Moskovitz / Four 236
F
our
Werewolf in the Hall The Devil Dances
Main
Room: Ms.
Shonda Harpa
Some of Us Kill Strangers at the Dance
By Jack Moskovitz
FOUR
Jack Moskovitz
Copyright 2012 by Jack Moskovitz
Smashwords Edition
Werewolf in the Hall and Some of Us Kill originally produced by Shoestring Radio Theater, San Francisco, CA
4161
Wakeley St.
Omaha, NE 68131
FOUR
By
Jack Moskovitz
Contents
Strangers at The Dance
Werewolf In The Hall
Some Of Us Kill
Devil Dances
The author wishes to thank Shoestring Radio Theater for permission to include these original scripts in this collection. Originally, broadcast: Dec., 2010.
Strangers At The Dance
by
Jack Moskovitz
I stumbled out of the exam room.
Seventy years without a wheeze or a sneeze.
All that good health was coming to an end. Coming to my end tomorrow was the urologist's scalpel.
By this time tomorrow, I will be without a prostate.
Impotent. Incontinent. Hooked to a leg bag. Then diapers. The diapers are "just in case."
Fifty feet away, opposite the exam room, a female voice said:
"David Modlin?"
"More good news?" as I crossed the dimly lighted reception area.
"Good news," she said, "doesn't extend to cancer patients."
"After
tomorrow, I won't, either," I said. "Extend."
It
was seven PM. We were alone.
Seated on the armchair's edge, she shuffled papers, which she stacked, on a low table.
She stood, left hand extended.
After we shook hands, she gestured at the chair across from her.
"Sorry about the rudeness, Mr. Modlin. It's been a long day."
"They get that way sometimes," I said.
I eased onto the chair. My prostate had just been probed and biopsied.
"My
name is Jane Hawkins," she said. "I'm assistant finance
officer." She handed me a computer print out.
"Mr.
Modlin, this represents an estimate of charges. Actual charges will
vary and will be billed to your insurance. Do you still have Medicare
Parts A and B, and
the Confectioners Association's group plan?"
"Yes."
She handed me a blank form. I began filling in the blanks.
"Mr.
Modlin, even with insurance, the urologist's bill plus those annoying
extras, for five days, will equal the cost of a limo rental for one
week. Five days is the average
stay for Prostatectomy's."
"How much, exactly?"
"Four thousand. And change."
I blinked, swallowed, coughed. Such a tiny gland. Such an enormous cost.
"Can't forget the change," I said.
"That's the gross amount and, yes, the amount is gross. But we all must eat."
"Mac and cheese is good enough for me."
Her fists lay against her bulky thighs.
"David, my four year old has diarrhea and as we say in chapel, I'm bound up in the bond of life." She brushed a tear. "I can't prevent her from leaving a trail and I can't start one of my own. So, please, David, save the gas for your dinner companions. Speaking of dinner, our meals are sub-contracted and must be paid for when ordered. We accept all major credit cards and the patient can expect a tray after the card has been confirmed. Also, we are a green facility. That means no smoking. To conserve resources we shut off the water from two AM until five AM. The toilets, during those hours, won't flush. If you use one between two and five expect to squat on whatever was there after two AM." She glanced at the form I'd just completed. "Let me see
if I'm reading this correctly. Next of kin are cousins Barney "Bud" Fishel; his brother, Moe; Bud Fishel's spouse: Laurie. No wife or children, David?"
"Too busy making candy to make the other kind of sweetness," I said.
When she stood, I noticed the fullness of her body. Long brown hair tied into a bun above her neck. Sharp, severe features. She saw me, looking. She gave no
indication she was flattered. With long, tapered fingers, she smoothed her skirt. I'd miss a woman like a head hunter would miss his ax.
Gathering her papers, she said:
"Have a swift recovery."
II
Twelve hours later, I was sedated and wheeled into surgery.
The urologist, Dr. Cindy Sinclair, made a grand entrance to Strauss.
"Dr. Benway lives!" said an intern over the fan fare.
"And cuts!" the young, dark haired cutter said.
Slender fingers snapped on the latex.
"Ready to do some business, crew!"
Their answer was air fives.
Someone placed Martha and The Maniac's CD: "Oy Is The Boy."
The anesthetic kicked in.
I woke up to Dr. Sinclair's: "Where's Willa Catheter?"
"Right here," the intern said.
"Wrong size!"
Sinclair threw the rubber tube on the floor.
The intern handed Cindy another catheter.
Sinclair brandished the tube above the intern's head. The intern flinched.
"Wrong size?"
"You're right," Sinclair said. "It's wrong." Sinclair beat the intern's shoulder. "Will no one rid me of this damnable intern?"
The intern fled.
The team disbanded, stripping latex gloves as they exited.
I passed out again.
III
I awoke to Jasmine.
My middle-aged, blonde, blue-eyed cousin-in-Iaw sat by the bed.
"How's my favorite cousin?" she asked in a husky voice.
"Your only cousin." I took her hand. "You smell like . . . "
"Fried
chicken, darling?"
"Fresh flowers."
"Body spray."
"Where's the rest of the troop, Laurie?"
"At that all-you-dare-to-eat buffet around the corner. Fried chicken today. Yum."
"Across from the hospital. Good location. In case," I said. "Lunch time already?"
"It's
noon already, Davey. It's also Thursday."
"I checked in
Tuesday morning."
"Cousin,
you slept through your twenty-four hours in lCU." She talked
like she was being chased by New York foot traffic. "You missed
the blood drawings. Tube
feedings. Waste draining's," she
said. "IV nutrition, I'm told, leaves little behind. Out of your
little behind. Ah, the patient smiles."
"Thanks, Blondie."
"Thank
you, graybeard. Someone needs a shave."
"Someone's been
shaved," I said.
She
patted my hand; it rested on the side rail.
I wanted to say more.
The words wouldn't come. Seven decades of living. I should have
accepted life's bumps and bruises.
Expecting the worst doesn't make the worst easier to live with.
Except for the thick, white curls that fell across my forehead when I bent over to touch my toes, I did not look my age. No wrinkles yet, no watery eyes.
I wore reading glasses and had all my teeth. Straight back. Arms and shoulders tightly muscled. Until last year I worked forty to fifty hours every week at the candy factory, took long walks and came home to eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
Last year the prostate problems began.
First, the hourly runs to the bathroom to unload a few drops. Then the other symptoms that worsened and brought me to this day.
Like
any loss I would accept my first and worst.
What choice did I
have?
"Well, Davey, your cousins need me. Someone has to hold their hands and assure them that business will improve. I'm a good liar. So, anyway, when you're ready to book out of here let me know. Oh, do you mind if I use the bathroom?"
"Is
it between two and five AM?"
"I don't think so."
"A little post op humor," I said. "Very little, I know, but the best I can do on short notice."
"You're
doing just fine."
She shut the bathroom door.
A chubby, middle-aged nurse entered, smiling, carrying a menu. She sang out:
"Mr. Modlin?"
"Wanna turn the mattress?"
"Mattresses are the domain of the LPNs. I'm your RN. Blake is my name."
She handed me the menu. I passed it back.
"No oatmeal, skim milk or gelatin," I said. "Anything else is okay."
Laurie came out, waved.
"Call
me," she said, "before you check out, hon."
Nurse
Blake fluffed the pillow.
She said, over her shoulder:
"He should be ready to roll tomorrow morning, after the doctor makes her rounds."
"Consider yourself penciled in, dear," Laurie said.
The door closed behind her.
Nurse Blake said: "The dinner special is Swiss cheese and ground beef pizza, lettuce and tomato salad with oil and vinegar, decaf, and cheesecake."
"Not Swiss cheesecake, I hope?" I waited for the laugh that didn't come. "If I wanted colic I'd eat my own cooking. At least I don't charge myself for the gas."
"I
heard that," she said, smiling.
"If I ate that, you'd
hear worse."
She sat on the bedside chair, still warm from Laurie's presence.
"Mr. M, did Dr. Sinclair brief you on urinary tract infections?"
"Maybe she did."
"All you need to know is this. If you develop one, call the pharmacy. A script for the antibiotic, Cipro, is on file there. You're doing well. If you weren't you'd be in extended care."
"Is the food good over there?"
"If
you like oatmeal, toast, skim milk and weak tea."
"The
stuff nightmares are made of."
"A cooperative patient deserves a good meal," she said.
She left. I yawned. I slept.
IV
Six
Am next day the phone rang.
"Ready to roll?" Laurie
asked.
"Haven't seen the doctor."
I tossed back the blanket.
During the night the Foley catheter had been replaced with a leg bag; the bag was taped to my thigh.
"Don't
eat breakfast," she said. "Our treat."
"Best
offer I've had all morning."
After twenty minutes of watching the pine tree wave, I decided to get dressed.
I was stumbling into my jockeys when the urologist entered without fan fare.
Two yawning students followed.
"Not
just yet, David," Dr. Sinclair said.
Groaning, I bent over
the bed.
"David,"
she said, "I haven't touched you."
"It's the
waiting that hurts," I said.
"Don't torture yourself." She snapped on the latex. "That's my job."
I
bit my tongue.
She finally said:
"Good boy." She peeled the gloves.
The
students pulled gloves from their pockets.
I bit my tongue.
The female student, blushing, pried me open, held me open while her male counterpart looked in. I wanted to flatulate but, out of respect, I held it back.
"Incision's healing nicely, David. "See you in clinic in six weeks. The appointment slip's with your discharge papers. Is the leg bag comfortable?"
"It might be. I'm not."
"Oh?"
"It feels like my toy soldier that used to shoot but not salute has an anchor attached. From the inside."
"When you've finished dressing, buzz for escort," she said. "The discharge packet is at the nurses' station. See you in six weeks."
I phoned Laurie. She brought reinforcements.
V
Seven AM. Late March in Duseberg, Nebraska. Wind-driven drizzle.
Jackets zipped. Gloves and caps placed.
Laurie, husband Bud, brother-in-law Moe and I crossed St. Swiven's outdoor parking lot.
Bud, the older brother by four years, was taller and thinner than bachelor brother, Moe. Like me, Bud's hair was thick, curly and, like me, he was gray.
He said: "Dave, if you need to go …."
"Tell us to stop," Moe said.
He was short, plump, bald.
"If the bag stays in place, I'm okay," I said.
We got in the van. I shared the jump seat with Moe. But sat in front with Laurie.
She keyed the ignition.
"How does it feel, hon?" she asked.
It grinds, I thought, but I said: "Okay."
I unzipped the fleece-lined jacket.
Moe took off his hunter's cap.
"Is that normal?" he asked.
He wiped the sweatband.
"Nothing normal about any of this, Moe," I said.
"I know where the potholes are," she said.
"The Grand Canyons," Moe said.
Bud showed his profile.
"Is
the Toddle House okay?" he asked.
"Okay," we said.
VI
Morning rush at the Toddle House was over. A few coffee sippers with newspapers remained.
We took a window booth. Rain filled the cracks in the macadam-surfaced lot and the potholes in the eight lanes beyond.
The
young, short, voluptuous redhead distributed menus.
"What'll
ya drink, folks?" The waitress asked.
"Cranberry
juice," Bud said.
He scanned the menu.
"The
same," Moe said over the menu's rim.
I closed the menu.
"Double for me," I said.
Laurie ordered apple juice.
Moe ordered grits, gravy, and a tall milk.
We ordered the early bird: two eggs, hash browns, wheat toast and coffee.
They tried to ignore my surgery's smell.
"Sorry, folks," I said.
"We all have our aromas, dear." Laurie squeezed my hand and I gave it back.
"Squirrels don't," Moe said.
"They smell rancid all the time," Bud said.
Laurie scowled.
"Something else that stinks," she said. "And we know what it is."
I
said: "Property taxes keep increasing while our mayor
spends
like it's his money."
"If it was his money," Bud said, "he wouldn't squander it."
Moe nodded. "We should recall him and use the end of a rope to do it."
"Taxpayers
complain and he won't listen," Laurie said.
Moe added: "He's
partially deaf, ain't he?"
"Partially stupid," I said.
Bud
frowned. "More than partially."
The redhead distributed
the juice.
I raised my glass. "To cranberries. Good for the urinary tract. Goes down good. Does good. Which reminds me of a story."
"We
love your stories," Laurie said.
"About the old men,"
Moe said.
Then he was lip-deep in juice.
I said: "I can't teach a dog about a tree but I do remember family history."
"In 1900 my young grandfather fled Moscow. He settled first in New York City and then a year later he settled here, in the Midwest. He paid the steerage to bring Bud and Moe's grandparents here. The Fishel's arrived five minutes before another Czarist pogrom was launched.
That
first Duseberg summer the elder Fishel chose ice over the family
business: candy. Grandpa Modlin bought Bud and Mae's grandfather a
wagon and stocked it
with ice blocks. Help is what family members
do for each other was my grandfather's motto. Bud and Moe's elder
wheeled his cart, singing: "Are the stars out tonight?
I only have ice for you, dear .... "
"Before the summer ended he stroked with the song's bridge on his lips. He died shortly after, leaving a widow and babies. My grandfather helped support the survivors because that's what families do."
"Where's
our waitress?" Moe asked, interrupting my reverie.
The
redhead shot past us with carafes for the corner
table, and four
young men in torn jeans, shaggy beards, and ponytails.
We scowled.
"She forgot us," Laurie said.
I said: "Maybe they phoned their order."
Moe flattened two of the eight hairs on top of his head. "Could be."
"Give
her a few more minutes," Bud said.
By now my story didn't
matter.
I remembered other stories.
I'm the third generation candy manufacturer. The Modlin Mound is my signature confection. One whole pound, big and round, almonds fine-ground. Chocolate covered with a marshmallow whip center.
I
was the first in the family to sell wholesale. Dad and his father
rented a warehouse district store front: a two-story brick with the
retail shop on the first floor
in front. The kettles in back.
Their apartment one flight up. Outside stairs led to Grandma's
kitchen.
One summer morning in 1928 Grandma Libby opened the kitchen door for a breeze while she made breakfast. She didn't hear the bum until he forced the screen door.
She
screamed Grandpa's Yiddish name: "Shavach, Shavach," and
the bum screamed back: "I don't need no shave, lady," as he
fled down the stairs with Grandpa
in pursuit.
The old man caught this monarch of the macadam in the alley. After meeting the old man's fists, the tramp didn't worry about a shave, a meal, a quart of Red Eye, or anything else.
Libby and Sam shared a sip of wine on the Sabbath. That was the extent of their drinking. After Sam retired dad found, in a locked basement room, quart jars labeled in Grandpa's tiny, solid, block lettering. Gin. Scotch. Seven racks of quart jars. This is how Sam Modlin fed and protected the family during Prohibition.
He could have worked for Jacob Marin (formerly Mariansky). Marin was a loan shark and talent agent. The two occupations fit like a bottle and a cork. Granddad felt that selling whiskey was evil enough. He used his fists for protection, only.
Jacob's granddaughter, Moodah Marin, inherited her family's business. She owned M.M. Entertainments: a circuit of four small clubs. On the side she sold cars, and loan sharked. Every month I write a check for the loan that paid for the candy factory's recent expansion. All I have to do is payoff the loan and survive cancer.
Moodah
was a good old soul. During the 1950s when I was in high school and
she was a recent graduate still learning the business, she hired me
to run errands which did not include collections and knee-capping.
Working in the candy
factory back then and running errands for
Moodah paid my way at home and helped support myself and ma after dad
died.
I told my Toddle House group none of this.
Instead, I told the story about a drunk on the hottest day of the year.
"So
this old rummy staggers into a tavern, collapses at the bar and with
his last gasp, says: "What do ya have that's tall and cold?"
and the bartender says: "Have ya
met my wife?"
"Funny," Bud murmured.
He waved at the waitress.
She raced by with refilled carafes for the young men at the corner table.
After she unloaded the tray and turned toward the kitchen, Bud stood, blocking the aisle.
"Those four over there." Barney looked down at her.
"They came in after we did."
"They own Furball Films," she stage-whispered. "This is so important to me."
I wanted to say something but was suddenly too worn out to make the effort.
Bud made eye contact with her.
"Do you want the deaths of four starving old people on your conscience?" he asked.
She glared. "If you had a conscience you would wait."
Bud took out a money clip. "Have you ever dreamed about being rich?" He peeled a bill. "This won't help much, but if you find our food, tthere will be another one like this one. Your name'll be on it, right under my picture."
She stuffed the bill in her cleavage. "I'll see what I can do."
"I see you can hide money down there," Bud said. "Show us how fast you can solve our lack of food problem."
"How fast can you count?" And she was gone.
Forty-five minutes later, so were we.
When they dropped me at the white frame single story bungalow I was born and raised in, there were the usual handshakes, kisses and promises of a family dinner real soon. They did not mention the failing business. The dress shop would go the way of their other projects.
The Modlin Candy Factory paid my bills, but just barely. If I could I would have helped my only living blood. After paying off the hospital and the surgeon there couldn't be much left to buy a paperback original.
My house was like it was a few days ago when I left for St. Swiven's. Books piled on the coffee table in front of the TV, on the dining room table, on the bedside lamp table.
Five large rooms and they were all mine. This house was what the folks moved into in 1930. They decided, then, on one child; there wasn't enough space for more.
The house was easy to keep up. Mow the lawn. Shovel the snow. I paid the yearly property tax, which kept increasing in this town known as the tax and spend capital of the great Midwest.
My other expenses: landline phone, gas, water, electricity.
I pay the bills within seventy-two hours of receipt. How long could I do this? If Moodah raised the vig on the loan I'd be weighted, and launched down the Missouri River in a cement pontoon.
If I got really desperate I'd sell my library; yard sale prices wouldn't help much. The books I owned and enjoyed were popular fifty years ago. Their titles: Hell Fire, Savage Highway, Tuxedo Square Job, Nothing Funny About An old Man Laughing, Welcome To Hellville.
I owned a used VW parked in the alley-access garage. With the price of fuel, I rarely drove. To and from the plant, to the grocery, and that was about it. For the Fishel dinners they picked me up. Since I quit drinking I told them I could drive but picking me up was a tradition.
I walked, rode the bus, or took a taxi.
This
is what a sick, old bachelor thinks about while
he shambles
through his house looking for dripping faucets, a plugged toilet, or
signs of a break-in.
The Fishels had another tradition: thirty minutes after they left me they phoned to see if everything was okay. After their call this afternoon I'd take a nap.
When the phone rang, I was dozing in the front room in the padded rocking chair. The phone was on the coffee table, within reach.
"Hey, Davey!" A woman's tobacco-burned voice.
"Remember Sue Brody? Central High? Class of nineteen fifty-something? Your name for me was: Sue Bee. Like the honey. Which I was."
In the background, laughter, shouts, saxophones, and drum rolls.
She said: "The short, chubby redhead, Davey. All natural. Buried your face between my all-naturals a few times. Smothered by my big girls was how you wanted to die. Remember?"
"Yeah, yeah. I remember. Where .... "
"On the road, Davey, three hundred days every year. The Southern Grind Circuit otta Chicago. Haven't been back here in forty years. Except last year. Had to hurry back to the job after the folks funeral. No time to call my favorite Davey Modlin. Things are quiet down south now so I'm booked here on a limited run. At the No Name Lounge on South Tenth. Used to be called the Drop Zone. Remember?"
"I pass it every morning. Like a kidney stone."
"It's a spit's distance from your candy kitchen. Unless you moved."
"When do you do what you do?"
"My first jump is happy hour. Five to six-thirty. Slow time at the No Name. We can catch up. And if you're concerned about sharing my time with a gang of drunks, stop worrying. These bottle types steal what they can from the package goods stores. They do their happy hours down on the river bank and under the bridges down there."
She snorted.
Or was that a phlegm-soaked laugh?
She said: "There's more action in a bone yard than there is in this booze-a-tor-ium during happy hour. Well, like the guy on TV used to say: 'My time is up. Thank you
for yours.' And, Davey, I do mean thank you. In advance. For everything."
"We were good together," I said.
"It could have been. But it wasn't. But we're still on our feet, so there might be a chance yet."
"Don't expect anything, Sue."
"I don't, and I'm never disappointed," she said.
"See you at five."
I drained the leg bag; I remembered high school. Sue and I were two strangers at a dance where everyone knew everyone. We came together like the song says: we were pressure cookers without lids. The difference was that, with us, nothing much
happened.
I cursed fate for not bringing Sue and me together last year. That would have been nice.
Just
before I clocked in for surgery last Tuesday I passed the No Name; a
storefront with a hand-written sign in the window. A redhead came up
the alley between the club and the diner. She wore a one-piece dress,
unzipped jacket, white
anklets, soiled sneakers. She carried a
mop and pail.
I dozed on the chair, woke up hungry. After a single serving of chicken noodle soup and two cups of weak tea, I washed my face. I read the first graph of: Hell Fire.
The phone rang.
Laurie speed-talked through: "How are you?" and "Can we do anything for you?"
"I'm okay," I said. "I have food and your phone number and a date tonight."
"A date?"
"Since this morning, how's the dress business?"
She groaned, then said: "On its last thread. Since this morning, how's the candy racket - a date, you said?"
"Business is still the Modlin Mound. A full pound, big and round. Like my date."
"My other phones ringing. Can't wait to hear more. But I'll have to."
The soup and tea went through me like an out of control river through an ancient earthen dam. After draining, the bag I did a sit-down, to be safe.
Loyal Laurie. Fate took pity on lonely Barney and sent her. A lonely man's dream. Lover. Friend. Advisor. A tall, slim blonde, sweeter than an August day in Mississippi is hot. She had to be understanding to put up with Moe and Bud. They ricocheted from failure to failure.
The
songwriting got them publishing contracts but no money. Then the
dairy bar where Laurie was hostess went broke as did the Tail-N-Pup
franchise and now low-end, budget-priced dresses. In this economy,
you'd think cheap rags would appeal
to the short-money trade.
I considered what I knew about running a business, and running a business into the bone yard.
By the time I backed the VW out of the garage and pointed it up the alley, I had a perverse thought. Who would be in charge of the fire, and the fire sale afterward?
My bladder twitched. That's what I deserved for having perverse thoughts.
VII
Five fifteen. The Missouri River, ten blocks east, smelled like burning tires. Summer heat would worsen the stink. The odor covered the urine stench I couldn't wash away. Vehicle exhaust from north and southbound traffic was heavy; this was afternoon rush hour in Duseberg.
The rain stopped. The sky was cloudy. The humidity, borne along by the wind, cut my tonsils. The chill tightened the other organs.
The No Name dancers were down to their G-strings and junk dreams. An old rummy reached for a dancer. She ass- wiggled away and out the door.
The rummy and me were the only customers.
I sat at the bar.
A ragged, fake-leather wallet shot past my ear.
The bartender, built like a sumo wrestler, caught, searched, pocketed two dollars, dropped the wallet in the trash barrel behind the bar.
"What'll it be?" she demanded in a voice like stripping gears.
The dancers stumbled out the side door.
Jabbering, the old rummy, minus his wallet, tripped over the four tables, and out the door.
"Always re-arranging them tables," the bartender said.
"Want a double of single malt Scotch? Tonight's special. A double sawbuck and we serve it in fresh washed glasses."
"I don't have twenty dollars," I said. "How much for a cow bell?"
"I can make ya a sandwich that'll taste like cow droppings. A single sawbuck, with change comin' back at ya."
"Cow bell," I said.
Her left arm was raised; the hand supported her head. She tilted her head. She gave me a grin that couldn't light the deadness in her eyes. The stitching under the white shirt's left armpit was ripped. Thick black hair curled between the tears.
She said: "Like Nick, the bartender, said in that movie, we don't do fancy drinks."
"A shot of Scotch or bar whiskey and a splash of milk. Is that so fancy?"
"The only milk within ten blocks is in Mayor Snivel's cow pasture over yonder."
"Tap water. In a clean glass," I said.
"Make sure the glass is cleaner than a baby's mind, Lexie," the voice said.
I turned.
"We can't have my oldest and dearest getting a virus. Hey, Davie."
I
didn't trust my voice. She was that tragedy on two legs I saw
Tuesday, coming
up the alley. Tonight she was dressed for a
performance. She looked beat. The fire I remembered had gone out of
her jade eyes.
She touched my arm.
"Don't you move," she said. "I need to do what I'm bein' underpaid to do. We can talk on my break."
"World War Three is the only event that would move me out of here," I said.
"We got an air raid shelter in the basement," Lexie said, moving to the other end of the bar.
Sue
entered the shadows that extended from the bar, across the room, to
the stage. The hem of her low-cut gold lame gown made dust devils
fly. Her ringlets were
out of a bottle. George Forman's gloves
hung under her eyes.
Lexie heavy-footed to the light panel behind the bar. She adjusted the stage lights. The pin spot sparkled the sweat on Sue's forehead and full cheeks.
She squinted.
"Take it down a point, Lexie."
Lexie lowered the light's .brightness.
Sue's jowls dropped dangerously close to her cleavage. Or was that my imagination? The shock of the present clashed with memories of sixty years ago. The metal-ribbed bra and girdle did what she wanted them to do. The gown's shoulder strap was pinned. Brown flats were scuffed.
She tapped the P.A. mic. "Hello, friends. And I do mean you. I'm Shonda Harpa, so named because my folks had second sight. They knew where I was headed, and how I was gonna get there. All they asked of me was: 'Don't give us a shonda and a harpa.' I don't understand what that means in English and they, not bein' Jewish, didn't, either. Anyway, that's how I'm billed. Or would be, if this entertainment center had neon out front."
She waved. I returned it. She air-kissed the entrance shadows where no one stood. Back stage the dancers traded IV needles.
In a voice rough as a dirt road before spring thaw, she rapped:
"There once was a Mary Dare,
Who had a voice way down there.
She sang way off key;
Sang all day for free
While she sat on her London-Derry-air."
Her phlegm-thick cough crackled.
"Ah, hell wid it." She climbed off the stage.
Coming
up alongside me, she said: "Still with us I see or would see if
there was stronger light in this dump and three-fourths."
She climbed the Mount Everest of stained leatherette, adjusting her weight on the rickety stool. She sprayed sweat and cologne.
"Still
and forever, Sue," I said.
"Never knew you were a poet,
Davey."
"Seeing you is like a shot of something I haven't had in a long time."
My hand rested near a dried shot glass imprint. She dropped a thick-fingered, bleach-blistered palm on my fingers.
"Name's Shonda Harpa now." Her cough, loud and wet as a seal's fin against a rock, lifted her breasts. "So how ya doin', Davey?"
"I'm
doin'."
"Hey, Lexie!"
The bartender lumbered toward us.
"Two bucks in the wallet," Lexie said.
She
dug a bill from her slack's pocket. "Here."
Shonda
plucked the crumpled dollar from between Lexie's sausage-thick
fingers. I found a ten-dollar bill on my money clip.
I
laid the bill on the bar.
Shonda said:
"Adding to my retirement fund. How sweet."
"When you were Sue Brody you were sweet, babe," I said.
"We got along, didn't we?"
The deep, damp expression in her eyes damn near made me weep. For her failure and mine.
"Where
were you last year, Shonda?" I asked.
"Coming off the
road from a split week in Joyner, Arkansas, and all through the
south. The back roads and the converted bars that sold whisky,
straight outta the still. It was worse than working the turpentine
camps fifty years ago."
"Last year we could have done that dance."
"Two lovers dancing to the beat." She picked a dried spot on her sleeve. "Something happen last year?"
I told her about the problem and the surgery. Lexie was twenty feet away, at the far end of the bar.
"Sacrifice," Lexie said, "deserves a drink on the house."
She brought a bottle of Overholt bar whiskey and two glasses. She set them on the stained, fake mahogany in front of me.
To Shonda, she said:
"I gotta see a man about a dog. Watch the front, will ya?"
"Dry
mop for me tonight," Shonda said. "Will ya?"
"Yeah,
yeah," Lexie grumbled over her shoulder.
The stacked glasses along the back of the bar, under the mirror rattled when she passed.
"Take your time, Lexie," Shonda said. "Me and mine got some catching up to do."
Before her exit, the bartender plucked a copy of Book Forum off the stack of magazines near the side exit.
Shonda offered me a double.
"I lost my thirst. About the fourth year after you fled Duseberg. The occasional cowbell is it," I said.
"You never were much of an elbow-bender."
She poured a splash for herself.
I said:
"Too
busy staying sober."
"Remember the folks, Davey?"
"They had relationships with every sidewalk on the south side," I said.
"That was them. The old man, especially. He'd get a snoot full and come after me."
Shonda was seventeen. Her mother was usually zoned out by five or six at night. Shonda was alone with that no-good day laborer who claimed to be her father, but treated her like his punch-pillow.
"I couldn't wait to get out of that shack," Shonda said. "Which I did. I traded one misery for another."
She poured another splash. Staring at her reflection in the fly specked mirror, she sipped.
"One day you were home, Shonda," I said. "Next day you were gone. Your mom wouldn't say where you'd gone. The old man snarled at me. He knew I did errands for Moodah so he wasn't about to heave me off the porch. I didn't know what happened to you."
"I wrote you from Chicago, Davey."
"I got it four months later."
"I was busy perfecting my Shonda Harpa persona."
In 1953, after we graduated from Central High, she read an ad in a free weekly newspaper: "Performers needed for a touring company. Experience preferred but not
required."
She auditioned in a fleabag hotel room near the Chicago bus station. The first letter telling me of her entrance into show business was postmarked: Waynesville, Missouri. While she was shaking her body parts on the Southern Grind Circuit, I was pouring boiling chocolate into molds in our candy store's back room. Between shifts at the store I ran betting slips and money from Duseberg's off-track betting parlors to Moodah's office.
My only friend at Central was Shonda. Like strangers at a dance we were attracted to each other. Loneliness does that.
I
spoke a mix of English and Russian. She was shy; going to bed one
night a girl, waking up a woman and not understanding the process,
not being prepared for it,
flooded her with thoughts of: "What
the hell?"
We celebrated graduation on a blanket in her back yard. She left Duseberg shortly after and I always wondered if show business was the only reason.
"Davey, are you still pals with Moodah Marin?"
"She
put up the coins so I could expand the company."
Shonda
flicked a tear before it began the journey down that powdered
flesh-mountain, and into the valley between her breasts.
"Ya know, Davey, when you're young you just know that if today was a bummer tomorrow had to be better."
"When you get old, Shonda, you know tomorrow won't be better, and you pray it won't be worse than today."
"When I'm not pouring out my guts for a bunch of rummies I'm cleaning up after them. After the last drunk shambles out the door, I stack tables and chairs. I scrub,
I help the bartender haul whiskey cases and beer kegs from the storage room in back or in the basement. I paid my dues, sweetness. Many times. I need to be free of these coffins I cough in. If Moodah still owns clubs mebbe you could talk to her, arrange an audition. Soon as I find decent material. And find an affordable outfit."
My broad, fixed smile made my cheeks ache.
I finally said: "Thanks for bringing me back to reality."
"The reality is that I miss you. I can count my friends on the toes of an amputee's foot. What friends do is help each other."
"Remember Bud and Moe Fishel?" I asked.
"I remember the names, I think."
"They own Wear It Home Fabrics. That one story brick under the overpass four blocks north of here. Tell them I sent you."
"I could use a ride over there. My pins, ya know. At my age, standing on my pins for ten hours a night, the arches dropped. The bunions? Like mountains pushing against other mountains. And I haven't told you about the ingrown toe nails and the hammer toes."
"Sorry, hon. I don't know any podiatrists."
"Do ya know anyone who can drive me over to the dress shop?"
"You're looking at him," I said.
"I'm
shacking at the Delmar down on ninth. I'm usually
done with the
housekeeping here at nine AM."
"Look for me in front of your flop. . . ."
"At ten. Gives me time to wash up and change threads." She followed me to the door. "I really appreciate your help, hon."
"I haven't done anything yet." I opened the door.
A crumpled Styrofoam blew in.
She kicked the cup across the threshold.
"What
I don't need in here is more street trash. Especially if it doesn't
have the price of a bar whiskey double. Too damn much trash - the
two-legged variety -
finds a way in. Well, old friend, I will
miss you when you leave."
"How
do you know? I haven't left yet."
I turned up the jacket
collar.
VIII
Twenty minutes later, I walked into my modest mid-town town house.
The phone rang. I double bolted the door before I answered.
"Laurie here, cousin. Got company?"
"Offering?" I eased my weary bones into the rocking chair.
"Wondering."
"Your
voice, Laurie, is all I need."
"My, you are
working the room."
"I forgot you were a club hostess."
"Also, at one time, I was spirits manager, for five minutes, at a social club. Just before the club went broke. I hate the smell of corks. Might say I'm the anti-Proust."
"The liquor wholesaler?"
"A
writer who did the deed in a cork-lined room."
"I read
Faulkner once. Tried to. Gave corn cobs a bad name," I said. "I
prefer crime novels. So, how's life on Roscoe Lane?"
"Our love shack's rocking. As long as we pay the mortgage. Like everyone. How's the candy king?"
"About to sit on his throne."
"I can't stop a good man so I won't even try. Call us?"
"Tell
the boys I'm bringing in a customer tomorrow."
"Consider
it done."
"What are the troops up to?"
"Composing. Hear that? That's Moe at the upright."
In
the background: the same four notes, over and over.
She said:
"Barney's scribbling lyrics that he hopes make some sort of sense."
"Keeps 'em busy," I said.
"Keeps 'em from worrying about the rag biz. Keeps the brain oiled. Which, at their ages, they need to do. Moe especially. He's always thinking and jive-assing about the ladies."
"That's
what bachelors do. What I have to stop doing."
"Sorry,
dear."
"Don't be. I'm just talking."
We paused.
The piano was out of tune. Or was that Moe striking four notes that didn't flow together?
"Well,
Laurie, I got to do what I said I have to do."
"Yeah, I
gotta run. To the corner and back until Moe runs out of energy and
inspiration."
"Tell 'em I hope they hit the right notes, and the words to go with the music."
"It would be easier for them to reach the moon on a step ladder," she said. "How are you doing? I mean, really?"
"Self pity makes my ass look fat."
Her laugh was soft as a whispered: "I love you."
We said our goodbyes. I blinked rapidly. My eyes burned.
I washed at the bathroom sink. I didn't feel secure enough to shower. With the leg bag I couldn't take a tub bath.
At the kitchen table, in faded white terry cloth robe and thrift shop slippers, I sipped weak tea.
I thought about my obligation to Moodah. My kneecaps twinged.
Ten years ago consumers were snacking on carrot and celery sticks. The bank wouldn't give me a calendar or the money I needed.
"It's
just business," Moodah would tell me if I defaulted.
I
rinsed the cup. I checked the house.
Across the street a car door slammed. Down the block a guard dog growled. In my modest mid-town town house, an old man wept.
I fell asleep around four A.M.
IX
Shonda wore brown flats, a red and green one-piece house dress, an insulated jacket - the kind you can buy at a yard sale.
She
waited by the curb in front of the Delmar Hotel, a four-story faded
brick directly behind the No Name Lounge. At ten A.M. the foot and
vehicle traffic had thinned. A young woman pushed a two-seat
stroller. Avoiding eye contact with the people walking toward and
then past her, she pushed her twins through this neighborhood of
diners, taverns, pawn shops and flop houses. Not a book store,
library or candy store within sight. My factory was six blocks
south. Bud and Moe's shop was a short walk north.
"Thanks, Davey."
She struggled into the passenger seat. She clutched a palm-sized purse.
"The
seat's as far back as I can get it," I said.
"That's
aw-right. Serves me right for eating a double of griddle cakes,
Canadian bacon, hash browns and four coffees." She shot me an
evil grin. "And I'd do it again
if I could afford it. Pay
day is next week."
At the stop light I worked the money clip from the jacket's inside pocket. I thumbed a ten dollar bill. It fell in the space between us.
"Thanks, hon." She folded it and clipped it; her money clip was an industrial-sized paper clip. The kind that holds together past due insurance premium notices.
I didn't answer.
She watched, through the side window, the clouds scudding past.
"Looks like it could be a T-storm." She adjusted the seat belt. "Ah, that's better. Felt like I was being held prisoner by a too snug girdle. What do you think, Davey?"
"Seat
belts? Girdles? Storms? What?"
"Pick the topic."
"When I'm driving I don't even pick my nose."
She
rolled her eyes. "Someone didn't sleep well."
"I
wonder why?"
"I wouldn't know."
"You'd
know, Shondy, if you'd been listening last night."
"If
I'd given you the house special you would've slept just fine."
Then she remembered. "Oh. Sorry. Double sorry, honey."
I gave a sideways glance. "Sorry, kid. Long night.
First night out of the hospital, ya know."
"Apology accepted."
"That
was an explanation," I said. "Not an apology."
The
traffic light changed. We were stuck behind a deuce and a half, over
the road furniture moving van that kept to the twenty-five mile an
hour speed limit.
The mover's name was spray painted on the rear gate: "B. Curlin."
Shonda
scowled. "I hate poking along like this."
"Walk
the rest of the way?"
"On who's feet?"
"It's
right over there," I said.
An evil grin.
"I only like one kind of slow poking."
"Seems like I remember," I said.
I parked in the black-topped lot alongside their building.
"Coming in, Davey?"
"I planned to." I had to empty the bag.
In the front display window a mannequin, wearing a white blouse and brown skirt, leaned on its pedestal. In block lettering along the window's bottom border was:
"Big sale. We will stand on our noses to outfit you like you want to be. Sale lasts until the last frock is out the door. All sales final. Cash or money orders only."
Bud and Moe stood at the counter, nose-deep in mugs of hot tea.
"First
customer of the day, boys." I shut the door.
"Of the
month," Bud said. "Morning, cousin."
"Oh,
hello, Dave." Drooling, Moe brushed
past me. "My dear lady, welcome to the finest affordable dress
shop in this part of town." He cleared his throat. "The
only frock shop in this part of town."
"If this was a grog shop we'd do better than we do," Barney said.
"Whatever
you say, dear." Shonda did an eye take.
She said:
"Anything
for a broad my size?"
Moe wide-eyed her, top to toes.
"Me,"
he said.
Bud frowned. "Moe, please."
"That's aw-right," she said. "I enjoy sparing with fools. Anything I can wear otta here?"
"Our name," Barney said, "is our policy."
Moe's drip-dry white shirt was black around the collar and yellow in the arm pits. The collar stays dripped. Today's sweat layered over yesterday's blots.
She said:
"Your name, Jasper. . . ."
"Moe
is the name, my dear. And yours must be: angel."
Shonda
turned to me.
She said: "Is this dude for real? Or is he auditioning for a reality show, like the latest garbage-display on cable: America's Got Gas?"
Bud hand-swept the room. "No cameras anywhere."
Laurie outfitted him in clean denims, pearl gray shirt, polished loafers. Moe outfitted himself.
"All we want," Moe said, "is to clothe you in a frock you can wear anywhere."
"Speaking in tonsils, boys?" she asked, with a smirk. "Ya know. Salesman jive to close the sale tighter than the lid on Hitler's tomb."
"You
have us there, dear," Moe said.
She heard the curtsy in
Moe's voice.
"I
don't want either of you," she said.
Then she enunciated
each syllable:
"I want a dress I can wear to business meetings. And, no, I am not a hooker."
"We never thought you were," my cousins said.
"We sell to anyone, miss," Moe said. "Oh, if you were a hooker, how much would you charge?"
I'd been leaning against the wall, arms folded. When Moe asked his question, I unfolded my arms.
"What kinda place is this, Davey?" she asked.
"They're okay," I said. "With only themselves to talk to, they get weird."
"They passed "weird" awhile ago," she said. "But I've dealt with worse. Fellers, the dress I walk otta here with has to say: Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, without bein'
from either. Understand?"
Barney gestured at the two racks. "Help yourself."
I went in back, to the toilet, and when I returned she was holding a black one-piece with long sleeves and a purse pocket at the hip. She dropped the hangar on the floor, raising dust devils. She stripped the red and green. Moe tried to look away. Bud smiled.
"I wonder," Bud said, "what Laurie's doing?"
"Laurie
who?" Moe murmured, without blinking.
"Tell me,
Jasper?" she asked.
"Anything," Moe said.
"Never seen a big broad before?" She worked the zipper.
"Many times," Moe said. "In my dreams."
Shonda leaned over, giving me a view of the Grand Canyon.
She
whispered: "Davey, what's with short and cuddly?"
I
said: "While Moe was selling you, you were selling him."
"Really?" She leered.
Moe was within range. She bent, to brush lint from the dress hem. She gave him both barrels. Whinnying like a stallion near a brood mare, Moe did a potty dance in place.
"No need to drool like a fool, Jasper." She adjusted her all naturals.
"My name's Moe." His blush covered the blue-black of his beard and spread across his liver-spotted forehead.
She winked at Barney. He sat in the one chair; it was near the racks and the mirror.
"Tell your partner here," she told Barney, "that I haven't been eyeballed by a working man since Dracula left Carfax castle. The deadheads who drop their shabby shanks at the joint I work at don't have a nickel between 'em."
From
a shirt pocket Bud brought out a nail file.
"What do you do
at this joint?" he asked.
"It's
the bar over on Tenth. The No Name Lounge."
"Do you
tend bar?" Moe asked.
He cracked his knuckles.
"I do everything except pour the poison. I tell stories, insult the customers, sing. Ya know. The usual."
"What,"
they asked, "do you sing?"
"What," she asked,
"do you wanna hear?"
She examined herself in the
mirror.
"Say," she said, "it fits."
Moe's hands, at his sides, trembled. Barney dug grit from under his nails. Their faces were expressionless. Poker faces. Only this pair couldn't succeed at cards, either.
She said:
"Whenever you boys get a thirst for cheap whiskey and cheaper entertainment, come on over." She took another look at herself. "Me and the girls are always ready to please."
"What girls?" in unison.
"The pair, fellas, you see, and the half dozen you don't. Live ladies that dance and prance. Take 'em up on their invitation and you take a chance.
She shook her head. Her curls danced against her shoulders.
"Jump in anytime, Davey," she said.
"Hon," I said, "the guys write songs. They belong to a performing rights organization and when they, or a radio station, or a performer, provides proof their songs were performed . . . ."
"Which hasn't happened yet," Bud said.
"Only because we aren't signed with a publisher who has connections," Moe said.
"Songs, huh?" she asked.
She
stared at Moe, not smiling at him, not blinking.
"Romantic
ballads with a twist," said Bud.