Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (7 page)

“I wish I had really dark nipples like that,” Miriam said, “large and very dark. You've got nice long legs, by the way, I've been meaning to tell you that. Men like long legs. Mine should be about two inches longer to go with my torso, you know what I mean?”

“I think you have nice legs. Besides, looks aren't everything.” Miriam looked at her as if she were insane.

“Better that the breasts aren't too big, because then men will only like you when you're young. After twenty-five, forget it. Dump city.” Diane had large breasts herself, but didn't take this as an insult. Miriam couldn't know just how large they were, not from those uniforms they were forced to wear at the nursing home, and they hadn't really seen one another outside of work until tonight. She felt a bit wicked looking at all those naked women, discussing their curves and such. What different worlds she and Miriam lived in. She wasn't sure if it was actually exciting or just interesting. For the moment it didn't matter. “Do you want to see mine?” Miriam asked Diane.

“Your what?” Diane truly didn't know what she meant.

“My breasts, of course. Do you want to compare?”

“No. At least not tonight.” Diane wanted to hurt Miriam just a little bit and added, “I've got a lot on my mind. I'm trying to decide which scholarship to accept. I have offers from five universities.”

And Miriam felt the blow. She asked her guest if she would like some Sloe Gin and Diane felt forced to accept.

When Miriam was in the kitchen, Diane looked around the room and realized that she could never be friends with this sad loser. She was already planning her escape and how she would
distance herself now. She might have to quit the job at the nursing home. She didn't need it really. It was just something she did so her family would say what a hard worker she was. She could find something else to satisfy those purposes.

Diane looked at her watch and sipped the horribly sweet drink. Miriam was thumbing through one of the magazines. Occasionally she traced the outline of a centerfold's breast. Just as Diane was working up an excuse to leave, there was a sound in the other room. Miriam looked at Diane and put her finger to her lips, “Shhh.” Miriam slipped off her shoes and tiptoed over to turn off the light-switch. Diane had no idea what was going on, but she was uneasy and regretted she had not made her move to leave.

Miriam was asking her to play along in this private game of hers. She scooted across the floor and pressed her ear against the closed door separating her bedroom from the living room, quietly insisting that Diane do the same. She was smiling gleefully. Diane could barely make out the voices in the living room, but she assumed one of them to be Miriam's mother, Greta. What she heard mostly were grunts and snorts. The man wanted more whiskey. Greta was knocking about in the kitchen, coughing and spitting.

The girls sat like this in the darkness for what felt like fifteen or twenty more minutes, until Miriam finally stood up and flung open the door. Diane was never so embarrassed in her life. The two old people were sitting on the edge of Greta's hide-a-bed. Greta had on only her panties and garter-belt and her nylons rolled down to her ankles, and the old man too still had on his baggy boxer shorts and black socks.

“What the hell is going on here?” the old man asked. “What kind of goddamned deal is this?”

“Gotcha, didn't I, you old whore,” Miriam said with delight.

“I'm sorry, I didn't know,” Diane said, imploring forgiveness and glancing at the door. “I really must . . .”

“You filthy cunt,” the mother said.

A
t daybreak, I couldn't stand it anymore, and snuck out of bed as quietly as I could without disturbing my wife, Louise. I had been lying awake in there for at least two hours wondering who had won the fight. I had dozed off around six the night before, just as it was heating up. Jeez, how could I doze off like that when I had been waiting for this one so long. It wasn't even a big fight, but I'd had my eye on this kid from Tennessee, Bobby “The Duster” Smith—mean, wiry kid from the hills, probably illiterate, belligerent little bum always says things like, “The pansy will explode when I hit him, they won't be able to find his petals . . .” I like that, I like that kid. He's only had five professional fights, all KO's, but he had another 65 amateur fights, Golden Gloves, and he never lost one of them. Then there's this other guy from Newark, a black, calls himself Leroy “The Blender” Saxon. Very mean, himself. He has done time in prison, says he will make hillbilly soup out of Smith. I don't know how I get so fascinated by these guys. My life, or most of our lives, just seem so ordinary, somebody calling himself “The Duster” or “The Blender” brightens my day. But then I had to go and fall asleep just as it looked like these guys were going to hurt each other seriously, you know what I mean?

So I'd been lying there in bed counting Louise's revolutions per hour—she was averaging about 12 per last night, a slow one
for her—and wondering just which one of these boys had it in him to do some serious damage to the other. I was also thinking about how selling real estate isn't a proper job for a man, and how I've given twelve of the best years of my life to it, and I feel pretty degraded most of the time, trying to smile, pretending interest in sewage systems, hot water heaters, school zoning—the whole ball of wax, when I don't care, I don't care at all. I just want the miserable, frightened, cautious, impossible-to-please couples to get off their damned rocking horses and let me have my little slice of the pie so Louise can buy her new dishwasher, and, come Christmas, drag me down to her parents' condo in Paradise View, Florida, where the only view is another condo, and her parents can nag away at me for not taking Louise on a shopping spree at the local mall, which should be renamed Mall of the Living Dead—I said that last year and they didn't speak to me until after New Year's. George and Arlene, they live for bowling and miniature golf and Canasta, not even real golf or Bridge. And they are terrible bowlers. What can I say? My two weeks, their only daughter, only child, Louise.

Louise doesn't even know I have this thing for boxing. How would she know, she goes to bed at nine every night. She has the humidifier going full-blast in the bedroom, and I have my little radio out in the kitchen. I turn it on and that's it, I'm in another world. To hell with whether or not the Ramseys will go for the three-bedroom ranch, who needs the Ramseys—what do they think they are, anyway, Egyptian gods! They treat me like I was some lying, sniveling servant just caught stealing spoons. To hell with them. I am now in the dark underworld where “The
Duster” and “The Blender” dance and jab and punch to victory and fame or to pain and defeat, gladiators in a capitalist world of blood and greed. The radio is turned down low and my ear is pushed up right against its tiny speaker, but I am there, and I punch the air and shout silently. How could I have fallen asleep in the sixth round? It's impossible to conceive. Maybe I was KO'd. But by whom? By “The Duster?” By “The Blender?” By the Ramseys? Or could it have been Louise, could Louise have snuck up behind me and with one beautiful round-house punch lifted me right out of my chair? She finally figured out what I was up to all these years?

Anyway, it's embarrassing, but only to myself and to that for which I stand—what the hell does that mean—what does it mean to stand for pressing your ear against a tiny radio speaker on the kitchen table—something, something. I want to know which one of these mean gladiators was hungriest, wanted it the most. Louise is still sleeping. I turn the radio dial, the news, the weather, pop song, pop song, country western, evangelist, stock market, farm report, basketball scores—I pause there—more basketball scores, these people are obsessed with basketball scores, Villanova, Missouri, Georgetown, I don't care, basketball is not my life.

No one, it seems, is the least bit interested in “The Duster” and “The Blender.” I can't believe it, two very promising young fighters, one of them may one day have a shot at the title, and no one cares. I'm feeling frantic. I will not meet the Ramseys until I know who prevailed and who tasted humiliation. The appointment
with the Ramseys is at nine. Why must my life be tyrannized by details like that. The Ramseys should be forced to live in a cave for at least the next three years for the way they've treated me.

It occurs to me that the News Stand will open in half-an-hour and that, with luck, one of the damned papers should carry the story, though I also fear that the fight didn't end until late, perhaps too late, to get the copy written and fitted in. I'm figuring it will be close, whether or not they got the story in the early edition, very close, and, if not, I cannot see the Ramsey's, that's all there is to that, I cannot face the Ramseys with all their trivial questions aimed at me as if the world depended on my answers: “Yes, there are French doors to the laundry room, but Bobby “The Duster” Smith could walk right through them . . .”

I arrive at the News Stand just as the young girl is opening. There's nothing particularly strange about this, I think to myself, a lot of people want a paper first thing in the morning. I mean, I've never before been there waiting when the person just opened up, but she doesn't know this, no one's keeping score, at least not on me. I stand there at the rack going through three or four different papers with no success. They don't even say, “There was this fight but we had to go to press before the reporter could finish typing his story.” It's amazing to me. It's as if this fight never took place. This thought causes me to pause. Is it possible, old boy, that you are losing it? That you dreamed up the whole thing, including every blow of those first six rounds? No, in fact, it is not possible, because, as I said earlier, I had been anticipating
this very fight, “The Duster” vs. “The Blender,” since I first heard about it more than three weeks ago. I'd read all about them.

The girl behind the counter was watching me, and I knew it and felt a bit self-conscious about going through all these papers and then placing them back in the rack.

“I'm looking for the results of a fight that took place late last night.” I said to her, which was true, I wasn't lying or hiding something. “Probably ended about 11:30,” I added, for verisimilitude.

“It won't be in any of them,” she said, quite civilly I thought, even intelligently. It was a matter-of-fact kind of comment, but backed by confidence, knowledge and experience, despite her youth. And I felt calmly disappointed. She was right. I was sure of it.

“It won't make it until the afternoon edition,” she added with a stroke of encouragement. “Which fight, the Smith-Saxon fight?”

“Yes,” I said. “Smith-Saxon, that's the one. Do you know?”

“T.K.O. in the 10th. Saxon won. It was incredible; Smith's left eye got opened up in the 7th and Saxon just kept hammering away at it until Smith couldn't see. But Smith was courageous. He'll be back. He looked real good until he got cut.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll be back for the afternoon edition.” I started to walk away, but something was nagging at me, something I didn't recognize and had no name for, I stood there on the sidewalk gazing at the morning traffic without really taking it in,
without any clear thought at all. A breeze nipped at my ear, and I turned and walked back to the counter.

“I have another question for you,” I announced, looking her straight in the eyes. She was a funny looking girl, maybe twenty years old.

She was breaking rolls of dimes on the edge of the cash register. “Yes. And what is that?”

A crazy kind of smile began to spread across my face, I could feel it, and it was utterly new, and I said, “Will you go to Egypt with me?”

G
inger had agreed to have a drink with that hairy, fat sales rep from Parkers, Herb what's-his-name, first, because she had already refused him on at least five previous occasions, and she couldn't risk losing the account—he was that type, he would take his business elsewhere—and, well, Michael had called and cancelled their date to go dancing, he was going to his mother's, birthday, something, she hadn't really listened to his explanation after first catching the drift. Michael was not to be counted on these days, she seemed to be last on his list of priorities ever since she had declined his marriage proposal. She didn't want to marry, once was enough, thank you. She wanted to have a good time.

Staying at the Plaza was fun. She mingled easily with the glamorous people in the lobby, French businessmen, heiresses from Palm Beach and Newport, movie stars—Jean Paul Belmondo had tried out his line on her last year, “Have pity on an old man, my child. Let us compromise our lives wantonly!”—and famous writers. Yes, she was a presence in the Oak Room and the Russian Tea Room.

Whether or not management and the bartenders knew it, high-priced hookers worked the room with a panther's grace. Ginger
adored
this part of her cocktail hour after the day's work. She knew their moves, how they followed men out of the room
on their way to the rest room downstairs. She knew what the women looked for: out-of-towners, a little tight, with money, vulnerable and randy. Most of the hookers that could make it in The Plaza were extremely beautiful and well-dressed. They could approach a single or a pair of gentlemen without attracting the least bit of attention. And what man, in the city without his wife, would complain to the management that a beautiful woman wanted to share a drink with him? Ginger had never seen one turned away, at least not for a drink. These women fascinated her. She had always meant to strike up a conversation with one.