Read Online Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler - Free Book Online Page B

A person named Harold read erotica. A girl named Tsunami danced.
    “They suck,” said Jeremy.
    “Watch,” insisted Patrick.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the MC, “please welcome back to Minotaur’s The Great Unwashed.”
    A whoop went up. The lights dimmed. Three young women took the stage, one at the drums, two on guitar. The girl on lead guitar had long black hair combed over one eye in a sickle that hid most of her face. Seconds later she and her band were at it. They played simple, throbbing music, but what got Jeremy’s ear was the singer, the lead guitarist. Her face was hidden by her sickle, and her voice was awful butarresting, like Lou Reed’s. She told lyrics in a simple monotone,then her words rose and cracked and broke your heart. Jeremy felt the hairs on his neck ripple. He turned to Patrick.
    “She’s . . . she’s . . .” Jeremy wanted to say she was terrible. He wanted it to be a compliment.
    “She’s Freida,” said Patrick. “Freida from Hobart.”
    Jeremy’s mouth opened. Patrick was right. It was Freida.
    “She’s great,” whispered Jeremy.
    “I know,” said Patrick. “I saw her here last month.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    Patrick grinned, sly and easy. He knew things about Manhattan that only dead people should know.
    Jeremy found Freida after the show. She remembered him, and shook his hand. They went through a door, bought some drinks, went through another door, sat on a couch.
    “I can’t believe it’s you,” said Jeremy. “You were great out there.”
    Freida brushed back her sickle. “Your hair got gray,” she said.
    “So what do you do with yourself now?” asked Jeremy.
    Freida tapped her guitar. “I do this, stupid. I sing.”
    “Full time?”
    “Well, I’m a saleswoman at Saks. But who cares about that?”
    Jeremy stared at her. He wanted to tell her how supple her thighs looked under her miniskirt, how terrific it was that she was profiting from her awful voice.
    “What are you doing?” asked Freida.
    Jeremy downed some Ballantine. “I’m assistant to the director at— Well, I work at the Lucas Theater.”
    Freida nodded. “The Mouseketeer Club.”
    “Ha,” said Jeremy. He took another look at Freida’s thighs, which, if he remembered right, had a tiny spray of freckles on them up around the hips. He remembered his grandfather, who’d loved whispering to pretty girls. Jeremy glanced around. The room they were in was dark and empty.
    “Freida,” he whispered. He placed his hand on her thigh.
    Freida immediately removed it. “Nope,” she said. She smoothed her skirt, and looked at Jeremy, her eyes all business.
    Jeremy was surprised. He’d heard anything went in the back rooms at Minotaur’s, and he’d once taken this girl quite aggressively. He reached toward Freida’s lap again. Freida slapped his hand easily away. She made a little sound that could have been a laugh, then stood up.
    “What’s wrong?” demanded Jeremy.
    Freida shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, stupid.” She picked up her guitar and walked away.
     
     
    The more Jeremy thought about Freida, the madder he got.
    “She called me stupid,” Jeremy muttered. “Twice.”
    “What are you mumbling about?” asked First Angry Mouse.
    The mice were backstage, in the green room, stretching, getting their heads on straight. The Saturday-evening curtain was rising in five minutes, and rumor had it that Mayor Fillipone was in the audience.
    “Nothing,” snapped Jeremy.
    “Hey, Jax,” said Benny Demarco, “don’t step on my tail during the butter dance.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Well, you did this afternoon.”
    “Bullshit,” snapped Jeremy.
    Michael Hye popped his head in the door. “Places,” he said.
    Jeremy sighed heavily.
    “What’s your problem?” said Michael.
    “Fourth Angry’s pissed off,” said Benny.
    Jeremy gave Benny the finger.
    “All right, all right,” said Michael. “Everyone, relax. We’ve got the mayor out there. Places.”
    The