Going Down Swinging (9 page)

He nods and jinks the cubes against the side of his glass, pats his other hand against his thigh.
That’s too bad. How old are you if you don’t mind me asking?

How old would you guess?—oh never mind, that’s a dumb game. Thirty-two
.

Oh. Really. You’re a year younger than me. I thought you were, huh, well thirty-two’s a good age
. And he sets his drink down, puts his hand in your hair, pulls your face over, starts to kiss. Hard, like he—christ, he’s kissing like wood, lips like nose, all cartilage, stiff and bony, and then his teeth knocking—Watch the caps, buddy! What’s he yanking? something out of his belly—his belt. His other hand grabs for yours, but it’s full of wineglass so he plucks it, clumsy, splashes on your leg, bangs it down on the coffee table, and then back to your hand. He pulls by your wrist, sticks your fingers to his fly. Well re-fucking-lax, buddy, lemme get the button undone first. It’s as if his parents’ll be home later. Like he’s seventeen, everything stiff and jerking, fastens your hand on his dick, faster faster, do it, now. He jams his hand between your thighs, fixes on your crotch and rubs like he’s trying to get a stain out.

Cross your legs, get him the hell out of there.

Then he starts doing that thing, that school guy thing, pushing you down by the back of your head, steering you by the hair, thank christ you don’t have a ponytail. Just do it—the sooner, the calmer.

Now you’re down staring it in the eye. Ain’t much; least you won’t choke on it. And he’s clean at least, looks the type that showers twice a day. You’re so dry, muster some spit before you try and slide him back toward your throat. Lips tucked around your teeth so you don’t bite him. You’d give anything to touch your tongue to the roof of your mouth right now.

And suck—

What must this look like, no lips, no teeth, like someone’s gummy old grandma getting them off. Sucking and running him in and out—…
Fool that I am, la-la-la-la-la
—shit were you humming or did you just think it.
Hmm hmm hmm hmm
, almost monotonous enough to be therapeutic; think of it like the housework you never did; like vacuuming, trying to suck up those last bits of lint that just won’t come. Except this rug moans and chirps. Come on, y’ skinny bugger.

His thighs tense, start to shake, vibrate from the hips, and he thrusts and shoves your head down hard. You gag—good job he’s not built or he would’ve shoved it through the back of your head … aach, that taste, like bleach.

You sit back up. Ah the joy of tangible results. Should’ve been a bricklayer or something. He lets his head loll back for nine maybe ten seconds, then zips up and sits up, adjusts the collar of his shirt, and backs off a hair, just a bit, just so you know you’re done.
So uh, should I call you a cab or are you just going to walk—oh here
—and he goes into his pocket for his wallet. Starts moseying through tens.

Oh. Well, I thought you’d be taking me back. I’m not really sure where I am
.

You’re right near where I picked you up, you’re not even six blocks, you’re just east. I—I can’t, I have some work I have to catch up on and, I’m, expecting—here, here, take thirty-five and I’ll call you a cab. Thanks. Thanks a lot for a—

For what, a job well done? Pathetic little grunt—soon as they get what they want, they want it to go away.

So you say,
OK, thanks, that’s fine. So, well, before I go, uh, have you got anything in the house you might want to let me have—just a couple tranquilizers?

Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, maybe you could just flag a cab outside, I’d really prefer you did that
.

Sure, OK, just, I’m just wondering if you could give me anything that might relax me a bit
.

Look, you just—uch
, and he storms off to the bathroom, comes back with a bottle of yellow.
Here, how many do you need?
and he goes to take the cap off.
Never mind, here, they’re yours, there you go, thanks a lot, maybe we’ll see you again sometime
.

And out you go with three tens, a five and a bottle of something or other. Can’t see the printing, looks all furry, mm, fuzzy. Maybe you should pop one. Keep coming in and out, wanting something else because your brains gone clear. How the hell are you supposed to get back to Jarvis?

Sunday afternoon and you’re on your way to the bootlegger, walking down the Danforth. Pretty much sober; had the better part of a beer this morning to work through a Nembutal hangover. Maybe take it easier today. Take it any way you can get it. You stop for a red light. Young guy waits alongside you on the curb. Looks Greek or Italian or something. Sort of cute. Looks sideways at you—black dinner plates for eyes, crazy-long lashes like a Shetland pony. Light turns green. You eye each other, lift feet off the curb. You hesitate and pull yours back, he steps off, looks over his shoulder and curls a corner of his mouth up at you. You smile back, look down as your shoes saunter all silky across the road before you look at him again. He cocks his head at you. Nobody’s said boo yet, but you follow in the direction he cocks. He slows his gait, lets you catch up, puts his hand in the small of your back.
Hallo
, he says,
it’s jus up ’ere
. Guess he means his place. Wonder if you should tell him now how much. He hasn’t asked. Maybe wait till you get up there.

You follow him up the front steps of a rundown house, through the outside door, down a short hall to the inside door. Once in, he just stands there, looks at you, tells you to take off your jacket. You drop it and your purse to the floor, lean back against the wall, wait. He says nothing, burrows those plate-eyes into your chest, undoes his belt, zips down. You start to say something, he says
shhhh
, takes a dark cock out, holds it in his hands a moment, tenderly, as if he’s warming it in the light, never takes his eyes off you, and starts to massage, slow, then faster, works it to a steady pump. You shift your balance and he gets frenzied, yanking, jerks himself ferocious. He takes a sharp breath like he hurts, you expect it to tear, fall and stick to the floor. But he drags back a last slow gasp, pulls smooth till white syrup spits and hits floor. A single drop touches down above your knee.

The air comes out of him, punctured, limp.

Puts himself back in, does himself up, hands on his hips, nods at you and opens the door to the hall. Dismissed.

You open your mouth: no sound. Don’t even know what noise you’d make if you could. Can’t say about money, can’t speak, can’t think what garbage, what garbage you are. Nothing, just nothing.

It’s six days your baby’s been gone. And now nights and you’re starting your seventh in a Mercedes. Getting so you wonder what a guy in a Mercedes wants with you anyway. Is he slumming it? He’s still trying to make conversation, he’s telling you about his youngest son at University of Toronto, the eldest is married with a son of his own. He asks if you have kids, how many? You tell him one, she’s seven. Bad enough he’s got a cheap hooker, may as well spare him thinking he’s got an old one. He must be at least sixty, though. Clive. He tells you his name up front. Tells you his wife died of cancer three years ago. Clive finds it very hard to date now because he doesn’t know how to talk to women any more who aren’t his wife. You nod.
I know what you mean
. What do you mean you know what he means? Your wife didn’t die.

You’re easy to talk to, though
, he says,
the most beautiful eyes you have, gentle and torrid at once. And your bones, cheeks like high rolling hills. Have you ever been to Ireland? Looking at you—you’re a little like a place called Connemara
—
it’s wild with deep still waters and one can’t help but find a sweet kind of serenity in that
. May as well not burst his bubble, tell him you’re pilled to the gills, you sweet surrendering thing.

Inside his house, his tone doesn’t change. Around the living room are all the nice things his wife probably picked out, the vases and paintings and knick-knacks. Everything looks old and expensive. He offers you a cognac and the two of you sit on his chesterfield, cushions pushed into the small of your back, you in your new red jumpsuit, him in grey slacks, a white shirt, gracious and chatty. He doesn’t notice the run in your pantyhose. Just talking and talking about marriage and books and women’s lib—Old Clive’s not for it, he won’t give up opening their doors, buying their dinner, putting them on pedestals.
Isn’t that why women were created? As beings to whom we men can cater?
True. Should be true. He gazes off every now and then and gives this easy Burl Ives kind of chuckle, then he asks if there’s any way you could consider spending the night, what with your child and all.
I’d be willing to take care of you for your time
. You look up at the carved ceiling, tell him your little girl is staying with a friend tonight.

When you wake up, he’s holding your hand, still in his pyjamas, and you’re in the shirt he loaned you. God, you slept, feels like you’ve been dreaming and dreaming, all kinds of soft toffee stories, and now you’ve gone and woken up your old ugly self. He won’t find you so serene and calm if he gets a gander at you now.
Like rolling hills
—he’ll be talking about your gut. Guess you could bugger off, you got your money—that was the best part of the night, seeing him open his wallet and frown, then go to his underwear drawer.
Rita never approved of this
, he said,
silly old man keeping money in his drawers with his drawers, she used to say. Ha ha, my Rita
. And then he handed you two fifties, out-of-his-element hesitant.
Is this OK? just something to help with your rent and things. Terribly expensive, I’ll bet
.

You looked at his hundred, kept up the stooge act—the shy leading the dopey—
Ah, yes, sure, that would be fine, thank you
. Felt like you didn’t want to break anything, sully the atmosphere.

Here, maybe you could give this to your little girl
. And he lisped another five out of his wallet.

He really is the darndest old thing. Rita must have been something to keep him still so in love. Two of them probably held hands in this bed every night, close, hardly moving, sweet breaths sifting in and out.

Wonder what kind of cancer it was. Wonder if it hurt, dying, hurt so much her husband’s still got ghost pains. Poor Rita and her sweet old house and her silly old man.

You are on your way down to the courthouse. Swallowed half a mickey of lemon gin before Danny picked you up, trying to get up the nerve. Man, this is it, if they get you, it’ll be on your record; if they throw you in the bucket, what’s the likelihood of you ever getting Grace back? Jesus Jesus Jesus. Danny’s driving. Humiliating, having to call him and ask, tell him you had to appear for soliciting. Didn’t even act surprised, just pushed a breath out his nose as if to say,
Figures
. Yeah, well, it’s none of his business anyway—if he were any kind of man he’d be helping out, he’d be paying child support and you wouldn’t have been on the street to begin with. He’s not saying anything, just driving and dropping. He offers you a Clorets.

In the elevator with two lawyers on your way up to the courtroom: two lawyers and an old man with a stack of papers. Seems both lawyers are going with you—are you getting two? You open your purse looking for another gum, can’t find anything in this mess, seems like everything you own and nothing you need is in there. Take out the mickey, so you can at least see what you’re doing. Got it under your arm when one of them starts snickering. The lawyers are giggling and shaking their heads; one leans over.
You might wanna get rid of that, or put it away
. The old guy glues his eyes to the numbers above the doors. It takes a second to figure what they’re talking about, then you feel the gin in your armpit and chuckle too, stuff the bottle back in your purse. The lawyers laugh all the way to the courtroom. Turns out one’s prosecuting and one’s defending.

Ah, what’re they going to do to you; probably nothing probably. Pimps get girls out every day. Never heard about anyone actually doing time that you recall. Used to hear those streetwalker gals saying
Ah they got me in on a vag c
. Vagrancy. Nothing ever happened. Dragged ’em in and let ’em go.

Just that what if someone finds out?

Most of the time in the courtroom you’re not listening, it’s too hard to concentrate, just lawyer crap, something about no prior convictions, or did you just remember that from cop shows? And a child and social assistance, think that was in there somewhere. And now the cop, that f(ee-iz)ucking cop is on the stand. The bastard who got in on the passenger side while you were in negotiating with the driver, the one who sandwiched you in and said you were under arrest for soliciting. Sitting on Jarvis betwixt two cops. Cops cops everywhere and not a john to fuck. Actually, this pig on the stand is the first guy, the driver, because he’s saying you got in and told him you’d give him anything he wanted for thirty bucks. What a crock of shit, he asked you and you told him what it’d cost. It was only right! Your smartass lawyer isn’t saying a word, so you holler,
You’re a liar!
from your seat.

Doesn’t go over well, judge threatens you, tells you to keep quiet, says you display a poor attitude, an attitude common among prostitutes. Fried yourself, idiot. So you stop listening. Let them hash it out amongst themselves, got nothing to do with you anyway, it’s like a play about you where you never appear. Don’t hear again until the gavel cracks and someone says
Guilty with Absolute Discharge
. A big finger shaking in your face.
Don’t make me have to talk to you again, young lady
.