A Matter of Love in da Bronx (7 page)

All of which reminded him he had a chance once, some years ago. Walking home down past Unionport Road, at night, dimlamplit street. She was a hag, he could see that all right. Puffy face, heavy on the rouge, gray hair, face-hiding hat.

--Say, Handsome!

Oh! Bullshit, lady, like the crow with the cheese shoulda asked the fox with the flattery, what do you want of me? But she threw him off guard because she asked if he could be of help to her. That, a believable plea, especially with so sincere a voice. He stopped. She approached. She moved her hips in a waggling, arthritic fashion, which he decided later was supposed to be a sexy come-on.

--What?

--Bet you and I can have a real good time.

Starbursts in the brain. The unexpected. Shooting thoughts. Panic. Unanswered questions. Stuttering response.

--Sure I can, Honey. I can give you a good time, one you'll remember and enjoy for a long time. What a rotten imitation of Mae West! But, God! She's propositioning me! She's offering me her body to fuck into her! The full registration of what her bawdy offer meant sent erectile blood surging into his sex organ. What do you think about getting laid, of being a hagrider? Too sudden a come-on. No time to think. Some sort of mumbled refusal.

Response ignored.

--My place is right down the street, Sweetheart. She moved closer bringing with her fakescented currents. Now, come on, don't walk away, Honey. I know you'll love it. You look like you've been without it for a long time. It'll feel so good... A part step backwards was all. Her paphian hand flashed forward clamping tight over his pants onto his throbbing downpointing erection for the blatant seduction. Firestorm in his brain as her hot paw milked it enticingly, urgently. Oh! Sweet Jesus! Why wasn't I ready for this? So unexpected! If I was given some warning, I'd know exactly what to do, how to respond to so compelling a desire. Madonna mia! Sweet sensations blasting from the boiling oil out of his erethismic boy-thing. To him, it was lost in the fireworks in his body. She knew what happened before he did when the muscle in her hand snap-tensed hard as steel.

--Ya fuckin cheap son-of-a-bitch stealing a lousy handjob from a hardworking girl!

All out of her mouth as the first spasm shot the warm glob of semen inside his pants down his leg. Warm, sticky emissions. Chicken skin ankles to crotch. He'd never come so fast in his whole life.

He'd grab her arm, whoever she was, and go home with her next time. That's for sure. He was still waiting like a forelorn puppy dog to be taken home and treated kindly by some understanding lady of the evening.

Okay. Next?

Get out of the upholstery business. So? Been saying that for ten years. Couldn't do it before, just quit on Sol; let him down, let down Mom and Pop. Suppose I couldn't find another job. Come on! I could be a chef! All right, a cook. Like I do on Friday nights. One night there I get what it takes me to make here in two days.

Okay, you're a big chef. Now what?

A car. No more walking in the rain. Then what? Box of fine cigars. Terrific. Now what?

Now I'm sick and tired of these years of listening to your hopeless dreams! How about one for the cucumberhead! Brrrraaaacccchhhhtttt! A native-born cheer. We speak Bronx.

Rap! Rap! Bam! That would be Lou Harness. Somewhat early. Clearly in a hurry. He brought a warmth to Sam's chest. A good friend. An only friend. Better than a brother. He rushed to respond to his call, to greet him; to welcome his illumination. --Ayyyy! Effusively, waving him in.

Smiling face, horn rimmed glasses, black hair, oval face, man's nose, cleanshaven, spumy salesman's personality. --Ayyyy! Yourself! He made no move to enter the shop, instead effectively signaling his intention by putting the attache case which held a six-pack of Moosehead and a square of Permanent Ice considered as much a part of him as his name on the doorsill. --Ayyyyy! Cumbah! You don't mind I cancel for the movie tonight? No, huh? I got a real Mamma Mia waiting, and I'm late. You don't mind, huh? Sam shrugging his shoulders feigning acceptance of a difficult disappointment. --You want a Moosehead, yuh? No? 'Kay. Catch you tomorrow? Yuh? 'Kay. Give you a blow by blow tomorrow, you know what I mean? Ayyy! See ya.

Sam smiled, waved him off. --See ya. he said after the door closed.

He thought hard but briefly on his situation. Shrugged.

Struggled into his raincoat.

Sam left the shop, ignoring the light rain, going past the deli without a sideward glance, going for the broad expanse at Eden Farms. There, he'd head for the Palace Art Film, tops eighty seats, which was a low profile, no marquee, no gaudy advertising, no glarish lights theatre. Almost hidden as a doubleglass doors storefront. One small handprinted bill:

 

NOW PLAYING

Fourex

Secret Desire

 

Sometimes they changed the name on the billhead outside, showed the same movie inside. No one complained.

The show and intrafrication was continuous. One left when tired of sitting, or jerking off. There was such a sameness to the films that one was hardpressed to remember, or care, where they came in.

Sam paid for his ticket, shoved the bills he got in change into his pocket, passed up the popcorn and candy--for the very first time ever--and moved quickly to see if his regular seat was available. From the dim light of the screen now supposedly lit up in erotic color he found his way to the aisle seat of the very last row on the far side. There were perhaps thirty-five people, no two seated together, scattered widely throughout the narrow, long showplace. What if Sol hadn't alerted him, and he walked out of here with his fly open!

Before concentrating on the screen, he took notice of the solitary occupant at the end of his very same row, hunkered down, almost trying to be invisible. Like him.

--MARY! MARY DOLOROSSO! Mary! A roaring voice over the

machine-gun clattering cacophony that rose and fell from the forty-odd high-speed, short-bursted piece-worked sewing machines. Brrrrrttttttt! Brrrrrrttttttttt! Brrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt! each discyclically went at the sweatshop Star Manufacturing Clothing Company on the fifth floor in the 200-block of West 37th Street in Manhattan's garment district.

Mary looked up from her machine, brown eyes glimmering from cressets refocusing.

--Boss-wants-to-see-you!

--What?

--Boss! He jerked his thumb.

--Another rub-off? Stout, long, well-formed, neatly manicured fingers cupping unpainted edematousoid lips.

The messenger, exasperated, defeated by the distance and the noise level, was reduced to mime and mouthing. Head shake. Af-ter-wo-rk!

Mary nodded. Afraid of that. Shoulder length auburn hair captured neatly in a bandanna trimmed a clear-stretched silk-smooth skin with light Italian olive complexion. Teeth. Even. White-white. Eyes. Brown. Big-big. A slightly broad nose well suited her pleasant, cheruby heartshaped face which came from highly pronounced cheekbones and the hint of a cleft in the point of her chin giving a miniature prevue of the bosomy cleavage above her work smock. Her frame stood under five-foot-five in heels; plump, girdle-held buns, fleshy bare arms; and slightly heavy but shapely legs. The French would say "une belle tournure," the English voluptuous, the New Yorkers zavdic. For such a body, whatever it was called, it was going to waste. Mary knew that. The heat her body generated was dissipated as mere room convection. Even though she was paid no more for doing a rub-off, a job requiring more skill in the production process than being a sewing machine operator, it was fun to make soft patterns. It wasn't exactly designing clothes, but it was better than being chain-stitched to a sewing machine, which was infinitely better than what the boss tried to offer on one's own time, that is, after punching out for the day. Another shot at a proposition, no doubt.

She turned back to the too familiar chore of race-guiding materials under the foot and needle. Brrrrrrrttttttttt! Brrrrrrrttttttt! Boring! Vomitously boring. She used as little of her operating mind to concentrate on the task needed to make her wages more than something to ridicule. Petty wages. Piece work was unforgiving, one got paid by the amount of work done, and done correctly; one didn't get paid for what one didn't do--anathema for such as politicians and diplomats who were used to boring work. And, if one couldn't keep up with the rest of the workers to keep production flowing smoothly, one was asked to give up the machine and hunt for work elsewhere. Whatever. It was still boring. Brrrrrrrrrrrr...

...Golden illumination from the brilliant sun against a clear, cloudless canopy of skyblue comingling reflections with the frothy seawater green and sugarwhite sand of an endless shore. The majestic alabaster equine a chorale of pulsing muscles, arhythmically hoofpounding to deepchested snorts consuming hectares at each flowing rise to outspeed envious onshore breezes. Aboard, in a billowing, tenuous film of bright bridal lace around her florescent, heaving body, she strained to retain bareback control, her knees indigging the flanks of the surging, pumping beast between her legs, a handful of mane twistbraided through guiding artful fingers. In the distance, like the looming head of a charging lance, another royal beast and a fairhaired riding colossus swiftly seizing at the space of shore between them. Allo! Allo! To hide, unseen...somewhat! To the beached rocks there! Ahead! A dune's length alee. Wait! Stand 'til he passes! The stamping, quivering flesh beneath of her horse in frenzy at the frustrating
interruptus,
holds tightstring as a drawn bow until the acmatic mortal flows galloping by, is then totally released again to gain its unsighted goal upbeach. Allo! Allo! Notgone unseen! His steed rears; his call an imprecation to wilier senses. Reverse! Reverse! Now, in pursuit again, he. Let the chase be on! Swifter, and faster, and harder, and deeper go the prints of doublesets of pounding hooves. Closer he draws. No place to hide! Foamy animal sweat falls intermingling with shorefrothed failing waves in shorter and shorter gaps. Until! Alongside, thigh to thigh, he reaches across ecstasy's charged air to clamp her like an island to the shore of his eager arms. There! At last, together, near co-joined, they make for the multi-colored flappings of Araby's deserted tent. Her bosom to his breast, he dismounts, tenderly transporting his treasure inside, laying superheated flesh on welcoming, algid silken down. Pectorals tense, a loincloth untied, wild anticipation painting the air. Allo! Allo! The dagger found by her side, unsheathed rides forward more to preserve her honor than to fend him away. Not you! Not you! Earn your day! The lunge! How fast! The point brings a blood-spurt, the cry lost as open mouth covers open mouth. Caressing hands seek to bathe in erotic fountains of response. Push away! Push away! to prevent any gain, but her spirit hands lock themselves at his nuque as he rises above her, high, with a ready rush to impale, to invade, to imprison her soul at first thrust. What ecstasy! Finally! Forpined lover consummates forpined lover, forever! Allo! Allo! Wait! Passion! Sweet merciless passion! Let me see thine face!

--Mary! Mary! ...ttttttt! Brrrt!

Oh! Yes! Oh! No! Don't call me away! Thine face! Thine face! Love's smooth slide igniting inspired, moist, turgid nymphae; the steaming , hypogastric swellings unrelieved too dear a price to pay, my prince.

--You wanted to see me, Mr. Goldberg? Amiel Goldberg. The boss's son. Overstuffed sausage.

--Close at fucking door!

Pasha, yes. It's a privilege and an honor, Pasha, to be so summoned to your august presence with mine own thoughts caring not what whim or fancy bestir your lofty regency with thoughts of me. Bloated. Babionic ass.

--You're going to cost me thousands a-fucking dollars! Your estimate on the fucking estimate that you estimated was so fucking far off the estimate I couldn't the fuck believe it! What the fuck kind of fucking estimated brain are you using?

You have no idea of what I'm faced with at the slightest intimation that you might want me. I beg your pardon, Sire! That you might want to
see
me. All the other ladies in your hareem stop whatever they're doing, and put their eyes fast upon me. They watch my every motion to see how I behave, to learn to do as I do perhaps to learn when they, too, might be beckoned to this special reclusitory, or is it reclinatory, or reclitorisatory? Bedwetter.

--The robe! The robe! That's what the fuck I'm talking about. The robe! I give you a chance to design the goddamned thing, and you do this to me? Crazy fucking broad!

Pasha! How green their eyes as they watch my sensuous, swaying body glide toward our rendezvous wondering, too, how they could ever gain favor after you have once been transported to the nethers with me? Whorebaiter.

--Is this how you fucking pay me back after all these years I let you have experience doing real designing so you can put all your school work to real use? So maybe it did save me the expense of hiring a designer who probably couldn't have done as well as you have. That's why I kept telling you weren't ready! Not to go looking for a fucking designer's job until I said you were ready! Now see what you've done? Cost me a mint! A mint!

Pasha, you want me to dance! You want to see my fleshy belly undulate to rhythms that boil the blood, incite desire? You will forget all else save your need to satisfy your mounting lust. Nosepicker.

--Okay! Okay! So maybe you didn't do the design for the robe, you fucking had to do the rub-off! We used your soft pattern! I know I had you trace the fabric from the robe we stole from the Kazinsky Company and sold as our own, and I watched you make the fucking hard design! That's how I know! You a-fucking going to cost us a bundle!

As if I didn't know you can't take your eyes off of me. How your eyes devour each twitch of my hips, and roll of my rounded bottom. How your eyes flash as I bump my love mound erotically first to the left, then to the right, then aimed right at the pounding erection between your legs. Thumbsucker.

--You shoulda fucking double-checked my figures! I try to be the good guy and teach you all I know about clothing manufacturing with all the other things on my mind and I didn't concentrate and made a fucking error and you shoulda caught the fucking mistake!