Turning Idolater (2 page)

“I have to get to the laundry this week,” he
muttered. “Shit.”

He threw the towel aside, grabbed a reasonably clean
jock strap and holstered his assets. His underwear was clean,
because he was too exposed to the public to have otherwise, but his
shirt was a problem. So he ventured into Sprakie’s boudoir, to the
dresser that slept under a tumble of oriental silks and
aromatherapy candles. He poked about the top drawer — no shirts.
The second drawer was more promising. He shook out a golden golf
shirt. Nice. Sweet. Philip couldn’t remember when Sprakie wore
this. Still he slipped it over his head. It fit like a glove. Most
of Sprakie’s duds fit him, but Sprakie would have a fit when Philip
borrowed his clothing. This was an emergency, after all. Wasn’t it?
No duds — no work. No work — no rent.

Philip strutted to the mirror, clearing away a pink
feather boa.

“That’s the ticket.”

He shut the second drawer, but decided that perhaps
the bottom drawer held an even better choice. His fingers poked
around until it stroked a delightful, satin number. He pulled it
out with a snap, and as he did, something came flying from the back
and across the floor, slipping under the bed.

“What the fuck,” he murmured. He reached under the
bed, his fingers spidering over the traveling knick-knack. He
winced.
What the fuck?
He snapped his hand back. In it was a
gun. Not a two-fisted rootin’, tootin’ firearm, but a pearl-handled
ladies’ pistol. At first, he thought it was a starter’s gun, but
Sprakie wasn’t a runner. Philip sniffed it as if he could detect a
firing.

“I better ask him about this.” Then he thought
better. He shouldn’t be poking around in Sprakie’s dresser, even to
purloin a shirt. The neighborhood was shitty, so he supposed
Sprakie kept it for protection, and, in true Robert Sprague
fashion, he would want a pearl-handled, purse size affair,
something that was fashionable at a mugging — a pretty cap gun.
Therefore, Philip shrugged, shoved the gun back into the bottom
draw and covered it with the satin garment that no longer held his
interest.

“Oh shit,” he said. “I’m going be really late.”

He dove for his jeans, his wallet, and his easy-off
loafers and prepared to emerge from this fifteen-hundred dollar per
month rabbit warren. He stuffed the book in his backpack, hit his
pocket for change, checked for his Metro Card and scooted through
the door into the ratty old hallway. Locking the door and securing
the bolts, he scurried past the solemn portal of the old lady next
door. He felt her eyes though the peephole as she always monitored
the hall’s comings and goings. Philip flipped her the finger as he
descended the stairs, down three flights, and then over the broken
tiles into the foul, urine soaked vestibule. That stink always
matched the first breath wafting in from Avenue A. Philip just
closed his eyes and imagined the Nantucket wharves, which
transformed the slum into a harbor — the tenements into tall-ships.
No wonder Sprakie had a gun in this shit-hole. Shouldn’t
everyone?
Wouldn’t Ahab?

His watch stopped. Battery needed changing. Philip
had to rely on the street signage and the charity of others for the
time. The digital displays increased as he trotted through
Greenwich Village, and a good thing, because the charity of others
was scant. In any event, by the time he reached the Subway, he was
already a half hour late. He debated the issue at hand — subway or
bus. They both would get him to Times Square, and a bus was
waiting, but he feared the evening rush hour traffic. Therefore, he
whipped out his Metro Card and plunged into the abyss taking the
stairs two at a time, not that it would matter if there were no
trains in the station.

The West 4th Street station was always a busy stop,
and at evening rush hour, it was a monster — hot, humid and
redolent of foot odor. Most travelers were heading home — tired and
weary from a day of rasping bosses, heavy pushcarts, lousy
customers and a host of information age combustion. Philip plowed
his way through the crowd, swiped the turnstile and prayed for a
short wait. The uptown platform was as thickly lined with commuters
as the downtown one was, but somehow Philip knew that there would
be three downtown trains to every uptown one, but it was better
than getting stuck in traffic.

He leaned over the track hoping to feel the hot
blast of an approaching train. The air was still — noisy, but
still. The downtown train had screeched into the station, its
doorbells tinkling and its computerized voice singing West 4th –
Watch your step
.

C’mon, he thought, moving back to the station wall.
He considered the line of crap that Sprakie would hand him for
being late. That would be amplified when Sprakie beheld the golden
golf shirt. Philip chuckled. He wasn’t afraid of Robert Sprague,
but a Sprakie hissy fit could mean missing a meal or even being
locked out for the night. However, the streets held no fear for
Philip . . . anymore. As he bounced his backpack off the wall, he
noticed a young thing sprawled on the bench — a student, perhaps —
N.Y.U., or at least from the way he consumed his book, Philip
thought it must be. In his slouch, the student brushed the sweat
from his curly brown hair. His black rimmed glasses made him appear
scholarly. Philip imagined that this guy wasn’t really reading his
book, but was using it as a ploy to gaze at the surrounding
travelers. Every so often, he’d peep askance and then dart his eyes
back to the page. Philip wasn’t impressed. In fact, he considered
whipping out his own book as a springboard. My book’s bigger than
your book. However, the subway was a crappy place to read a
precious work with golden binding and clean white pages. After the
near miss in the tub, Philip didn’t want to chance a drop into
station crud.

Yes
, Philip thought.
This guy’s cruisin’
me.
It wasn’t his imagination. He knew the call of the wild,
and since he had the tools of the trade in evidence, there might be
a chance that he could be fed later. Supper was always the short
meal. There were usually not enough fixings in the half fridge to
constitute a meal. Breakfast was cereal and perhaps an egg. Lunch
was some toast, or if the spirit moved, peanut butter and jelly,
but supper was always up for grabs. If he was lucky and there was a
cash spike at work, he could get a hamburger, but supper was
sometimes an every-other-day affair. Sprakie sometimes treated, and
of course, if this young college student was interested, he might
buy Philip a full course meal as prelude to an evening of passion.
So, Philip winked.

The hurricane of the uptown train blew over the
platform. Philip would need to finalize the deal in transit. The
passengers jockeyed for seats and poles and overhead bars. There
was an almighty crunch, but Philip was a master. He managed to pin
himself and the edge of his ass against the college student, who
smiled an apology and tried to juggle while reading his book.

Watch the closing doors
, came the mechanical
voice, followed by three chimes. The train chugged uptown.

Philip used ever contour of motion to press himself
against the student, who grinned a knowing grin. He knew what was
apace. Hadn’t he started it? Philip shrugged, but returned the
smiled — one that irradiated the car. Even the Pakistani lady, who
stepped on his foot, returned that smile as if she was the target
of his attention.

Timing was an issue. When they reached 23rd Street,
Philip twisted his head over the student’s book.

“Anything good?”

“Quantum physics.”

Quantum physics? Give me a break. You’re reading
quantum physics in a speeding uptown train pressed between the
sweaty masses?
“Interesting.” Philip smiled again. “N.Y.U?”

“Yes. Engineering.”

“Good,” Philip said. “You can drive the train
then.”

The student chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s
driving this train.”

34th Street
. The Pakistani lady moved away
rushing for a seat. A wave of passengers surged out, while a third
as many shoved in. Philip almost fell. Not really. It was a
surefire maneuver. The student caught him.

“Thanks. My stop’s next.”

“Oh,” said the student. He frowned. He fumbled
around his jacket pocket. He managed to grab an index card, and
then grappled for a marker. Philip was ready on the spot. He always
kept a marker near at hand in the outer slip of his backpack. He
whipped it out with rapier speed.

“Thanks,” said the student, who closed the book
using it as a slipshod desk. He scrawled a shaky note, and then
returned the pen. He slipped the card into Philip’s pocket and
smiled. While down there, he groped and Philip was already trying
to decide whether he would have the prime beef or the
swordfish.

Times Square. Watch your
step
.

“Bye now,” Philip said, mission accomplished.

“Later . . . but if not tonight . . .”

Philip tapped the side of his nose and went with the
flow onto the platform. The doorbell bonged three times.

Watch the
closing doors
.

Philip turned and saw the soft eyes of the student.
He wasn’t reading now, or at least not Quantum Physics. He was now
studying a different course of engineering and Philip Flaxen was
masterful at steering this craft ashore — as masterful as Ahab on
his poop.

Philip waited until the train was sucked further
uptown before he peeked at the index card. It was a courtesy to
ignore the machinations of the deal until the interested parties
were quite out of range again.

Dennis H.

212.432.2272

nice

Philip hummed, and then trotted along the platform
to the stairs. He had forgotten just how late he was going to be.
Funny thing about being late. After the first half-hour, it might
as well be two hours. The consequences would be the same. However,
his colleagues — his fellow craftsmen, were all on the clock,
neatly scheduled and posted on the Internet at anticipated hours.
The regular customers would be thoroughly pissed if they saw that
the Flaxen One was due for display at 6:00 PM and wasn’t unveiled
until 7:00 PM. It also meant a pile-up, and a drop in tips. Someone
else would sponge in Philip’s tip bowl, and that meant another
hungry night, or shortfall in carfare and a long walk. Philip
hastened the pace.

It was hard to rush in the rush. When he popped out
of the subway beneath the neon godlessness of Times Square, he
tried to jaywalk to avoid the bustle, but this meant dodging the
taxis. Still, the wide expanse of 42nd Street as it swept westward
from Broadway was his lifeblood. It was noisy, garish and fraught
with every aroma from sausages to sewer exhaust. Still, the world
exploded into a million colorful lights and unmitigated promotion.
Pedestrians walked in buffalo clusters — a human herd against
traffic and signals and caution, each destined for their own slot
in this dizzy city of the eight million.

Philip rushed across 7th Avenue and, on the other
side, the hustle was less. He drifted between parked cars and
street vendors heading toward the crappier side of the island. He
spotted a digital clock sign that told him he was later than he
thought. This inspired him to a gallop. He began to sweat, and now
worried about the borrowed shirt. Sprakie would have more than a
fit if it had sweat rings — those ugly little armpit smiles.
Suddenly, he spied a cop. He broke out into a walk. It was a
natural, but unnecessary precaution. The policeman could care less
about a slinky faggot running to his job, but Philip wouldn’t
chance the law following him to his place of employment. It was
legal . . . at least he thought it must be by now. However, the
last two mayors had cracked down on the neighborhood, proscribing
anything construed as obscene. Late, he would be. Trouble, he could
accept it. However, he wasn’t about to invite the fuzz to the party
and chance a fine or even an eviction. Even though his salary here
was a trickle (mostly tips), it was better than the alternative,
which he knew was illegal.

Clearing the cop’s sight line, Philip picked up the
pace, and then darted down 49th Street. Between 9th and 10th
Avenue, the street was lined with parking garages and warehouses.
Three-quarters down, between the Cross-Town Parking Center and
Gutman’s Furniture Storage was a doorway. It wasn’t marked, except
with a number 1456-A. Philip looked both ways, and then pressed a
buzzer over the squawk box.

“Who?” came a voice over the box.

“Flaxen.”

“You’re late.”

“Let me in.”

Long pause. Philip banged the door, and then pressed
the buzzer again. Finally, after another punitive pause, the door
lock buzzed and Philip pushed his way into the foyer’s darkness. He
was in for it and he knew it.

“Jesus Marie,” said the youth as he quivered before
his computer screen. “Ain’t a girl safe anywhere anymore?”

Robert Sprague, known to the world as Sprakie,
winked and preened, as he knew the webcam was fully operational and
fully on his waistline. He kept that waistline gingerly below the
desk, as there was nothing on below the desk and the logged-in
voyeurs needed to encourage him to stand up and show his wares.
Sprakie was far from coy, but the word flirt was more apropos to
the moment, and the phrase
more tips
came across loud and
clear.

The room was stark — a cubicle, whitewashed just
enough to hide the masonry within the camera’s pan. Beyond it were
threadbare walls, flashing holes and errant wires. There was a time
when this space formed a suite of offices for a distributorship —
toys and party favors if one could believe the occasional remnant
of a Chinese label and an evil looking doll’s head; Chucky came to
mind. There were six offices connected to a corridor, and each one
enclosed a computer, a web cam, a cot, some other toys (not of the
Chucky variety) and a naked to semi-naked twink boy. The last
office sported a fully clothed German gentleman named Kurt, who
monitored the door, the cameras and the till. He was a shade over
fifty, akin to a hippo and smoked a foul cigar, the aroma of which
drifted throughout the premises.