Read Online Fridays at Enrico's by Don Carpenter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Carpenter
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he couldnât recall anything about her. And there was another problem. He wondered if this sudden good news, amazingly good news, might render him impotent for a time. He would be thinking feverishly about Playboy and the possibilities of the future, instead of concentrating on his lovemaking. It was too great a risk.
âOkay, honey, up and at âem,â he said instead, wearing his Smilinâ Jack smile. It took nearly an hour to get her out. She wanted to shower, she wanted coffee and a cigarette, she wanted to talk, but all Dick could think about was his growing relationship with Hugh Hefner. He couldnât get over the fact that the very first story heâd sold to the best-paying magazine in the country had actually gone for double. That was like Herbert Gold or Nelson Algren or somebody. From a small-time hack barely making a living he had become, in one telephone call, a literary figure. With the girl safely gone and the events of the night entered in his journal, Dick got out his carbon of The Story. He needed to know what made this one different from his other stories. They were all pretty much alike as far as he could tell.
Dickâs apartment was a large studio on the second floor of an old wooden building near downtown, on SW Fourth Street. There were windows on two sides and plenty of light, important in Portland because of the weather. His bed was a mattress on the floor with a nice crazy quilt his mother had given him. There were a couple of old overstuffed chairs and a kitchen area with asmall old refrigerator and stove. His desk in the corner overlooked the back garden, and now he sat at it, in jeans and white tee, trying to figure out how heâd hit the daily double. The story was about a man tricking a woman into bed by pretending he didnât want to, surely nothing original, just an excuse for humor, heâd believed when he sent it to Bob. Heâd hoped maybe Caper would buy it for two fifty. Instead, Playboy , king of the girlie books, had paid Three Thousand Dollars!
By the end of the week everybody in Portland knew about it. Dick hardly had to pay for a beer or an espresso, people were so eager to hear about the sale. There were only a handful of writers or artists of any kind in Portland, and they all tended to know each other. Now they all knew that Dick Dubonet, not the most hopeful of the bunch, in fact often looked down on because he was willing to start at the bottom, had hit the jackpot. Even the most egregious Reed College aesthete would have to acknowledge that three thousand dollars was a lot of money for couple of hours of work. Well, five or six hours.
The best part had been telling his friendly competition, Martin Greenberg. Marty was a wonderful guy, tall and thin, with sunken hungry eyes and a small delicate almost female mouth. Marty was contemptuous of Dickâs girlie book sales, having himself much higher ambitions. Meanwhile he lived off his girlfriend and if he was writing anything Dick hadnât seen any evidence. He talked a good game, though, and was fun to argue with. And it could not be denied that Marty had a way with girls, especially intellectual girls. Hanging around with Marty had often gotten Dick laid.
They ran into each other in the middle of the Park Blocks, Dick walking to Meier & Frank to buy some new jeans, Marty heading up to Portland State to spend the afternoon in the library.
âHello,â said Dick in his deepest voice. Marty was wearing his topcoat, and his somewhat thinning brown hair was blowing around. Rain fell lightly, but neither of them paid any attention. They shook hands formally and Dick wondered if Marty had already heard.
âLet me buy you a cup of coffee,â he heard himself saying. Martyâs eyebrows went up. He knew Dick didnât throw money around.
âWhat happened, did you sell something big?â Smart bastard.
âWhat makes you think that?â
Marty just grinned, hands in
âOkay, honey, up and at âem,â he said instead, wearing his Smilinâ Jack smile. It took nearly an hour to get her out. She wanted to shower, she wanted coffee and a cigarette, she wanted to talk, but all Dick could think about was his growing relationship with Hugh Hefner. He couldnât get over the fact that the very first story heâd sold to the best-paying magazine in the country had actually gone for double. That was like Herbert Gold or Nelson Algren or somebody. From a small-time hack barely making a living he had become, in one telephone call, a literary figure. With the girl safely gone and the events of the night entered in his journal, Dick got out his carbon of The Story. He needed to know what made this one different from his other stories. They were all pretty much alike as far as he could tell.
Dickâs apartment was a large studio on the second floor of an old wooden building near downtown, on SW Fourth Street. There were windows on two sides and plenty of light, important in Portland because of the weather. His bed was a mattress on the floor with a nice crazy quilt his mother had given him. There were a couple of old overstuffed chairs and a kitchen area with asmall old refrigerator and stove. His desk in the corner overlooked the back garden, and now he sat at it, in jeans and white tee, trying to figure out how heâd hit the daily double. The story was about a man tricking a woman into bed by pretending he didnât want to, surely nothing original, just an excuse for humor, heâd believed when he sent it to Bob. Heâd hoped maybe Caper would buy it for two fifty. Instead, Playboy , king of the girlie books, had paid Three Thousand Dollars!
By the end of the week everybody in Portland knew about it. Dick hardly had to pay for a beer or an espresso, people were so eager to hear about the sale. There were only a handful of writers or artists of any kind in Portland, and they all tended to know each other. Now they all knew that Dick Dubonet, not the most hopeful of the bunch, in fact often looked down on because he was willing to start at the bottom, had hit the jackpot. Even the most egregious Reed College aesthete would have to acknowledge that three thousand dollars was a lot of money for couple of hours of work. Well, five or six hours.
The best part had been telling his friendly competition, Martin Greenberg. Marty was a wonderful guy, tall and thin, with sunken hungry eyes and a small delicate almost female mouth. Marty was contemptuous of Dickâs girlie book sales, having himself much higher ambitions. Meanwhile he lived off his girlfriend and if he was writing anything Dick hadnât seen any evidence. He talked a good game, though, and was fun to argue with. And it could not be denied that Marty had a way with girls, especially intellectual girls. Hanging around with Marty had often gotten Dick laid.
They ran into each other in the middle of the Park Blocks, Dick walking to Meier & Frank to buy some new jeans, Marty heading up to Portland State to spend the afternoon in the library.
âHello,â said Dick in his deepest voice. Marty was wearing his topcoat, and his somewhat thinning brown hair was blowing around. Rain fell lightly, but neither of them paid any attention. They shook hands formally and Dick wondered if Marty had already heard.
âLet me buy you a cup of coffee,â he heard himself saying. Martyâs eyebrows went up. He knew Dick didnât throw money around.
âWhat happened, did you sell something big?â Smart bastard.
âWhat makes you think that?â
Marty just grinned, hands in
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