A Matter of Love in da Bronx (36 page)

--About marriage?

--Yeah.

--You and Louisa?

--Yeah.

--You have three choices.

--How do you know that?

--There are always three choices: This, that, or neither. In your case it's get married, don't get married, or shack up.

--Jesus Christ Almighty, Sam! I don't know! I just don't know about you!

Jesus Christ Almighty, Lou, all you have to do is shift your vision from the end of your cock to what you see before you: me. I'm a person. See? A real, living, breathing, needing, wanting, desiring, feeling human being. But, you see me as your marble column. A support. About a needful as a jockstrop...prized but not valued. Don't misunderstand. I'm flattered. You wouldn't speak this way if you didn't feel I had the wisdom to come up with the answer to your dilemma. As if you were Alexander The Great's father, King Phillip of Macedon, visiting the Oracle at Delphi where the king was told: Beware the chariots! The king unaware the caution was for the former queen's dagger which she called Myrtalis and was engraved with chariots indeed was aimed at his heart for an assassination that was successful and made Alexander regent. Just as the king didn't want to hear what he didn't want to hear, you don't really care what I have to say, but in your self-centered callousness you're also not aware of what you present to me as an everyday event to the everyday man which I've yet to experience. How do you think I feel? To know of how you achieve the heights of ecstasy when I try to teach myself, unable to get out of the pits? Do you want me to understand gushings, and comings, and screams of delight, and fleshy doings hour after hour and also understand the more subtle exigencies of whoring and fucking complicated with love, and as one friend to another I have the strong urge to tell you to take your miserable, rotten, picayune problems and go fuck yourself. --Lou?

--Yeah! Yeah!

--Go fuck yourself.

--I did it again, right? Look, Sam, don't make me feel guilty for talking about things I know you only dream about. They're a reality for me, and I'm sorry for your luck for not tasting a bit of what I'm talking about, but you have the misfortune also of being my friend. And I must talk to you as a friend. Don't you understand a friend is not seen as more or less; as smarter or dumber; as richer or poorer; as deprived or spoiled--just...merely...only...as a friend. A friend can borrow my soul. A friend can have my heart. A friend is me. If I misunderstand you it's only because I don't know myself. If I mistreat you, it's because I can't take care of myself. If I hurt you, it's because my wounds hurt me, too. If you weren't my friend, I would have to explain...I would have to apologize...I would have to beg forgiveness...I would have to commit suicide. Sam...?

--Lou? Please tell me, what the fuck are you talking about?

--You miserable son-of-a-bitch.

--You want my answer?

--Try me.

--If I loved a girl as much as you did, and she wouldn't have me--have me! Not just marry me--I would take a walk on the Verrazano Bridge, and spew the color of my emotion in the seas of this disgracefully managed world.

--You would?

--Not a doubt in my mind.
Fait a compli.
It would be so from the moment she said "No." Why the fuck would anyone put up with anything less? That would be more of a miserable hell than any hell invented by any Pope. Don't you understand, in this life, you are on one side of the tracks, or the other? One side is ignorant, puts up with all the shit delved by all the shitty people and their rules and laws and ways as shitty as they are--like landlords, lawyers and freelays; and the other side are those who can see the shining virtues worthwhile in their attainment, denying themselves anything less. Once they have known the best, how can they be satisfied with the counterfeit? They can't. After these mighty orgasms with Louisa, would you really want to survive a day longer with the bitch who reads the funny papers while you're a-humping? That's what happens with ninety-percent of the marriages in this world--one or the other is phantasizing about something sexually exciting just as when they were jerking off as a kid. Nothing is forever, Lou, even our friendship; so fuck Louisa for love and glory as long as you can doing whatever you can to do it; or, fuck you! Go jerk off, and stop breaking my hump.

--How did you know she's the one that doesn't want to get married? That she says we shouldn't spoil a wonderful thing? How do you know?

--Because you don't both have the same to gain. Louisa is thinking the charm will wear off, then she's just stuck with a schmuck, who worries more about meeting bills than getting it up. The idea of perpetually being on a search for the perfect piece of ass is more appealing than becoming one of life's surrenders, and accepting the bland dissatisfaction and disaffection of the mediocre middle class. Who looks for the perfect orgasm with two kids, an appearance to maintain, detergent to select, bathrooms to clean, payments to make, vacations to do, holiday to endure? She's saying, Lou, take your fucking worn-out values and shove them up your ass, she neither wants them, nor needs them. If you do, join the piles of shit in the world similar to you.

--Do you agree?

--Lou, if I agreed I'd be humping Louisa.

--Tell me what to do!

--Don't waste my time.

--Why?

--Especially by a friend, I don't like to be used. You make me out to be a dishrag.

--No! How do I do that?

--Tell me, I'll do whatever you say, then do it, and it's worth my consideration. Otherwise, I'd become a money-grubbing professional person, charge for my advice and not give a shit if you followed it or not.

--Okay, I'll do it!

--You're a liar, Lou, like the rest of the world. You just want to hear what I have to say, at no charge.

--No! Really, tell me. I'll do it.

--Okay. Lou? Go fuck yourself.

--Sam!

--It's your life. You go spend it. That's the best advice this friend can give you.

--Sam, you've gotta help. Tell me something. I've never been anywhere close to this spot before. It feels so awful. No one's ever described it before. Never. Not even close in all the books I've read. It's like foreplay for death. I don't think I'll make it. I'm going to splinter. Sam, your blind guidance is better than my blind ignorance. Help me.

--You listening? Then listen close. This is where women have it all over men. Where they get tougher than a two-dollar steak. They can cry. You feel like crying, right? I know you do. Lou, if you can only do one thing listen. Don't cry. If you bawl, you're done with. If you feel you can't hold back, get some garlic and eat it raw with a tumbler of whiskey.

--What does that do?

--You stupid shit, if you can do that it tells you don't want to die!

--Don't cry...

--Right. Don't cry. Don't die.

Explaining he had to get to the wake of Lincoln Jackson's son, Sam left Lou: full of anguish, sterilizing pain, hollow desires. Free of malice, leaving him thus calmed Sam to know he need not envy his dear but thoughtless friend who constantly reminded him of what he'd been missing. It wasn't so bad for Lou: Who would trade oblivion for pain? Compared to the lobotomizing frustrations Sam used to feel. He thought as he entered the kitchen at home that if we all got everything we wanted when we wanted it life wouldn't be worth a half-fuck, and not getting anything worthwhile at all wasn't worth half a rotten shit. And in between? Naturally, Mankind.

--Hi! Ma. You okay?

--Yes, I'm fine. Why you concern?

--Sitting in here at the table, drinking tea instead of taking in thirty-year-old re-runs of I Love Lucy on the television.

--It's over. I watch the news a few minutes with your father. Just more misery they show.
Figlio, c'hai famme?

--No, I'm not hungry. His emotional palate was surfeit. He couldn't handle anything as ordinary as food. Tea. I think a tea would suit me just fine. Silence. Desperate quiet. Christ! Find something to say! Anything about the car fire up on Morris Park? There! There something for kindly communication.

--I don't watch the television news long, but I see myself the fire...!

Her words registered in his brain in boldface capital letters. She actually saw the car fire? How revelatory.

Not that he thought about it right then and there. It was more like a flashing light he knew he'd have to respond to at one time or another. He unexpectedly found himself staring into his mother's eyes. Smoothworn the downwards deep passage to the scorekeeping room. Smokey, like moving fog through evenings' early shadows, belieing the deadstill black of deepbricked corners untouched by the lightest of life's trafficked breezes. He saw that in his mother's eyes, and was unabashed. In fact, happy for her that there had been a garnish, some larger fillip than a never-before-seen rerun.

--Figlio, stay. Talk.

--Sure, Ma. What? About what? He anticipated the gesture: head off to one side, the bottom lip curling up, shoulder hitching up toward the ear shrug. It's all been said, Ma. Even for your own son, it's too embarrassing to undo. --I'll catch a cigar on the porch steps.

If she had come, there would be no bones about it. First, she would have to understand his condition, perhaps even explain how it came about. Sympathetic? To him? You bet. She'd have a few choice words for the directerie, you bet. He would have to explain how she should cup his balls, and hold them up just a little, not too much, just enough to keep them from jiggling against anything. He reached down under the sheet to feel them. Baseballs. No kidding. They felt like they were the size of baseballs. And ache! Mamma mia! Each touch was like a stroke from a nine-pound sledge. He wasn't sure, but there was no hope of a hard-on. But, if she had come, limp as it was, her first warm breath on it would've shot it into her mouth, and even before she licked it wet it would be shooting cannonades down her throat. And how much coaxing would it take to flatter her into doing it again, but not as good this time, perhaps a little slower and longer and deeper and more tongue and be careful with the balls, they've got to last me the rest of my fucking lifetime. But Phyllis didn't show up, and though he phantasized about what he would say, and then what she would say, and he and she and he and she and he and she until finally he was standing on the step, and she was down one or two taking his organ on a joy ride, Sam acknowledged his own personal, private relief that he was actually
glad
she didn't show up. Somewhere, when he first thought of the porch, and sucking on a cigar, he sensed the guilt feeling that he was being disloyal to Mary. No matter, he would just check out the evening...just to see what happened...just in case Phyllis smelled his cigar. He need not have worried. His balls still felt as big as baseballs. Jerkoff? Not tonight, Buster! Are you crazy? Crazy, Huh? How do you expect to fall asleep tonight? Blueballs is a malady that should befall insomniacs, not lovers. It then would serve a dual purpose. Maybe I should count sheep... No! Remember Mother's eyes! When you were a little boy...five, six, maybe? When she discovered yours looking at her, and you found something there in hers? Remember? You couldn't sleep then, either, and you discovered a new sensation in your balls then, too, remember? Ah! Yes! Sultry afternoon. Little boy in bed in the nude napping. No. Trying to nap. Get Mommy. Go to Mommy. Where are you, Mommy? No, not in this room; not in that room; not here; not there; where? Oh! There! In the kitchen with Aunt Lilly. What is the feeling that keeps me from running in, calling out as I watch through the near-closed door? Just in time as Lilly rises from her chair, and steps quickly behind you at the sink...to do you harm! I should call out to beware! But no! Her arms slip slowly around your waist. You jerk stiffly. Are you in pain, Mommy? Her touch makes you grip hard the sink, you rise on your toes, you arch your head back against her cheek. Though I can't see them, I know her hands are moving hot against your belly, and by your sudden jukes, she has captured your tits, moving slowly over them, you responding with your buttock wriggling tight against her front. Only, clothes are in the way. Then, as if by practice, as if by magic, Aunt Lilly's hands work wonders discarding your wrap to leave you exposed, wanting, vulnerable. She turns you to her, her arms pulling you in close, no matter both yours guarding your chest, her lips take yours as her hand reach down to your soft fullness to pull you into her. I don't understand, Mommy. What is this you do, but deep inside I have a knowing sensation. Your hands snap out to be flung around her neck to aid more the kissing, the writhing, the demanding urgings. What is that you're doing with your tongues? Making them go in and out and in and out of each other's mouths, licking each others lips and face? What is that you do? Biting each other necks? You throw your head back as she clamps her teeth onto your beautiful, long white neck; and moan with such a softness. You break away to nuzzle her anxiously as both your bodies push hard against each other in strange movements. Then came the wondrous part. Together, swiftly you both move across the floor to one end of the kitchen table. Mommy's nude
culo
is against one end of it. She seems not to want something to happen, and yet...I can feel an excitement flashing through the room. Somehow I know I'm not to interfere, that Mommy is not in danger; that this is some enthralling rite; that this is something fascinating. She is touching your breasts, rubbing them. Oh! See her lick the nipples with her tongue, licking all around, suddenly sucking in the teat. There, her other hand goes around your back, down, between the soft roundness pushing in and out. What is it doing to you that it makes you call out such funny names, and say such funny words I never heard even if you are speaking in Italian. Oh! Look! How she moves from one of your big tits to the other, and then sits! She sits down on the chair to continue kissing you down more and more. I see her tongue go into your belly button, and you bump hard at her with the place between your legs. Both of her hands now hold your boobs, and I can see her pushing you backwards. I can see at first you don't want to do that, but she is urging you gently, and soon your elbows are on the kitchen table. My dear mother! I don't recognize you! What a strange expression you have on your face as you watch what she does to you so intently. My mouth hurts it's hung open so long. But, the amazing things don't stop. Why is she doing that to you, Mommy? Pushing your leg up until your foot rests on the table top? Then, look! She takes your other leg and lifts it onto her shoulder! What reason is that for? Why? Resting heavy on your elbows, way onto the table, your head thrown back, I hear the little choking sounds, and gasps, and sighs spurt out of you. You are not in pain. I know that. You like it, whatever is happening to you, Mommy. I can see her very clearly now. She is kissing your belly by the hair of your vee then moves to the inside of your legs. See? See her tongue tracing lines back and forth and down your legs. I can see she's biting, sucking at you; each time getting closer and closer to that place where I have my peenie but you have...you have? a little red opening? Do you know, in all these years I forgot what I saw there that day! Oh! Yes! How I remember! Her tongue seemed as long as my finger as it stuck out and just barely touched you there. You gasped louder than ever before. She did it again. And you cried out again. And again. And again. I saw her wet tongue lick, and push, and move up and down against you there. All the way up and down she started moving spreading you wider and wider apart until suddenly her tongue went into you, deep, hard. Oh! You liked that so much. You shouted out some words, Mommy, like it made you feel so wonderful. Now, I could watch her tongue dart in and out and in and out faster and faster. She kept squeezing your tits, and you kept pushing your body off the table. I don't know how, but I knew something was going to happen. The air felt so...heavy...like it does when it's going to lightning! She seemed to grow wild, her head moving all over you, her tongue pushing in and out, and everything so wet. Suddenly, I knew! She opened her mouth wide and seemed to bite and suck you there all at once. You screamed out so loud I got frightened! Your elbows went out from under you and you collapsed flat on the table as she kept digging into you. Your eyes were closed, and I think you went off to sleep because everything went limp, like you just left this world, even though you kept doing like...like jerking...your whole body. Even so, she kept your legs up and apart and starting just kind of licking you nicely. When you woke up, you started that funny moaning sound again, and that's when, with your arm hanging off the table, your head rolled to one side, and your eyes met mine. You knew I had been watching, and I knew you knew. Somehow, in that second, I knew you wanted me to forget what I had seen. I did. I remember I went back to my bed wondering why I had gotten up. What made me remember? It wasn't just one incident. I recall you and her walking down the street together arm and arm. I recall seeing her rub her leg against yours under the table when we were all having supper together. I can remember finding you both together unexpectedly, with you both suddenly moving away from each other. Then, there was that feeling whenever you two were together: cleaning up the dishes, or heads together talking, or how you would touch each other when you said goodbye, or at those times when kisses were called for, like at Christmas, or birthday, and such. Then, today, in the light of the early night, when I saw her walking with Mary, she made an impression. The connection between the two of you came when you said you had actually seen the automobile on fire. That's when I knew you had gone to meet her. After all these years, the feelings between the two of you had never changed, and how the pseudo-cuckolds aided and abetted unwittingly the affair! Mary will love the story. Ah! How Mary will love the story. Oh! God! How Mary will love! Yes! Love me, Mary! Love...me! GOD! What a sensation! Oh! Yes! How exquisite...? Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! OH! OH!