THE LOVE BOOK
By Ken Wohlrob
Copyright 2007
Published by Bully Press, Brooklyn, NY
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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For Melissa
mon amour
“It's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse, death he's ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...”
—Charles Bukowski
Table of Contents
The Fabulous Omar
The Fetish
No Matter How Small You Are
On Time
Taking the Happy Bus On Home
The Fabulous Omar
Grace’s hands were around Peter’s throat. His complexion was shifting from pink to mulberry.
“You’re just a little friggin’ worm aren’t you Peter? Huh? Huh?”
She kept forcing the full brunt of her mountainous weight on top of him, as she squeezed tighter and tighter. The bed creaked and moaned in agony under the continuous force of her girth. Around the tips of her fingers, little white splotches formed on Peter’s now purple neck.
“Is this how you want it? Is this what you want Peter?” His head was arched backward, the eyeballs rolling upwards beneath the lids. Suddenly, his body went into a million convulsions, thrashing beneath Grace, his legs kicking about in a spastic St. Vitus’ dance, his hands clutching at the mounds of flesh on her chest and stomach.
And then his body lay there motionless. Grace was panting, the gasps coming forcefully as her whole body heaved up and down with each breath. She relaxed her hands from his throat and put them on his chest to help support herself.
Slowly, Peter circled his head around, tilting it to the right like a Russian icon painting as he looked upward. He smiled. “I love you Grace.”
She dismounted him and sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress had suffered too many sexual affairs in its time, so it submitted to her weight, forcing everything on the bed — the clothes, the ashtray, even Peter — to lean towards Grace as if she were a vortex. She slammed a pack of Pall Malls into her hand repeatedly. In a fluid motion, she flicked open the lid, extracted a cigarette, and tossed it into her mouth. A flame sparked, the cigarette was lit, and she slammed the Zippo shut. Grace just puffed and billowed like the smokestacks of the chemical plant up the street.
“You’re weird, but I love you too Peter,” she mumbled, blowing wafts of smoke at him with each syllable. She patted his cheek gently. As soon as he smiled back, she smacked him hard across the face. “Sucker!”
“I’m gonna…”
“Yeah, go wash up. Do it ‘till your satisfied. I’m just gonna smoke.”
Peter was no Lilliputian himself. Growing up Italian had left him with the family build that was passed down for generations much like a recipe for homemade pasta sauce — three chins, no neck, man breasts, sausages for fingers, the Hitchcock belly, and cankles beneath his meaty thighs. When nude he often resembled a clean-shaven gorilla with a receding hairline who couldn’t reach select spots of fur on his back with the razor. What Peter lacked in actual height, he more than made up for in girth. He lumbered off to the bathroom whistling “Midnight Rambler” and closed the door behind him. There was the muffled sound of the toilet seat slamming down and then a murmur of flatulence.
Grace was too tired to laugh at Peter. Shifting her frame, she sat against the wicker headboard. A slight sigh (along with another puff of smoke) escaped her as she grabbed the now melting bag of ice from the nightstand. Her left knee was inflamed, a blood-red mass of scar tissue and bulging skin. She dropped the bag on it, wincing slightly, and held it in place.
To call her immense would be an understatement. Grace looked as if every gland, organ, and muscle in her body were simultaneously trying to escape, causing her skin to swell and puff into what appeared to be a series of large, overfilled water balloons. The hanging flesh slapped loudly like a dirty rug being snapped in the wind whenever she strutted around the room. The loud flapping increased tenfold when she rode Peter like Luz Benedict trying to break a horse in Giant. When the TV news discussed the 30% obesity rate amongst Americans, Grace felt as if they were referring specifically to her.
She chuckled at these reports. They made it seem as if she had spent her life walking in and out of McDonald’s. What would the newscasters have to say if they saw her eating leftovers from truck stops from the ages of 12 to 22? It was all part of the transaction; a ride and a little bit of food. Even if it was a plate full of ribs and a three hundred mile stretch of highway she didn’t have to walk, Grace was getting the short end of the deal. In parking spaces and bathroom stalls of rest areas, in dark and acrid motel rooms, with the truck generator blasting away or the alarm clock radio playing to muffle the sound, no one heard nor saw how she fulfilled her end of the bargain. Hands groping at her, sweat on her back, the smell of crotch in her face, her body aching and bleeding. It was a ticket out, but it was expensive.
Grace breathed out, the cigarette smoke ejecting from between her lips before falling around her body in the manner of fog around Mt. Everest. The cigarette hung limply from her mouth.
The room was dead air, a radio station with its signal cut. A breeze blew in from outside, but there was no traffic on Route 9. The air was thick with a film from the chemical plant. Every night it drifted into the small motel room. Grace often could taste it on her tongue, feel it on her skin. The film mixed with the Pall Mall smoke as it clung to Grace, the bed, the nightstand, and the carpeting. A thick egg-nog-colored paint coated the walls, hiding layer upon layer of human history. Across this tundra of off-white, chunks and holes appeared revealing the sub-strata of past dead-ends. Grace often wondered who else sat here like this in years past; what secrets or horrors lay forever buried in the levels of paint. If you chipped away at it, would all the sex and killing and laughter and rape and success and death be revealed? Or was it all just dried, dead paint?
She turned and looked directly ahead. In front of her was the painting. Somewhere along the coast lived a man or woman who back in 1955 had become the Picasso of the Jersey Shore. With a paint-by-numbers pedigree and an affinity for ocean scenes, said person had made a killing by hocking art fair rejects to motel owners. Shipwrecks, seagulls on driftwood, lonely men sitting on docks; this was their oeuvre. Grace saw the artist’s work everywhere: in crab-shacks, hourly-rate motels, and penny-draft watering holes; all of them a museum to the painter’s success. How many hours had she sat like this: a naked mass, smoking until her eyes turned the same color as her knee, staring at the image of a giant squid wrestling a sperm whale in a duel to the death? The painting always haunted her and she often saw it in her head when life took a detour for the even worse.
No matter how much she deluded herself into believing that memories can be summoned at will, she knew that more often than not they came to her because of external stimuli. A whiff of food in a restaurant, a chance phrase uttered in conversation, a song heard over the radio; these held greater sway over Grace’s memories. While studying the squid’s grip on the sperm whale’s lower jaw, she remembered that night once again — the match versus Delilah Tucker, winter of 2002.
The name Grace Sullivan didn’t mean anything to anyone. “The Fabulous Omar” however was a name to be reckoned with. It carried a certain weight, a note of recognition normally reserved for B-movie directors, dead punk rock musicians, and ex-Playboy playmates. The Fabulous Omar had terrorized female opponents for well over four years. From the Hangar in Thunder Bay, Ontario to the Arena Queretaro in Mexico City, Grace — or rather Omar — had made a name for herself as the most fearsome female pro wrestler to ever strap on the boots. Reviled by small children, despised by female fans, repulsed by male spectators, she was a villains’ villain. At six-feet, three-hundred-and-twenty pounds, Grace was tailor-made for the job. It was an empty notoriety — after all who strived for such a position — but she surmised it was better than being an anonymous corpse.
That particular night many years ago, she was scheduled to lose to Delilah Tucker. It was in Toledo, the snowdrifts piled up as if it were Stockholm or Oslo. Not too many fans were in attendance, just a few drunks from the local VFW and some stragglers who stopped in before third shift at the plant. The two women were polar opposites and therefore, a perfect match. Grace, raw strength and rage; Delilah a tactician who had actually studied at Killer Kowalski’s wrestling school in Boston.
Delilah had Grace in a full nelson, but could barely swing her about as choreographed earlier. She was struggling, breathing with all her might to move Grace’s mass. The breathing. It triggered something in Grace. The breathing on the back of her neck; the panting of an animal. The couch. I Love Lucy on the television; it was the “Vitametavegimin” episode. Her father was drunk. She knew it because he sat there silent. Lucy was drunk on the TV screen. She was funny. He was not as he climbed on Grace. His breath on the back of her neck. She had felt the pain below, but it was the breath on the back of her neck that still woke her up in cold sweats. His breathing, panting, like an animal. He forced her head into one of the throw pillows, the stale cloth, reeking from years of arm sweat. He breathed on the back of her neck, panting loudly. The entire time, she could hear the studio audience laughing at Lucy’s antics.
Struggling in that cheap wrestling ring, memory flooded Grace’s brain. She threw her head back with the force of a freight train. The cartilage of Delilah’s nose shattered against Grace’s skull. Delilah dropped like a stone, blood squelching from the nostrils like ketchup from a McDonald’s condiment packet. The sea of red coursed along the canvas. Grace just stood looking down at Delilah, the blood circling her boots as if they were islands.
Later on in the locker room, Grace sat completely still, her head covered with a towel, shivering. She felt horrible. A flood of emotions was tossing her about. Her father, poor Delilah, the desire to strangle someone, the woman she had just crushed, unconscious and bleeding all over the canvas. Her entire life had been a fight, a struggle just to get by, an endless series of submissions in order to get out of a corner. It all flooded back to her. Delilah, bleeding, broken, laying there motionless. Grace panting like an animal over its prey. The one thought running through her head as she stared down at Delilah was “never submit.” You have to lose in pro-wrestling — in a scripted soap opera, someone always loses — but never submit. She was ashamed of that thought as she sat there shivering and alone in the locker room.
The toilet flushed in the bathroom and Grace snapped back into the present. Peter was finally running the water for the shower. Outside, a truck roared along Route 9, screaming its way towards the chemical plant. It drew Grace’s attention away from the bathroom. The cigarette now resting loosely between her lips, Grace started playing with the edge of the stained blanket, pulling a loose piece of white thread out of the stitching. While circling it back and forth around her index finger, she looked down at the floor by the window.
This patch of soiled carpeting served as Grace’s trophy case. Sure, the Fabulous Omar was hated universally by wrestling fans, but even villains are allowed to win. It helps keep the drama alive, drawing the rabid masses into the soap opera ethic that separates pro wrestling from boxing. Three world titles, two Intercontinental titles, four United States titles, and even two Lucha Libre belts; the trophies of her success gathered in a jumbled mess on the floor. A few of them had dents — roughly the size of Grace’s forehead — that were caused by scripted post-match attacks. One or two still had her blood caked on them.
Then Kim Cattrall popped into her head. It was the blood on the GOW Intercontinental Title belt, the last honor she had claimed back in 2004. Grace had been sitting in the hotel room after a match in Asbury Park, flipping around the channels. A badly leaking bandage was strapped to her forehead. In order to make the match exciting, she had cut her forehead with a small razor taped to her wrist. The crowd cheered like Romans when the blood roared down her scowling face. Her forehead had taken on the texture of tanned leather from repeated slashings inflicted during matches in cities across the continent.
After the match, she retired to her hotel room with a pack of Pall Malls and a bottle of Wild Irish Rose. She stripped herself naked — not even bothering to shower — and sat down on the bed. The flimsy bandage the EMT guy had strapped to her forehead was hanging on for dear life and showed little trace of its former sterilized self. Grace held it in place, puffed smoke, and clicked the remote control.
She eventually surfed around to HBO and Sex and the City. Kim Cattrall was wailing and hollering as she straddled a male buck. Grace stared at the spectacle as if she were watching a documentary on some exotic Amazonian tribe. What world was this? Who lived this life? Where did these women find this much time (and cash no less) to spend endless hours at restaurants? The episode cut to a pair of women strolling down Fifth Avenue in New York City, waving their bags of just-bought clothing and cosmetics about, complaining about the state of their sex lives. Grace looked into the bathroom and from far off, could see the immense reflection of herself, sitting there, nude, bleeding from the forehead, surrounded by gray smoke, her knees in tatters. She looked back at the TV as the four women sat down for yet another brunch. Very gently she set down her cigarette in the ashtray and walked over to the television. At the point of impact, broken knobs, fragments of plastic, chunks of glass, and severed pieces of wire flew about the room. To this day, she never bought a replacement TV set.
The stand that had once held the television now held a stack of old magazines and newspapers. The Newark Star Ledger sat on the top. She couldn’t remember the last time she read a newspaper. Peter left them there. It was an odd little quirk; he would show up with something to read, but never took it home. The unread pages he left for her piled up like informational detritus on the TV stand. Stories of people she didn’t know, doing who knows what to whom. With every millisecond of horror she had endured all her life, how could she spare time for someone else’s sob story? Where was her memoir? “Guess it’s not a glamorous life,” she puffed out, looking down and laughing at her own appearance.
Somewhere underneath that stack, was the first paper he had ever left in her room. She knew it was there and didn’t even have to look. The date was stuck in her head. November 7, 2004. It was a Sunday. She was limping back from running errands. A fresh pack of Pall Malls and a bottle from the liquor store. Suddenly he called out.
“Hey! Hey!”
She didn’t look. It was probably just another jackass who knew her as the Fabulous Omar and wanted to give her a hard time. She was in no mood.
“Hey, Grace!”
She stopped and turned.
“Remember me? Peter?”
She stared at him, a perplexed look. Her entire life she had trained herself to forget faces.
“I bandaged up your head when you won the GOW belt. Remember?”
The EMT guy. He had done a horrible job on the bandage. Peter.
“Wow, looks like a hell of a ladies night you have planned there,” he said pointing to the plastic bag with the bottle sticking out. He was a smart ass to boot.
Grace smiled hello.
“Hey look, I know it’s Sunday and all, but care to grab a drink?”
She thought for a second. The alternative was sitting in the room alone, trying not to remember.
“Sure, mind if we stop by my room first so I can drop this stuff off?”
“Not at all!”
When he left, Peter’s copy of the Star-Ledger was sitting on top of the TV stand.
That was just over one year ago. A strange coincidence, taking place in a New Jersey parking lot covered with garbage, cigarette butts, and urine. Grace could never quite figure Peter out. Every man who had ever crossed her path was constantly jockeying for position, trying to find the weak spot with which to take her down. Peter didn’t seem like the other faces. He didn’t seem to be sitting there, calculating his next move. Sure, he had some strange ideas about sex. Grace assumed this tied back to his mother somehow. Italian guys always seemed to have weird issues with their mothers. But in an odd way, she found it liberating, this poker hand she had been dealt.
All her life, everyone who had ever approached her, to help her in some way, had asked her to pay a heavy price in return. Peter was the first who asked nothing except his own twisted vision of love. Was that so bad? The farther she ran from her past, the more shredded pieces of carrion she left along the highway. With Peter, she didn’t have to worry about losing parts of herself.
In the bathroom, Peter turned off the shower. She could hear him whistling “Gimme Shelter,” very off-key. The clock on the nightstand ticked away. It was well past midnight. “One day closer to death,” she mumbled softly to herself. The clock ticked on, oblivious to Grace. She wondered what the next 24 hours or 1440 minutes or 86,400 seconds held in store for her. The ticking wormed its way into her brain. Grace remembered.
She was still a little girl, standing there in a black dress that had once been her cousin’s. Aunt Gert had given it to her for the occasion. She clutched her father’s hand, but it felt detached from the mind of the man who stood there stone silent staring down in the grave. Two black shapes connected, looking down into the ditch. At any moment Grace expected Momma to pop out of the cheap wooden casket and shout, “April Fools!” like she used to do when they played together. Instead the wind died down, the earth grew quiet, and Grace could hear nothing but the ticking of her father’s watch.
On the ride home he said nothing. Not once did he look over at Grace. He didn’t even cry. Even at her young age, she was prescient enough to know she was now alone. Daddy was always distant from her, except… on those nights when Momma went out with friends. Daddy paid attention on those nights. He was very affectionate with Grace, caressing her hair, kissing her cheeks, asking her to give him big hugs and kisses in return. Then Momma would return home and he would morph back into the hollow shell she knew as her father.
Momma always entered the house with a mile-wide smile, but then would stare oddly at Daddy as she hugged Grace. She never said anything to him, just silently hauled Grace upstairs to bed as he grunted at the funny parts of I Love Lucy. Once Grace was safely tucked in, Momma would tiptoe out and softly close the door. Grace could always hear her slinking down to the hallway closet before returning to the bedroom door; not opening it, but standing just outside. The light from the hallway always disappeared as Momma’s shadow knelt in front of the door, fiddling with something and making noises as she shifted on the carpet. The light would reappear as Momma stood up and then a click of the switch quickly extinguished it. On weekends, when she awoke before her parents, Grace often opened the bedroom door to discover that her mother had taped a length of white thread across the doorway. She never asked why.
Now that Momma was gone, who would look after her? Certainly not the corpse who sat beside her. He was Daddy, but he didn’t seem human. She shivered a bit at this thought and turned towards the window to watch the trees roll by as the Impala sped towards home. Events from the day flooded her mind. Daddy had looked at her once. Aunt Gert had pulled her close and said, “You’re so pretty in that dress! My you look just like your mother.” Her father had stared at her for a bit and then returned his eyes to the casket.
Back in the now, the bathroom door swung open and Peter exited, a towel struggling to hold his waistline. “I feel like a new man! So have you given any thought to what we talked about.”
Grace looked at her knees and then at the trophy case. “Not tonight Peter.”
“Look, Grace, I understand it’s a big sacrifice for you, but I hate seeing you like this. I think you need a change. You need to do something else with your life.”
She didn’t respond.
“Grace? Grace? C’mon huh, talk to me.” He placed himself on the edge of the bed next to her, his palm resting on top of her hand. That puppy smile of his appeared on his face when she finally looked at him. “Hey,” he whispered to her in a soothing voice.
“Peter, leave. I don’t want you here.”
“What? Hey, we had such a nice time, I don’t…”
“Get out.” She didn’t raise her voice. Nor did she throw him a stern look. But there was a subtle change in her countenance — the jaw line stiffening, the eyebrows slowly lowering. Most animals would’ve picked up on it. Peter, being male, did not.
“Don’t be like that I…”
He should’ve seen the blow coming. The fist nailed him square in the jaw, knocking him off the bed. His body dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Peter didn’t move for a full minute. He was breathing rapidly, as if he were trying to draw in as much air as possible. The puppy smile was gone. All that remained was the look of hurt, the look of revulsion. That look…the one that fans gave her.
Grace sat motionless on the bed, smoking, staring at her knees. Peter stood up, rubbing his chin and wincing a bit. He grabbed his jeans, calling Grace a thousand synonyms for whore, his voice echoing off the walls as it boomed and bellowed. He followed with the socks, the work boots, the dress shirt, finally grabbing his coat off the back of the chair. He showed his rage by being methodical. It was an anal quality that he knew irked Grace and therefore he brought it out in full force. Like a true Italian, he stopped just long enough to fix his hair in the mirror — all the while still cussing at Grace — before heading for the door. He exited silently, the absence of his voice leaving an empty space in the room. Peter left the door open. Grace let it stay that way.
The room was quiet, except for the ticking. No wind, no cars, no rumbling of beds from other quarters. Silence ruled her small patch of Route 9.
The sludgy mass of her past floated around her in a haze, intermingling with the cigarette smoke and the chemical film. It hung there, taunting her, saying “You can’t block us out forever.” She tried to concentrate on something else, focusing on the silence of the quiet New Jersey highway outside.
She remembered, that night, sitting there in the cold, an eerie quiet hanging in the air, scared to death, bleeding, shivering because the torn clothing offered her no warmth. Grace couldn’t see him, but he was out there, walking around, searching for her. The trucker stood where the grass met the concrete, yelling into the woods. “Come on back darlin! I’m sorry if I got too rough. C’mon back and I’ll drive you to wherever you need to go. Hey! Hey!”
She tried not to move. But standing in the forest on Rt. 80, in the dead of winter, with tatters for clothing, was causing her body temperature to drop. The shivering was getting worse and she tried to sit down in order to steady her body. It hurt too much to sit. The trucker had done his damage. She could feel her panties growing damp from the blood.
Eventually the trucker drove away. She crawled out of the woods and stayed in the restroom until a custodian found her huddled by one of the toilets the next day. Grace begged him not to call the police. That could mean being sent back home. He was gracious enough to get her an extra set of clothes from his daughter’s closet and drive her to the bus depot in Sharon. Somehow, she managed to sneak aboard a bus to Harrisburg. Sitting next to a little girl in a Pittsburgh Steelers jacket, Grace wanted to unload it all, tell her everything. She wanted to let this girl know what lay ahead, what was in store for her, tell her to get out now before anyone causes her harm. But instead she turned to look at the rolling hills and forests of Rt. 80 as the bus thundered down the highway. How could she tell this innocent child what lay ahead, when Grace wasn’t so sure herself?
The telephone in the room rang. It was an old rotary dial. Whatever corpse had rented the room before Grace left it as a memento of its existence. She knew it was Peter. He was standing at the diner up the road. If she picked up he would say, “Grace, look I’m sorry, let’s grab a really, really early breakfast.” Then over a plate of eggs, sausage, and beans, he’d tell her that things would be okay. It’s just that she was down right now, but the good in her life would come. Everyone has a downswing. He would say all this and touch her hand as he said it and smile as much as he could, hoping that she would smile back, or cry, or even just nod. Her silence scared him. Grace didn’t pick up the phone because there was no way she could do this. How could Peter understand? A downswing? Her whole life had been a downswing. A few words and a bit of handholding was no match for that.
Finally the phone stopped ringing. Peter forfeited the match.
He was a good man. He cared. He actually loved Grace. Somehow it had happened. For once in her life another human gave a damn about her. It backfired. The pleasure of sex with Peter, the love he gave to her without consequences, took away her defenses. With no opponent to fight, she let her guard down. The entire motel room felt like a forty-five pound weight on her chest. The door and window were open, but there may as well have been bars covering them.
She jammed the cigarette down in the ashtray, stubbing its life out. Throwing her weight over the side of the bed she pulled out the drawer of the nightstand. In it there was a business card. She picked up the ancient phone and dialed the number. Peter was right — she should quit this life. She needed time off, minutes, days, months, even years, to put herself through the torments of her past and put them in the ground.
No one was picking up on the other end. There was just the ringing in her ears. That son of a bitch. Typical. She let the receiver drop to the floor, placed the card back in the drawer, and looked at the printed words:
Sully Girgenti
Wrestling Promoter
Sully. That day that seemed so long ago. They were at a motel just outside of Blairstown. It was a few days after the incident with the trucker. Sully had given her a lift and taken her to the motel. He told her part of Friday the 13th was filmed in Blairstown.
Grace had nearly strangled Sully to death. The man had attempted to talk dirty to Grace, thinking it would improve the sexual ambiance. Oblivious to the lioness waiting to pounce, he had muttered, “You’re my dirty little girl aren’t you?” He wound up in a fetal position on the bed, clutching his throat and choking. Grace stood over him panting, shaking, sweating, with fists clenched.
Once he caught his breath he looked up at her. This mass of a woman standing there ready to tear him apart. She watched the look change in his eye. Fear vacated the premises and in spite of his continued gagging, a smile formed itself on his face.
Sully Girgenti was the wrestling promoter who would later name her the Fabulous Omar. The name was a cruel joke. There was a cartoon character from the 1940s named Omar the Gorilla Woman who was nothing more than a racist caricature that chased small children around while yelling out “yum yum eat ‘em up!” He dressed her in a leopard skin leotard and had her march into the ring carrying a bone. Grace didn’t care that the joke was on her. In the ring, she loved being Omar. Crush, smash, kill. It was a way to forget, to escape, to be someone who was so much stronger than she was able to be during those years past. Sully could read it all. He understood first-hand the ferocity and power hiding in this young woman. He knew she would be a smash in the ring.
And so for the next four years, the Fabulous Omar dominated. Even though wrestling was scripted and fake, it was still possible to get hurt, especially if someone really wanted to injure you. Omar had an axe to grind with the world. Even if she was scheduled to lose, the scripted winner was going to pay for their victory — either in blood or broken bone. The Fabulous Omar became notorious. She would never, ever, submit again.
Yet the motto never served her in the quiet hours. Whatever the outcome in the ring, there were always nights like this. Sitting alone, nude, smoking, wondering if she would actually be able to walk in the morning, fearing the ticking of the clock as it rhythmically commanded for her to start thinking about the many days past.
“A wonderful urinal cake of a life, eh Gracey?”
The problem now was that all of it — every ounce of blood and sweat and sanity she had lost in coming this far — was flooding back and demanding a replay of events. The demons of the past stood around the bed, smiling, salivating, with bulging hard-ons, ready to take her once they knew she was weak enough. Her mind wanted to try and make sense of the why, not the what. Why was she treated like this? Why did no one help her? Why didn’t she have brunch with friends where they sullied the reputations of their lovers? Why did she deserve this? This hotel room? These knees? This hanging flesh that coursed like a road map through truck stops, dive motel rooms, dingy small-town gymnasiums, all the way back to a simple grave, marking her journey thus far in life? But to get the answers, she would have to relive the what; the hands upon her, touching her, the faces she so wanted to forget, staring down at her.
How long would it take her to dig through the layers and peel back the flesh to figure it all out? She was tired, she already had come so far. The answers seemed too far off. “I’ll probably be in a nursing home by the time I suss it out.” But now that the word “quit” had firmly planted itself in her mind, time was a commodity she would have in abundance. Sully would find a new villain for his traveling circus. The years of physical conflict had come to end. In that regard she was happy. It was the mental wrestling ahead that frightened her and convinced her to send Peter away. It was an act of love, a self-sacrifice that in the end was the better option than torturing the only man who ever did right by her.
She snorted and puffed smoke at the demons. They smiled back. A long journey indeed, too long to sort out in the next 86,400 seconds.
****
The Fetish
“Sweet and sour chicken combination, sauce mixed in. Any sauce on the side?”
Mike’s portly frame stood there, the woman behind the counter staring back impatiently. His brain was circling Pluto.
“Helloooo? Helloooooooo?”
He was enraptured.
“Hey amigo, sauce on the side?!”
The goddess spoke to him. He could hear her voice inside his head. It was the only sound his eardrums were receiving. The woman behind the counter, the patrons laughing and talking, the bustle of the kitchen, all of it muted out. Everything else played in the background like a silent movie, second bill to the main feature with a single voice over. I am Mei, I am for you.
“Hey! Hey! Sauce on the side? Spoon?! Fork?!”
Mike snapped out of his infatuation. His face reddened. Everyone in Wing Lee was glaring at him now. The vibrant, glowing white haze of his daydream had dissipated into the tan, soiled interior of Wing Lee’s faded floor tiles and grease stained walls. For the past five minutes he had been staring at the image of a young Chinese woman from the calendar taped to the soft-drink cooler.
She was stunning and perfect in her simple beauty. Porcelain skin, straight black hair, round breasts perking out from the top she was wearing. The smile on her face revealing a complex innocence; a look of untainted sexuality, touched by no man, but willing—oh yes, so willing—to please the first male she desired. With the wild-eyed fascination of a schoolboy picturing his fifth grade teacher in garters and a bra, he had been a statue in the middle of Wing Lee.
“Spoon?! Fork?! Sauce?!” The normally pleasant woman behind the counter was growing irritated. There are simple rules at Wing Lee. Know what you want and pick it up right away. Mike had violated the code.
Mike glanced back at the young Chinese goddess on the calendar. Oh yes, I will receive you in any way you want. You will teach me about desire and I will respond to your lessons with the utmost passion. He put his head down, embarrassed, and said to the woman behind the counter, “Nothing, thanks.”
“Six dollars!” she barked back at him.
He put a five and a single on the counter, took his bag, and exited. As he walked out, he tried not to look directly at anyone. This was the fifth night this week he had ordered Chinese food.
~~
The train was off the tracks.
Scattered about the living room floor were various copies of The Village Voice. The pages lay about like victims of a plane crash, ripped and torn from their perfectly ordered arrangement. Ads for Asian phone sex lines and escort services were X’d out with a kindergartner’s scribble. The room reeked of Budweiser; empty bottles sitting in corners, on top of the TV stand, and hidden underneath the couch. The mixture of dried newsprint, dust, and bits of dead skin gave the air a chalky texture.
Mike’s head was lolling back and forth. His squatty Italian body settled around his hips, resting like a set of pancakes. He flipped frantically through the pages. Past someone ranting about the “crackdown on dance clubs,” moving well beyond the music review of another “wunderkind formalist, savior of garage punk, the new messiah of alt-pop-post-Sonic-Youth brilliance.”
“Who reads this crap?” he mumbled to himself.
He reached the back of the newspaper and scanned through the ads. With glee, he located the only number he hadn’t tried yet.
“Konnichiwa, Geisha Playground”
He coughed to clear his throat. In a soft, slightly Ivy-League monotone he became his alter ego. “Hello, I was hoping one of your more petite escorts would be available this evening.”
“Yes, sir. I think we have just the thing you are looking for. Ms. Saeki is five feet one inches tall, 95 pounds. 32-23-32.”
“Yes, yes, perfect, perfect. That will do splendidly.”
If the woman was paying any attention, she would have picked up on Mike’s bad Thurston Howell III impression. Alas, despite Jim Backus rolling over in his grave, the dupe seemed to be working in his favor.
“First name?”
He blurted out “Michael” without realizing it. Shit shit shit! He thought to himself. You dummy, they’ll know it’s you.
“And your last name?”
“Ummm…well…”
“What is your last name?”
“Sm..Ste…no…umm…” The mask was dropping.
“Sir, what is the last name?”
He looked down at the various pages and read off the first name that came to him.
“Muh…muh…Musto.”
“Musto? Michael Musto?” There was a pause on the line. “Michael Musto? The Michael Musto?”
“Wait, what?” Mike was confused. Did they already know it was him?
“Michael Musto of the Village Voice?”
Mike stared down at the newspaper pages at his feet. He quickly scanned for the source of his false identity. He found the headline. “La Dolce Musto.” Without realizing it, he had chosen the last name of the Village Voice’s gossip columnist, who just happened to have the same first name. In addition, the columnist was notoriously gay. Mike’s homophobia gave him a kick to the head. Idiot! Retreat! RETREAT!!
“Mr. Musto, it is an honor to be serving you.”
“You must be mistaken, I’m not that Michael Musto.”
“Do not worry Mr. Musto, we are very discreet. But if you don’t mind my asking, aren’t you gay?”
“I AM NOT GAY!!” Mike bit his tongue after shouting. Good move shithead, now they’ll definitely recognize you.
“Oh, I see, you’re on the down low. Well just so you know, we also have men available Mr. Musto, for when you’re not…”
“Look madam, I told you I am not that Michael Musto. We just happen to have the same name.”
“That’s okay Mr. Musto, I understand. No need to say anything more. Can I have a phone number we can reach you at Mr. Musto?”
Mike was silent.
“Mr. Musto, what’s the phone number.”
Think, you idiot!!
“Mr. Musto, there are other clients who are awaiting service.”
Do I give them my number? Or make one up? His eyes suddenly found new life, the smattering of an idea tattooed itself on his brain by sheer luck.
“Well what do you need the number for? I don’t want you calling at the office. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, of course not Mr. Musto. But Ms. Saeki will call you a half-hour before she arrives to confirm the address.”
“Pa…pa…what?”
“We always confirm the address. We don’t want Ms. Saeki to waste her time, and yours, should the address be wrong. So please, your phone number Mr. Musto.”
He paused. He could hear the woman agitatedly tapping her pen through the ear piece. Whatever goodwill Michael Musto had earned with the New York City escort establishment was quickly disappearing via Mike’s continuous fumbles. Meekly, he mumbled the number to the woman.
“You!!” she shouted back. “We told you, don’t call here anymore. You know we banned you. And to think, posing as Michael Musto of the Village Voice. What kind of a sick individual are you?! He’s a very nice man!” Mike immediately saw the cover of the New York Post with a grainy photo of himself on it. The headline, “Caught in the Closet! Asian-Crazed Hetero Poses As VV’s Musto.”
“Please I told you, I wasn’t that Michael Musto…I…listen…?”
The line went dead. Mike felt the last bits of strength leave him. The alcohol and his final attempt at securing Asian companionship had drained him. He slowly fell over sideways, his head landing on the floor. The world turned at an odd angle as he stared across the room. An endless sea of Asian women in various sexual poses, stared back at him from the newspaper pages. He heard a hundred different female voices call his name, winking and blowing kisses. He said nothing as sleep overcame him.
~~
The name on the postcard said “Kaitlin Lim.” The little photo with the airbrushed features, the forced smile, and the hair done up in a gaudy bob cut looked as if it were a Glamour Shots special. Underneath her name it said “Sales Associate, Gold Star Club.” Mike thought she was stunning.
He had found the postcard with the rest of his mail underneath the layers of Village Voice pages. When he finally couldn’t resist the day any longer, he had opened his eyes to find himself drooling on Michael Musto’s latest column. He sat up, rubbed his forehead, and began to pick up the pages. It was then that he had found the mail still where he had dropped it yesterday, almost waiting for him.
The card had arrived with “Current Resident” listed in the address. “There are many buyers looking to buy a home in your area. The need for inventory makes now the perfect time to sell. To learn more, please visit my website at www.kaitlinlim.com.”
Mike looked up the web address and poured over her bio. Educated at San Jose State, graduated with a B.S. in Finance & Economics. She was an ex-Wall Street broker now hocking apartments and condos. Born in Taiwan, raised in the States, she spoke Mandarin, Tiawanese, and English. When he reached the “Business Philosophy” he poured over it as if he were reading a psychological profile:
“All things require balance. Both in life and in real estate, one should conduct themselves in a positive way, striving to achieve happiness through an optimistic and courteous manner. Fulfillment both in business and in life, requires that one approach each day as if it were the best day of your life.”
He reread it five times, taking in each word and savoring it. He wasn’t sure what she was saying, but he was enthralled by the way she expressed herself.
Mike dialed the number.
~~
He was supposed to meet Ms. Lim at the corner of Canal and Bowery. Mike had told her he was interested in a two bedroom. Before he even finished the word “bedroom,” she began selling him a perfect co-op on the edge of Chinatown. In a very rapid-fire manner, she rattled off the apartment’s finer points: a splendid view of the Manhattan Bridge, part-time doorman, and two good-sized bedrooms. She asked Mike how much he would like to spend. He lied and said $600,000. This figure was based on listings Mike had seen in the New York Times.
Ms. Lim stood in front of the building wearing a navy blue business suit. It had that style which hid all the prominent female features and forced the wearer to move their arms and legs robotically. She said hello in a monotone voice that belied all emotion. The thick, large glasses covered most of her face, magnifying the size of her eyeballs to give them the appearance of oversized marbles. She extended her arm straight out and when Mike shook her hand, it kept its rigid extension, refusing to bend or soften. “Come with me,” she croaked while motioning towards the doorway as if she were a turnstile with the same outstretched, rigid arm. She walked like Gort from The Day The Earth Stood Still, swinging her arms and legs in a stiff, synchronized motion. Mike was beginning to wonder what had happened to the soft, delicate flower of a woman who strived for “balance in all things.”
The building, much like Ms. Lim, was of no significance. It was made of tan brick. Other than that, Mike couldn’t say much about it. It made him wonder if it was the hideous work of an accountant turned architect. Similar to all the modern buildings lining the block, it served only to add a variation in the color palate that makes up the beauty of Manhattan. For some reason, the phrase “dab of tan” kept popping into Mike’s brain.
Once in the elevator, Ms. Lim went through her broker’s checklist of questions. As he spoke to her, Mike could pick up her scent. He was a good five inches taller than her and it wafted up to his nostrils. At first he thought it was cheap Egyptian oil purchased on the street, or perhaps just a really strong facial cleanser used to the point of creating fumes about her. Ms. Lim’s hair was the same as in the postcard photo, but the luster of the glamour shot was gone. The glossy sheen that filled his night-time fantasies with images of rubbing his fingers through her hair was nowhere to be found. The real version possessed a dull, jet black that upon closer inspection was nothing more than an excellent source of dandruff.
To compensate, Mike tried to picture Ms. Lim in various states of undress. Bending over with the skirt part of her outfit removed, or writhing against the elevator wall with her top off. Would she lose her rigid movements if he touched her between her thighs? How would she respond to him caressing her nipples through the unbuttoned business suit? He imagined standing behind her in the elevator, kissing her neck, one hand slowly moving between her shirt cloth, caressing her aerioli, the other moving beneath her skirt to feel her wetness. In all these visions, Ms. Lim’s robotic, almost inhuman movements and expressions were gone. In her place was the lithe, sexual kitten from the calendar in Wing Lee who moaned to his touch.
“Here we are, step this way,” Ms. Lim grumbled. Before Mike could even speak, she was off and marching down the hallway. Her feet stamped the floor hard creating a rhythmic, machine-like “thump.”
“As you can see, it has a walk-in kitchen, standard for Manhattan. Here is the cozy living area that can be used as a TV room. These lovely large bedrooms come with the great view.” Ms. Lim pitched the apartment with all the enthusiasm of a mortician. She opened the curtains. He could see the Manhattan Bridge sprawling across the view. It was beautiful, Chinatown slowly raising its backside to meet the bridge as it entered from Brooklyn. The sun had just started to go down on the opposite side of Manhattan and the sky was changing to a darker purple.
He saw Ms. Lim bent over, looking out through the window as he took her from behind. The lights of the bridge and Chinatown illuminating the night sky. She would call his name as he glided in and out of her, the business skirt lifted up to reveal a set of toned and refined buttocks. Occasionally, she would turn her head towards him and open her mouth in ecstasy. It was again, the woman from the calendar.
“It’s a beautiful view, is it not?!”
Mike snapped awake and looked at the bespectacled figure before him. “Yes, Ms. Lim, it is.” The only thing that seemed to detract from the view (and his fantasy) were Ms. Lim’s interjections.
“Well what do you think? You should make an offer now. Be aggressive and go for it!”
Her quest for real estate excellence was confusing his libido. The brain reinterpreted her pushy sales message into an invitation for a pass. “Hmmm…does it seem like too much room for a single man?” He was fishing, trying anything. The Kaitlin Lim he saw in that postcard had to be inside this woman somewhere. Perhaps he just needed to entice her out.
“Well, you said you were in the arts. I assume you could use a work area. The other, smaller bedroom would be perfect for that.”
“And of course if my… love life should take a turn for the positive I might need the space.”
“Yes, you are a handsome man. Positive things will come to you. A change of environment, such as a new apartment is all you need. What do you say? Go for it!”
Twice. She had said it twice. Mike seized the opportunity.
“Very true, a change of environment is always a positive thing. And a beautiful woman always helps. Just think, a nice large bed in here, waking up next to someone, after a night of…well…not sleeping.”
Ms. Lim looked at him uncomfortably, her large eyeballs shifting behind the thick glass. She was playing with her ring. Mike had not noticed it before, but he could see her fidgeting with it now. She rolled it nervously around her finger, biting her lip, waiting for Mike to say something. Outside the window, the sky had grown almost black. Many of the buildings were in darkness as the residents were still fighting through their commute home. As he struggled for something to say, Mike tried to replace this image with the beautiful skyline of his fantasy. It kept slipping from his vision, sliding away into the dark night.
“How long have you been married Ms. Lim?”
“For nine years now. He is a wonderful man.” She smiled an uncomfortable smile. It was the one that asks, “You’re not going to hack me into little pieces are you?”
“I am sure he’s very happy. I will need to think about this. I’ll be in touch Ms. Lim.” And with that Mike quickly exited the apartment. He heard Ms. Lim shout something down the corridor, but he wasn’t paying attention. The elevator doors opened and he stepped in. The scent was still there taunting him.
~~
The subway ride home seemed to take forever. When he was disgusted with himself, time had a knack of slowing down so Mike suffered more. It was one of life’s little kicks in the ass.
What the hell is wrong with you? he kept demanding of himself. No answer came. You’re just not deep enough to psychoanalyze yourself Loguidici.
At the Union Square stop, two Asian girls walked on the train, speaking a foreign language. Mike had no idea which one, he couldn’t tell Cantonese from Mandarin, Korean from Japanese. He looked up at them right away and then quickly snapped his head back down in shame. He stared at his shoes the rest of the ride back. He had three scuffs on the upper left of his right shoe. Across the big toe, the leather was starting to wrinkle. His left shoe had two scuffs dead center at the tip and a slight tear at the little toe. Mike realized these are the things you discover when you force yourself to stare at your shoes for twenty minutes.
He finally arrived back in the neighborhood and went to the one place that could offer him solace. Vinnie’s.
Mike walked up the street to Vinnie’s Pizza, already tasting a slice of Sicilian. He stepped through the door, into the shrine of photos dedicated to prominent Italians – Loren, Sinatra, Pacino, DeNiro, Scorcese, Martin (aka Martini), and many others. Clint Eastwood was even grandfathered in as the Man with No Name since it was a Sergio Leone movie.
He walked towards the counter and then he heard her speaking.
“Gradirei due fette sicillian soddisfo.”
She turned and smiled at Mike.
“Due sicillian per la signora giapponese piacevole,” Vinnie replied smiling at the young woman.
“You speak Italian?” Mike inquired.
“Si” she replied, “e tu?”
“What?”
“I said ‘and you?’ Meaning ‘do you speak Italian?”
Mike blushed with embarrassment. “Well, no.”
“But you are Italian, yes?”
“Well I am.”
“But you never learned to speak the language?”
“Just the cuss words from my aunts. I can call someone a cetriolo.”
“A cucumber?”
“My aunts would use it when they thought someone was a dick.”
She laughed heartily, bending over with the force of it. “That is so funny. I find it very interesting how all Italian insults center around food.”
“How did you learn to speak Italian. No offense, but you don’t look Italian.”
“Wow, is it that obvious?” She smiled at Mike. He couldn’t help but smile back. She was infecting him. “No, I am Japanese. But I studied in Italy for two years. I love the country and I especially love the people.”
Her smile this time was much warmer, slowly growing on her face and adding a softness to her eyes. It seemed very welcoming, moving them past the “oh what a strange coincidence” portion of the conversation.
“I’m Takara,” she said, extending her hand towards him.
“Mike. Wonderful to meet you.”
Behind the counter, Vinnie shook his head. His doughy hands went back to spreading out shredded mozzarella over tomato sauce. “Una nuova volta intorno al carosello,” he said softly to himself.
~~
Mike stared at her. Her skin was almost pearl white. It reflected light, giving her the glow of a statue underneath a carefully aimed spotlight. She had whispery, thin eyebrows over very quiet eyes. They showed not rage, nor intensity, but a soft interest and a distinct peacefulness. Her face, more oval-shaped and thin, led naturally to a refined and sensuous neck.
She turned to look at Mike again. “Do you mind if I order some desert?” The way she asked, she was being extremely polite, but even Mike felt deep down that she was in full control. If she had requested that he allow her to amputate one of his fingers, Mike probably would have agreed. He had been a gibbering, nervous mess the whole evening. Somehow, she was still there.
They had been sitting at this cozy after-hours cafe in the West Village, sequestered in a quiet corner booth for some time. The discussion was quiet and engaging. Occasionally, awkward silences would occur, where Takara would sit back after eating a morsel of food and “hmmpph” to herself with a smile. Mike watched her every movement. She placed the fork in her mouth to clean off a bit of the truffle oil from her entree. He melted.