Tony Grooms

 

Mr. Lawson was going on a binge. It would cost him 500 dollars and a 45k job, not counting the booze and the carry-out meals. He was single now and didn’t have to pay for rooms. When he went on binges, he had the girls, the women, come right up to his apartment. His neighbors didn’t mind. They thought he was in the fashion advertising business.

Until this one, he had never been on a binge longer than three days. But the binges were beginning to come more frequently, less than six months apart, and they were getting longer. He found himself going for nastier and nastier girls. That was OK. The nasty ones were cheaper.

He was starting this binge in the suburbs at a swank bar called Baldwins. The girls tried to be discreet when in the suburbs, but Mr. Lawson was practiced at picking them out. They were the ones who were not nervous. They were the ones who were not pretending to have a good time. They were cool and proper and they had every thread in place. They knew how to wear make-up. They didn’t just paint their faces, they emblazoned them. The make-up spoke directly to the right part of a man’s anatomy. The red of the lipstick ran into the corner of the mouth creating a dark hole which beckoned to be explored. The mascara lay sultrily under the eyes, making them appear half-closed by ecstasy–or so it seemed to Mr. Lawson. Their legs, nyloned and long, leaned out of their dresses (they always wore dresses and never slacks) and showed just enough of the inner thigh to say I’m yours, for a price.

Mr. Lawson had no trouble spotting the girl he wanted. She was blonde and, like most of these girls, not a natural blonde. He bought her a Tanqueray and tonic. He said that he had never seen her at Baldwins before. She said she was new to the area. As they drank and talked, he looked down into the cleavage of her breasts. The breasts were not large but they were well-exercised, She bent nearer to him. Now he could see the tops of her nipples which were pink and were growing erect before his eyes.

He said that he had an apartment overlooking the river, that it had a good view of the city. She said she would like to see a good view of the city, but she wasn’t sure if she could that night. He said he would bet her a hundred dollars that it was the best goddamn view she had ever seen. She smiled. She said she had seen a great many spectacular views, not only here, but abroad. And besides she never betted on anything. He said for a hundred and fifty dollars you couldn’t buy a better view. She said the view must be spectacular and she would be delighted to see it, but she couldn’t be too late. Her father liked her to come in early. Mr. Lawson said that that was fine and off they went.

Mrs. Lawson, when Mr. Lawson was married to her, was a very good lover. But she never said the right things to Mr. Lawson when they were making love. They divorced.

He wanted her to say that everything was all right, not that he was good, or that he had the biggest penis she had ever seen, but very simply that everything was OK. She tried, it seemed, but it never came out right. She always ruined it by making reference to something that was not all right. Like what they needed in the house, or that her birth control device had slipped. Even when she seemed to try earnestly to please him, to say the right thing–that everything was all right–she couldn’t make him feel it. That had nothing to do with having good sex. He never complained about the sex. He only complained that there were troubles lying cold in the bed beside them.

This girl, this woman from Baldwins, convinced him beyond a doubt. But then, that was her job. She was a professional liar. She moved up and down on him smoothly, expertly, pulling away from him slowly and pushing down fast. Just when he could not contain himself any longer, she licked the inside of his ear and whispered, “Everything is wonderful, baby. Everything is beautiful.”

When the girl from Baldwins was finished, Mr. Lawson paid her the 150 dollars. Then he gave her 50 dollars for a cab. She thanked him and put her card on the table. She said when he needed her again he could find her at the address on the card.

Mr. Lawson slept soundly for several hours, but presently he awoke to find himself utterly lonesome in the darkness of his apartment with the view of the city. He drank chablis, trying to make himself sleepy. But he did not sleep. He watched the city lights fade as the sun lightened the horizon.

The next morning on the subway, on his way to work, he got off 20 blocks before his stop. He knew it wasn’t his stop. He knew that on the street above the train was a seedy district of the city. He dashed off the train just as the doors were closing, and he knew then that he was on a binge.

On the street there were small squalid storefronts advertising GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and MORE GIRLS. In the windows of the shops were pictures of girls in seductive poses or neon lights which flashed outlines of naked girls. Mr. Lawson went inside the first shop that he saw open. It was a bookstore called PUSSYLAND. In the windows were pictures of girls dressed as cats. Inside were racks of magazines with pictures of naked girls in awkward, erotic poses on the covers. Some of the girls were posed with young men, some with other girls, some with more than just one other man or girl. A gruffy looking man with a cigarette stood behind a glass counter. The counter was plastered with advertisements for marital aides and unique sexual devices. The man looked as if he had just awakened.

Mr. Lawson asked the man if there were any girls.

“What kinda place do you think I run?” the man said.

“Well, can you tell me where I might find some girls?”

“Man, oh man, I just sell books. You want a book?”

Mr. Lawson was not interested in magazines.

“There’s a movie in the back,” the man suggested. “I can start it up for you.”

Mr. Lawson agreed. He would watch the movie until some of the other places opened up. The man asked for ten dollars and Mr. Lawson paid him.

The back room of the shop was dark and stuffy. It smelled musty. There were two rows of folding chairs and a small movie screen similar to the one Mrs. Lawson had used to show slides of their vacations to friends. On the screen was a man and a girl. The man was sitting in an overstuffed chair. The girl came over to him and unbuttoned his shirt. She rubbed his hairy chest and pinched his nipples. He moaned. “There’s something I’ve always wanted you to do for me,” he said. He unzipped his pants and the woman’s head began to bob rhythmically in his lap.

Presently, a girl came over to Mr. Lawson. She was a teenager. It seemed to Mr. Lawson, as he made her out in the flickering light, that she hadn’t slept the night before. She was unkempt.

“Joe said you were looking for somebody,” she said, as if impatient. “Do you see anything you like?”

“Yes.” Mr. Lawson answered. “Does 25 dollars sound all right?”

“Show me the 25.”

Mr. Lawson paid her. She unzipped his pants and began to perform. Mr. Lawson watched the screen. The girl was wiping semen off her face and massaging it into the hairy chest. The scene jumped. The girl and the man were disrobed, the man on top of her. He was thin and Mr. Lawson could see his muscles tighten and slacken as he performed. The girl rocked her head as if the ecstasy had fevered her. The scene jumped to close-ups of their organs slipping and slamming against each other. Presently the man stiffened and groaned. The girl, the woman, screamed, “Don’t stop ooooooh doooon’t stooop.” Then the two of them spasmed and the scene jumped again.

When the teenager had finished with Mr. Lawson, she went away. He had gotten what he had paid for, but he had not gotten what he wanted.

The movie ended and Mr. Lawson went back onto the street. It was 10:00. He thought he should check in with Mrs. Kellerman, his secretary. He phoned from a booth on the corner. The booth was dirty and he would not sit down in it. The glass was cracked on one side.

“Weston Systems Incorporated,” Mrs. Kellerman answered. “May I help you.”

“Denise. It’s John.”

“Oh, Mr. Lawson, good morning. We expected you an hour ago. Mr. Weston himself has called for you. Twice.”

Mr. Lawson stammered. “I–I’m–sick. What’s up? What’s up, Denise?”

“Well. It’s confidential, Mr. Lawson. I’m not sure if I should say over the phone.”

“Please–say it.”

“Well.” She sighed. “Rumor has it that there’s a military incident brewing.”

“In the Mediterranean?”

“This one is in the Sea of Japan.”

Mr. Lawson was silent. It was the third military incident that year.

“Denise–Mrs. Kellerman. I’m sick. I won’t be in.”

“Oh, but Mr. Lawson, Mr. Weston wants to see you. He says it’s urgent. It seems that there’s a run on the A-41 rocket launchers and he needs you to put more in production. Immediately. He said immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kellerman. I’m very sick.”

“What am I supposed to tell Mr. Weston if he calls again? He will call back. He needs the A-41’s.”

“Tell him I’m sick.”

“Mr. Lawson…”

“Tell him I’m very, very sick.” Mr. Lawson hung up. He went into a shop which advertised SEXY MODELS. A girl, a woman, with bright red hair greeted him.

“What can I do you, sugar?”

“I need a girl.”

“We don’t do that. You want to take pictures–that’s what we do.” That wasn’t what Mr. Lawson wanted.

Across the street he entered another shop. They had girls, but they were asking 60 dollars and Mr. Lawson only had 40 in cash. They wouldn’t take a check. A branch of the bank he dealt with was about 15 blocks away, so Mr. Lawson had to get back on the train to get there.

On the train he sat across from a girl with long brown hair, parted with barettes. She looked like a college student. She was dressed in jeans and carried a knapsack.

When he sat down, she turned her knees away from him. She looked at him nervously and then looked out the window, even though nothing could be seen outside of the train except the darkness in the tunnel. Mr. Lawson said nothing to her. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. He looked down in front of him. Looking down, he could see the girl’s kneecap, straining through her jeans.

When the train came to the next station, the girl got up and moved to an empty seat. He watched her go. She glared at him. He didn’t make a move and just looked back. She swung her head, her long hair swishing over her shoulder. Her lips were puckered. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were flagrant. She folded her arms and would not look directly at him, though it seemed she kept him in the corner of her eye.

He couldn’t stop looking at her. He wanted to sit next to her again. He dared not move. One move, even to take his hands out of his coat pockets, he thought, and he would lose control. He would ask the girl for a date. At the next stop the girl got off. He saw her move to another car of the same train.

At the bank, he wanted the teller. She was a starched woman, black hair pulled into a taut bun and heavily sprayed. She wore a grey woolen suit and a blouse with a high lace collar and a scarf with a diamond pin. She did not smile. She accepted his check, examined it, verified his identification, stamped his receipt, and dealt him a stack of bills.

“Thank you for banking with us, sir.”

Mr. Lawson fumbled with the bills and he smelled the fragrance of her discreet perfume.

“Next,” she said to Mr. Lawson.

“Excuse me, miss.”

“Is there a mistake, sir?”

“No. No.”

“Then, how may I help you?”

He told her.

For a moment her face hardened. Then she broke into a soft smile. “Kindly stay where you are, sir.” His intuition told him to move, to run, but he lingered, until he noticed that the woman’s hand had slipped under the counter top, and he saw the guard in the corner suddenly spring to life. He bolted. He did not see the starched woman stamp her feet and point at him with a red nail on the end of her finger, which was straight as an arrow’s shaft.

When he returned to the district, he did not go to the shop that advertised SEXY MODELS; instead he went to a shop that advertised ORIENTAL MASSAGES. A pretty girl, whom he later found out was Korean-American, gave him a back rub. After the rub, he rolled over and asked her if there was anything she could do for his front. He paid her 20 dollars and she massaged his front.

The massage was unsatisfactory. He asked her to do it again and to talk to him as she did it. He gave her another 20 dollars.

“You have a lovely body,” the girl said. She was not a good liar. Mr. Lawson was fifty pounds overweight.

“That’s not it. That’s not what I want to hear.”

“What do you want me to say? You are the best lover?”

“No. No. Nothing like that. That probably wouldn’t even be true. I want to hear that everything is all right.”

“Everything is all right?” The girl stopped massaging. “You want to forget your troubles. Ahh, poor baby.”

“Not just my troubles. Everybody’s troubles. I want to forget everything. You know there’s going to be a war.”

“So. What else is news?” The girl started massaging again. It was useless. Mr. Lawson’s attention had gone limp. He worried about the office. He wondered what would happen if Mr. Weston called back. When Mr. Weston called back. He excused himself from the table and began to get dressed.

“I’m in a bad way,” he said. “I don’t know what to do. I need a vacation, you know. But I’ve got to get back to work too.”

“Wait a minute.” The girl was writing on a note tablet. “Here is the address of a friend of mine. She will make you forget all your troubles. I guarantee it.”

Mr. Lawson took the note, thanked the girl and rushed to a telephone booth.

Mrs. Kellerman said, “Mr. Weston is very upset with you. He has been trying to reach you at home. He says that the incident may become a crisis and the company that can put the most A-41s into action will be the company that strikes it rich. He says you had better come in–ASAP–or he’ll get someone who can do the job.”

Mr. Lawson took the train to work. It was already afternoon and the early rush had begun. When he arrived outside the office building, he hesitated. He looked up toward the 27th floor where Weston was situated. He could see the blue glass and concrete of the building’s facade, but there was no telling where the 27th floor was. In the lobby, in front of the elevators, he stopped again. He was wondering why he hated his job so much. It was a pressure job, but it paid 45k. Jobs like it weren’t easy to come by. He let the first elevator come and go. Another one followed it. It was coming up from the lower level where the cafeteria was. Unluckily for Mr. Lawson, Mr. Weston was on this elevator.

“Lawson. Where have you been?” Mr. Weston was chewing a sandwich. “We’re busier than hell today. Maybe you haven’t heard about this thing. It looks like it could break into something big. We haven’t had anything big in a long time, boy. I want action on this one. Lots of action. I want Houston in on this one. And Albuquerque. Hire more if necessary. But I want action. I want A-41s and R-16s too. That new thing in Houston. What is it?”

“B-57s, sir.”

“Yes. Them too.”

They were on the 27th floor and the elevator doors opened. Mr. Weston stepped off, munching his sandwich. The doors began to shut and Mr. Lawson still hadn’t gotten off. Mr. Weston pushed his arm between the doors just in time to keep them from closing.

“Lawson. I’m talking to you.” Mr. Weston shouted. His mouth was white with the sandwich. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Mr. Lawson said from inside the elevator. “I don’t think I’m well.”

“Do you think I’m well? Do you think I got where I am by working only when I was well? Look, boy, if we don’t take advantage on this one, Alltech will, or Omegatech, or God knows who! They’re all moving on it. I need a man of action. Are you with me? Are you with me?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Dammit. Lawson, you’re my best man. But if you’re not with me, I’ll have to get someone who is. Now are you with me?” Mr. Weston stood in the frame of the elevator doors. He looked so intensely at Mr. Lawson that Mr. Lawson had to take a step back into the elevator.

“Are you with me?” Mr. Weston repeated, his jaw jutting out above his sweaty collar.

“No sir,” Mr. Lawson said. He said it quietly, distantly. As if something small and good were saying it for him.

“Then damn you!” Mr. Weston shouted. He spun away from the elevator and let the door shut.

Mr. Lawson realized that he should have been upset. He had just lost a 45k job. This should have been worse than when he lost Mrs. Lawson, but he didn’t feel upset about it. Losing the job was a matter of fact for him, like when Mrs. Lawson fed him dry white toast and grapefruit for breakfast. There was another problem–an urgency that nagged him. He felt for the crumpled note paper in his pocket. The address read 400 Royal Avenue, #30. He was surprised by the address; it was in a good part of town.

When the taxi let him off at 400 Royal, he could barely wait for the doorman to open the door. He rushed into the lobby, upsetting an elderly lady who carried a stack of packages. The deskman gave him directions to #30, but told him that he was “very certain that Miss Henderson is not in. She was just recently escorted out”–he said out like a Canadian—“by a rather attractive gentleman.” Mr. Lawson went up to #30 anyway. He rang the bell, he knocked. There was no answer. He took the train back to the suburbs.

On the train he thought that he should apologize to Mr. Weston, ask for–if necessary beg for–his job. He thought about it casually, as if it were a pleasant daydream. He saw himself on hands and knees before Mr. Weston’s giant ebony desk. “I’ll build your A-41s. Your R-16s. Your…” When the train reached the suburbs, he went to Baldwins.

He drank gin and tonic for a while, waiting for the one girl to show. Other girls, women, eyed him. One even asked if he were waiting for anyone special–he said he was. He wanted the blonde one. When she did not come, he asked the bartender if he had seen her.

“No, sir. I’ve not seen the lady. But I just came on at six.”

“You mean the one with the big bazookas?” the busboy asked.

“No,” Mr. Lawson said. “They weren’t especially big.”

“Oh.” The busboy combed a dirty hand through his slick hair. “But they are tight. Real tight.”

Mr. Lawson nodded.

“Dyed blonde?”

Mr. Lawson nodded.

“New around here.”

“Yes. Yes. She’s new around here.”

“I saw her at lunch.” He sat down on a rack and began to shelve glasses under the bar.

“Yes?” said Mr. Lawson. “Yes?”

“I saw her with a guy from Alltech. She ain’t your old lady, huh?”

Mr. Lawson shook his head.

“Good. ‘Cause she was pretty friendly with that asshole from Alltech. You know the one? Her name’s Melinda. I don’t see what she’s got for that asshole from Alltech.”

On the way home, he remembered that the girl, the woman, had left her address on the bartable beside the door. He raced up to his apartment, fumbled with his keys and found the address. It read: Melinda Henderson, 400 Royal, Apt 30.

Now Mr. Lawson had to, just had to have her. She was the answer to all his problems. The Korean girl had said she would make him forget all his troubles–guaranteed. He took a taxi to 400 Royal, but she wasn’t in. The desk man said that she had come in about six, but had gone out again, no doubt with the same very attractive gentleman.

Mr. Lawson went back to Baldwins and asked for her. She had come and gone. It was nearly closing and he went home. When he reached his door, he found it unlocked. The lights inside his apartment were on, but softened. A bottle of wine and two glasses stood on the bar table.

“I heard you were looking for me,” Melinda said, from the sofa. She was draped in a silken negligee.

Mr. Lawson said nothing.

“Well, don’t just stand there.”

After he had paid her and she was dressed and ready to go, Mr. Lawson felt an ebb in transcendency. It seemed that something mendacious and menacing was dragging him down.

“Melinda?”

“Yes darling.” She was drawing her fur coat around her shoulders.

“Please. Please marry me.”

She laughed. She came over and kissed him on the forehead. “John, you’re sooo cute.”

“I’m serious. Please, won’t you marry me?”

“Now, now. Get some rest and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Mr. Lawson was not satisfied with the prospect of there being a tomorrow. He became adamant. He knew Melinda could give him what he wanted, albeit temporarily.

“I’m begging you. Marry me. Marry me. Please!”

Melinda’s face hardened. “It would be very expensive for you. 200 dollars for just afternoons. 300 dollars for nights.”

“Forget about the money. Don’t you know what’s happening? Can’t you see?” He was pacing around the apartment with the lovely view of the city. “It’s the end of time. You see, a war is coming.”

“I know,” Melinda said. “I make my best money in wartime.”

“You don’t understand.” Mr. Lawson sat. “This won’t be just any war. It’s the holocaust. Melinda, the holocaust.”

Melinda picked up her purse. “Then it won’t make any difference. Will it, John?”

Mr. Lawson didn’t answer her. She waited as if impatient, then she asked for taxi fare. He gave her 50 dollars and she left.

He drank a glass of chablis. He paced. He looked out of the window at the red lights of the city. He saw a crescent moon rising behind the skyline. He saw a jet circling in the area of the airport. He thought it might be a military jet. Common sense told him it was a business jet. He thought about A-41’s. Below him on the bridge, going into the city, an ambulance flashed. The jet made another circle. It eclipsed the moon.

He went to the telephone and called the operator. A man answered. “City, please?” he asked.

Mr. Lawson told him.

“Yes?”

“A number for Melinda. For Melinda.” Mr. Lawson fumbled through his pockets for the card. “For Melinda Henderson.”

“Ahhh,” the operator said. There seemed to be a hint of recognition in his voice. “One minute please.”

Anthony Grooms grew up in rural Virginia.  His education at the College of William and Mary and George Mason University led him to a teaching career in Georgia, where since 1995, he has taught creative writing and literature at Kennesaw State University, and directs its M. A. in Professional Writing Program. He is the author of Ice Poems, Trouble No More: Stories and Bombingham, a novel. His stories and poems have been published in Callaloo, African American Review, Crab Orchard Review, and other literary journals and anthologies. Grooms is a Fulbright Fellow, a Yaddo Fellow, a Hurston-Wright Foundation Legacy Award finalist, an Arts Administration Fellow from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the recipient of two Lillian Smith Awards from the Southern Regional Council. Both Trouble No More and Bombingham were selected as All Georgia Reads books. Adopted for study in colleges, Bombingham was the 2013 common book selection for Washington, D. C.  The Vain Conversation, a novel, is scheduled to be published by Story River Books (USC Press) in fall 2017.  Currently, Grooms is finishing novels about Black Americans in Sweden and school desegregation in Birmingham, Alabama.