‘Hey come on, Joy, you don’t have a whore house license to sell liquor. You know I’m not a pushy guy. Gee this is becoming the craziest night of my life. And I don’t mind telling you this is all kind of a god damn shock. I mean you used to love the arts and outdoor sports. I mean you’re a crack shot. Especially, you know, bang bang at quail when you and Steve and all of us went shooting that time down on big ole John’s plantation in Georgia.’
‘That has nothing whatever to do with present business.’
‘OK, OK. But I knew things couldn’t be good when you laid down your tennis racquet and your bridge hand and shotgun and quit the country club. But no kidding I didn’t know you were this bad. OK, maybe recently no one’s invited you or dated you to go out to dinner.’
‘Buster, no human body has even invited me to go for a god damn walk.’
‘But, Joy, holy cow maybe it’s a fact that nobody knows where to turn in today’s contemporary society. With the kind of things that are coming down the pike, I mean friends who already know each other got to stick together. A guy worries about disease.’
‘So does a woman.’
‘Yeah I know. That’s why you got to find decent people to have intimacy with who you know and trust.’
‘Amen, Buster.’
‘Hey. Christ here I go searching in my pockets and there goes a gold plated button off my blazer. OK. There. A hundred and thirty-five bucks and eighty-six cents. It’s all I’ve got except for my American Express card. I mean I got a whole wad of charge cards. Look. And what’s this calling me Buster.’
‘Isn’t that what call girls call their tricks because they’re all the same to her. And with only a hundred and thirty-five bucks you’re not a trick but still deserve to be called Buster. So you really ought to go home. And save your money.’
‘Boy o boy, this is really something. Please gee pour me another shot while it’s still pouring rain outside. Gee for Christ’s sake, no kidding Jocelyn. I don’t know how to take all this. Is this some kind of backlash inverted attitude you got left over as a Bryn Mawr girl to the manner born in South Carolina.’
‘If I were to the manner born, it was just temporarily over the border in North Carolina. But I did attend a snooty girl’s high school too and had a conversationally unexpurgated lesbian instructor who was sadly relieved of her post following telling her charges to make men pay for everything they get and whose dictum was, snobbery will get you wherever you want to go, so guard it wisely girls.’
‘Gee this ain’t snobbery, Jocelyn, this is prostitution. You should find a guy and get out of this situation.’
‘I think maybe you should finish your drink.’
‘OK, but maybe you even should do yoga or go to a good dating agency.’
‘I did.’
‘You really did.’
‘Yes I did. And it so happened I met a real gem of a guy.’
‘That I suppose means he was god damn rich.’
‘Well he certainly had more than one hundred and thirty five dollars but more importantly he was kindly and thoughtful. However being a widower having lost his wife and four children in a plane crash, and that with my own estranged children our relationship got like a funeral. In fact it was. The two of us broke down in tears. But like tonight I’m getting well used to all kinds of existential situations turning up with guys.’
‘But Jesus, Joy, after a good marriage and coming from the kind of background I know you do, you’re now turned into, and pardon the reference, into a woman of easy virtue.’
‘I think the reference you mean is hooker. And you’re hard up for a screw. I mean I am most heartily afraid that your being hard up simply does not turn me on. And I’m simply doing you the courtesy of giving you a price and in turn providing a service.’
‘I am not hard up. And I never thought I’d ever hear such talk coming from lips such as yours. I could have had what I wanted, for no price, except a good time, from any of a dozen girls willing and ready at the bar I just left. And some of them damn good looking.’
‘Then go back there with your hundred and thirty five bucks. Because here you’re short Buster three hundred and sixty-four dollars and fourteen cents. So you don’t even get a smell of this little old gal. Not even from right where you’re standing. And keep standing there.’
‘Jesus, Jocelyn, so long as we’re calling a spade a spade, let me ask you again, do you need help or something. Don’t you know with venereal disease the way it is these days, you got to be careful. But holy cow, that you’d do this for money. Wow, I shake my head, I really do, no kidding, you’re not the same Jocelyn we all used to know when you were married to Steve.’
‘You’re god damn right I’m not. And I’m heartily sick of every guy assuming that because I’m here living alone without any means of visible protection in this little walk up one flight apartment that I want them to screw me. And I’m just as concerned over disease as you are. But how do you know I’m not clapped up and with canine venereal granulomata and have got everything else in the books.’
‘Holy cow, Joy.’
‘Well I haven’t and it’s just a term I found in a medical book.’
‘Gee Joy I wish you’d cut the kidding.’
‘I’m not kidding. I’m forty-two years old and I just yesterday got fired working as a waitress. That’s right. A waitress. Steve’s wife and I who was at Bryn Mawr and lives in Scarsdale or at least on the edge. Not that I mind being a waitress. But as a waitress I was also getting unwelcome propositions. And I’m not getting alimony. And the menopause is coming.’
‘Hey ole honey you don’t look like you’re going to have any ole menopause. You just have got a little eccentric after divorce and maybe living too long alone. But you sure can do arithmetic. I mean holy cow what happened you maybe got a million for the house a couple of years ago and more at the auction of the furniture. You didn’t lose all that money in dud investments did you.’
‘None of that is any of your damn business.’
‘OK. OK. But I could have as an old friend warned you against these guys building cathedrals of finance. Sure some stand up. But more than stand up go wrong wobbling on the foundations and end up a heap of rubble. Gee I sure do wish you were more friendly.’
‘That would be nice wouldn’t it. But I don’t see since I’m now living on the wrong side of the tracks, what there is left to be friendly about with anybody in this community where at my dinner party last year someone was unfriendly enough to borrow a valuable silver tea caddy. Plus an even more valuable Meissen snuff box.’
‘I don’t believe it. No one we know would do a thing like that. Not that I’m prejudiced but did you invite someone up from the Bronx or something. Gee you don’t think you’re kind of getting a few little ole bats in the ole belfry, honey. No kidding. This is talk like you’re paranoid or something. But please go on talking. I like listening to you.’
‘Like hell it is paranoid. A new Ambassador to London not that long ago who invited the cream of London society when he took up his appointment, had every piece of object d’art in his drawing room swiped.’
‘Hey, no kidding. I thought the English were honest. Just shows you. The whole god damn world is tumbling down. Ethics, honesty, everything.’
‘And it’s about time for you to go home.’
‘Gee Joy for ole times sake at least give me another shot and a couple of pretzels or something.’
‘Stop calling me Joy. My name’s Jocelyn. And I don’t have any pretzels. Go home. You’re trespassing.’
‘Jesus trespassing. Holy cow. Boy this is a shock revelation in my life. You turning into a call girl.’
‘And you Buster who needs one, simply don’t have enough money to pay for one so I haven’t turned into one yet.’
‘My name’s Clifford stop calling me Buster. Gee this is a god damn long stand up, and if you want me to be honest, a god damn honest conversation. I just don’t happen to have a full five hundred dollars on me at the
moment. What’s wrong with that. I mean are you still in the market selling.’
‘Yeah, I’m still in the market. And as I’ve already said, as soon as I see all of five hundred dollars I shall consider it.’
‘Then I’ll owe you the rest. I mean I’ll have it first thing tomorrow. I’ll bring it right around here.’
‘Like hell you will. You’re not coming around here again. And don’t do that.’
‘Come on. Look at it. There it is. Waiting all this time. Hard as a rock. All full six and a half inches. Come on give the boy a treat. Hey what the fuck are you laughing at.’
‘You. Those are the most original words I’ve ever heard you say. Be a good boy. Put it back in your pants and go ask your wife to give the boy a treat. And I won’t scream blue, pink and red murder for help through these paper thin walls and have my widow acquaintance and about twenty other nosy people wondering why I’m being molested and what your car is doing parked outside so that they call the police.’
‘Hey I got friends there, don’t worry. Come on. Let’s go. Into the bedroom. I’ll bet you’ll love it.’
‘Stay right where you are.’
‘Holy Jesus Christ almighty that’s a god damn real gun you got there.’
‘You’re damn right it is.’
‘Hey, Jocelyn, no kidding put it away. Guns can go off.’
‘You put your prick back in your pants and get out of here because I verily assure you that it is going to go off unless you do. Move. Before I start screaming fire as well as rape. So I hope you’ve got friends in the fire department too.’
‘OK. OK. You win I’m faster than going. I’m gone. You sure ain’t the old Jocelyn I used to know. Holy Jesus Christ all what I’m suggesting is only human.’
‘And all I’m being is humane in telling you to fast get the fuck out of here and suggest it to somebody else.’
Clifford bent over his half zipped up fly as he made from the sitting room to the staircase landing tripping on the rug as he went. She did not know what on earth made her pull the trigger but it felt so appropriate to just ease her finger back on the curved piece of steel. His untidy retreat made her nearly laugh and the bullet passing his ear seemed to add speed to his departure. It also felt so damn good as the gun went off and the acrid smoke ascended up her nose.
When she turned on the hall light there was a hole right where the shadow of Clifford’s head had passed as he went at breakneck speed to descend heavy handed on the banister, wrenching it loose and himself plunging from the third stair to tumble down head over heels eighteen more steps to the bottom. Clawing at the door in the dark to get it open and slamming it shut so hard it shook the whole building. Without a single sound of saying I’m going to sue you for spiritual maim and a faulty banister.
His car starting and roaring away with a squeal of tyres on the pebbles. A crash. O christ the drunk bastard has hit the nice maple tree hidden around the elbow of the drive. O lordy sakes is he dead. Or worse has he killed the tree. His friends from the fire department having to come cut him out of the crumpled wreck. O god thank the god I don’t believe in. The car is starting again. And it’s about time I made hot cocoa and retired to bed where my tiny room ever seems tinier every time entering it and reminding of the spaciousness of the house on Winnapoopoo Road.
Life had shrunk, keeled over and collapsed. Just like Clifford’s penis. No longer shall I be able to feel freedom of space. From kingsize down to the now flea sized small single bed. The dressing table half against the window helping shut out the daylight. Good grief it squeezes the soul. And try to read. But now agonized over pulling the trigger. He could report to the police. Did I really mean to kill. Just as I did that bright sunny lonely day while I was out riding along a Carolina creek. My horse rearing. A grey black coiled cotton mouth moccasin, disturbed from sleep ready to strike my horse’s leg. The relief one felt taking its head clean off with my twenty bore as the rest of its reptile body writhed on the rustling grass.
Why do guys always have to assume a girl is looking for a fuck when all she wants first is peace and quiet while she has a long hot bath and maybe day dreams through a fashion magazine. And a few roses would help. And an endearment whispered in the ear. And then maybe she wants a fuck. Another squeal of tyres. O god maybe he’s back. No it’s Mr Potter over the road. Who can’t sleep and can’t drive to save his ass. And doesn’t mind ending upon somebody else’s grass.
O happy days. Never have I ever enjoyed an ensuing silence so much. Or the distant sound of the last express roaring down the New York Central tracks into the city. Or maybe it’s a freight train. But the unexpurgated depressing thought in one’s head, that this is no longer a night for reading but for solitary masturbation. If only I can erotically concentrate. And avoid seeing Clifford’s private part waving in my face. Which I guess in fact was every bit as big as he said it was and at least gives him a little credibility about something. Plus having played halfback on the first team at his boondock institution of higher learning out West. And O god there goes said a bit of my own snobbery.
Now after this debacle she would have to try to sustain the long continuous days of smouldering dissatisfaction. But it was quite unbelievable how much it could matter for the whole rest of your life as to where you went to college. And how even that impression could vary dramatically if you let people know you waited on tables to pay your tuition as she had had to for a couple of lean semesters ministering to her inferiors. And O god when you start examining the middle classes and upwards what a god damn smug and insultingly snobbish country America was underneath it all. And yet with jeans, coke and cigarettes we had culturally conquered half the earth and were busy as hell conquering what remained.
God damn hell the hot chocolate boiling over the stove. And is now going to taste burnt. And a whole night before sleep leaves tomorrow so far away. To go on living through the hours of deathly despair. Isolated in a growing and growing numbness. This is it. Go back to my bedroom. Already dressed for bed. Pull the shades down tight on the window. Face the hell of being unable to sleep. At least be able to see the colours and shapes of all the paintings one has now come to love and nearly know as one’s own, keeps alive one last remaining pleasure.
Sanctuary. Sanctuary. Is what one needs and wants. Away from every plumber, electrician and carpenter who after his innuendos suggestive of carnal coupling were rebuffed, then was ready to take advantage of her lonely defenselessness to plot the rip off of the century to take her for whatever they thought they could get of her meager remaining funds. Maybe telephone that sad guy again. Before he marries his secretary whom he says has remained so loyal. He has an aristocratic air. His eyes alone told you he’d lost his wife and children. And he stared at you as if he felt you might bring them back.
All the happier times mouldering in my past. Gone as if buried beneath the heaped anguish of loneliness. The very worst of all pain. Really I could become a hooker. Do it for money. What a damn good short term business it could be. By appointment only. Discretion guaranteed. Older distinguished men a speciality. At five hundred dollars a throw or blow it could become six hundred on Saturday nights and include a bottle of good champagne, background music, incense and candlelight.
‘Stop. Shit. Stop.’
Her shouting voice sounding so loud. Wake up that poor old lady more lonely than I. O god maybe I’d get nowhere as a hooker. My ass is still good, but my looks are going and maybe even gone. Even though guys on the building sites stopped whistling years ago I still get a whistle or two so must still have some attraction left. All that’s needed is enough so guys can get it up. Treat each prick like being a frankfurter with or without mustard or sauerkraut. A preliminary massage makes them come sooner and there’s a faster turnover.
‘You’ve just had yours, Buster. Next.’
And once during my first year at Bryn Mawr and on my first trip to New York, never having been on an elevator full of men going by express up to the fiftieth floor I blur
ted out that it was much faster going up than it was coming down. Flushing red as they all looked at me and two guys laughed as the tenth floor went by with forty left to go.
But the profession of whore had come at the wrong time along with lethal disease. And unless you really had to be a whore it did insult your children. Desecrate your college. Bring your sorority into disrepute. Make both your parents already pouring pills and gin down their throats, drop dead with shame. But gosh it sure as hell beat all for filling up the bank account. Please dear god, stop my unhelpful unexpurgated thinking as I try to go to sleep. I want to keep the present Cape Cod shingle roof over my head. Save this daughter of The American Revolution from being wrapped in polythene and all day sitting in the better atriums of Manhattan eating yogurt out of a plastic cup. Before life gets me in the tits like it does men in the prostate.
She’d nearly overslept on this sunny cool day of going downtown to the museums. And heard herself murmuring over this morning’s breakfast. Onward Christian soldier even though you don’t believe in God. And at least so far you’re not constipated yet. Butter your toast. Drip on honey. Drink your juice. Sip your coffee. As each penny goes now. And is gone. What am I doing. What am I doing. Am I. Am I. Slowly gathering. Gathering sleeping pills. Sleeping pills. Towards night. To sleep, sleep, sleep. And forever rest in peace.
Who from Scarsdale would come to my funeral in Carolina and by my gravesite have to wear snake boots in the long grass. Take with me into the ground the terrible terrible truth. My bluff to Clifford might not have been a bluff had he had the extra three hundred and sixty-four dollars and fourteen cents. I might have actually let him breathe and prod all over me just to pay next months rent. Become a whore. Face the present reality of my life that I’m no longer the lady my mother and grandmother had so carefully destined me to be.
The first frosty chill of the year. Flurry of snow. Calling a taxi to the station. Locking her door with the memory of the memory of last night. The cemetery out in the woods. Twitching penises. Give the boy a treat. And O horror. There’s Clifford on the station with a black eye and a conspicuous scratch down his face. And standing with his collar up in the cool Autumnal air. And just beyond the gentleman who like a British Guards Officer sports a military great coat and homburg hat and rolled umbrella. She’d seen him often before. The most conspicuous of all the passengers. And who was so clearly and endearingly American looking despite his disguise. Clearly Clifford’s car clearly got busted up last night. Or maybe he was attacked by his wife. And as he saw her she shivered and he mercifully, along with two more husbands of her black tie dinner, hurried on down to the north end of the platform hidden by the other commuters from sight.