenting herself there as though to be inspected.
Candy Page 11