An Officer and His Gentleman (3 page)

By the time he was ready to leave, the old man smiled and said, "Don't
you
be late tonight." His dentures were yellow and didn't fit correctly. When he used words that began with T, his teeth tended to slip forward and he'd press his crooked fingertips to his lips to adjust them.

Chance turned quickly and swung his hips so his penis bounced off his thigh with a loud smack. "I won't. You have fun."

The old man left the market, staring down at Chance's bouncing genitals as he went.
Chance grabbed his clothes and ran upstairs to the living area. It was a narrow staircase covered with olive-green shag carpet that had been installed years before he'd been born. It was a little past seven-thirty. He took two steps at a time.
When he reached the small back bedroom where he slept, he pulled a black polo shirt and a faded pair of jeans from metal wardrobe and threw them onto a twin bed neatly covered with a plain white spread. He didn't have many clothes, but the few he did have were all hung neatly on wooden hangers. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a small wooden nightstand to the left of the bed. He removed his watch and placed it there. He grabbed a bath towel from a hook behind his door and pulled down the window shade for privacy. Though the paint around the window was chipped and the dingy shade frayed at the edges, the glass sparkled and shined just like the windows in his old car.
He jumped into a cold shower because he didn't have time to wait for the hot water to come up from the basement. It was the only bathroom in the house and he shared it with the old man. He always made sure he cleaned the cracked floor tiles and the toilet seat with straight bleach, and he never looked at the beige, plastic false teeth container on the edge of the sink longer than a second. The old man drank prune juice daily, and Chance kept a can of air freshener, a long, sturdy toilet brush and a pair of latex gloves handy at all times. The only thing he didn't do for the old man was his laundry, and there was always a dingy white towel and a crusty pair of socks hanging over the shower curtain that smelled like spoiled fish.
He washed quickly, brushed his teeth until his gums tingled, and ran back to the bedroom to put on his clothes. The faded jeans were low rise, with a three-inch zipper that made his penis pop forward, but he left the black polo shirt outside his pants to cover the bulge so it wouldn't be obnoxious. He nearly fell over when he put his socks on, and he was almost halfway down the stairs when he turned and ran back to retrieve his watch from the nightstand. He told Sarah he'd pick her up on the way to The Island, and she lived ten minutes out of the way.
He drove a pale blue, '90 LeBaron convertible, with a roof that leaked when the rain hit the passenger side and a broken air conditioner. But it was spotlessly clean, from the white canvas top to the white leather seats, although there was a small tear in the back seat that drove him to distraction. He'd purchased the old car with money he'd saved the first year he worked at Dan Pratta's market. It wasn't much of a car, but it was his one source of independence: If he finally decided he couldn't take any more of Dan, he could always live in the car for a while.
The drive to Sarah's house only took him a few miles off the main road, but it felt like he was driving to Alaska. He made a left onto Cove Road and passed rows of small, unkempt cottages, most of them converted into haphazard year-round homes to where working-class New Yorkers had retired. Small kitchens had been extended by adding slantroofed lean-to additions. There were plastic gnomes and windmills in some front yards, plastic birdbaths and statues of the Virgin Mary in others; a few people had spray-painted old truck tires white and filled them with dirt and orange marigolds. He veered right onto Bucknell Trail, and then down a steep hill that led to a small cluster of simple white clapboards with more expensive lakefront property. At the edge of the driveway near the last house on the right, a plump young woman with big red hair and a yellow halter top clutched her brown pocketbook and walked toward the street. She opened the door with long red fingernails and slid into the passenger side.
"You're late," she said, "It's almost seven o'clock."
Chance knew Sarah wasn't mad at him. He gripped the steering wheel and sighed. Then he made a U-turn and headed back to the main road. "The old man made me scrub all the floors after we closed. He
said
he wanted the place clean for the weekend, but he only wanted to torture me." He didn't mention that he'd been naked when he'd mopped the floors, or that he'd wiggled his ass to put Dan in a good mood. No one knew about
that
part of his life.
She smiled and rubbed her palms together as if she were expecting something wonderful to happen. "Well, I always think it's better to be late anyway. You don't want to look too anxious if you're gonna snag this guy. Play hard to get, is what I always say." She shook her finger at him. Her voice was overly animated and she was speaking even faster than she usually did.
"I'm not trying to 'snag' anyone," he said. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. "I'm just meeting a friend at an amusement park is all." But his palms were starting to sweat and his mouth felt a little dry. This may have been a huge mistake. He could have been home watching the Food Network and planning his next recipe.
He turned back onto the main road that circled the massive lake and they rode in silence, passing cute little cafes and pizza shops with red, white and green awnings next to small mom-and-pop gift shops that sold T-shirts and postcards and beach accessories. As they rounded a curve that led to the other side of the lake, the landscape grew darker—woody and leafy, with more expensive homes at the end of long driveways. It always made Chance smile, though, that the woodlands around the lake had not yet been replaced by newer sub-divisions that seemed to be popping up everywhere. He passed a natural stone wall on the right, where a sign read, "Caution: Falling Rocks." On the left there was a white brick, flat-roofed school with large black letters that spelled out, "Richard M. Nixon Elementary". He'd always wondered if they'd chosen that name before or after Nixon had resigned.
He drove a few more miles, then put on his left turning signal and came to a full stop. When it was safe to turn, he drove down the gravelly tree-lined road where a faded red sign with white letters read, "Bartrum's Island." The old car bumped and jerked; he drove very slowly to avoid large potholes. He passed a deer that was waiting to cross. It stood there frozen in its tracks, eyes popping and heart probably racing. The road widened into a large gravel parking lot. It was still early and there weren't many cars. He pulled into a space at the end of the second row.
Bartrum's Island wasn't a real island at all—the moniker was meant to make it sound more festive. He'd been going there since he was a small child and it hadn't changed in all those years, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Each summer the place seemed more dilapidated and worn than the year before. A cluster of rickety amusement park rides included the most unkempt roller coaster in the East, and a ferris wheel barely turned a full circle in an hour. There were rows of carnival wheels where they gave out dusty stuffed animals for prizes, and a fortune teller would guess your height and weight for five dollars. The locals, though, mainly went there to either walk around or hang out at a bar called The Island Pier.
Chance pulled his keys from the ignition and opened the door. His hands felt shaky and his right eyelid started to twitch. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he said.
But Sarah was already out of the car and halfway down the parking lot. She put her hands on her hips and called, "C'mon. Let's go! It'll be fun."
He noticed she was wearing high heels and brand-new jeans. She looked overdressed for a casual walk around The Island, as if
she
were the one meeting a stranger that night. He jogged up to her side and shook his head. "I'm having major second thoughts about this. I mean, seriously, this guy is older. I don't know anything about him." He didn't bother to mention that he'd sucked him off earlier that day.
She waved her arm in the air, and said, "Okay, then we'll have a safe word."
"Safe word?"
"If you're not interested in him, you don't say anything and we'll just leave," she said, "But if you are interested, and you want me to get lost, say the word
fishhook
, and I'll disappear."
"Fishhook?"
"Yes. But I have to know by nine o'clock so I can meet my brother and he can take me home by boat," she said. Her older brother worked at the Haunted House ride, and he always went to work by boat. She grabbed his arm and shook it, and he realized he was staring at his shoes. "You got it, kiddo?"
He nodded, then repeated, "Fishhook."
When they reached the entrance gate where it cost $2.50 to be admitted to the park, he pulled a five-dollar bill from his back pocket. He handed it to the old man in the booth and he and Sarah crossed through a metal turnstile. The entire park was surrounded by a tall, dark green fence so people couldn't just walk around for free. You had to pay for a roll of tickets at another booth inside the park if you wanted to go on the rides. Sarah insisted on paying for her own admission, but he refused to let her.
Inside the fence, the dusty walkway and the hot smell of popcorn and cotton candy mingled above the distant sound of carnival organ music. A man dressed up as a clown stood near the ticket kiosk holding a handful of Mylar balloons in every color. "How' bout a balloon for your girlfriend?" he bellowed to Chance. His accent was thick New York.
Sarah replied, "Not tonight, honey, and I'm not his girlfriend." She popped a chunk of bubble gum into her mouth and continued walking.
Chance looked over the clown's polka-dotted shoulder. It was still light out and the park wasn't very crowded that night, but he saw two men standing next to a park bench at the edge of the lake, off in the distance. One wore a red baseball cap and white short pants, the other wore jeans and a navy blue polo shirt and looked as if he'd just stepped out of a Calvin Klein advertisement.
"Do you see him yet?" Sarah asked.
"No," he said. Then he adjusted his eyes and blinked a few times. "Ah, well..."
Brody
was the Calvin Klein advertisement, his short dark hair neatly styled with a small turned-up wave at his forehead. His large hands were shoved in his pockets. He was smiling and nodding; he looked even more handsome than he'd looked in the market. When they started walking toward him, Sarah a few steps ahead, Brody turned in their direction and smiled, and Chance's knees started to feel weak again. Brody pulled his hands out of his pockets and said something to the guy with the red baseball cap, then he turned and walked toward Chance and Sarah. "You made it," Brody said, "I was starting to worry you wouldn't show up."
"Hi, I'm Sarah. I work with Chance." She pulled her halter top up higher with her thumbs and index fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm the one who made him late."
Chance said, "Hi, Brody."
It would have been silly and awkward and overly formal to shake hands. But Brody reached into his back pocket and pulled out a roll of tickets he'd purchased for the rides. "I haven't been here in a long time," he said, "and I want to go on every ride in the park tonight."
"Ah, well, I don't know about that," Chance said. He shoved his hands into his own pockets and lowered his head. "They say the roller coaster hasn't been repaired since l975, and it's just an accident waiting to happen."
Sarah put her hands on her hips and said to Brody, "Don't listen to him. He's afraid of rides. But I'll go on them with you." She loved fast rides, anything that soared down a steep hill, turned her upside down, and shook her around. The higher the ride went, the wider she smiled.
Brody grinned at him. "Maybe there are a few you can go on."
When he raised his head and his eyes met Brody's, he experienced a peculiar jolt in the pit of his stomach, and then his body started to loosen and his hands fell limp at his side. "I'll go on a few," he said, "But not the roller coaster, and nothing that goes too high."
The roller coaster was near the entrance of the park, so Sarah and Brody went on that first. Sarah ran to the first car in the row, pulling Brody by the arm, while Chance stood patiently waiting for them, clutching her purse. His stomach pulled as he watched the row of cars climb up a steep hill; the rust-colored tracks swayed and made rickety noises, as if they were missing a few essential nuts and bolts. And when the cars descended and Sarah's arms flew into the air, his back teeth started to itch. She screamed with the other passengers behind her. He knew her face was red and her eyes were open as wide as they would go. From what he could see, Brody held onto the front safety bar as Sarah's large body leaned into him when they rounded a curve.
When the roller coaster went off toward the other end of the park and Chance couldn't see them anymore, he walked over to a bench and sat down next to another guy holding someone's purse. He only wanted to sit quietly and wait, but the other guy started talking first. "I hate this, man," he said, "My wife loves to come here every summer and go on the roller coaster, and it looks to me like it's ready to come down any minute. Crazy, man, just crazy. And I get stuck holding her purse." He tapped a white canvas purse at his side and laughed, then spread his legs wider and spit on the ground. He was wearing baggy tan shorts, brown sandals and a white baseball jersey, and it sounded like he came from New York. But it could have been Northern New Jersey.
"Ah, well..." Chance said. Strange people were always starting up conversations like this with him, especially strange men. This guy was in his thirties and going bald on top. He had a small paunch, but nice hairy legs and a good-looking face.
"You live around here, man?" he asked. His eyes began to shift in every direction, and he started to play with the wedding ring on his finger.
"Not far," Chance said. He didn't want to encourage a conversation with this guy.
"Do you do massage, man?" he asked. He leaned in and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "I'm going to be around for a few days, and I could use a soft pair of hands, if you know what I mean, buddy."
Oh, he knew what
this
guy meant. There were times when Chance wondered if he had an invisible sign attached to his back that said,
C'mon boys, I'll take care of you.
It never failed; he always attracted the married guys, the daddy types who liked to play around on the down low when their wives weren't paying attention. They were the big strong firemen and cops who played football on the weekends; the guys who drank beer, scratched their balls, and went to stag parties with their buddies to watch hired women strippers. One of those guys once told Chance it was because he had natural blond hair, a smooth body, and an ass that rounded like two ripe melons. The guy said, "If they put you in a pair of high heels, bend you over the back of a chair and spread your legs wide, it's the next best thing to tagging a hot woman. Horny men can smell good sex, and they know when someone is ripe for it."