city for fame and fortune. The spread came from a Playboy of at least a decade ago, and I vaguely remembered seeing it then. The blonde in the picture was, as you’ve guessed, that same blonde who was sitting aloof in the bar, and was no doubt the exception to the you-can’t-come-home-again rule, as this ex-Bunny had made something out of her small potatoes Playboy fame and fortune.
So I went out to take another long look at her, where she still sat in the corner, watching the combo drummer. I found a stool at the bar and kept watching. I was working a beer down in there among the gimlets and a voice said, “She’s something, isn’t she?”
I looked at him. He was around thirty, kind of bland-looking, short hair, sport coat; like me, he was one of the few business-types in the crowd. I said, “Huh?”
He said, “I said, uh, she sure is something.”
“She’s something.”
“You passing through Port City?”
“Yeah. “
“Salesman?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” He gulped at his beer and nodded toward the blonde. “I asked around about her.”
‘‘Oh.’’
“She owns this place. Her and another guy own it, anyway. “
“I figured that.”
“Oh, you saw the pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“Good-looking chick. I’d sure like to get some of that.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“Already did.”
“Oh.”
“Zilch, man. Struck out royal.”
“A shame.”
“Yeah, and they told me she puts out.”
“Maybe she’s particular.’’
“Guess with her looks she can afford to be particular.”
“Looks like she’s got a man,” I said, gesturing toward the stage where the band was playing. “For tonight anyway.’’
“Yeah, the drummer, yeah I noticed her looking at him. She and him were talking during the break, When I asked around about her they said she likes younger guys.” He paused. “Hell, I’m just thirty-one. You figure that’s old?”
“No.”
“But I guess it isn’t young either. Hell. She’s nice.”
“She’s nice all right.”
“Younger guys, sheesh. She looks young herself, to me.”
“Not if you look close.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well I guess she would be in her thirties at that. Those Bunny pictures were from a while back.”
“Right.”
“Whatever, she’s nice. Nice stuff.”
“Nice stuff.”
“Well. I’ll see you.”
“See you.”
The guy finished his beer and took off and I stood and watched her some more. I never did get eye contact with her. I wondered if she knew I was watching. I ordered another beer. I wondered if I could get near her. I wondered if that was wise, considering she was probably real well-known around town. I nibbled at the beer. I wondered how she was in bed.
13
I woke up the next morning around noon, a sour film lining my mouth, a sour mood lining my brain. The hangover was heavy in me, like thick fluid, and that irritated me. And the bed I woke up in was my own, and that irritated me too. Last night my goal had been to get drunk and laid, and while one out of two may not be bad, tell that to a guy the morning after.
The night before, however, had been something else again. I came home to the YMCA, feeling no pain but still the captain of my own ship-well, first mate, anyway. My hormones were pretty much in check from my bout with Helen what’s-her-name back at the Howard Johnson’s yesterday, and I’d gotten a certain satisfaction out of just standing and mentally feeling up Bunny of Bunny’s. I don’t think Boyd crossed my mind once, or the mark, Albert Leroy, either. Not right then anyway.
To show you how much in control I was, I managed to remember there was no can in my room, that my only source for relief was the communal john on the Y’s dormitory floor where mine and all the other “apartments” were. My bladder was near explosion point and as I pushed open the door and flicked on the light switch, I heard a chorus of voices say, “Hey!” “Watch it!” “What the fuck!”
Automatically I flicked the light switch back off and was wheeling back out the door, my mind clouded but alert enough to know something stunk in Denmark. If I carried a gun, I might’ve reacted real bad. But I don’t, so I didn’t.
Then I got the picture. Quite literally.
On the wall of the large john-room were the silvery, flickering images of a film. A woman in a dark wig and nothing else was sitting on the edge of a bed; she had fleshy thighs and was spreading them, bountiful droopy breasts staring downward at the action. There was no sound, other than that of the eight-millimeter projector clicking and clacking away and some scattered hard breathing from the audience, which I gathered was made up of five or six fellow YMCA residents. Sitting on the floor of the can of the Young Men’s Christian Association, digging the porno.
I laughed and went back outside, getting my key from out my pocket. I was almost down to my room when I heard a voice from behind me say, “Hey man! Hey, Johnson!”
That was the name I was registered under. I turned and said, “Yeah?”
It was the bearded guy, the youngish Gabby Hayes who had checked me in. And by young I mean somewhere between twenty-five and forty, don’t ask me where.
“Say, man,” he said, “go on back in the john and do what you have to.”
I laughed again and said, “Never mind. You boys scared the piss right out of me.”
“That doesn’t offend you, does it?”
“Offend me?”
“Those pornies, I mean. Look, everybody here on the floor knows about it, and I only show ’em because the guys enjoy it. They pitch in and I send for the stuff in the mail. From the back of the men’s mags. I don’t hardly make a cent on it, honest to Christ.”
“Hey. No big deal.”
“No, but it is. I’d get fired if anybody reported this. If any of the guys staying here don’t approve, fine, I’ll stop showing ’em. So if you don’t like it, please say so, okay?”
“Listen, I don’t really care one way or the other.”
He smiled, nodded his shaggy head. “You’re all right, Johnson.”
“Thanks. Look, I wouldn’t mind taking a shower before I turn in. How much longer does the Bijou go on in there?”
