Turning Idolater (4 page)

“Thank you, Kurt,” he said.

Kurt smiled, and then grabbed Philip’s head and
planted a wet,
bologna and onion on rye
kiss smack on
Philip’s maw. Philip pulled away, but not so fraught as to undo the
good deed. Still, he choked as his mouth tried to expel the
terrible taste of Kurt. He would have rather swallowed the cigar
whole than to get it thus filtered.

“You zee, I kan be nize.
Und
. . . you can
have your whole pay tonight. I von’t even take my tip cut. Howz
dat?
Und
you can shtart on zie hour now. Zo take your zweet
time about it,
ja.
”

Philip swallowed, and then gave Kurt another kiss,
this one on the cheek, followed by a fond pat on the elbow and a
grateful smile. He came out of this ahead, if Kurt was forgoing his
thirty percent cut of the tips. Philip thought it best to get out
of the office before Kurt went for broke and made him a business
partner. Nothing could tempt him along those lines. He headed back
down the corridor to face Sprakie, who stood with his hand on his
hips — a magnificent salad cruet.

“So, while I’m here working my ass off, you’re
poking around in my privates.”

Philip locked his arms around Sprakie’s waist and
groped downward. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Don’t think you can have your way with me and get
forgiveness.” Sprakie unlatched and twirled round. “I’m not Sister
Mary Diesel, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Philip said, as pathetically as he
could muster. He could have mustered a sheepish cajole, but since
Sprakie had taught him that look, he knew it wouldn’t work
here.

“I’m serious.” Sprakie sat on the bench and tied his
shoes, now that the rest of him was clad. “I don’t go snooping
about your drawers.”

“There’s nothing to snoop in.”

“That’s not the point.”

Philip grinned. The point was that petite ladies
pistol tucked beneath the satins.

“What if you found my porn?”

“I know where your porn is and could never
understand why you’d bring work home.”

Sprakie bounced to his feet like a crocus in May.
“You can never have too many training videos, my dear.” He pinched
Max’s ass as he bent for his sandwich. “I don’t know how you can
eat after all those heathen men clicking away.”

Max jumped. He winked at Philip, and then proceeded
to consume his tuna fish sandwich. “I gotta eat, Robert. I’m
hypoglycemic. It wouldn’t be good for business if I conked out over
the keyboard.”

“I suppose not,” Sprakie said. He sniffed. “But must
you eat Tender Vittles?”

Max yawed. Philip just stared at the sandwich. Cat
food or Chicken of the Sea, it sang to him. Max calmed down. “You
want my other half?” he said to Philip. “I only need a little to
stop from passing out.”

Philip smiled and reached, the second portion
deposited into his hand. The smelled was delightful despite
Sprakie’s eye roll and hand wave. This might be the last time
Philip would see food until foraging through the half-fridge where
there was nary an egg.

“Thanks, Max.” Philip ate slowly, savoring the
flaky, moist meat and the sweet rye bread. Mayonnaise, just a hint,
and perfectly seasoned. It was heaven on the tongue.

“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie said. “If that’s all you need
to make you happy, I’d keep the cupboard stocked.”

“Would you?”

“Do you think I made of gold?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” Max yawked, the tuna
spread over his teeth and over the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe, so, Kitten,” Sprakie snapped. “But I rule
the boards here, and don’t you ever forget it.” He turned on
Philip. “And aren’t you supposed to be on now?”

“Kurt said on the hour.”

Sprakie waggled his shoulders. “
Kurt said on the
hour.
” He glanced toward Kurt, who was deep in the monitor.
“
On zee hour
,” Sprakie mimicked causing Philip to choke on
the Albacore.

“My break’s up,” Max said, piling the remainder of
his sandwich into his mouth.

“Yeah, I’d pay to see that,” Sprakie said. “You look
like a catfish.”

“See you later, guys.”

Once Max disappeared through his door, Sprakie
rounded on Philip. “Where’s your cell phone?” Philip latched onto
his Nokia from the side of his backpack. He pressed the
ON
button. Nothing. “Out of juice. Gimme that thing.” Sprakie whipped
out his charger and felt around the bench for an outlet. “You’re
supposed to keep it charged up all the time. So, why are you
late?”

“Delayed.”

“Obviously. Who was he?”

Philip finished the sandwich and looked around for
something to drink. There wasn’t even a water fountain in the
place, and if there were, who would plant their lips around it.

“Dick,” he spluttered.

“I would hope so.”

“Moby Dick.”

“Not that fucking fish story again. I don’t now
what’s come over you. I didn’t bring up no scholar.”

“No, I took a long bubble bath . . .”

“Bubble bath?” Sprakie raised his hands up high in a
g
lory hallelujah
. “First my shirt and now my bath crystals.
And not even for a man. For a book.”

Sprakie grabbed Philip by the neck and drew him
close. “Listen, Lady Chatterley. Back copies of Advocate Personals
and other hard rock candy stuff are okay reading for you, but a
big-ass book about a whale? The last time I picked up a book was
the phone book, and that was to call a florist so I could decorate
the place for a doctor.”

Philip broke loose. He smiled. His thirst was fierce
now. The wonderful fish taste was now somewhat gamey in his throat.
“Is there something to drink?”

Sprakie rustled through Max’s paper bag. “How about
a Diet Coke?”

“Perfect,” Philip said. “Won’t he miss it?”

“He a dumb-ass newbie.”

Philip took a swig. Delightful. “What ever happened
to that doctor and his dick of death?”

“Please,” Sprakie said. “I still can’t sit down. It
was Doctor Brian McMoldau of the Gustave McMoldaus, East Hampton’s
finest. Well, I thought I told you this, sis. He was hung like a
you-know-what
, and rich as Margaret Truman, but he had one
flaw — a small flaw. He was as ugly as a goddamn monkey’s ass; and
although he made it worth my while, there definitely was no call
for me to be the permanent houseboy. So, when the doctor was in, my
eyes were shut so I wouldn’t start laughing. Giggles meant no
supper. No little spending money at Saks.”

Philip released his backpack and sat on the bench.
“Did you meet him on-line?”

Sprakie sat beside him after glancing at the watch.
“Never date them,” he said. “Be polite, get them in the One on One,
make fucking pen pals out of them and they’ll come back and spend
hundreds. Take your commission and run.”

“They’re not all that bad.”

“I forgot. You’ve made the rounds there. That
geezer. And what did he give you? The clap? No. A two-ton book with
no centerfold. Have you found the sugar daddy of your dreams
yet?”

“No,” Philip said. “But some of them are interested
in more than a one-nighter. And he was a nice man. He didn’t make
me do anything but strip.”

“That’s the problem, hon. Some of them are freaky
with the love and romance. And . . .” Suddenly, Sprakie’s eyebrows
raised. He sucked in his breath and got to his feet. “Oh, I know
who
you’re
thinking about.”

“Tdye.”

“Tdye. What kinda screen nickname is that? I can
live with Fuckmonger and Asspounder, but Tdye? What’s that, Tie
Dye, like they did to pants before we were born?”

“I believe it’s Thomas,” Philip said. “He’s a
writer. He’s very gentle in One on One and generous.”

“Jesus Marie, you’re pathetic.” Sprakie leaned in.
“Listen to me. I love you like my best set of luggage. Don’t fall
for that line. He’s probably an old Troll. Or he’s a 10-year-old
kid using his daddy’s sign-on. Worse yet, he’s a straight serial
killer.”

“Are all serial killer’s straight?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Sprakie snapped.
“Don’t change the subject.”

“You’re just jealous because your tricks turn out to
be losers.”

“They’re all losers,” Sprakie announced. He gazed
back at Kurt. “If you spend money for sex . . . c’mon hon. What
d’ya think?”

Philip stood. He swept his hands down his sleek
body. “But look what they get!”

“Remember, I’m Saks. You’re J C Penney’s.” He kissed
Philip’s forehead like a mother overseeing her chick out the door
to school. “The hour is upon you, oh Flaxen One.” He sighed. “I
worry about your romantic notions. It’s okay to make the cash. I
taught you well, but when you decide these dudes are worthy of more
than that, take care. Remember what happened to Jemmy.”

Jemmy was a tragedy and the memory of the
pretty-faced, redheaded stripper sobered Philip. He suddenly saw
the little five-and-half footer scurrying in and out of Room 3.
Then, some bastard got him. Philip sighed.

“Jemmy was into drugs, man. Out of control. He’d go
with anything that walked.”

“Or crawled,” Sprakie said. “He’d fuck a knot hole
and worry about payment later.”

“He didn’t deserve it.”

“He didn’t take care.”

Philip shook his head as if to cleanse away the
thought.

“It’s work time.”

“Call me later, sweetie.” Sprakie pointed to the
outlet. “Don’t let anyone walk away with my charger.”

Philip’s mind drifted. He could still see Jemmy’s
face. He blinked and tried to drift further. He imagined somewhere
else, where the waves beat on the jetties and the sails unfurled in
the morning breezes. He could almost hear the petrels heralding a
storm. .

“Are you listening?” Sprakie asked. “I don’t want to
pick up a paper and see you sprawled across some goddamn fence in
the middle of Wyoming. I love your sorry ass, and worry about these
romantic notions. Call me later. Promise?”

“I promise.”

Sprakie straightened up and faced the door. He
raised his hand
á la Gloria Swanson
. “Give my regards to all
those boyz out there in the dark. I’m ready for my close up, Mr.
Bill Gates.”

He strutted away as only Robert Sprague (and Gloria
Swanson) could.

Philip chuckled, and then opened his own door. There
were no jetties through there. No breezes — soft, winsome or gale
force. Not even a petrel to pipe the way. Only the half-whitewashed
walls, the loose wiring, the monitor, keyboard and web cam, and a
switch to an invisible audience out there in the dark.

Philip was tired tonight — perhaps
bored
better described it. Many computer slaves sat before their monitors
clicking through forms or taking orders or processing cash through
a bookkeeping system.
They
were bored, so why couldn’t
Philip Flaxen, who only had to smile and take off articles of
clothing until he sat bare assed before an invisible world, be
bored? Expectation was that he would answer queries on his current
condition — state of health, his last trick, and then, he was
supposed to flirt with the chat crowd. However, he was in no mood
for that tonight. It would be the same old tired ass-busters
on-line and
here-and-there
a lurker — nothing as interesting
as bookkeeping or taking orders. The conversation rarely went
beyond flesh or the designs of tattoos or the current state of the
audience’s dress or undress. However, Philip knew that if he wanted
to pay the rent, he would need to engage one of these bozos in a
private, orgasmic show. He would need to raise their blood
pressure, their libido and their credit card charges to the state
of a gusher. They could even get him on a phone hook-up that
conveniently voiced-over through the computer and, conveniently,
increased the charge per minute for the show.
One show should do
it,
Philip thought, and then he suppressed a yawn.

Every so often, some one interesting would glide
into to the chat queue. He smiled at the thought. Then he thought
of a very special chat visitor, who revealed himself recently as
something more than a horny voyeur in the dark. Or maybe not.
Maybe Sprakie is right. Maybe they are all losers, because only
a loser would resort to on-line porn.
So what did that make
Philip?
Something marginally above a scavenger
—
an
opportunist pandering to man’s oldest hunger?
Still, Philip, in
his more playful moments, regarded the chat visitors as
masqueraders, each playing out a role they wouldn’t dare engage
during a sunlit day. Therefore, a banker became a masochistic
prodder when the vault was locked. A doctor could play with himself
after the last patient had pulled up their pants during a physical
examination. Even a bishop could traverse into a deeper
confessional and proclaim lewd ecstasy behind a locked door and a
different styled baptismal font.
Could these men be called
losers?
Harlequins maybe, but the bifurcated souls of men
sought Philip for release and heal. In that manner, he became a
bank deposit slip, another sort of physical examination and even a
silent Eucharist on a different and less exalted altar. Then there
was . . . the writer.

While Philip could imagine his clientele’s identity
— whether
Papuppy
was a mailman or
Asspounder
, a
cowboy, there was no doubt about
Tdye
. Two weeks ago, the
monitor beeped with a new arrival, and Philip gave it scant notice.
The moniker wasn’t striking, although some chat visitors chose
blah
names like Jay235 and Guy452, perhaps because they were
in a rush to get to the chat and the creativity required in
choosing a screen name was a computer age inconvenience. However,
Tdye
, after lurking for a half-hour, braved a comment that
caught Philip off guard.

Tdye says: “Uncle Dean sends his regards.”