But we weren’t normal people. And this situation (a pretty hot girl standing in front of you with your name scrawled all over her in black Sharpie) doesn’t come up all that often.
Believe it or not. So what I did was, I reached out to touch the Trombone Chablis Ampersand breast and dipped two fingers under the T-shirt and bra from above. And what she did was to lean into me and to start sticking her tongue into my mouth and saying “mmmm.” Soon we were fully making out, and it 292
was just like at the party, except she wasn’t in Fiona costume, and I was in pajamas instead of my army coat, and instead of a sound track of distant mod-related music, there was only the sound of Mr. Aquino’s moaning.
Soon I had my other hand on the Chi-Mo breast and was moving the TCA hand down to the back waistband of her jeans so it was jeans-underwear-fingers-skin, and instead of resisting like before, she scrunched up so I could reach farther down, though it was a pretty tight squeeze. This was more like it. The autographs were getting smudged, so she said,
“You’ll have to redo these sometime.” Sounds good to me. If you insist.
Then, and you can believe it or not, I don’t really care, she reached her hand under the covers, said “Let me see if I can help you with that,” and started to give me what I believe is technically referred to as a hand job. Mind-blowing.
I was thinking that there was a fairly good chance of this developing into full-blown ramoning. At this point in the proceedings, however, Mr. Aquino’s moans got louder and he started to wheeze. “Someone’s coming!” I said. We shared an extremely brief slan look about that hilarious choice of words—yeah, because we slans love our sophisticated jokes—
but she quickly disengaged, straightened herself up, reached into her back pocket, handed me a folded note, mimed a little kiss, and left the room.
The new visitor, I kid you not, was Deanna Schumacher, wearing her IHA uniform. She and Celeste Fletcher glared at each other as their paths crossed at the curtain. I shoved the note down behind my pillow with Sam Hellerman’s envelopes.
“Who was that?” said Deanna Schumacher.
“Sam Hellerman’s illicit lover,” I said.
“She seems like a bitch.” She sat on the edge of the bed.
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“You have no idea,” I said. Which was true.
Deanna Schumacher launched into her usual alternating hot/cold, mean/nice, hostile/polite routine. I’ll tell you one thing: navigating the twists and turns of a Schumacher conversation is way easier when you’re on prescription medication. It’s the only way to go. I just bided my time, till, as expected, she finally finished being schizophrenic and we started to make out.
“Let me see if I can help you with that,” she said, sticking to the script. But Deanna Schumacher had had a lot of practice with that sort of discreet, sheet-covered help and she knew what to do. It was just like in her room, with a similar sense of urgency and looming time limit, but also with perhaps a bit more confidence on my part. Everything went well, and there were no interruptions. And I was glad all over all over again. Then she left, calling me a jerk, reminding me that Mondays and Thursdays are best, and asking that I say hello to my mother for her.
R EADI NG MATTE R
When I was sure Deanna Schumacher had left the room for good, I retrieved Celeste Fletcher’s note. I had to laugh a little, because I hadn’t known what to expect, but I probably should have. It said my band rocked, blah blah blah, and there was a phone number; if I ever felt like killing some time I could call her. “Wednesdays are best, till around ten.” Hey, but what about the other day when her boyfriend works late?
Maybe that’s Sam Hellerman’s day. Or Shinefield’s. Well, at least the work schedule proved Celeste Fletcher and Deanna Schumacher didn’t have the same boyfriend. That sure would have complicated things.
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She had written the note before she knew that I would have learned the Fiona secret by the time I read it. But it didn’t make much difference. Maybe I should have been more irritated by the deception, but without it, and without her having slipped up and my having realized it, the hospital make-out session wouldn’t have occurred, so I was mostly glad it worked out the way it did. Whatever. Celeste Fletcher was hot and I was more or less totally into her, details be damned. Though I had to admit, I preferred her in Fiona drag.
What about Sam Hellerman? Well, he had sold me out, it’s true, and the whole thing was a bit embarrassing. But if it hadn’t been for his devil-head machinations, none of the making out in my life would have happened at all. None of it.
I couldn’t be too mad at him. In fact, I thought I really should try to give him some kind of thank-you gift. Plus, we had to keep the band together, at least till we sold our first million records. Only then could we move on to competing solo careers and sniping at each other about our shared women and sleazy escapades in the music press, till we eventually recon-cile around the time I record the third in a celebrated series of albums about having writer’s block.
The maddening part was that I probably would never end up knowing how many of the results of his plans had been intended and how many had been because things went awry. Or how much he knew, or what he was planning for the future. I could talk to him about it, but I’d never know for sure if he was being completely honest. Plus, he clearly still had the hots for Celeste Fletcher, and I didn’t really want the subject to come up. I didn’t want him to know about Deanna Schumacher, either, just in case he might tell Celeste Fletcher about her. I certainly didn’t want those two knowing about each other. God, no.
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* * *
I almost forgot Sam Hellerman’s other envelope in all the excitement. Eventually, though, I retrieved it from under the pillow and took a look.
In the envelope were two neatly folded pieces of paper.
