Ladies' Man (10 page)

Kenny makes a move.

A year after that I was engaged to a girl I didn't love. She had a screechy laugh and hated sex. Her father ran a chain of stationery stores. The deal was I marry his daughter and I would start out at the top. Two weeks after our engagement was announced I was feeling cocky. I figured I had it made so I quit school. Her old man went berserk over my disrespect for education and broke off the engagement.

Kenny makes a move.

Three years after that, I'm involved with a chick up in Woodstock who lived in a .cabin, ran with a heavy psychopathic drug crowd, thought Charles Manson was misunderstood, pushed coke for a living, had six cats and wanted me to drop everything and run off to Canada with her to open a health food store. I started pushing a little coke myself to make up for all the stuff I was snorting. All we did was snort and screw, snort and screw. And then I'd wheeze all night from the cats, drive the next 'morning to Saugerties General Hospital; for allergy shots, drive to the city to work, drive to: Woodstock at night, and so on and so on. In those few months I had done so much coke the insides of my nostrils bad calluses, my eyes were bugging out of my head from fatigue and I was so paranoid about getting busted I had a permanent terror knot in my belly. When I tried to leave her she wound up in the hospital after throwing herself in the path of a car.

Then one fine day after we'd been running together for three months I left the house to go into town. She was with friends in the city at the time. I was in town an hour when I heard a tremendous explosion in the distance. Fire engines, sirens, etc. I had left the gas on and blew up the cabin. Killed all six of the cats and destroyed ten thousand dollars'worth of cocaine. Kenny makes a move.

Something else all those moves had in common: they always ended in throwing the baby out with the bath water. I didn't talk to my parents for two years, I never finished college, and I could have killed somebody in Woodstock. And now La Donna was gone and something in me still ached for her. Ached for when it was good with us.

I could even remember the exact day everything started going downhill. It was a Tuesday in October. She had told me over breakfast that she had been taking singing lessons since August, was running into a financial snag, and asked if I could help her out.

I gave her a lot of grief about expenses and even got into some hoopla about the energy crisis and we had an enormous riff. Then a strange thing happened; about halfway through the fight we did a complete turnabout, from her asking for a few bucks and me witholding, to me demanding all future bills and she not wanting a dime. I persisted and wound up paying for the whole shot: I have no idea why I did that, but I'm sure it had nothing to do with me having a heart of gold under a gruff exterior. As a matter of fact, the money was the least of it as far as the fight went. I was pissed because she had been taking lessons for two months without telling me. I felt cheated on. I felt like she only bothered to tell me because she was in a financial hole. That night for the first time since we met I didn't want to screw. I didn't even want to hug. She cried herself to sleep, but I wouldn't even turn my face to her. Halfway through the night I woke up feeling lonely and out of it. I wanted to forgive her, to cuddle, but she wouldn't even let me touch her. And it had been a little like that ever since.

And that was one major difference between La Donna and the others. I was used to women chasing my ass. A lot of times a big problem was having to face their sexual desire, which felt totally unreal given the crap that would be going on between us. With La Donna I was
getting
the straight arm, not giving it. And it made me horny beyond endurance.

I started feeling myself up, hugging myself, stroking my thighs and balls. I even popped a finger up my ass and passed it under my nose. I started pulling my dick thinking of La Donna. Me banging her wasn't doing the trick. Suddenly I flashed on something that sent a baby-sized roller coaster from my brain to my fingers. Nineteen seventy. Army reserve boot camp. Three guys out on maneuvers. Pitching a tent near a stream. Me, Jerry Wexler and Willy somebody. Staying up talking about pussy, busting cherries and oral finesse. Waking up in the middle of the night. A hand pumping my cock. I pretended I was asleep and squinted my eyes without moving my head. A spot of silver, cold, going up and down on my cock. That silver moving fast like a blip on a radar screen leaving a trail of its own image. Up and down. A ring. A silver ring. That memory got me so shook I popped like Vesuvius. I never found out which guy gave me that hand job.

I cleaned myself off with the cardboard from a laundered shirt sticking but of the garbage can. Four-twenty-nine. All I had to do was look for that silver ring. All I had to do was remember the next day instead of seven years later.

I turned on my lamp, twisting my head away from the light. I touched my gut again. It was still flat. I lay there staring at the spots of buckling paint on the ceiling. Stop it. I hit the buttons on the cable box, gave the dials a quick spin, scored for twenty minutes' worth of
The Three Stooges
dubbed in Spanish, then switched
to
some organic-looking bozo in rimless glasses and plaid shirt sitting behind a telephone switchboard. He had long, stringy hair, a hairline that receded to his sideburns and a forehead you could have landed a 747 on. He smiled out at me like he didn't realize he was on the air. It must have been a local cable TV station. The; black and white reception had that cheap shakiness like the roving eye cameras in a supermarket. A telephone number zipped in under his chest and he came to life:

"Well, it's five a.m. and I'm Rod Ramada, so Rama-da's in and it's time
lot Rod Ramadda's Swapline."
,

"Rod Ramada," I repeated out loud. His voice was soft but not rich, like a college DJ. .

"Our number here at the Swapline is on your screen below me. Please limit yourself to three items you want to sell or swap—no mattresses, stocks, bonds or real estate—and give your phone number a little slower and louder than you usually would in a normal conversation, okay, people?"

The phone on his switchboard started ringing. "Here we go. First call of the night. Hello, Swapline, you're on the air."

"Hello? Am I on the air?" The voice sounded like a middle-aged lady; it was crackly and riddled with static like from a crystal radio. "Yes, Rod, I have a child's rocking horse and a GI Joe doll with removable clothes and weapons. I'm asking ten dollars for the horse and three dollars for the doll. The horse is very sturdy, both Kenny and Larry played with it when they were younger. My name is Mrs. Moskowitz and I can be reached at TU two, nine-four-one-six." Rod Ramada kept the phone pressed to his temple, his head down as though he was hearing heartbreaking news. "You know, Rod, the little cine, Kenny, just entered the Bronx High School of Science, so there's really no need to keep their toys around." She made a laughing noise and Ramada chuckled weakly. "Okay then." He hung up on her as she was about to say something else.

No good. No good. You don't hang up on people like that. A little compassion and manners go a long way, and he could have talked to the old broad a little longer.

He wasn't network prime time. Things like that got people on my shit list fast. "Hello, Swapline, you're on the air."

"How are you, Rod? I have six early issues of
Crypt of Terror
in mint condition that I would like very much to trade one for one for any
Supermans
from before nineteen forty-five or two for one for any
Star-Spangled War
comics from the Korean War. Also, Rod, if you or your listeners are interested I would like to start an old comic collecting club. My name is Aaron Gold and I can be reached at five-one-six, three-three-two, four-one-four-zero. That's in Lake Success, Rod. I'm sorry to inconvenience any of your New York City-proper listeners, but I can't accept any collect calls."

"Okay then."

The kid's voice had that perfect, nervous nasal diction of a highly intelligent, totally fucked up mama's boy. Sad case. But I was a freak for comics in my day, too. I even had some
Crypt of Terrors
myself. To be honest, I felt like being in. a comic book club with that creep would have been cozy in a rainy-day sort of way. Out of habit I poked my gut and it felt like Silly Putty. I shoved La Donna's pillow under mine to prop up my head more. It was nice having a queen-size to yourself. "Hello, Swapline, you're on the air."

"Good morning, Rod, my name is Mr. Rosenbusch, and I got a wife about fifty years old with a big mouth. I would like to swap her for a young broad with a nice body."

That had me sitting up. The guy sounded like my grandfather. I wanted to laugh, but it felt eerie laughing with no one around. Ramada was chuckling, his shoulders jiggling up and down. What a gentle phony son of a bitch.

"Ha, ha, no seriously, Rod, I love my wife very much. We've been married thirty-one years and she's asleep now."

"Have you got anything to swap?"

"Hah? Ah, no, Rod, but I wanted to ask you, that last caller, Aaron Gold with the joke books? Didn't that guy sound a little too old to be playing with joke books?"

"Well, you know, different strokes for different folks." Rod adjusted his glasses.

Stroke this.

"
Yeah
? Okay, goodnight, Rod."

"Thank you. Hello, Swapline, you're on the air."

I turned myself around, cleared away the pillows, stuck my feet between the mattress and the headboard and did sit-ups.

"Hello, Swapline, you're on the air… Is anybody there?"

All that could be heard was a tentative breathing, a shuddering, as if someone was either very cold or about to cry.

"Hello, is anybody there?" he repeated, ducking as if to look under the screen.

"So hang up, schmuck!" Oh good, I was yelling at the TV now.

"Rod? Hey… Hey…" It sounded like a kid, a girl, sixteen maybe. "I'm sorry"—she started to cry—"I'm's-so depressed, I don't… I don't…"

Later for sit-ups.

"I'm's-sorry." There was nothing after that other than some very disturbing snuffling and
huh-huh
breathing. Ramada straightened up and frowned for real.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Nno-nno, I'm sorry." Suddenly she belted out a moan like she was going through natural childbirth. "Oh God!" she gasped. "I'm gonna kill myself! Oh, yeah I am!"

"Hey! Hey! Don't hang up! Hey!"

"No! I'm gonna! I'm gonna!"

I was on my feet. I felt as if I'd been goosed with an icicle.

"Hey look, whoever that was, don't
do
anything. Call back!
Please
! Please call back!" Ramada pinched his temples. "Oh, Jesus." The phone rang. "Yes!"

"Listen!" The voice was young male PR. "Listen, ah would like to talk to that chick that just called you, man? The one who wants to kill herself? hey, listen, baby, don't… do it! Ah wanna tell you, man, mah life was more bad than anybody's, you know? Ah was on drugs? Ah got off it. Ah was in
jail
? Ah did mah time and now I'm free. Listen, sister, you don't get no breaks in life, you gotta fight for everything, but you gotta
fight
, you gotta
want
to, you know? 'Cause some-times I think that people are their own worse enemies, but they can be their own best friend too. And life can be beautiful, baby! See what I mean? Now, you feelin' blue? You feelin' lonely? Thas okay, we all been there. You feel like doin' deep six? We all been there too. Okay, now, you need someone to talk to? Sit down have a, have coffee with? I was gonna say smoke but ah cut out cigarettes and reefer 'cause that shit'll
kill
you, man. Ah tell you what I'll do. I'll give out mah number on the air. I ain't afraid and ah believe in people. Mah name is Little Flower and mah number is two-two-two, nine-six-two-six.
Any
a you people feelin' that way you call Little Flower and I'll rap to you 'cause life… can… be… beautiful! And Rod?" Rod had been punctuating Little Flower's rap the whole time with sage head nods. "Rod? I think you are a beautiful cat, man."

"Thank you," he humble-ass mumbled.

"So you call me, baby, any a you people, you call me, Little Flower, two-two-two, nine-six-two-six."

I wrote down the number on the corner of the
TV Guide
cover. I couldn't help it; he made me feel positive. Maybe me, him and Aaron Gold could start a psycho comics club.

"Hey, please, whoever that girl was, if you're still listening please call back, please! People
care
, the number's right on the screen." Rod looked sincere. He was okay." I was always quick to jump down people's throats.

"Hello, Swapline."

"Hello, Rod." Some lady with a Bronx accent so thick I could have probably guessed not only what part of the Bronx but what building she was from. "If I can I would like to say something to that young lady."

"Please do."

"I just want to say, that, ah, I had a daughter who would be about your age now from your voice. We lost her two years ago, she had Lou Gehrig's disease. It was a terrible blow. I don't think my husband will ever be the same. But right up to the end, she was so full of life, full of love. She knew she was dying but you wouldn't know it from her mood, her spirits. You would have thought she was in the hospital for a cold." I sat back on the bed. "She would say, 'Ma? I don't want to see you cry.'" The lady started choking up. " 'Ma? You… You…'"She hung up. That one had me under the blankets. I hadn't called my mother in a month. I wrote down "Pistachio V-day" next to Little Flower's number. Every Valentine's Day when I was a kid I would buy the old lady a heart-shaped candy box, dump out the candy and load it up with red Zenobia pistachios. I was going to do it again this year and blow her out of her socks. "Swapline."

"Hey, Rod, knock-knock."

"This isn't Dial-a-Joke."

"No, please… This is good. Just quick, knock-knock." Unbelievable.

Ramada sighed, "Who's there?"

"Allen Freed." A chortle.

"Allen Freed who?"

"Allen Freed
my
people but Lincoln freed
yours!" A
high-pitched giggle and a click. I kicked off the blankets.