A Cadillac for Jesus
By Tom M. Paolangeli
Copywrite 2011 by Tom M. Paolangeli
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedicated to my fellow Doubting Thomases,
and to Leslie, my love
Chapter One
Before all the miraculously mended motors, before the water changed into beer, before the miracle of the hot dogs and buns, Jesus appeared to be nothing more than your typical twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican in baggy shorts and wraparound sun glasses. I first met him one Saturday morning when he came looking for a Cadillac.
My business card claimed I was the “Sales Manager” at “Dwayne’s Quality Cars.” Not that there was anyone to manage. It was just Dwayne and me.
I’d come to Southeastern Florida about a year ago, but not because I had a passion to sell used cars. It was more a case of escaping deteriorating business and personal relationships back in upstate New York. Like the ancient Romans said, stercus accidit. (Shit happens.)
Anyway, Dwayne’s Quality Cars was located a few miles south of Stuart on US 1. It was a small operation, usually about twenty-five cars or trucks for sale. Dwayne never saw much reason to even pave the lot. It wasn’t like our typical customer worried about getting his Gucci’s dirty.
The big, shiny new car dealerships clustered closer to town, shoulder to shoulder with the strip malls. But Dwayne’s was surrounded by stretches of scrubby open land, with just a rundown radiator repair shop and one-room Bar-B-Que joint for company. The incessant sound of buzzing and clicking insects was occasionally interrupted by the Doppler rush and drone of a lone car scurrying by.
Dwayne looked like every northerner’s stereotype of a tobacco chewing good ol’ boy: “Bass Fisherman” baseball cap on his head, pointy-toed tooled black leather boots on his feet, and in between a big brass Confederate Flag belt buckle that peered out below his abundant beer belly. He sported a narrow white moustache, always impeccably trimmed. He never told me how old he was, but he bragged about his Social Security checks. “Gettin’ my due,” he’d say.
I don’t think Dwayne really depended much on the income from his car business. Stuart was sprawling south, and Jupiter was sprawling north, and he figured it was just a matter of time before his four acres along the highway would be very, very valuable to somebody. Meanwhile, the business gave him something to do when the fish weren’t biting. Like the bumper sticker on his pick-up truck said, Dwayne would rather be fishing.
He alluded to a wayward wife or two somewhere in his past, but when pressed for details, he’d just say, “Boy, you don’t wanna know.” Then he’d grin, lift his cap and point to a red scar just below his receding hairline. “Don’t ever insult a woman with a frying pan in her hand,” he’d say, and that was the end of the discussion.
We made a good team. Dwayne sold pick-up trucks to slow talking rednecks and good ol’ boys who would never ever buy anything from a fast talkin’ damn Yankee. I sold Town Cars and Caddies to Northeastern snowbirds still confused by southern drawls and Chevies and Civics to anyone leery of a Confederate Flag belt buckle.
It was a slow morning, lazily ticking its way to lunchtime. We were in our “office”, a faded red, mildewed, ten by twenty-foot shack. The air conditioner in the window whirred and rattled along full tilt. It was my turn to control the radio, and I tuned it to the most obnoxious West Palm Beach rock station I could find. I really preferred classic rock, but I was trying to pay Dwayne back for the weepy country ballads he subjected me to the day before. His choice of music was bad enough, but then he would sing along, off-key, making up the words.
“You picked a fine time to leave me Lucile, with four hundred children and crap in the field…”
But Korn and Rob Zombie were letting me down. Dwayne seemed completely unperturbed by the raucous sounds emanating from the radio. He sat tilted back in his chair, shiny boots up on the desk, pondering a crossword puzzle through narrow, black-framed reading glasses parked halfway down his nose. His cheeks bulged out as he worked his chew.
I studied the obits, looking for recent widows or estates that might have an unneeded automobile they’d like to unload. I told myself I performed a charitable service, giving the bereaved one less thing to worry about. Dwayne called me “just another damn Yankee carpetbagger,” but he smiled broadly when he said it. After all, he made more money on the sales than I did.
Dwayne grabbed an old Hills Brothers coffee can and used it for a spittoon. Lovely habit. He glanced out the window, then went back to his puzzle.
“Darlin’,” he drawled, “would you kindly take care of the nigger out there?”
He said it matter-of-factly, without obvious malice. “Nigger” was just his all-purpose word that covered anyone who wasn’t white; Haitian, Mexican, Guatemalan, whatever. Or in this case, Puerto Rican.
Where I grew up, “nigger” was an epitaph used only in the most hateful circumstances. A year of Dwayne, and the occasional assault of rap lyrics thudding out of the car next to me at a stoplight had taken a bit of the edge off the once notorious “N” word. But I still cringed.
“Yes, Masta,” I replied. Dwayne didn’t even look up. Perceiving subtle sarcasm was not his strongpoint.
I snapped clip-on sunglasses over my regular glasses and stepped out into the searing sun. Dwayne kept the office so cold that the sweltering heat felt good. For about 5 seconds.
I spotted a short little Latino guy, early twenty’s, ambling among the cars. He wore a white tank top, baggy shorts, work boots and wraparound sunglasses. A gold chain hung around his neck. Undoubtedly looking for an old Civic to slam.
I couldn’t see how he got to the lot; no extra car parked anywhere. Not a good sign. He certainly didn’t ride the bus; no such thing as public transportation in Stuart. Not a pressing priority to the rich retired Republicans who ran Martin County.
I’d never had anyone walk onto the lot and buy a car. But it was possible. About three miles north, there was a gated community filled with pricey new homes. I suppose this guy’s BMW could have broken down and the butler had the day off, so he had no choice but to stroll over and buy a set of wheels so he wouldn’t be late for his tennis lesson. Or, maybe I misjudged his age, and he actually ambled over from the retiree’s condo complex two miles east. I hear they’re doing great things with plastic surgery these days.
The only other option was a decrepit trailer park six miles west, where migrant workers rented by the season, and dope dealers and crackheads just busted in and squatted.
Whatever. Somehow he got here, and The South would have to rise again before Dwayne got off his fat ass to help him. That’s what he hired me for.
I walked over to him. Show Time.
“Good morning,” I said, trying to project friendly enthusiasm.
Mr. Wraparound Shades looked at me and smiled, a big toothy grin. Like something was amusing him. Well, at least he had good teeth. Poor dental work usually meant poor credit rating.
“Good morning to you, sir,” he replied, with an exaggerated bow of his head. His English sounded fine. Just the slightest accent. So he wasn’t fresh off the boat. Okay, it was probably still a waste of time, but I’d give him the whole routine. First, loosen him up, try a little chitchat.
“Hot enough for you?” I said.
Yeah, I know that sounds incredibly corny and stupid, but weather was always my opening remark. People will talk about the weather to total strangers. And if I can get them talking, get them to feel comfortable around me, I have a better chance of selling them a car. Sports are good too, but you have to know who they root for first. I lost one sale when I revealed my Yankee roots and college football ignorance by confusing Florida State with The University of Florida. One’s the Seminoles, and one’s the Gators. Just don’t ask me which.
“Well,” I continued, “It’s supposed to cool off a bit this weekend.”
He just smiled and nodded. Okay. Now what? I doubted “How ‘bout them Gators?” would work here. I needed his name. Sweetest sound to anyone’s ears is their own name.
I extended my right hand. At the same time I reached up with my left to flip up my sunglasses. I was a used car salesman after all, and customers came in sure I was out to cheat them. So I always let ‘em look me in the eye. Then they could see I’m a trustworthy guy, not hiding shifty eyes behind my shades.
“My name’s Tommy, Tommy Newman,” I said. It was half-true.
He grabbed my outstretched hand, firmly shook it, and raised his wraparounds. Our eyes locked.
“My name is Jesus.”
I was momentarily speechless. Not a common occurrence in my profession. He pronounced his name Gees Us, just like Sister Mary Frances did, not the Hispanic “Hey Zeus.” But I didn’t even register that at first. I was spellbound by his eyes. They were so clear and bright, and they had this, this…
Okay, let’s get it straight from the start, so I won’t have to keep repeating it, because I hate the word: twinkle. It’s such a stupid, sissy sounding word. Twinkle twinkle little star. Then I think of Tinkerbelle. Then some little kid hopping up and down and squeezing his crotch with both hands, “Mommy I gotta go tinkle!” But, as usual, my long ago half-finished college education fails me again, and I can’t come up with a better word. So twinkle it is. Just remember, Jesus always had a twinkle in his eyes.
We both dropped our sunglasses back into place, and I tried to return to my salesman routine.
“Pleased to meet you, uh, Jesus.”
“And pleased to meet you, Mr. Tommy.” He actually sounded like he meant it. Weird dude. Back to the script. Helpful, low pressure.
“Were you looking for anything in particular?” I asked, while mentally reviewing our inventory of small and cheap. I had a ten-year-old Honda Civic, a twelve-year-old Camry, two Ford Escorts, and a high mileage Neon. Gotta be the Civic.
He pointed. “Si.”
He had pointed to a cream-colored 1985 four door Cadillac Seville with a brown “faux convertible” roof. Huh? Was he just messing with my head? Like he’d really want that oldfartmobile?
“’85 Seville,” I said. “Yep, a real beauty.”
Beauty? Cadillac’s made some classy cars, but this sure wasn’t one of them. It was butt ugly, specifically the butt. The front half wasn’t too bad. Just a typical big, squarish, ostentatious American car. But the designers must have been in a hurry to get to happy hour when it came to the back. Instead of a nice rectangular shape to balance the front, they chopped off the trunk at a 45-degree angle. Didn’t look good fifteen years ago, and looked even worse now. And as ugly as the original car was, the previous owner had compounded the problem by installing a “faux convertible top.”
Well, mine is not to reason why; mine is just to sell and lie. Not really lie, of course. Just, um, finesse the truth? We walked towards the ugly old beast, and I racked my brain for particulars.
“Low mileage,” I said. “Great condition.”
Especially for a car that sat in a garage for five years. It took the widow that long to finally, tearfully, part with it. Flat spotted tires, rusty brakes, engine oil turned to sludge, so much mold and mildew in the interior I actually needed a scraper to remove it. I hoped the three air fresheners I’d put inside were hiding the smell.
Jesus walked slowly around the car. In the bright sunlight the touchup paint I’d applied to numerous scratches and small dents was blatantly obvious. Well, you try matching 15-year-old paint that’s seen its fair share of Florida sun.
“Got a couple little dings,” I said. See, I’m honest, I’m not hiding anything, trust me, “but the body is real sound. Never been in an accident.” As far as I knew, anyway.
“Can I hear it run?” Jesus asked.
“Sure can.” I opened the driver’s door and the heavy scent of cheap air fresheners and mold momentarily gagged me. The keys were in the ignition, just where I’d left them, oops, yesterday when I scrubbed out the interior. I took one last gasp of fresh air, slid into the seat, and turned the key.
And nothing happened. Not even a solenoid click.
I briefly considered bluffing with “see how quiet she runs,” but I doubted I’d get away with it. I glanced up at the dome light. It was dark. Which meant the battery was not only merely dead, it’s really most sincerely dead. Odd, it was fine yesterday. In fact I listened to the radio while I cleaned. I remember laughing because they were playing an old Stones song, with the line “here comes your 19th nervous breakdown,” just as a customer pulled in, and I went to wait on him, and we went for a test ride in an Escort, and I never did get back to the Caddy, which is why the keys were still in it, and - I reached over and turned the radio volume knob counterclockwise; it clicked off – I guess I never shut off the radio, either.
Wonderful.
“Is there a problem?” Jesus asked.
“No, no, it’s nothing. Someone must have left the lights on. Battery’s dead. I’ll just- ”
“Maybe it’s just a bad connection. Pop the hood.”
“No, it’s dead, believe me.”
Jesus stood in front of the car, waiting. I sighed. Waste of time, but I decided to humor him, and prove him wrong. I pulled the release, and watched him lift the massive hood. The upright hood blocked my view, so I couldn’t see what he was doing. Even if the battery cables were loose, how was he going to tighten them without a wrench?
“Try it now,” he called out.
I shook my head, and turned the key. The engine instantly started.
I hopped out of the car and ran around to the front, where Jesus peered at the grimy engine. “What did you do?” I asked.
Jesus smiled and shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “Motor seems fine.” He pulled the hood down and it clanged shut.
I felt discombobulated. I’d have bet anything that battery was stone cold dead.
Jesus pointed to a handwritten cardboard sign behind the windshield that read “$99.00 Down!”
“Is that true?” he asked.
I had to concentrate, get back to the task at hand.
“Yes sir. If you meet the requirements.”
“What is the total price?”
Not yet, not yet. As Dwayne would say, “gotta hook ‘em before you reel ‘em in.”
“Sure is a beauty,” I said. “A real classic car. They don’t make them like this anymore, you know?”
And thank God they don’t. Hideous design, inefficient engine that burns a ton of fuel, terrible handling, and shoddy workmanship.
He didn’t take the bait.
“So how much is it?” he tried again.
“Well, do you have a car to trade in?”
“No.”
Good. Because I could imagine what kind of shape it would be in.
“You came at a great time,” I said. “We’ve got a special sale going on through the weekend.” And into the next week, and the one after that, and the one after that. “Save you 200 dollars.”
“Wow. So how much?”
Normally the next thing to do is find out if he could pay cash, or needed to finance. Very few of our younger customers could lay out enough cash, unless it was a real junker. And he sure didn’t look to be the exception. So moving right along...
“Were you thinking of paying cash or financing?”
“Oh, I have the cash.”
He pulled out his wallet and fanned five 20 dollar bills.
“See?” he said.
“Uh, good. Yeah, that covers the down payment all right, but I meant did you want to pay cash for the whole car?”
“Well, how much is that?”
Okay, back to my script.
“You know, you’d probably be surprised how little this great car might cost you per month. Right now we’re offering an incredible financing program.”
Right. Incredibly high interest rates stretched over an incredibly long term so the monthly didn’t look so bad. A couple of Dwayne’s good ol’ boys ran the program, and they kicked back an incredible “finder’s fee” for every loan they made.
“So how much do you think you could afford per month?”
Just give me a decent number to work with, and we’re halfway there. I’d juggle the down payment and years of the loan and make it work. And guess what? He’d be so surprised and grateful he won’t notice he paid the well-padded asking price.
“Oh, maybe twenty-five, thirty dollars?”
Bonk. Tilt. Wrong answer.
“Well, even if we could get you into a five year loan, you’re probably looking at about fifty dollars a month. Can you afford that?”
He slowly shook his head no. I reached in and shut off the engine. This time I made sure I took out the keys.
“We have a nice Escort over there. Might be easier on your budget. See the blue one?”
Jesus looked across the lot, and shook his head.
“No, that will not work. I really need something like this one. Could we take it for a ride?”
Normally I’d be anxious to get the customer behind the wheel. But I already knew he couldn’t buy this car. Of course I could always humor him, in the hope that he’d buy a different car from me.
Nah.
“Well sure,” I said. I looked at my watch. “Oops, I forgot I have an appointment, so we can’t go right now.”
“I can come back later.”
“Of course,” I said. But why bother?
“Good. Okay. Gracias, Mr. Tommy.”
“Thanks for stopping by.” And wasting my time.
“Do you have a business card?” he asked.
Yeah, but I try to save them for real customers.
“Sure, here you go.”
I handed him one. Normally I’d pass out a few, tell the customer to pass them along to his friends, tell him I’d pay him a finder’s fee if he sent me someone who bought a car. But I figured this time it would be just a waste of paper. Gotta save those trees, you know.
Jesus turned and walked towards the road. I wondered where he was going and how he was getting there. I suppose I could have offered to give him a lift. Nah, he got here on his own, he could find his way home. Wherever that was. I watched as he reached the edge of the road, faced the northbound lane, and stuck out his thumb.
Yeah right. Who would give him a ride? Stressed-out Mom and her minivan full of screaming soccer brats? Great Grandma Gerty headed to the hairdresser’s for her blue tint? Cigar-smoking J. Paul the IV and his trophy wife out cruising in their Porsche? Grandpa Goldstein coming back from an early round of golf? None of the above seemed likely to stop in the middle of nowhere and pick up a small dark stranger.
I noticed a shiny black pickup truck coming from the south. Big, bulbous chromed grille: a late model Dodge Ram. I could see three young guys in the cab. White boys. Jesus waved to them. Yeah, right. Like they’d stop? But they began to slow down. Then, just as they drew close, one of the guys threw a super-sized soft drink at Jesus. He dodged the cup, but not the contents. One of the boys yelled, “Get a job, you scumbag Guat!” Jesus stood there and watched them laugh and high five each other as they sped off. On one corner of the truck cab’s back window was a decal of a wild-haired cartoon kid pissing on the number 24. At the other corner was the number 8. Go Dale Jr.
Well, it could have been worse. Last year, five teenagers were arrested for assaulting migrant workers. They’d drink a case of beer, then find a poor Mexican or Guatemalan and beat the crap out of him with a baseball bat. This worked real well because if you picked the right neighborhood, the odds were good that whoever you beat up was an illegal alien, and thus unlikely to go to the police.
Jesus noticed me staring at him. He lifted his hands in an “oh well, what you gonna do” gesture, stuck his thumb back out, and began walking backwards towards Stuart.
I went into the office. Wayne didn’t bother to look up, still busy with his crossword. I grabbed a set of dealer license plates.
“I’m going for lunch,” I said. “Get you anything?”
“No, darlin’. Got me some fine looking pickles right here.”
“Lucky you.”
“What that nigger boy want?”
“The ’85 Seville.”
“No way.”
I shrugged my shoulders, then went out and slapped the temp plates on the Cadillac. I slid behind the wheel, held my breath, and turned the key. Despite my doubts, the engine instantly started. I drove about 300 feet down the road to where Jesus still walked backwards with his thumb out.
“Customer cancelled,” I yelled. “Get in.”
Chapter Two
The Cadillac’s air-conditioner labored mightily, rumbling and whirring, but only managed to exhale musty hot air. Since it was an old Freon system, it would cost a fortune to fix. This baby was definitely being sold “as-is.” Caveat Emptor.
Fortunately, the power windows still worked; ever so slowly, yes, but they eventually sank into the door. Jesus seemed quite content to stick an elbow into the breeze as we cruised up US 1.
“Where you headed?” I asked.
“Martin Memorial.”
“Visiting someone?”
“No, I work there. Part-time.”
“Doing what?” I doubted he’d say “Brain Surgery.”
“I am an orderly.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Yes, very much. How about you?”
“What, selling cars?”
“Si.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I stopped myself before adding my usual rejoinder that it sure beat emptying bedpans.
“What do you like about it?” he asked.
The prestige. The honor. The wonderful life affirming interactions with an adoring public. And the precious special time I spend cooped up in a tiny shack listening to endless fishing stories from a cranky tobacco-spitting redneck.
“Well, I like helping people,” I said. “Helping them find just the right car. Getting them a good deal.”
Whew, it was getting deep. Jesus gave me an arched-eyebrow quizzical look. Perhaps I underestimated his BS detector.
“Good for you, Mr. Tommy.”
Yeah, good for me. I pulled out to pass a lumbering Lincoln Town Car.
“You know, Mr. Tommy, if you like helping people, we can always use volunteers at the hospital.”
“Well, I’ll just keep that in mind.”
Yeah, I’ll put it on my “to-do” list. Right after I discover a cure for cancer, negotiate world peace, and complete my unified field theory.
We were getting close to the center of town. Traffic slowed us down, and we kept hitting red lights. At least while we were moving a tepid breeze blew through the windows. Sitting still was stifling. But Jesus didn’t seem to mind.
We stopped next to a blue Neon with four teenage girls inside. Jesus gave them a big smile and waved. They pointed and giggled and waved back. I couldn’t hear what they were saying behind their closed windows, but obviously they were talking about us. The light changed and they charged off. The two girls in the rear seat looked back and waved. This really pleased Jesus.
“Did you see that, amigo?” he asked, bouncing in his seat.
“Uh, yeah,” I acknowledged. What was it with this guy? Why me? Always the weirdoes. He settled down, but kept looking around.
A few lights later, as I waited to make the turn onto Ocean Boulevard, a well-tanned, thirty-something woman with long dark hair, short white tennis skirt and sleeveless blouse, started across the street. I watched her from behind my sunglasses, but I didn’t let my head swivel. Playing it cool; I didn’t want to look like a lecherous old fart.
As she walked in front of us, she barely glanced our way. But when she did, Jesus started waving wildly, and then stuck his head out the window.
“Hello! Hi! Buenos dias!” he shouted.
A puzzled look crossed her face, as she tried to figure out if she knew this maniac leaning out of an old Cadillac. I figured she’d probably whip out her cell phone and dial 1-800-Sexual Harassment.
But then she smiled, and waved back.
“Hi ya,” she said, with a slight British accent.
Oh great. Encourage him.
The light changed.
“Good-bye, adios, have a nice day,” he yelled to her as we drove away.
Jesus seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Me, I liked to keep a low profile. The last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself. My idea of fun was definitely not driving around town in an old Cadillac yelling out the window at women.
We only had a few more blocks to go, which we managed without further incident. I finally turned into the Hospital’s entrance, alert for any sedated seniors walking or driving towards us.
“Where should I drop you off?”
“Right here is fine. Muchas gracias, amigo.”
“Okay… Jesus.” It still felt weird calling him that.
He got out, then stuck his head back in the window, and gave me a very serious, earnest look. I figured he was gonna hit me up again for volunteering or something. Damn do-gooders.
“I must find a way to get this car, Mr. Tommy.”
“Why?”
He grinned and patted the dash.
“Chick magnet."
Chapter Three
I didn’t expect to next see Jesus in a strip club.
Like 90% of all commercial establishments in South Florida, the strip club was located in a strip mall. Those ubiquitous malls are America at its car-culture ugliest. Cheaply constructed one-story cinderblock buildings with tinted plate glass windows lined up along US 1, interspersed with gas stations, fast food joints, car dealers, and cheap motels. Whatever you want, there it was: food, drugs, booze, shoes. Bakers, bankers, doctors, lawyers. Movie theaters, dry cleaners, and, occasionally, strip joints. Repeat ad nauseam.
I guess I shouldn’t call it a strip joint. Stiletto’s advertised themselves as a “Gentleman’s Club.” They tried to project a classy image. No garish “Live Nude Girls” sign outside, surrounded by a flashing light bulbs.
Actually, no live nude girls inside, either. A thin G-string and tiny pasties were all that separated the club from the wrong side of Stuart’s anti-pornography ordinance. These aren’t strippers, officer. These are “exotic dancers.”
So there I sat, with the classy gentlemen, close to the edge of the T-shaped stage, watching a classy lady wiggle her classy ass.
I was trying to pace myself. The plan was one beer per hour, so that I’d be able to drive straight, remember to use my turn signals, and not attract any unwanted attention from Stuart’s finest. Another 10 months clean and I’d get my license back. Trouble was, the beers were now leading the hours three to one.
I had a nice little buzz going. Just enough to make me feel cool and the girls look hot. Without the alcohol assist, reality, lurking like the scorching sun outside, might pierce the club’s subdued smoky darkness and expose us for what we were: middle-aged guys with receding hairlines and expanding waistlines, ogling awkward young girls or been-around-the-bend broads in too much makeup and too little clothes. None of us were in any danger of making the cover for People’s Sexiest Guys and Gals issue. But we enjoyed our mutual fantasy, and it seemed harmless enough.
I was vaguely aware of someone sitting down on my left, but for the moment my attention was riveted on Mystica, who was presenting her modern dance interpretation of Aerosmith’s classic rock song, “Sweet Emotion.” Part of her interpretation involved encouraging me to slip a dollar bill into her G-string.
Hey, support the arts.
As I turned to watch Mystica strut across the stage, I finally noticed the guy who’d sat down next to me.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed.
“Mr. Tommy!” he said.
Jesus nodded toward Mystica, who was showing some remarkable flexibility, and then he looked back at me with a Mona Lisa half-smile.
The DJ’s voice boomed through the club. “All right, how ‘bout a hand for Mystica. Next up, our own lovely jewel, Crystal.”
I felt I should say something to Jesus, but I was temporarily at a loss for words. I hadn’t expected to see him again, and certainly not at Stiletto’s. He didn’t seem like their usual customer. I hardly ever ran into anyone I knew at the club, and that was the way I liked it. Truth be told, I was a little embarrassed. I wasn’t exactly proud that I patronized the place. Kind of a guilty pleasure thing. And right then I felt more guilt than pleasure. But hey, he was there too, and he didn’t seem embarrassed. All right, just be cool.
“So,” I began, “you come here often?”
Oh that was intelligent. Sounded like a lame pickup line.
“Once in a while,” he replied.
“Oh. ‘Cause I never saw you here before. Not that I come here all that much myself, but, well…”
Fortunately at that moment the DJ cranked up a vicious sounding song by Rob Zombie, and Crystal strode onto the stage. Saved by the belle.
Crystal had long black hair, and wore, for the moment anyway, a short red plaid skirt, knee socks, prim white blouse, and black-framed glasses. The Catholic schoolgirl look. Maybe not quite what Sister Agnes Mary had in mind, but it worked for me.
While Crystal strutted and slowly lost her outfit, my mind raced. Seeing Jesus again had unnerved me, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. Now that we’d said hello, should I talk to him? Or should we just stay in our own little worlds?
There goes the blouse. Lacey white bra underneath.
I was curious about him. He definitely didn’t fit the mold of my usual customers.
There goes the skirt. White bikini underwear with little red hearts.
But he was a bit of a weirdo. Wanting to buy an old Cadillac, yelling out the car window to girls. Did I want to get any more involved with this strange dude?
Slowwwwly one sock came off.
But I did wonder what his story was.
Crystal twirled the sock within inches of Jesus. He smiled back at her.
See, he was just here for the show, like me. Not for conversation. Not with guys, anyway.
There goes the other sock.
Yeah, just hang out, grunt a few words, be polite, stay reserved, be cool.
Rob Zombie finished his pounding assault on our ears. For Crystal’s second song, she’d chosen a slower song by Creed, “Higher.” When the chorus kicked in, all about the place where blind men see and golden streets, she lost her bra.
But what was the deal with this guy? I couldn’t really figure him out, and it bugged me.
Off came the white panties with little red hearts, revealing a bright red G-string. Crystal turned her back to us.
God, I hated these dilemmas. She had a birthmark on her butt. Should I talk to him or not? A G-string can’t be comfortable. Must be like an endless wedgie.
As the music faded, Crystal turned and tossed her silky long hair, and smiled at us. Payoff time. I opened my wallet. That fat wad of ones needed to last me till payday. I wondered if she’d take a lottery ticket for a tip. Probably not.
I could just wait and see what he does next. Yeah, if he wants to start a conversation, fine. If not, fine. I’d probably regret getting to know him any better, anyway.
Crystal squatted down next to me, pulled back her garter belt, and smiled. At me. Unlike many of the performers, she actually looked even better up close. She smelled sweet. Nice perfume. Wayyy too much, but nonetheless, nice. I slipped a dollar bill in her garter, and she let it snap back.
“Thanks baby,” she cooed.
She then turned to Jesus. Now all her attention was on him. He reached up and slipped a folded bill behind her garter.
Yeah, even if he wanted to talk, I should blow him off. What kind of guys hang out in strip joints, anyway? Losers and weirdoes.
Crystal winked at him as she walked away.
“Thanks JC. I need to talk to you later.”
JC? What’s with that? How often did he come here, anyway? I gulped down the beer I’d been slowly nursing along, and took a deep breath.
“You know her?”
He turned to me, all smile and twinkle.
“Si. She is very nice.”
“Known her long?”
“I met her a few weeks ago. She is a friend of Donna’s.”
Did you pay her for a “private dance”? Did you stay after hours and party with her? Did you go home with her? And who’s Donna?
“Who’s Donna?”
“Well, here her name is Kandy. Her boyfriend Gene, he runs a Harley shop in Port St. Lucie.”
Before I could make sense of that or ask another question, the DJ interrupted.
“Okay, let’s hear it for Crystal. Next up, the multi-talented Tanya! Come on, put those hands together.”
Tanya strode out to the sledgehammer sound of a Black Sabbath song that was popular when Tanya and I were both teenagers. As tough as the intervening years had been on me, they’d been tougher on Tanya. Well, my hour up or not, I needed another beer. Now.
“Hey,” I yelled to Jesus, “Get ya anything from the bar?”
He downed the last of his drink, and stood up.
“No, but I will walk over with you, amigo.”
I’d had about enough up close and personal time at the stage, anyway. After a while, the initial excitement of seldom seen skin starts to wear off. Probably head home soon. We worked our way back to two empty barstools and sat down.
I held out a bill to bait the bartender, Kira. She wore a tight tank top that squeezed out cleavage she otherwise wouldn’t have had, and an incredibly short black skirt with black stockings. I found her far sexier than most of the dancers, maybe because I’d never seen her naked. My imagination has always been better than reality. I watched her hustling around on the other side of the bar.
Another girl shadowed Kira. Must be breaking in a new waitress. The new girl looked really young, hardly old enough to legally drink. Cute, too. She had long straight black hair, and definitely some Latin blood in her. But she dressed way too modestly for this joint. Not going to get many tips that way.
Kira and her shadow approached us.
“Hi JC!”
Here we go again.
“Guys,” Kira continued, “this is Maria. She just started.”
“Oh good. When do you dance?” I said.
Maria looked embarrassed and I swear she blushed.
“No, no,” Kira replied, “Maria is just waitressing and helping out at the bar.”
“Too bad,” I said, smiling. Such a suave guy, am I.
“Maria,” Kira continued, “this is JC, and Donny.”
“Tommy,” I corrected.
“Nice to meet you, Maria.” Jesus said. “Very nice to meet you.”
“The usual?” Kira asked me. She might not remember my name, but at least she remembered my drink. Cheapest buzz in the house, their lone brand of draft beer, Amber Bock.
“Sure. What are you drinking?” I asked Jesus.
“Oh, nothing for me, amigo.”
He still smiled at Maria. She shyly smiled back. What was this, junior high? Kira turned to procure my beer, and Maria followed.
“Tip my dance?” a voice behind me asked.
Crystal. I reappraised her now that she was off the stage. Early twenties, nice smooth skin, pretty decent bod. She wouldn’t be long for this joint. And just what was a nice looking girl like her doing here? She now wore a long gauzy shirt over her skimpy outfit. Darn it.
The dancers always made the rounds after their numbers to collect tips from patrons who hadn’t been next to the stage. It was also the time to troll for “private dances.” The girls made big bucks from that. Take you to a secluded corner, and dance real, real close, just for you. Unlike a lap dance, in those less “classy” clubs, there was no contact. I’d rather spend my hard earned money on beer. But I might make an exception for Crystal.
“Tip my dance?” she asked again.
“I already tipped you at the stage,” I said.
“I know, baby, but aren’t I worth another one?”
She held out the strap of her g-string. I couldn’t really argue with that. I fumbled out a buck and placed it against her warm hip. She let the strap snap back. She lightly touched me on the arm and said, “Thanks honey.” I mumbled “You’re welcome, darling.”
Oh, such intimate little exchanges.
She turned to Jesus. Big smile.
“JC! I’m so glad you’re here.”
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. Now what?
“How about my amigo?” he asked.
Crystal looked me over.
“Sure, if he can behave himself,” she said.
“I will keep an eye on him,” Jesus laughed.
Crystal winked at me, and wandered off.
Whoa. What did Jesus just get us into? Some weird, kinky sex thing? I hope.
“What was that about?” I asked.
His Mona Lisa smile widened. He glanced around, made sure no one could overhear, leaned in closer, and whispered.
“Tonight, amigo, after the club closes, a shower.”
I imagined Crystal, eyes half-closed, head thrown back, long wet hair hanging down, dripping water, her body covered in a glistening soapy lather, while a hot mist rises around us. I stand in front of her, running the soap in small circles around her soft shoulders. She moans in pleasure. With my right hand I slide the soap across the top of her chest, just below her neck, while my left hand reaches out and -
“You know,” Jesus interrupted, “a party for someone getting married?”
Chapter Four
Okay, so it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. But after the hypothetical soap bubble burst, I figured, oh what the heck. It’s a Saturday night, and an after hours party with a bunch of strippers, even if it was a wedding shower, sounded better than the alternative – go home and go to bed. I decided to stick around.
The evening dragged on and on. The constant cigarette smoke had given me a huge sinus headache, which the loud sound system only aggravated. I’d plateaued on the beer buzz, and kept drinking more out of habit than desire. I seriously overloaded my liquid processing system. The beer didn’t even stick around long enough to extract the alcohol anymore. Pour it in, pee it out. I was slowly going broke from constantly tipping the dancers, but since I planned to party with the girls later, I didn’t want to look like a cheap schmuck. I’ve been accused of that before. I prefer the term frugal, but that’s not a word often heard in strip joints. The evening was definitely busting my budget. I could see my future, and it looked like little blue boxes of macaroni and cheese.
The DJ finally called last call. Soon the music mercifully stopped thumping, and the bouncers began bouncing. I’d lost track of Jesus. He’d been wandering around the room, talking to this person and that, while I kept my barstool warm. He sure was a friendly little cuss. A burly black-shirted fellow with a ponytail approached me.
“Okay buddy,” he said, “show’s over. Time to go.”
“No, I, uh…”
Fortunately, Crystal appeared. I didn’t recognize her at first, what with all her clothes on.
“That’s okay, Lucas, he can stay,” she said.
Lucas looked disappointed. It’d been a quiet night for the bouncers, and this was probably his last chance to womp on some wimps. He gave me one of those narrow-eyed “next time sucka” looks. As he turned away I squinted back. Yeah, take that, sucka.
“Something wrong with your eyes?” Crystal asked.
“Uh, no.”
Crystal’s transformation was amazing. Clothes on, make up off, hair pulled back, she looked like any other woman you’d see strolling the mall. She also looked younger now. And soft, vulnerable, like she could use someone to look out for her. Like maybe an older guy, someone who’d been around, knew the ways of the world?
Easy, Tommy boy. Remember, this sweet, young, innocent thing makes her living taking off her clothes and shaking her booty for strangers. And you’re old enough to be her father. Still…
“So you’re a friend of JC’s?” she asked.
Maybe I could dazzle her with scintillating conversation.
“Yeah, kinda,” I replied.
“Johnny, right?”
“I thought his name was Jesus.”
“No, your name - Johnny?”
“No, Tommy.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
“No problemo.”
She began to scan the room. Come on Tommy, let’s keep this ball rolling.
“What about you?” I asked. “How do you know Jesus?”
She paused before she answered, and averted her eyes.
“Oh, just from the club.”
"Uh huh."
After an awkward moment she smiled and said, “Well, I better help set up.” She touched me on the arm. “Glad you could stay, Tommy.”
“Yeah, me too.”
She walked away. I suspected she'd found our conversation less than scintillating. And she didn't seem dazzled, just preoccupied. I tried not to stare, as she was off duty. But there’s something about the curve of tight Levi’s…
“Hey amigo!”
Jesus had suddenly appeared by my side. Sneaky little guy.
“Nice girl, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah, nice girl.”
By now all the uninvited guests had been ushered out, and the front door locked. The girls were wandering out of their dressing room, having undergone an amazing reverse Cinderella transformation. From exotic and erotic, to the girl next door. From sex kittens to sorority girls. From pinups to Plain Janes.
A couple girls climbed up on the bar, not to strut their stuff, but to unroll crepe paper streamers. White helium balloons appeared, along with one of those big tacky silver blimps you buy at K-Mart, that proclaimed “Congratulations Donna!”
I began to fear this would be about as wild and crazy as a Tupperware party.
A middle-aged woman with a mean mug roamed behind the bar, locking up all the liquor. Great. This was going to be a real wild time, all right. I recalled seeing the old broad occasionally at the back of the club, and never could quite figure out what she did here. Sure wasn’t a dancer.
“Who’s that?” I asked Jesus.
“Judy. The owner.”
I thought all these joints were owned by greasy Mafioso-type men. Judy looked more like a school-bus driver. She waddled out from behind the bar, clutching a fat bank deposit bag.
“Aren’t you staying?” one of the girls asked her.
“No,” she grunted. “Lucas can lock up. You girls have fun." She handed her a pink envelope. "This is for Donna,” she said, and headed toward the door.
I looked around. A few new girls had shown up. There were about twenty females now, and five of us guys: Mike the DJ, Lucas, another bouncer, JC, and myself. One of the dancers called “Kitten” approached, carrying, god help me, pointy party hats.
“Here, put this on,” she said.
“No, I’d rather not.”
“Put it on, amigo,” Jesus insisted, laughing. He took one from Kitten and fastened it to my head, then put one on himself. I didn’t dare look in the mirror behind the bar. But I had to.
Just what I suspected. Perfect dufus.
“Okay everybody, quiet!” Crystal said. We all turned towards the dressing room door. After a minute or so, the dancer formerly known as Kandy, now known as Donna, walked out.
“Surprise!” everyone yelled.
Donna, stopped, mouth open.
“Oh you guys,” she said, teary eyed.
Let the party begin.
A couple of tables had been pushed together in the middle of the club. Donna took her seat amid gift boxes trimmed with little ribbons and bows. The girls laughed and chattered and carried on, while Donna opened presents both practical and perverted. Wine glasses and fur covered cufflinks. Cheese cutters and dildos.
What was I doing here?
A few stools down from me sat Lucas, who didn’t look quite as threatening in his pointy party hat. Across the bar Crystal waited for Kira to fill a tray full of beer mugs. I waved my own empty mug.
“When you get a chance?” I said.
Kira finished filling the glass in her hand, then grabbed my mug. About an inch of beer flowed in when the tap sputtered and stopped.
“Damn!” Kira said.
“What is it?” Crystal asked.
Kira yanked up and down on the tap handle. Then she reached down rocked the keg under the bar. It let out a hollow clang.
“I don’t believe it,” Kira said. “We’re out of beer.”
“Can’t we just tap another keg?” Crystal asked.
“No, Judy locked up the storeroom. I don’t have a key.”
“Well, can we get into the bottled stuff?”
“Judy would kill me. She said we could drink the draft, but not to touch anything else. And she’d know if we did.”
With perfect timing, one of the girls at the table hollered out, “Hey, wench, where’s our beer?”
“Just a sec,” answered Crystal. She stared at the tap for a moment, as if willing it to work, then said, “Wait. I have an idea.”
Crystal walked over to the edge of crowd around Donna, and found Jesus. She whispered something in his ear. He whispered back. He didn’t look too pleased. Crystal seemed to be pleading with him. Finally, with Crystal following, he turned and walked over to and behind the bar, and approached the dry tap.
“Too late, amigo,” I said to him.
Jesus smiled. “Maybe not.”
He bent over to fiddle with the keg and the various water and soda lines, undoing and reconnecting them. I couldn't imagine what good that would do. Then he stood up, reached towards the tap, and pulled back. Air snorted and wheezed out the end.
“Forget it, man, it’s dry,” says I. “You’re just wasting...”
The beer began to flow.
He grinned, and released the tap.
What the…?
Crystal smiled at him. “Thank you,” she silently mouthed.
“De nada,” he replied, and sauntered out from behind the bar.
Kira dumped out the mug she’d started for me, refilled it fresh from the tap, and passed it over. I took a big swig.
Whoa. Usually this many beers into an evening my taste buds were shot, and the beer lost all flavor. But this stuff tasted great. If I hadn’t already been three sheets to the wind I probably would have paused to ponder this puzzling development. But instead I unquestionably accepted whatever reality surrounded me. So the beer is flowing again and tastes great - this is a problem?
The party went on for another hour, until about 4 am. I’d started the night with such good intentions. Just a few carefully paced drinks, then home. Nowhere in that scenario was there anything about an after-hours wedding shower. I didn’t feel drunk, but I knew I was way, way, way over the legal limit. I was still tempted to drive, but the sobering thought of jail time if I got caught again made me reconsider. I was also broke, so a cab ride wasn’t an option. It would take me a good hour to walk home. Drat, darn and damn.
Oh well.
I swiveled around on my barstool, stood up... and fell down.
A voice said, “Mr. Tommy, are you all right?”
I opened my eyes, and found myself in the middle of a strange dream. A little Puerto Rican guy was holding my head off the floor. Behind him stood all these women. Everyone stared at me. Maybe if I just close my eyes, they will all go away.
“Mr. Tommy, wake up.”
I opened my eyes. Same darn dream.
“Help me get him up, por favor.”
The little guy and his bevy of beauties helped me off the floor and sat me on a barstool. I looked around. Oh. Okay. Not a dream. Shoot. That meant I had to clear my head and find my way back to my real bed.
The little guy, Jesus, (was his name really Jesus?), was talking to a good looking woman, uh, Crystal, yeah Crystal. Every now and then they’d look at me. Finally, Jesus came over.
“Hey, amigo. You cannot drive home.”
Duh.
“So here is what we do.” He pointed to the dark-haired beauty, Crystal. “She will drive you home, if she can stay with you. How does that sound? Mr. Tommy? Hey, Mr. Tommy?”
Sounds like that when I fell off the barstool I must have hit my head, died and gone to heaven. But who’d a thunk heaven would look like a strip club?
“Mr. Tommy? Amigo? Okay?”
Dream, drunk or heaven, count me in. I leaned over and whispered in the little guy’s ear.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
Chapter Five
I stumbled out of the club, hoping fresh air would somehow sober me up. But there was no cool breeze blowing tonight. It was muggy, buggy, and unnaturally bright. The parking lot was supersaturated by sodium vapor lights. They buzzed and hummed incessantly, like humongous mutant mosquitoes.
Off towards the western horizon, set against a star-filled night sky, the Roosevelt Bridge soared up and over the dark waters of the St. Lucie River in a majestic, curving arc, softly illuminated by evenly spaced streetlights.
The bridge had recently replaced an old, low drawbridge, greatly improving traffic flow. The deal with the old drawbridge was that anytime a retired tycoon felt like taking his yacht out for a cruise, the drawbridge would open, halting all automobile traffic. Didn’t matter if it was rush hour for us worker bees; rich boaters always ruled. Then for a final insult, the bridge would sometimes freeze in the up position. So how about passing up some champagne and caviar for us poor peons? Or at least the Grey Poupon?
Crystal came out of the club carrying a large suitcase. Even in my befuddled state I found that a bit odd. I mean, how much space do you need to pack a couple of G-strings?
But I didn’t give it much thought. The more pressing issue was to regain control of my wandering mind and coordination, so as to best impress Miss Crystal. I still couldn't believe she was going home with me.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
Where did I park? For that matter, what car did I drive here? At least there were only a few cars in the parking lot to pick from. Late model Camaro? No. Chevy pickup? No. Mazda 626? No. ‘Vette? I wish. Pale blue, ten year old, four door Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera? Complete with fluorescent orange Styrofoam ball glued to the antenna to help forgetful old folk locate their car in shopping mall parking lots?
Yep, that’ll impress her.
“Over there,” I said.
We started walking towards the Olds. Crystal leaned to the left to compensate for the weight of her suitcase. I leaned left, then right, to compensate for gravity. I wonder what she had in her suitcase? Looked heavy. Oh, where’s my manners?
“Hey, Chris. I can carry that.”
“No, I’m fine,” Crystal replied. She smiled and added, “I think you’ve got enough to do just carrying yourself.”
Ouch.
As we approached the car I pulled out the remote and clicked to unlock the doors. Instead the trunk popped open, the metallic snap of the release echoing through the parking lot. Well, needed to open that too, anyway.
“Here, let me help you,” I said.
“No, really, I can get this,” she replied, and hoisted the suitcase into the trunk. She pulled the lid closed. She stood facing me. I looked at her. She looked at me. I looked at her. She looked at me. I looked-
“Keys?” she asked.
“Right. Yeah. Here you go.”
She walked around to the driver’s side. Oops, I should have opened her door.
As we buckled up, she glanced at the orange ball on the antenna and gave me a questioning look. I imagined she was thinking “are you just trying to be funny, or are you really that clueless?”
“This isn’t my car,” I said.
She stared at me.
“I mean, this isn’t my personal car. It’s off the lot.
“The lot?”
“I’m a used car salesman.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Yeah, my line of work impresses them every time. But hey, lady, don’t take an attitude. You’re not exactly in a well-respected profession yourself. Jiggling your -
“Where do you live?” she asked.
“Out on Rocky Point. Tall Oaks Estates? Just take US 1-”
“I know how to get to Rocky Point. Just direct me from there.”
“Okee cho bee.”
“What?”
“I mean, okay.”
She gave me another “are you just trying to be funny or…” look, then started the car.
I silently cursed my stupid brain. You see, the biggest lake in Florida is Lake Okeechobee, about 20 miles west. I think the correct pronunciation is Oh-ka-cho-bee. Dwayne pronounces it Oh-kee-cho-bee. Which to me sounds close to “okee dokey.” So now when I say “Okay” I often think “Okee Dokey, Okee cho bee.” But I don’t actually say it out loud. At least not when I’m sober.
As we drove along, I surreptitiously glanced at Crystal. As we passed under streetlights the moving shadows played across her face. She was gorgeous. So what if she was a stripper? I mean exotic dancer. It’s probably just a temporary thing. Hey, if things work out, she can find other work. I’m sure-
“What are you staring at?” she said.
Busted.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s just that you’re so beautiful.”
Well, that’s what I meant to say, but I was suddenly possessed by the spirit of Elmer Fudd, and it actually came out “I sowwy. It’s just dat youse so bootafull.”
She rolled her eyes and her "I'm not amused" look said she’d finally decided the funny/clueless question.
Except for my occasional directions, the rest of the ride passed in silence. As we drove south of town, with fewer streetlights, strip malls and gas stations, darkness slowly reclaimed the night. By the time we turned onto Rocky Point, the world beyond the edge of our headlights was shrouded in mystery.
“Watch out for critters,” I said.
As if on cue, an armadillo bustled across the road, a tiny tank oblivious to our approach or danger. Crystal swerved and he was never the wiser.
When we turned down the road to Tall Oaks, Crystal looked impressed.
“Hey, this is nice.”
Unlike most housing developments in South Florida, where they just bulldozed everything in sight, put up the houses, and then planted a few token palm trees, the developer at Tall Oaks had preserved much of the original vegetation, so the entrance road wound around old trees dangling Spanish moss. The development consisted of about twenty buildings, four condos per building, two up, two down. I rented an upper unit.
Crystal parked the car, and again refused my chivalrous attempt to carry her luggage. As I climbed the stairs outside my unit, my pulse began to quicken. Not from the effort, but from anticipation. I better at least brush my teeth first. I fumbled with the lock, then held the door open. I tried to impress her with my high school French.
“Entree vous, si vous plait.”
I hoped that meant, “come in, please”. But possibly I just told her she was dinner.
Crystal set the suitcase down in the foyer, and looked around.
“Wow, you’re seriously into golf.”
I could see how she might get that impression, given the pictures of fairways on the wall, the how-to books on the shelves, and the incredible amount of tacky golf related knick-knacks scattered about. And then there was the centerpiece, on the glass-topped dining room table: 100 golf balls, stacked in a perfect pyramid.
“Actually, I’ve never played,” I said.
The look, again.
“This place belongs to a couple of snowbirds from Michigan.” I explained. “I’m just renting it from them until they come back down.”
“Good.”
I took that to be a judgment on the decorating tastes of the real owners. The golf-themed accessorizing complemented their penchant for furniture made of faux bamboo or covered in white Formica.
Okay, now the tough part. Just how do we get this started.
“Well,” she said, “I’m beat. Should I take the couch or do you have a spare bedroom?”
But? Couch? Spare bedroom? What about…? You mean…? You don’t want to…? But…?
I deflated and accepted defeat.
“There’s a guest bedroom down the hall,” I said, “off to the left.”
If she noticed the disappointment in my voice, she didn’t let on.
“Okay,” she said. “Great. Goodnight.”
She picked up her suitcase and lugged it down the hall.
I didn’t offer to help.
Chapter Six
I suppose it was inevitable that we’d talk about Jesus at breakfast. I’d been up for an hour nursing a headache before Crystal appeared wearing nothing but a baggy a white T-shirt. Her hair was a mess.
“Good morning,” she said.