Anonymous Rex (25 page)

The waiters are approaching, offering their help, holding open doors for us, anxious, I assume, to conclude this evening’s entertainment, and I’m more than happy to accept their aid. We emerge from the tavern into the torpid Indian-summer air, the humidity wreaking havoc on my makeup, and I glance about the street for the nearest bench. We wobble over to a bus stop covered in advertisements (which have themselves been covered with graffiti), and I let Sarah plop onto the hard wooden slats. Her skirt hikes up even higher than before, betraying a hint of sun-drenched yellow panties.

“Stay here,” I say, pulling her skirt down into a more modest position. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Sarah grabs my wrist, holds it tight. “Don’t leave,” she says. “Everyone leaves.”

“I need to find us a cab,” I tell her.

“Don’t leave,” she repeats.

Straddling the bus stop, one foot on the bench, one foot in the street, my wrist still enveloped in Sarah’s hands, I wave my free arm like an SOS flag, hoping that a taxi will emerge from the darkness and rescue us. Sarah has begun to sing, a muddied conglomeration of words, word fragments, and scatting, her song carrying across the busy city street and into the night. That rich contralto, layered with evident training, is strong through the haze of drink, and I’m surprised at the clarity of the melody despite the fractured lyrics.

Five minutes later, we are still taxi-free, and Sarah’s song dribbles to a halt. She releases my wrist and falls silent. The hubbub of traffic
drifts away as well, the rest of the world dropping out, vanishing, leaving only a single streetlight illuminating a bus bench, a gorgeous woman, and the Velociraptor standing guard over her.

“Your voice …” I whisper. “It’s incredible.”

Her only response is to look up at me—a feat, considering how that head must be spinning—and smile tightly. The streetlight makes golden droplets from the tears in her eyes, and all I can think to do is kiss them away. I kneel down, my lips nearing her eyes, nearing her cheeks, and suddenly I can taste the saltwater, I can taste the pain, and I can’t stop it, I’m no longer in control as my mouth slides across her skin, slipping through the tears, slowly, gaining speed, searching out her lips, the soft flesh sizzling between us, moving, tongues roving, muted moans of need rumbling through our chests, a deep kiss that draws me in and blacks me out—

A taxi pulls up, honking.

“You wanna ride? You—lovebirds! You shaking your hand around before, you wanna ride?”

I may have to kill this man. Sarah and I break apart, the stars slowly clearing from my vision. Sarah’s eyes are still closed, though I suspect it’s more from drowsiness than enduring pleasure.

“I don’t got all night,” calls the cabbie.

“One second!” I shout back.

“You don’t gotta yell about it!”

Sarah is too far gone to help along as I lift her off the bench and onto my shoulder like a Neanderthal carrying his devoted wife across the plains. Already, I feel disgusted with my actions. My mouth and a human mouth … the possibilities for disease are tremendous.

“You got your hands full there,” says the cabbie as I lower Sarah into the backseat. “Quite a hot little number.”

I choose not to dignify his crude comment with a response and wriggle in next to Sarah, who has chosen this moment to completely pass out. Not good—I don’t know the fair lady’s address. A light slap on the face does no good, nor does a rough shake of the shoulders.

As I close the door of the cab, sealing us tight within its restrictive confines, the smell hits me—soft leather and canned dog food, a dino scent if I’ve ever smelled one. The cabbie turns in his seat, my Robusto-tinted odor hitting him at the same time.

“Hey,” he says, “always good to have a fellow dino”—he pronounces
it “diner”—“in my cab. Welcome aboard.” He thrusts out a meaty paw.

“Shhhhh!” I caution, nodding toward Sarah. I needn’t worry—she’s kilometers from conscious—but you can never be too sure around humans.

“You mean she … No wonder I didn’t smell—”

“Yes. Yes.”

The cabbie wiggles his eyebrows at me, a lewd leer that says
I know what you’re up to, you sly dog, you
. He confirms my suspicions by saying, a moment later, “Well, well. If you’re gonna do it, go all the way, that’s what I say.”

“That’s not it. We’re friends.”

“Not what it looked like on that bench back there.”

“Really, we—”

“Don’t worry about me, pal, I won’t say a thing. Damn Council fucks think they can run our lives, hell, I can’t vote for all but one of ’em, and my guy’s always getting pushed around.” This moron is under the impression that the Council actually accomplishes things during their interminable weeklong meetings. Must be a Compy.

“No,” I say, possibly more for my benefit than for his, “there’s nothing going on.”

He leans farther over the seat, nearly planting himself in my lap, and drops his voice to a whisper. “I know a buncha guys like you, and I tell you, I wish I had the guts. I see these broads walking around, and I got urges, too, right? Hey, I live dressed up like this most of my life, I get horny to feel the real thing, you know? But I was brought up real strict, I guess. Can’t get past it in my head.”

He’s implying that my moral fiber is not up to snuff. I consider hitting him, taking Sarah out of the cab, calling the Council down on him for some minor infraction that I’ll make up if I have to, but the truth is he’s right. That one kiss—moment of weakness or not—proves it.

“But if I could get my hands on one of them real human asses … every dino’s forbidden gamble, right?” He looks over at Sarah, practically slurping her in through his eyes. “And ooh, boy, have you hit the jackpot.”

“Look,” I say, gathering all the indignation I can from my withered
supply, “there is nothing between us. Nothing. Sorry to ruin your wet dream. Can we go now?”

The cabbie narrows his lids, grits his teeth, temples pulsing—is he going to pop me one?—then shrugs, turns back around, and slams the gearshift into drive with a karate chop. “Whatever you say, pal. I don’t give a damn what you do. Where to?”

No point in pressing the matter; as long as he doesn’t make a further issue out of it, I certainly won’t. “The Plaza,” I tell him. By the time we reach my hotel, Sarah will be sober enough to give me her address, and I can pay the driver to take her home.

A grunt of derision from the front seat as we leave the curb and merge with traffic. On our way to the Plaza, we pass by the back entrance to the Prince Edward Theater. Tonight’s performance must have just ended, for as the theatergoers stream out, they congregate by the stage door where the cast, still guised up in their costumes and makeup, sign autographs for people who have never heard of them before. But as we drive by, I watch children and adults, men and women alike, singing, dancing, laughing, acting out the musical numbers, and I’m pleased to see that someone was obviously enriched by the
Manimal
experience.

I roll down the passenger window and toss my Playbill into the crowd.

I
am fortunate in that Sarah decided to throw up inside the cab rather than inside my hotel room, as the cabbie had then been forced to clean up the resultant mess instead of me. I am also fortunate that Sarah’s regurgitation, a hearty concoction of eggplant, tahini, and voluminous amounts of white wine, has served to partially sober up my little human model, moving her out of falling-down-disintegration mode into a stumbling stupor.

The upshot of all this is that Sarah is able to help support herself as I guide her through the Plaza lobby and toward the elevators. A little rest in the room, that’s all, and then it’s back to her apartment. She’s wobbly, but walking, and that’s more than I had expected. There we wait, as the two supposedly express lifts make their way down from the highest floors. An Oriental carpet lies underfoot, a detailed rug that, if destroyed, would clean out my savings account and then some, so I make a silent wish to the nausea gods to spare Sarah from any more mishaps. If they want an offering, I’ll gladly shatter a bottle of Maalox next time I’m in a drugstore.

An older couple enters the elevator lobby arm in arm. How cute. Familiar, in some way, though I can’t place it. I have seen them before. Hm … The piercing looks they launch at me bring it home—this is the snooty dino couple from the bar line at
Manimal: The
Musical
, the ones who had practically given themselves nosebleeds climbing up to the moral high ground.

Sarah slips in my arms, and I do my best to tighten my grip around her waist. She flops against my body like a worn rag doll, draping herself across my frame. Struggling to keep her upright, I smile at the couple, chuckling as if to show my good humor over the situation.
Ha ha
, this chuckle is intended to convey.
What a silly misunderstanding. I’ll be telling my purebred Raptor kids all about this one some day
. No response from the couple. The ensuing silence is painful, so I break out with, “Enjoy the show?”

It’s hard to discern their reactions with those upturned noses.

For some reason, Sarah chooses this moment to speak in complete, coherent sentences. “You have a good time tonight?” she slurs, each word cresting and crashing on syncopated beats. “ ’Cause I had a great time.”

“Yes, yes, good time. Ha ha, yes, yes.”

She tweaks my nose with her thumb and index finger, twisting it harder than I’m sure she means to. The playful gesture brings tears to my eyes. “I mean, I had a
really
great time.”

“Great time,” I echo, rubbing my nose. I turn toward the couple again, to explain, to shrug, to indicate in some way that this scene, no matter how lascivious it might seem, is not what they think, but the elderly dinos have disappeared.

Sarah grabs at my nose again, and I gently take her hand away, saying, “You need to get some sleep.”

“What I need,” whispers Sarah, bonking her forehead into mine, “is you.”

I pretend not to hear that.

“You you you,” repeats Sarah, and this time it’s hard to shut out the voice. “I need you.” My best response is no response, so I keep my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth while we wait for the elevator, which has obviously entered some type of space-time warp.

The lift finally arrives, and the brass doors slide open. I step back to allow the passengers—a young couple, very much in love, hanging all over each other—out into the lobby. But when I move left, they move left. I move right, and they move right.

It’s a mirror. I choose not to think about this. We enter.

The elevator’s acceleration nearly throws both Sarah and me to the ground—oh sure,
now
it’s express—and once again we clutch each other tightly as we ascend to the top floor.

“Speedy,” giggles Sarah, digging into my shoulder for support.

The presidential suite is situated all by itself at the end of a long corridor, set off from the more pedestrian suites in the vicinity. It’s a long walk when sober, and I can’t begin to imagine what it will be like trying to drag Sarah down there in her condition. Like a weary sailor who knows he has one final leg of his journey before he can return to family, friends, and a home-cooked meal, I wrap Sarah’s arm around my neck and set my sails to the wind.

We manage to make it down the hallway with only a few minor slips and spills, Sarah flicking in and out of consciousness like a TV on the fritz. I open the door.

Curse this suite for being so large. I hustle Sarah into the bedroom, using short, quick hops to move across the marble foyer. At this point, my tail would come in darn handy, and I consider loosening it for the short trip. But that would require taking off my pants, and the last thing I need is for a bellboy to walk into my bedroom and see Sarah Archer passed out on the bed and my lower half au naturel. I’ll make it just fine with my legs.

Sarah buzzes to life again as I lean her over the bed and attempt to adjust her body into what should be a natural pose. “Wheereermmmmmeyee?”

I take this elongated syllable as an interrogative attempting to ascertain her location. “My bed,” I say, and Sarah titters with delight. Her hands crawl up my arms like giant spiders, fingers grasping my shirt, tugging at my collar, trying to draw me down, down, into those sheets, into those pillows.

“Sarah, no.” My tone is as firm as tofu. She tugs harder. “No.” A little better, but not enough to deter her from pouting those lips, puckering them into two soft taffy mounds.

It would be so easy, so delicious, to say
what the hell it’s just sex, who cares about species and nature and right and wrong
, to not just give in to temptation but throw myself bodily upon it, but whereas morality has taken a leave of absence, whatever superego I have left has stepped in to take up the slack. So though my heart and my loins are still pulling me down into the comfort of those arms, those lips,
that wonderful mattress, my head knows enough to put down the comforter and back away with my hands up.

“I can’t,” I tell her. “I want to, but—I can’t.”

“Are you … married?” she asks.

“No—it’s not—”