TWENTY-TWO
My mouth feels like it is glued shut. Slowly, I roll my sandpaper tongue around, trying to pull my lips apart so that I can ask Alan what the hell he’s doing in my bed with me.
He sits up before I can say anything.
“Jesus Christ, you sleep late,” he exclaims, looking around the sunlit bedroom. “You always sleep this late?”
He’s still wearing his jeans and flannel. I’m in a thermal shirt and sweats. I don’t think we did anything.
“One sec,” I mumble, leaning over to grab a cigarette and a lighter off the nightstand. I get a strange head rush on the first drag.
“I’ve never seen anyone pass out from doing too much coke before,” Alan marvels.
I met Alan at Angels a few weeks ago. He’s a thirty-two year old schoolteacher who hates his mother and likes whores instead. I like him because his cynicism is entertaining.
“Everybody’s an asshole,” he told me one night while I was sitting on his lap in the club. “If you like somebody, all it means is you’re both the same kind of asshole.”
Now I yawn, stretch and try for a smoke ring.
“I passed out?” I ask numbly.
“Can you believe it? I didn’t believe it. I always thought that stuff was supposed to keep people awake.”
“Me, too,” I say.
“I’ve never seen anyone do so much of it at one time.”
“Yeah… hey, did you happen to see where I put it?” I start rifling through all the crap that’s sitting on the nightstand.
“Are you serious?”
“Is there any left?”
Alan stares at me incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding? Do you know why I came home with you? Do you know why I stayed here last night?”
“No. Why?”
“You snorted two bags of that stuff in my car after the club closed,” he says. He jumps out of bed and starts to put his shoes on. “Remember that? I wanted to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”
Of course. The memory floods back immediately. I don’t have blackouts, although it’s not for lack of trying.
“Oh. Well, thanks, I think.”
“You’ve got some color back in your cheeks now, so I’m gonna go home.” He looks put out.
I yawn again. “Okay. See ya.”
Alan gapes at me for a moment, shaking his head. Then he grabs his jacket and leaves. I sit motionless in my bed until he’s gone and I’ve finished my cigarette. I wanted him to stay longer, but I didn’t have the balls to ask.
God damn, but this place is lonely. I’m actually looking forward to going to work tomorrow night, just so that I can be around some people. I’m almost tempted to show up there tonight even though I’m not on the schedule.
I pull off my nightclothes and toss them onto the bed. Then I pad barefoot into the bathroom. I stand on the rim of the tub to look into the mirror at my body. I arch my back and stick out my chest. Yeah, right. My breasts are disappearing. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.
My last fight with Barry was an epic one, and it sealed the deal as far as I’m concerned. This time, I actually caught him lifting up my mattress, searching for money.
As long as I didn’t have to see it, I was able to look the other way when Barry stole from me. But he didn’t even apologize when I walked into the room. He glared, and then he called me a “tight-fisted bitch.” I chased him out the door throwing dishes at his head. I am fucking done.
I wound up getting my car towed while I was bringing all of Barry’s crap to him at his friend Dippy’s place in SoHo. The whole thing was pretty ridiculous. I haven’t actually taken my road test yet. I own a car, but I don’t have a license. So I had to get one of my back room customers to take me to the impound lot on Twelfth Avenue to retrieve my car. Not only did this bullshit wind up costing me a few hundred bucks… the bastard made me give him a hand job while he was driving me home. In my own car!
I have my car back, though, and that’s what matters.
Now I pull out a box that’s stuffed with business cards, napkins and other ill-gotten scraps of paper with phone numbers hastily scribbled on them. These are all from the club.
Most of the phone numbers belong to men that have offered me money to go out with them. Possible arrangements like the one I had with Mitchell. That is, until he had the nerve to show his face after the Clarissa scandal, and I told him I’d personally be the one to call his wife if I ever saw him in the club again.
I don’t usually wind up phoning the marks, but I haven’t gotten around to throwing their numbers away. They’re my rainy day opportunities.
There’s one other type of contact that winds up in the box. A number for a guy I actually like. It’s rare. I’m looking for one of these numbers right now.
Last Saturday night, that bass player came back into the club. The cute, sarcastic one. Sean. He had someone with him, a different guy from last time. They sat at the stage. As soon as I recognized him, I flat out grilled him for his number.
“I’m never coming back here,” he told me as he slipped it into my garter, wrapped inside of a dollar bill for camouflage. “This isn’t my thing. So I hope you use it.”
I laugh to myself, remembering the cynicism painted on his face. It’ll be fun to surprise him.
The phone rings five times. I’m about to hang up, and then a shrill little boy picks it up.
“’lo?”
“Is Sean there?”
There’s a thud in my ear as the boy drops the phone onto a table.
“SEAN! PHONE!” I hear him shout. There’s a lot of shuffling and yelling going on in the background. I listen to the ambience for a few minutes, wondering if I ought to try again another time.
“IT’S A GIRL!” the little boy screams. A chair scrapes across the floor, and an unidentified man tells someone in the house to shut up.
“Hey,” Sean says into my ear.
“Hi. I’m a girl,” I answer.
“Who is this?” he wants to know.
“Last night. I told you I would call you, didn’t I?’
He is speechless. I giggle.
“So we need to hang out,” I say matter-of-factly. “What’re you up to, say, right now?”
When Sean walks into my apartment, I have cleaned the whole house and lit candles. The two cats meet him at the door and rub up against his legs.
He sits on the floor, right there in the hallway, and pets both cats. He lets the bigger cat climb into his lap and put her head on his shoulder. I stand over him, beaming. I’m so glad he likes animals.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a cat this sweet,” he says, looking up at me.
“She loves people,” I say. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a friend.”
“Aren’t cats supposed to take on the personalities of their owners?” His grin is sly. “Does that mean you’re a sweetheart, too?”
Ignoring the question, I grab the cat from him. “Come on,” I tell him. “I want to show you the rest of my apartment.”
I give him the tour. He’s gracious and approving. He makes me feel more comfortable in my own home.
I make some coffee. We sit in the living room and chat. Like two people who don’t need anything from each other but enjoy the company anyway. It feels so normal that for me, it’s strange. I can’t remember the last time I socialized with someone and it wasn’t some kind of a hustle.
I also notice that Sean’s whole attitude is different now that he’s here in my apartment. He doesn’t flirt the same way he did at the club. He’s not sarcastic. In fact, he’s polite. Just like the boy next door.
“Do you have a split personality?” I blurt. “You were never so genteel at Angels.”
Sean smiles mischievously. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Maybe you’re losing your edge,” I reply.
“Maybe I’m letting you think so.” His eyes dance.
We stare each other down. Our eyes narrow as we flirt without using words. He’s good at this.
“We could do this all night, if you want. Is that what chicks actually like?” he asks, without moving his eyes off mine.
“Is what?” I lick my lips.
“You know what I’m talking about,” he says. “Anyway, my strip club character is better than yours.”
“No way.” I light up a cigarette. “I’m a professional.”
“Yeah, I got that.” He holds out his hand. I give him the cigarette. He takes a drag and hands it back. “Do you ever take a night off?”
I can feel my posture starting to close up. Can I trust him?
“Okay, so let me ask you another question,” Sean continues. “What do you think of the other characters? The ones in the club. That think they can buy you.”
“They’re supposed to think that,” I explain. “If they didn’t think that, then I wouldn’t have a job.”
“You do realize most of them see right through the whole thing, don’t you?” he wants to know.
I don’t answer him.
“What’s a normal customer like? What’s your definition of one?”
“Normal?” I snicker. “I have no idea what you want me to say to that.”
“You could answer the question,” he suggests.
“Okay,” I say. “You asked for it.” I take a long drag off the Marlboro. “Most of the guys who come in there, well, they ask me the same thing you’re asking, in one way or another. They want me to tell them they’re different. And they never are.”
“How do you know?” Sean leans forward on the couch. “Do you know that you can’t sell someone something unless they really want to buy it?”
“You don’t have to stick up for those pricks,” I answer. “You’re not one of them.”
“You just told me that nobody in there’s different from anyone else.”
“Why do you think I invited you over?” I demand.
“I’m honestly not sure. I liked you in the club. You seemed like you were different. But now I’m wondering if you’re gonna ask me for money.”
“No. I want to get to know you.”
He sits back with his arms crossed over his chest. We stare each other down again for awhile. Then he asks, “Why should I believe that?”
I shrug. “Look around.” I make a sweeping gesture. “Does this look like a fucking bordello to you?”
“How should I know?”
“Okay. Here goes the disclaimer, then. I am not going to ask you for money. Not tonight, and not ever. Now can we please talk about something else?”
Sean relaxes. “You started it,” he points out.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did.”
I sigh with relief. Most of the ice has been broken. We’re back to being silly.
The cat stalks up next to Sean, darts her head around, and jumps into his lap. He strokes her ears. I realize that I want to kiss him.
“I came in just to see you, you know,” he tells me.
“No shit?”
“No shit. That first night was great. I loved those stupid faces you were making. You totally stood out. I told my friend about it. He was like, ‘She doesn’t really like you. You’re an idiot. Those girls don’t like anyone.’ So I made him come in with me.”
We both laugh.
“I was so glad you came back,” I say.
“I still have a souvenir from you. Sort of. My friend tore my hat in half after we left the club.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“He was in a shitty mood, and I kept teasing him. I told him that I was never gonna wash the hat again because it had your sweat on it. So he ripped it off my head, and then he tore it in half. To make me shut up.”
“Your friend tore your hat in half?”
“He’s my best friend.”
“Wow.” I stub my cigarette out.
Obviously, he likes me, too. That should make me feel good, but for some reason, it makes me nervous.
I only know one way to be in control of a situation.
“Well, Sean, do you wanna see what you missed in there?”
“What?”
“I want to give you a lap dance,” I tell him. “Can I show you why they pay me the big bucks?”
“Why? That’s work, isn’t it?”
“Only if I say it is.”
“I thought you weren’t going to ask me for money. Ever.”
“No, my dear. I am not going to ask you for money,” I mimic. “If it’s all right with you, I think I feel like dancing.”
I’m not well-versed in normal courtship.
Sean looks at me doubtfully.
“Just stay here. I’ll be right back,” I instruct. I grab a wooden chair from the kitchen, and set it down in the middle of the room.
“Sit in this chair,” I say. He doesn’t seem thrilled, but he listens to me. “Okay. Don’t move, and keep your eyes closed. I’ll just be a minute.”
I go into my bedroom and change into a short, tiny lace thing with a matching thong and stilettos. I also put the garter on. Even here at home, I don’t feel comfortable without it.
Why am I doing this? Sean has made it clear that I don’t have to put on an act for him.
I suppose the simple truth is, I don’t know how else to seduce a guy.
I scamper through the house, cueing a CD, re-lighting the candles. Then I tiptoe over to Sean. “Open your eyes.”
He looks startled when he sees me in full ensemble. I begin to dance on him. He doesn’t stop me.
I lean down to whisper in his ear. “So if we were in the club,” I murmur, “You wouldn’t be allowed to touch me.” His eyes widen. He’s breathing faster. Heavier. “But we’re not in the club.”
I pause for a second or two, looking at him significantly. His eyes are round. I’ve knocked down his guard once and for all. He tentatively puts his hand on my thigh.
I tease him with my body until he finally takes the hint and kisses me. He’s very gentle, as if he thinks I’ll break. Then I take his hand and silently lead him into the bedroom.
He touches my face. He hesitates.
“What’s up?” I kiss his ear.
“I guess I should tell you. I’ve only ever slept with one girl before.”
I pause. He’s just said the last thing I expected to hear. Is this wrong? Should I just leave him alone?
But I recover, and run my hands down his chest. I’m going to pretend he never said that. I climb on top of him.
The sex isn’t remarkable. It’s not the best I’ve had, and it’s certainly not the worst. But it’s significantly different for me in one important way.
It’s the first time I’ve truly felt comfortable having sex with a man in years.
Afterwards, we lounge in my bed, talking. I was hoping we’d cuddle. But we don’t. Instead, Sean tells me, apologetically, about his ex-girlfriend. He says he’s in love. Their breakup wasn’t his idea, and he’s still feeling hurt. Missing her. I have nothing good to add to this, so I tell him about Barry.
“Yeah, it sounds like both of our lives are pretty complicated,” he finally concludes.
I nod my agreement. Nothing else really needs to be said. We both understand what that means. I try not to let my disappointment show. When he sits up, I lay back, averting my gaze, and wait for him to make a lame excuse so that he can get up and leave.
He sees my acoustic guitar in the corner of the room. “You play guitar?”
I grimace. “Not really. I suck.”
Go home. Please. Don’t make this worse by turning it into small talk.
“Can I play it?” he asks.
I shrug. “Why not? I can already tell you that you’re better than I am.”
And then you’ll go?
I climb into my jeans and I toss Sean his clothes. Then I get up and fetch the guitar. “It’s probably not even in tune.”
He only plays two strings. Even so, I can tell he’s got some serious musical talent. “I should have brought my bass with me,” he says. “Didn’t we say we were going to jam some time? We talked about that the night we met.”
“Did we?” I mumble. “I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
He stops playing and looks at me. “Bullshit.”
His gaze is penetrating. I feel – well, naked.
“Okay.” I take the guitar from him. “We’ll start with what I know. And you have to promise not to laugh.” I strum a tentative open A chord. My hands are stiff.
I clumsily start to play a tune I wrote eons ago, when I was fourteen, during one of the worst years of my life. The year my dad caught the whiff of puberty on me and we began fighting in earnest. The year I started wanting to be anywhere but here, no matter where “here” was. It’s still the best song I’ve ever written. I haven’t played it since I ran away from my father’s house for good a few years later.
While I’m paddling through the first verse, hitting bad notes on the brittle strings and singing in a low voice, Sean never takes his eyes off me. My performance is painfully raw. I have to look away from him to keep going.
“And when I cry, from shame and rage, knowin’ all my mortal sins,” I croon softly, letting the chords hang next to my words. “The trees are grinning, the flowers laugh; I just don’t know where to begin.” My voice rises on the chorus. “Lord, give me the courage to run away… never once look back… and live for today… Lord, give me the wisdom of a gypsy queen… break these bonds, I’ll be gone and I’ll walk on… free.”
When I finish, Sean is staring at me, but he doesn’t comment. The silence hangs uncomfortably.
“What, did you hate it or something?” I finally blurt.
He doesn’t answer right away. I feel like crying. I curl up into a fetal position on the edge of the bed, far away from him.
But then he says, “No. I thought it was incredible. Your voice is totally unique. And your lyrics… they take me somewhere else.”
I sit up, still hanging my head shyly. “You think I could do something with that?” I whisper.
“I think we could do something with it,” Sean replies.
“Really?”
I get up, revitalized, and rifle through a notebook on my nightstand. In there I find a piece of paper with blue chicken scratch all over it. There are full sentences crossed out. The whole thing is barely legible. It’s a poem that I wrote, on a napkin, in the dressing room of the club one night. I didn’t get far, but I think a few lines here are worthwhile.
“Okay, how about this, then?” I hand him the scrap of paper.
He reads it, then puts it down in front of him, and starts to play a slow, melancholy but menacing bass line on my guitar. “I was working on something like this the other day,” he says. “What do you think?”
I nod my approval. I like his style. A lot.
I start to plug the words in over it. “I’m slimy, so scrawny, I need you to adore me… I need you down before me, I need you dry… I’m sunken, besotted, crushed by your vicious wallet… crushed by the velvet harlot who’s walking by…”
Sean keeps playing. After a while, when he doesn’t change anywhere, we both taper off. We look at each other.
“That’s definitely a song,” he says. “It needs a chorus, though. How does the rest of it go?”
“I don’t have anything else yet. I could write more lyrics. If you think it’s good, I mean.”
“I’m sure I could think of some more chord changes for that,” he says. “So, you ever think about starting a band?”
“All the time,” I admit. “And then I try to forget I thought about it.”
“That’s really dumb. You’re good.”
I laugh. “Okay, Sean. You want to be my bass player?”
“I’d love to.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh.” I scratch my arm. I look away.
“I do have to go back to school next week, though, up in Poughkeepsie.”
“That’s pretty far upstate, isn’t it? How would we play music together if you’re so far away?”
He shrugs. “I can come down on the weekends sometimes. You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
“Nowhere at all. And fast, even.”
“Look, we’ll do this. For real. On the condition that you change your attitude,” he says. “We won’t get anything done if you talk like that all the time.”
“Are you sure you’re only twenty?” I marvel.
“Oh, believe me,” Sean is amused. “I have as much catching up to do as anyone else you know.” He gets out of bed. “Someday I’ll tell you about my life. If you’re interested.”
“I’m interested. Tell me now.”
“It’s late. I have to get going. Some other time, I promise,” he says, touching my shoulder.
“That’s not fair.” I try to scowl at him, but I can’t help smiling.
“It just means you’ll have to see me again.” He kisses me, gently, on the cheek. It’s not a romantic kiss. It’s the kind of kiss you’d give your sister. “I’ll see you soon, okay? I promise. And we’ll finish that song.”
I wish he didn’t have to go.
After Sean has left, I stare up at the ceiling. The cats are sleeping on my feet. It’s close to dawn but still dark outside.
The air blowing in my open window smells like autumn already, a strange burnt coolness that used to make me sad when I was a kid. School is starting again, but my life is exactly the same all year round.
Well, almost.
I am nearly in sleep’s fine haze when I realize that I didn’t do any coke last night. It was the first night in months that I didn’t do even a line. Coke didn’t cross my mind once, in fact, until just now.
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February 4th, 2009 at 5:09 pm
This is another chapter that gives me hope for her, to straighten herself out. Good job, I like this Sean guy, I hope I see a lot more of him.
February 5th, 2009 at 9:23 am
That’s great, Amy – glad you like Sean. And don’t worry, he’ll be back.