all. The notion nauseated me, wrenched me out of the diner and back to work.
It was pushing three-thirty and I hadn't made one connection since lunch. I was in a rage, in a panic. I got into the nervous habit of squeezing my crotch, like I was applying a tourniquet. That afternoon became a disaster. I blew sales right and left. I was surly, impatient—as if it was
their
fucking fault that
I
had to stomp around in icy February weather selling that bullshit and the least they could goddamn do was
buy
the crap, for Christ's sake.
At a three-story brick building on Eleventh Street I finally decided that this was it, whatever I did in that building was it for the day. There was no elevator and the hallways were somebody's idea of the future. They were wallpapered with what looked like silver foil. There were only twelve apartments. No one was home in the first eight. A real nelly faggot came to the door in the ninth; a short, skinny, limp wrist with a sinus cold that gave him a nose like Rudolph the reindeer. He kept schlepping on his beak while eyeing the contents of my case through the six inches the chain lock allowed. He closed the door on me without saying sorry or no thank you, and I was stuck with all my cans and boxes sprouting around my feet like mushrooms. I muttered "Faggot" louder than I meant to, but I doubt that he heard me, and I had mixed feelings about that fact.
The name on the next door was Gordon. At that point I wasn't expecting anything miraculous. Even though I felt sorry for myself, I was also feeling a little better because after two more doors I could go home.
"Just a minute."
She sounded young and I quickly tucked my shirt into the elastic band of my shorts to flatten my gut Three chains unlocked, the door swung open, and hey hey there she was, about five-ten, long red hair like Rita Whatever and wearing, no lie, a nightgown. It was two-forty-five in the P.M.. and she was wearing a nightgown.
"Yeah?" She was half-smiling as though she had just woke up from a nice dream, and she leaned her head sleepily on the door frame, totally relaxed, totally un-paranoid about me.
. "Hi! I've got a free gift from Bluecastle for you!" What a schmuck. I raised my sample case slightly and pointed my chin at the apartment door. "Mind if I come in?"
"Oh yeah? What kind of free gift?" She yawned and rubbed the heel of her hand into her eyes. " 'Scuse me."
"We ran out of whips and vibrators." I pulled out one of those shit-ass cream sachet foils from my jacket pocket and held it up casually between two fingers, like an ID.
"Hawaii Five-O, ma'am, mind if we come in and look around?" My best shot.
"That's not much of a gift." Her skin was lightly sprayed with acne scars and a vaguely sour morning mouth smell drifted over to me. Nothing turned me off like bad breath, but I knew morning mouth was unavoidable.
"It's a door opener; I got better stuff in here." I tapped my case. She wasn't that nice-looking. It felt very important to feel that I kept thinking about morning mouth and how someday we were all going to die no matter what.
She slowly turned from the door and walked unsteadily into the living room. I followed her in. The light from the living room window revealed her legs through her nightgown, and I immediately got one of those boners that start from the heart For a fast two seconds I rubbed my crotch viciously behind her back, clenching my teeth and looking like a psycho.
She sat down in a flimsy, white, slightly unraveled wicker chair and hunched over, elbows on knees, hands crossed to her shoulders like she was shielding her tits from me. I sat across from her on a burgundy fake velvet sofa and opened my case between my feet. I could tell she lived alone. Two gilt-framed pictures of her parents, lot of plants, tortoise shell window shades, a portable typewriter on a cheap one-piece molded white plastic table, a stack of
New York
and
Times
., magazines piled on the bottom rack of a TV stand, a small TV
It was pushing three-thirty and I hadn't made one connection since lunch. I was in a rage, in a panic. I got into the nervous habit of squeezing my crotch, like I was applying a tourniquet. That afternoon became a disaster. I blew sales right and left. I was surly, impatient—as if it was
their
fucking fault that
I
had to stomp around in icy February weather selling that bullshit and the least they could goddamn do was
buy
the crap, for Christ's sake.
At a three-story brick building on Eleventh Street I finally decided that this was it, whatever I did in that building was it for the day. There was no elevator and the hallways were somebody's idea of the future. They were wallpapered with what looked like silver foil. There were only twelve apartments. No one was home in the first eight. A real nelly faggot came to the door in the ninth; a short, skinny, limp wrist with a sinus cold that gave him a nose like Rudolph the reindeer. He kept schlepping on his beak while eyeing the contents of my case through the six inches the chain lock allowed. He closed the door on me without saying sorry or no thank you, and I was stuck with all my cans and boxes sprouting around my feet like mushrooms. I muttered "Faggot" louder than I meant to, but I doubt that he heard me, and I had mixed feelings about that fact.
The name on the next door was Gordon. At that point I wasn't expecting anything miraculous. Even though I felt sorry for myself, I was also feeling a little better because after two more doors I could go home.
"Just a minute."
She sounded young and I quickly tucked my shirt into the elastic band of my shorts to flatten my gut Three chains unlocked, the door swung open, and hey hey there she was, about five-ten, long red hair like Rita Whatever and wearing, no lie, a nightgown. It was two-forty-five in the P.M.. and she was wearing a nightgown.
"Yeah?" She was half-smiling as though she had just woke up from a nice dream, and she leaned her head sleepily on the door frame, totally relaxed, totally un-paranoid about me.
. "Hi! I've got a free gift from Bluecastle for you!" What a schmuck. I raised my sample case slightly and pointed my chin at the apartment door. "Mind if I come in?"
"Oh yeah? What kind of free gift?" She yawned and rubbed the heel of her hand into her eyes. " 'Scuse me."
"We ran out of whips and vibrators." I pulled out one of those shit-ass cream sachet foils from my jacket pocket and held it up casually between two fingers, like an ID.
"Hawaii Five-O, ma'am, mind if we come in and look around?" My best shot.
"That's not much of a gift." Her skin was lightly sprayed with acne scars and a vaguely sour morning mouth smell drifted over to me. Nothing turned me off like bad breath, but I knew morning mouth was unavoidable.
"It's a door opener; I got better stuff in here." I tapped my case. She wasn't that nice-looking. It felt very important to feel that I kept thinking about morning mouth and how someday we were all going to die no matter what.
She slowly turned from the door and walked unsteadily into the living room. I followed her in. The light from the living room window revealed her legs through her nightgown, and I immediately got one of those boners that start from the heart For a fast two seconds I rubbed my crotch viciously behind her back, clenching my teeth and looking like a psycho.
She sat down in a flimsy, white, slightly unraveled wicker chair and hunched over, elbows on knees, hands crossed to her shoulders like she was shielding her tits from me. I sat across from her on a burgundy fake velvet sofa and opened my case between my feet. I could tell she lived alone. Two gilt-framed pictures of her parents, lot of plants, tortoise shell window shades, a portable typewriter on a cheap one-piece molded white plastic table, a stack of
New York
and
Times
., magazines piled on the bottom rack of a TV stand, a small TV
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Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014
Alex Hernandez George S. Walker Eleanor R. Wood Robert Quinlivan Peter Medeiros Hannah Goodwin R. Leigh Hennig
