Another brawl and Jane stormed out the door. Again.
This time I didn’t try to stop her.
Ten
minutes later the phone rang. It was her
friend Aurora, acting as mediator.
Within minutes it was as if Jane had never existed.
Aurora and I spoke about art, music, literature. Before I knew it she was
masturbating while I recited some song lyrics I had written for my band. I ran
over to her place. A week later I was moving my worldly belongings into her
Second Avenue apartment.
My new girl was an aspiring actress, but for her bread
and butter she tended bar in a topless joint over on Sixth Avenue. Although she lacked the confidence to become
a dancer, Aurora thrived on the attention she received in her skimpy barmaid’s
outfit. As a matter of fact, it was soon quite clear that Aurora needed
constant reinforcement when it came to her sex-appeal. Dressed in the most revealing outfits, she
more than welcomed the catcalls and loud smacking kisses of strangers on the
street. Maybe if I had truly cared for
her this would have been a problem. But in my eyes Aurora was little more than
the piece of ass that bike messengers and construction workers loved to whistle
at. The only difference between myself and them was that I was going home with
her.
The apartment had been obtained through a dead uncle who
had lived there since the Depression. The rent was fairly cheap. This allowed
me the rare privilege of not having to go to work. Aurora didn’t mind. Like me,
she fully believed that my band was on the threshold of fame. As an actress,
she said, she understood that a job would only hinder my creativity and thus
postpone the success of the band. (In truth, Aurora wasn’t much of an actress,
aspiring or otherwise. She’d recently earned a drama degree from NYU, but
rarely went on auditions. Like so many other New Yorkers, she simply liked the
idea of calling herself an “artist”. That was fine with me. I had no problem
spending long nights discussing the creative process, as long as she continued
to pay the rent.)
Then my singer Ian began spending a lot of time with a
certain white powder. The band tried to get him into detox, but to no avail. In
the middle of a gig at The Pyramid one Friday night he curled up into the fetal
position and passed out right there on stage. Following that episode we were
forced to vote Ian out of the band.
It proved impossible to find a replacement; the chemistry
just wasn’t there with anyone else. And so the band started to lose its morale.
Robbie, our guitarist, was the first to quit. And since he had written all the
songs, they went along with him. The
rest of us just sort of disintegrated after that.
Meanwhile, Aurora had lost her bartending gig at the
strip club due to excessive lateness. Neither of us had any savings, nor anyone
to turn to for financial support. Bills were piling up, rent was overdue.
It was time for me to find a job.
I awoke early one Monday morning to the rumbling of
garbage trucks down on Second Avenue. Aurora had already left for an interview
at a health club, where she hoped to land a job teaching step aerobics. For a
while I just lay there on the lumpy futon, staring at the collage of fashion
magazine pages she had taped up to the wall. All those movie stars and super models
enraged me. Maybe that was because I so loathed Aurora’s shallow obsession with
beauty and fame. Or perhaps the reason was that I secretly shared in her
obsession, had even tried to make it a reality—and had failed miserably at the
attempt.
By noon I was sitting at the dinette table with a cup of
coffee and a newspaper opened to the classifieds. Regardless of the job, every
ad seemed to ask for a bright, organized self-starter with the ability to
juggle multiple tasks. Some of the more creative ones even had catchy headings
like, “DREAM JOB!,” “GET AHEAD,” or my favorite, “THERE’S ROOM AT THE TOP!”.
All those tiny little boxes filled with tiny little words that promised the
world. What a joke. After fifteen minutes I closed the paper. My job search
would have to wait.
Later that afternoon I was sprawled on the sofa,
listening to the radio. I realized that the clock was ticking against Aurora
and me, that we’d soon be out on the street. Yet for some reason I could not
bring myself to act. I was powerless to do anything but wait patiently upon
disaster.
Aurora stormed in and slammed the door.
“How was the interview?” I asked.
“They don’t want me.” Then, flinging her purse onto the
table, “Nobody wants me.”
“Don’t worry, something will come through,” I consoled
her. “Did you hit any bars?”
“I’ve been to every bar in this city. I’m telling you,
Vin, I’m blacklisted!” Glancing at the newspaper she asked bitingly, “Did you
find anything in there today?”
I shook my head. “It’s full of crap.”
“But that’s what you said yesterday!”
“I know,” I sighed, “I know.”
“I’ve been pounding the pavement all day while you’ve
been hanging out listening to music! Don’t you realize what’s happening? You
saw the letter. The landlord’s kicking us out!”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes. “I tried, Aurora, I did! But
you’ve got to understand, since the band broke up I’m so depressed, I can’t
bring myself to do anything. I mean, I’m an artist! God didn’t intend for me to
be an office clerk or a telemarketer! I have a gift, and I was put on this
earth to share that gift, to touch people’s souls! Believe me, I wish I was
responsible, I wish I was a go-getter. Life would be so much easier if I could
just go and be a stockbroker or something. At least then we would be happy! I
didn’t choose to be this way! I was cursed!”
I put
my head in my hands and groaned.
The tortured artist bit worked beautifully. Aurora sat
down on the sofa beside me and stroked my head. “It’ll be all right,” she
whispered softly. “I’m going to the bar tonight to beg for my job back. Reggie
always liked me. He’ll give me another chance.”
“You think so?” I asked pathetically.
“I know it.”
We made love and then slept entwined on the sofa for the
rest of the afternoon.
That night I awoke with a start to find Aurora staring
down at me from the edge of the futon. The bedroom was warm and dark and I
could smell her rich perfume mingling with the dank, smokey stench of the bar.
It was a familiar odor; that place had always left behind a film that clung stubbornly
to her body no matter how much raspberry soap and vanilla shampoo she used. The
digital clock on the nightstand said two AM. Mouth dry, eyes half closed, I
yawned and asked what was up. Aurora sighed heavily.
“Did you get your job back?” I asked.
“No, but someone did offer me a position.” A naughty
giggle escaped her lips. “I don’t want you to get angry with me.”
“I won’t get angry.”
“I didn’t accept it or anything.”
“Tell me already.”
She shifted nervously on the futon, drew a deep breath
and then muttered quickly, “Some guy at the bar offered me a lot of money to
have sex with him.”
In the awkward silence that followed I grabbed a
cigarette from off the nightstand, lit it, and studied Aurora’s expression in
the matchlight. It was clear that she was considering the proposition. I myself
was thrilled with the idea of making the rent, perhaps even postponing my job
search for a few more weeks. But my joy remained tactfully concealed. I had to
give Aurora at least some resistance.
Assuming the role of the jealous boyfriend, I leapt up off the futon and turned
on the light, just so she could see my face all twisted with pain.
“Who do you think I am,” I growled.
“Vin...” she pleaded.
“My girl is no hooker!”
“But we’re getting kicked out!”
“How dare he offer you....”
“We’re going to be homeless!”
An expression of hurtful realization slowly swept over my
face. My mouth formed an ugly scowl as I knitted my brow, letting the conflict
burn in my eyes. Soon my head dropped, my shoulders slumped, and my whole being
became one of sorry defeat.
Aurora ran up and threw her arms around my limp frame. “I
love you, Vinny! My heart would be with you the whole time! I swear!”
I paused, as if deep in thought, before responding, “I
guess that’s what really counts. Not the flesh but the soul, right?”
“Yes,” she agreed, gently kissing my cheek. “It will just
be this once, to help us get back on our feet.”
My voice trembled. “Please, Aurora, please be careful.”
“I will baby.” She kissed me once more. “I promise.”
Never one to procrastinate, she reapplied her deep red
lipstick and rushed back to the bar. I killed the lights and lay back on the
futon. The jealous boyfriend bit worked so well that I began to fantasize about
pursuing an acting career. Staring up into the void, smoking, I imagined myself
entering an awards ceremony, a beautiful starlet on my arm. I was one of the
nominees for best actor. A group of reporters was flocked around me....
As my mind wandered I suddenly thought about the sorry
sap that Aurora was going to meet. He was probably one of those rich, lonely
old widowers who tipped big, drank watered down gin, and fell in love with
every girl that was kind enough to toss him a wink and a smile. The strip
joints were full of these pathetic saps, and the dancers were notorious for
sucking them dry whenever they could. I now pictured Aurora in the bedroom of
some ritzy uptown apartment, the old geezer grunting and sweating on top of
her. Seven minutes later he rolls over, drops his dentures in a cup on the
nightstand and falls asleep. Poor Aurora. I put out my cigarette and laughed
myself to sleep.
The
following morning I awoke alone. I expected to find my girl curled up on the
sofa, too ashamed to crawl into the same bed with me. Mentally I prepared a
vague, comforting little talk to ease some of the guilt that was surely racking
her soul. While I brushed my teeth I considered the tone I would use, how I
would place my arm around Aurora’s waist as I spoke consolingly to her. I
splashed some water on my face and combed my hair. Leaving the bathroom I bowed
my head humbly. I didn’t want to appear too intimidating.
The first thing I noticed was the musty odor. Ever since
burglars had crept in through the fire escape last year, Aurora kept the
livingroom windows closed and locked overnight. Those windows, which she always
opened first thing in the morning, were still shut, still locked. The lights
were off, the shades drawn. There was no
teary-eyed girl huddled on the sofa, which remained exactly as we’d left it
after our lovemaking the day before. I didn’t need a psychic to tell me. She
hadn’t returned home last night.
I immediately assumed the worst: Aurora had been
murdered. After all, it wasn’t unusual for tragedy to befall a woman in her
situation, especially here in New York City. I felt a pang of regret for
allowing her—no, encouraging her—to return to the bar last night. This soon
gave way to a dizzying nausea as I wondered if I could somehow be blamed for what had happened. Knowing the cops,
they would take one look at me and assume my guilt. A routine check of my
records would then reveal that outstanding warrant I’d received for jumping the
turnstile a few years back. And then I would find myself eating American cheese
sandwiches and sharing a toilet with twelve other razor-wielding innocent men.
I had to disappear.
Dashing into the bedroom, I dropped to my knees and began
stuffing my pile of dirty clothes into my greasy green dufflebag. My heart was kicking like a bass drum as I
ran each corner of the apartment through my addled brain, scanning for any
trace of myself that must be erased. “Damn!” I cried aloud as the word
‘fingerprints’ shot through my mind. Suddenly I heard a car door slam
downstairs. I stopped packing and peered out the window.
A hulk of a man had just gotten out of a Lincoln
Navigator that was parked before our building. He stood over six-feet tall, all
suntanned muscle and rugged good looks. A white tank-top just barely contained
his massive v-shaped frame and the tribal tattoos round both his arms looked
ready to pop like springs if he flexed too hard. Gold glinted from the
behemoth’s strong neck and wrists, and his pushback hairdo was as black and
sleek as the vehicle he commanded. Square-jawed and proud, he glided over to
the passenger side of the Lincoln and opened the door. Aurora slipped out. They
kissed passionately.
I felt
bitter, foolish, like the victim of some cruel joke. Old sap—Ha! That old sap
could rip my arm off and use it for a toothpick if he so pleased. I hated him
instantly. I wouldn’t admit it, but the jealousy was boiling in my guts. The
worst of it was that I’d conned myself into believing that this guy was a
feeble old man—to preserve my tiny ego of course. What a sad case of humanity I
was.
The familiar click of the front lock, followed by the
creak of the opening door, echoed through the apartment. All of this was
mingled with a cheerfully off-tune whistling.
“Vinny?” Aurora’s sing-song voice rang above the sound of
the closing door. Shoving the dufflebag under the futon, I hurried into the
livingroom to meet her. Her cheeks were glowing rosy red, her languid smile
matched her voice.
“Where were you?” I demanded.
She smiled proudly and showed me a wad of bills.
“All right,” I cleared my throat, “this has to end.”
“What?”
“With
him! You can’t do it anymore. It’s wrong. It’s illegal. I’ll get a job, you can
go back to work and our money problems will be history. But this is no way for
us to live, Aurora. You can’t do it anymore—you just can’t!”
I was serious.
She simply said, “OK.”
OK. Such a tiny word. And yet it made me the happiest man
in the world just then. I pulled Aurora close and held her tightly as the fire
of jealousy subsided. Kissing my forehead, she whispered, “I was going to end
it after tonight anyway. I told you this was only going to be until we get back
on our feet. Don’t you remember, baby?”
“Yes,” I uttered contritely.
“Let’s get some sleep,” she said, “we’ll talk more
later.”
Just then the phone rang. I picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Vinny!” The voice was familiar but I couldn’t place it.
“It’s
Robbie. Your guitarist, remember?”
“Ex-guitarist,” I said dryly.
“Listen, the band is getting back together.”
“What about Ian?”
“He’s all cleaned-up. We’re meeting at the studio
tonight, nine o’clock sharp. Will you be there?”
“Sure,” I answered hastily, eager to get back to my
girl.
I hung up and told her all about it.
Aurora washed up and we went to bed. I suddenly felt the
urgent need to make love to her, to prove once and for all that I was better
than that muscle-bound brute. So what if he had looks, money, a luxurious car?
I had something he would never own, something no amount of cash could purchase:
I had soul. After all, I was an artist!
My love sprang from the profoundest depths of pain and joy and beauty. Now I
would take Aurora to those depths. She would never even think of that
Neanderthal again.
My girl slept in the nude. She now lay on her side,
facing away from me. Slowly pulling the white sheet off of us, I rested my hand
on the fine curve of her hip, then softly kissed the beauty-mark on her bare
shoulder. Gently I brushed away her bleached locks and placed my lips on the
slender nape of her neck. Pressing my body close to hers, I felt the sudden
rush of Aurora’s cool skin against mine. I breathed hotly into her ear. Then she said:
“Not now, Vinny, it’s sore.”
She pulled the sheet back up, tossed and turned for a few
minutes, and was still. I lay there with my hands behind my head, listening as
she snored ever so lightly. I felt useless. My only consolation was the fact
that this whole business was over; I would never have to hear those words from
Aurora’s lips again. Yet I could not sleep. To distract myself I focused on a
wedge of sunlight that peeked through the closed blind, illuminating the glossy
magazine pages that covered the wall. I stared at the fine features of each
movie star and model for some time. Then, reluctantly, I closed my eyes.
I awoke to the familiar sound of Aurora’s pink beeper
vibrating on the nightstand. I was about to rouse her; why I chose to keep my
eyes closed and pretend I was still asleep, I couldn’t say. Before long she sat
up and checked the number. I was surprised when, instead of going into the
livingroom, Aurora reached over me and picked up the phone. She dialed and
began to whisper hoarsely: “What’s up?
Yes, I had fun too. Tomorrow, again? Boy, you just can’t get enough! OK,
be here at nine—no, nine-thirty. You can come up, he won’t be here. I really
can’t talk now. OK, nine-thirty. Bye-bye, sweetie.”
I could hardly believe my ears. For a moment, as I
listened to her speak, I even wondered if I was dreaming. But this was no
dream. Aurora hadn’t the slightest intention of ending it—she’d lied right to
my face! And now she was planning to bang the Neanderthal right here, on my futon! I was boiling with rage and
wanted so badly to get up and smack her square in the mouth. But something told
me to remain calm, to keep pretending I was asleep. She hung up the phone and
soon resumed her snoring as I lay there consumed by bitter thoughts. I would
not allow myself to be made a fool of, that much was certain. But I needed a
plan....
An hour later, frustrated, I shut my eyes and fell into a
deep and much needed sleep.
Early the next afternoon I awoke determined
not to let Aurora know that I was on to her. I told myself that the most
important thing was to act natural. The moment I saw her I grabbed her around
the waist and gave her a long, hard kiss.
To a stranger the afternoon would have appeared quite
ordinary. As usual, Aurora popped her aerobics tape into the VCR and jumped
around the livingroom, while I sat practicing scales on my bass guitar. But as
my girlfriend and I casually went about our everyday affairs, our minds were
busy constructing angles and rehearsing lies. In an odd way I was even proud of
Aurora; she turned out to be a much better actress than I’d thought. But the
long dragging hours eventually wore her down, and by dinnertime she was visibly
nervous. She could hardly sit still as we dined on our greasy spring rolls and
chicken chow fun.
“You’re not eating,” I said, “you ok?”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, “just not too hungry.”
“I ordered it from that new joint around the corner.”
“How come you didn’t call Lucy Wok’s?” she asked.
“They confused our last two orders.”
“But
Lucy is always so nice and polite on the phone.”
“You know what they say: two strikes and you’re out.”
“But isn’t it...?”
“The point is I just don’t trust Lucy Wok anymore. And
when you’re dealing with a restaurant, or a business, or even a person for that matter, the most
important thing is trust. Once that’s gone the rest gets flushed down the toilet.”
Aurora’s writhing was better than the food. Glancing at a
spot just above my left shoulder she muttered, “It’s hot in here,” and went to
open some windows. After a few deep breaths she returned to the table and
calmly said, “You must be really excited about tonight.”
“Sure,”
I said.
“I’m going to meet Debbie and go out for a drink.”
I wanted to laugh in her face and scream, “Liar!”, but
instead I nodded and tried to smile.
“By the way, when are you getting home?” she asked.
“Not until one, maybe later.”
“Ok.”
It was after eight when Aurora stood. “I have to run down
to the store for some dental floss. Need anything?”
“No thanks,” I said, and in a flash the idea struck me—I
had a plan. Without skipping a beat I added, “I’m probably going to be gone by
the time you get back. Better bring your keys.”
“All right,” she said, “enjoy yourself tonight.”
“Oh, I will.”
She gave me a peck on the cheek and walked out.
Crouching by the window, watching her strut down the
avenue to a chorus of catcalls, I whispered, “You and your bigshot boyfriend
are going to find I’m not so easily fooled!” Giggling deviously, I ran to the
phone and dialed Robbie. I told him that poor Aurora was stuck in the emergency
room with food poisoning; I wasn’t going to be able to make it to the studio
tonight. Robbie was disappointed, but what could I do? My plan had to be carried out.
She would be home any minute, I didn’t have much time.
The first thing I did was hide my bass guitar in the back of the closet. Then I
turned off all the lights and locked the door. Standing there in the dim
bedroom, I asked myself if there was any detail I may have overlooked. After
all, it wasn’t easy executing a brilliant plan on such short notice. Everything
appeared to be in order. I took a deep breath and got down on the floor. Then I
slid myself under the futon.
It was dark and dusty under there. I began to breathe
through my mouth so that I wouldn’t sneeze. Feeling around with my hands, I was
able to distinguish most of the objects that surrounded me: dirty socks,
matchbooks, magazines, and a few sticky old condoms that I hoped were mine.
That filthy mess made me reflect upon what a poor wife Aurora would make. She
was a terrible cook who never cleaned and rarely made the bed. Not a drop of
domestic blood in her. Party, party, party, that was all that mattered to
her.
A smile came to my lips as I anticipated the scene that
lay ahead. I couldn’t wait to catch those sneaky connivers right in the act—to
humiliate them in a way they’d never forget!
But what would I say?
I really wasn’t sure. All that my keen imagination
provided was an image of myself before the lovers’ bed, accusatory finger
extended, eyes burning with righteous fury. Maybe I would glance at Aurora, shake
my head sadly and utter something like, “You’re a whore. That’s all you ever
were. That’s all you’ll ever be.” Then I’d turn and walk out of the apartment,
real Bogart-like. That would make her see the err of her ways. No doubt she’d
chase after me and beg me to take her back. I could just see her
make-up-smudged face, all twisted with regrets and teary promises.
An excruciatingly long ten minutes passed before I heard
something, but it was not the turning click of the front door lock as I’d
expected. A slow metallic screeching sound now met my ears. It was a familiar
noise, one my mind at first stubbornly refused to accept. But my quickening
pulse betrayed the dreadful understanding in my heart. As I lay there beneath
the futon, the screen in our livingroom window was being raised.
Fleetingly I wondered if Aurora could have slipped into
the apartment unnoticed—but I instantly dismissed such desperate hopes. I
cursed her for opening the windows, then cursed myself for neglecting to close
and lock them, a task I performed religiously whenever I left the apartment. My
heart now thumped madly as I listened to two, then four feet, padding
stealthily about.
We were being robbed.
I knew I must get out from under that futon. If I could
do that quickly enough I would at least have the element of surprise on my
side. I could rush past them before they realized what was happening and escape
through the front door. I prepared to grip the bars above me for leverage and
then swing my body outward with all my might. But as I slowly attempted to lift
my right hand I was met with a surprise—my limbs were completely frozen.
The footsteps entered the bedroom. A moment later I was
dragged by my feet from beneath the futon.
There were two of them. Both wore baggy hooded
sweatshirts, baseball caps, and red bandannas over their faces like western
outlaws. The big one restrained me while his partner slugged me repeatedly in
the belly. When they saw I wasn’t struggling anymore they took to treating me
like a soccer ball for a while. I ate a Nike sneaker and lost a front tooth in the process. Before long I was
sufficiently beaten and bloodied to be of any threat. The thieves used
telephone cord to tie me to a chair they’d brought in from the diningroom. As
one secured my hands behind my back, the other rolled up a dusty old sock that
had been under the futon with me and violently jammed it into my bloody mouth.
They proceeded to quietly rifle through the apartment.
One of them opened the bedroom closet and I groaned in pathetic protest as he
removed my beloved bass guitar. That earned me a hard right across the jaw.
I couldn’t say how much time passed as they unloaded
various objects (my boombox, my bass, my amplifier) out the window and down the
fire escape. When they were through, the bigger one came over, backhanded me
hard in the face, and said if I opened my mouth, he knew where I lived. I
nodded groggily, and was left alone to struggle helplessly against the
telephone cords for a while. At one point my gaze fell upon one of the photos
that were taped to the wall. It showed a beautiful model with short blond hair
and cold blue eyes. I imagined I was entering an awards ceremony with her on my
arm. A group of reporters was flocked around us....
The front door squeaked open. I heard Aurora’s voice.
Then I heard his voice, deep with a
thick, pompous Brooklyn accent. Not noticing the place had been robbed, they
walked straight into the bedroom. Aurora started at first when she saw me tied
to the chair. Oddly, her companion reacted rather calmly. Then they both just
stood there in the doorway, staring dumbly at me. I tried to tell them to come
and help me, but with that dirty sock in my mouth it just came out as a bunch
of incoherent grunts. Aurora seemed to find this funny. She smiled first. And then, as if unable to hold back any
longer, she began to laugh hysterically. He followed. Furious, I struggled to
break free as the telephone cords bit into my wrists. Harder and harder, louder
and louder, they laughed at me.
Then,
to my surprise, I began to laugh also. It started small, a self-concious giggle
of sorts. But very quickly, and completely beyond my control, it mounted. Soon
my bellowing laughter drowned out the both of them, resounding off the dingy
walls, until nothing remained in that little room but the dumb and deafening
roar of my defeat.
This story first appeared in Somewhat.
