Read Online The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards by Robert Boswell - Free Book Online

he said, wanting her to leave the Merry Maids Hoover in the carpeted hall. “Follow me, please.” His voice had the melodic lilt of strangeness, and there was something in his walk, a wobble, as if the floor beneath him were shifting. Monica’s daughter Sally, not quite three years old, ran with that same rocking motion, her arms lifted and flailing at the air.
    Monica regarded all black men as personally threatening, but she knew this about herself and tried to compensate. There weren’t that many blacks in Albuquerque, but she had dated one for a while. His lips had touched the soft skin below her ribs; his tongue had explored her belly button. But while they were together, she found herself suggesting barbecue ribs, Kentucky Fried Chicken, even watermelon. “I love the blues,” she had said, and then found herself unable to name a single performer. “The one Diana Ross played in that old movie,” she had added. She would have been humiliated, but he’d had no interest in the blues, which she found annoying. He had been disappointing, hardly black at all. However, she hadn’t trusted him with her daughter. There was that.
    The black man she now followed down the hall went by the name of Mr. Chub. He intimidated her: his blackness, his shortness, the swaggering teeter of his walk, the cut of his expensive clothes—pants ballooning at the waist, tapered at the ankle, as if to emphasize the brevity of his torso, and his white shirt, buttoned to the collar, cuff links (cuff links!) in the shape of gold coins.
    “This is your first house of the day?” he asked, his voice smooth, like someone from radio, like Brian, her lover. Not actually her lover at the moment. Brian was her former and, she was confident, future lover. A smooth voice like Brian’s, but Mr. Chub’s voice was strange, too, haunting.
    Monica assured him this was her first stop of the day. He paused before a closet, his hand on the brass knob, thin brows arching. Above his large head, a tight nest of dark, curly hair.
Natty
was the word that came to mind, natty hair and
nattily
dressed, but she thought they might be racist words. Her mind seemed to insist that she was a bigot, but she didn’t feel it in her heart.
    His big head nodded slightly. “And you… pardon me, but you did bathe this morning?”
    “You don’t have the right to ask me that,” she said, suddenly defiant, fearless, then immediately afraid. She had showered and shampooed her hair. She bought shampoo from her hair stylist. She didn’t scrimp on her hair.
    “I apologize,” he said and removed the vacuum from the closet, a Kirby Deluxe with a chrome case, brand-new and gleaming like a car just waxed.
    “It’s beautiful,” Monica said.
    “Sis-sis-sis,” he stammered. “Sis-sis.” He looked away, composed himself, his shoulders rolling mechanically. “I… have… a… stutter,” he said, as if announcing royalty. “Rarely.”
    “My husband stutters,” she said, dismissive, half shutting her eyes, imagining it were true. She could almost picture him, his hair rumpled, his sweet and naked mouth unable to fix on a word. “I’m used to it.”
    Mr. Chub seemed charmed by this. His smile grew large and rectangular, teeth white and perfect. From the neck up he was movie-star handsome, a peaked mustache feathering his full upper lip. “If you have any questions, you may call me,” he said and showed her the intercom mounted low on the wall—his level, the Chub plane. “This button is tricky,” he warned, pushing it with his black thumb, pink in the creases. Not really black, of course, a shade of brown, with some red in it, like a dark oak stain, a tobacco color. The black man she had dated had been a waiter in a seafood restaurant. He had been getting a degree in economics. Uncircumcised. He preferred V-neck sweaters. She made a mental note to look through Mr. Chub’s clothing.
    She stripped the bed, bundling the expensive pinstriped sheets, imagining this man’s