Blind Date (15 page)

“Do you mean to the Small Americans convention?” asked one woman.

“Yes, that's the one.”

“We are. What do Scouts have to do with it?” asked one of the men.

“It's their convention, that's what,” answered the clerk, handing the group registration cards.

“If you mean the Alliance of Small Americans, then it is ours,” another man said. “Scouts have nothing to do with it.”

“I don't believe there are very many Scouts in the Alliance,” one of the women added.

“What do you mean there aren't many Scouts?” The clerk was now on the verge of panic. “We've prepared the whole place for them. Why, we even installed additional bunks in a number of rooms so that many of the kids could be together! Look at that!” Once again he gestured toward the banner.

“It's your banner, not ours,” said one man.

“Maybe the Scouts are having a convention at the same time,” said one of the women.

The clerk did not answer. By now he seemed to have grasped the hotel's misunderstanding.

Word that the little people had come spread to other parts of the hotel. Soon cooks in white hats, waitresses in aprons, and patrons with napkins tucked under their chins crowded into the lobby to get a good look. As the new guests marched off to the elevator through
the throng of spectators, two hotel technicians, trying to be inconspicuous, started to take down the banner.

Levanter walked over to the bar across the street. A waiter from the hotel came rushing in. Laughing so hard he could barely speak, he tried to tell everyone what he had seen.

“What's going on?” Levanter asked.

The waiter's shoulders were shaking. “Would you believe there's a busload of freaks over there?”

“It's a big country,” said Levanter offhandedly.

The waiter ignored his remark. “Would you believe they're all little pygmy people no taller than that?” he went on, bringing his hand to the level of the barstool.

By now all the patrons had left the bar for the Taft. Levanter decided to take a drive through town.

It was only nine o'clock but the main street was already almost deserted. A few teen-agers drove by, the finish on their polished cars reflecting brightly lit shop windows, the roar of their supercharged engines competing with blasts of music or chatter from their Citizens Band radios.

Levanter passed the town hall, two department stores, a bowling alley and a shooting gallery, the post office, two drugstores, three banks, a shopping mall, the police station, and the bus and railroad terminals. Within fifteen minutes, he had crossed downtown Impton twice.

He stopped for gas on the outskirts of town. The station attendant peered closely at Levanter, then at the car, as he filled the tank.

“The wheels are local, but you're not,” he said with a friendly smile as he wiped the windshield.

“I'm not,” Levanter said.

“By-passing Impton?”

“Passing through. For a day or two.”

“You'll never guess who stopped here for gas ten minutes ago,” said the man, leaning through the window.

“How about some midgets?” said Levanter, looking up at the sky.

“I'll be darned!” he exclaimed. “How did you know?”

“It had to be someone you don't see very often,” said Levanter.

“Good thinking!” the attendant agreed. “I almost flipped when they drove up. Like in a circus: Seven Dwarfs in one small car. Bet I don't see a sight like that again for the next twenty years!”

“Don't bet on it,” Levanter said as he paid for the gas. “You might see some more small miracles before the night's over.”

“That'll be the day!” The man was chuckling as Levanter pulled away.

Back at the hotel, Levanter found a small table in a far corner of the crowded, noisy bar. He ordered a drink and settled back to observe the scene. The Taft bar was the best in town, and most of the patrons, all prosperous-looking, seemed to be locals who knew one another.

A group of Small Americans — five men and three women — appeared at the door. The room immediately became quiet. Everyone turned to look. Several couples at the back of the room stood up, straining to get a view of the little people, who did not seem to mind the attention. They moved to the center of the room, and one of them, a man with a flattened nose and exaggerated chest, asked a startled waiter to seat them, but not on the high barstools. The waiter led the group to two side tables, which, with some effort, they helped him push together. Seated there in a bunch, with their round faces, bulging necks, fatty arms, and stubby hands and fingers, they could have served as models for a human still-life theme — a bowl of plums, doughnuts, and bonbons.

The hum of voices started up again. But the Small Americans remained the focus of attention. Many of the patrons could not take their eyes off them and lost interest in the sedate conversations at their own tables.

Only one person in the entire room, a woman at the bar, seemed unaffected by the presence of the Small Americans. She had glanced at them indifferently and then had resumed talking to the two men she was with.

A brunette, with subtle features, a shapely body, and long legs,
she appeared to be in her midtwenties. Every time she laughed, men and women at nearby tables drew their eyes away from the Small Americans and glanced furtively at her. By midnight, when the little people got up to go, the brunette and her two companions were among the few patrons left. All three seemed tired and a bit drunk and were not speaking much to each other. The expression on the woman's face was one of boredom as she scanned the almost empty room. When she noticed Levanter, her eyes showed a flicker of interest. As her companions watched, she picked up her drink, walked over to him, a bit unsteady, smiling as if they were acquainted. Before Levanter could offer her a chair, she sat down at his table, her back to the bar.

“Please don't mind my doing this,” she said, her speech a little slurred. “Can you smile? Pretend you know me. I want to get rid of those two at the bar.”

Levanter smiled. Then she turned and waved good-by to the two men she had been sitting with and watched them walk out.

“I'm Jolene. One of Impton's foremost beauties, in case you haven't noticed,” she said.

“I've noticed. I'm George Levanter.”

“Do you mind if I have my drink at your table?” she asked.

“With me or alone?” he asked.

She laughed. “With you of course.” She took a sip, then sat quietly for a few moments. “Did you see the Lilliputians?”

Levanter nodded.

“They'll freak this town out,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Levanter told her about the New York booking agent and how he had decided to visit Impton because of the convention. He couldn't tell whether Jolene believed him.

“This is a scared town,” she said. “Recently, for example, a sick guy was beating and raping women hitchhikers. The newspaper warned that he was on the loose, but girls kept right on hitchhiking and kept right on getting into this guy's car. I heard a radio interview with one of the ones who was raped. She said it was her fault because she had hitchhiked, and now she was trying to be less
paranoid about it.” Her voice rose. “Can you believe it? Here's a girl who was raped and beaten, yet she blames herself for it and says she's trying to be less paranoid. That's Impton for you.”

“And what is it for you?” asked Levanter.

“My hometown,” she said with a shrug. “I was born here, the only child of Anglo-Saxon parents. Very distinguished Scottish stock! Descendant of a proud line of local embalmers, auto technicians, wholesalers, food processors, and low-rank military.” She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, in the same self-deprecating but jocular tone, asked, “The rest of the picture?”

Levanter nodded encouragement.

“O.K. Snapshots from Jolene's album. Womanhood begins in grade school, age twelve. Jolene loses her virginity to a high school varsity basketball player, who also loses his. More dates. Click. Jolene discovers the orgasm. Click. High school. Meets Greg, law student. Local rich boy. Click. Going steady and bedding steady with Greg. Click. No orgasms with Greg. Click. Orgasms alone. Click. College athletes discover that Jolene puts out. Click. She gets into their games for free; they get into her games for free. Click. Jolene trips on acid and grass and airplane glue and prescription cough syrup. Click. Greg and Jolene marry. Click. House in the best part of town, a gift from Greg's parents, who pray for grandchildren. Click. Greg successful as a lawyer. Click. Jolene and Greg give a lot of parties to show off their split-level house. Click. They split up. Click. Jolene alone. Click. Jolene at the Taft with yet another stranger. Click. End of album of unique snapshots of an ordinary life. A sweet old-fashioned girl, a perfect subject for any lens to fondle. Do you have a movie camera, Mr. Levanter?” she asked, teasing.

He didn't answer.

She put out the cigarette she had just lit.

Bluntly, Levanter suggested they go upstairs to his room. Without a word, she stood up. As they walked through the bar, Levanter felt the bartender and waiters watching their exit. Crossing the lobby, they passed one of the hotel guards, who recognized
Jolene and bowed to her but pretended not to see Levanter.

“It's not often that people here notice anything,” said Jolene as they waited for the elevator. “Last week, a fourteen-year-old kid who had driven a car only once before stole an airport bus from downtown. He drove straight to the arrivals terminal, picked up a full load of passengers, collected their fares, and headed back to town, dropping passengers off at stops along the way. Then, somewhere on the highway, he sideswiped a truck. The truck started to chase him and the kid jumped out of the moving bus. Luckily, the truck driver pulled in front of the bus and after a small crash made it stop. Only then did the passengers realize something was wrong. So much for our observant townsfolk!” She laughed.

“Still, they seem to know you here,” said Levanter, feeling a bit uneasy.

“My hometown, remember?”

“And you don't mind that they know what you're doing?”

“What do I care what they think? They don't pay my bills.” Holding her head high, she looked around the lobby defiantly, but there were no more witnesses.

When they entered his room, she quickly took off her dress and slip. Next, she kicked off her shoes. Then, lying back on the bed and lifting her hips, she hooked her thumbs under the top of her pantyhose and smoothly slid them off. Underneath was a G-string. She sat up, piled her hair on top of her head, then let it fall over her shoulders.

Levanter undressed in the bathroom. When he came back in his robe, she was still wearing her brassiere and G-string.

Jolene asked for a drink. He poured one for each of them, then sat on the sofa across from the bed and watched as she slowly sipped hers.

She noticed Levanter eyeing her bra and G-string. “It's called a grope suit. They're easy to get anywhere in the country — in sex boutiques in big cities or by mail order in small ones.” She stared up at the ceiling. “The patch in front is covered with human hair. The main feature is the rubber rod inside. It stimulates you every
time you move. The bra too. Each cup has a snug hollow on each side that massages your nipple and little rubber things all over that gently rub your breast. A lovely sensation.”

She paused, waiting for Levanter's reaction. When he did not respond, she kept on talking.

“Whenever I visited Greg in his office, his partners would usually drop in to say hello. While we were talking, I'd look them straight in the eye and then, right there, I would just move or bend slightly or press deeper into my chair, and I would come, over and over again. The best part was the fun of seeing if I could control the expression on my face so no one would know what was going on inside me.” Her gaze lingered on the threadbare rug at the side of the bed.

“When I was a little girl, I'd play with myself, but never in front of anyone. Now I do it with people watching me, and they never know what I'm doing.”

She sat quite still. They could hear a faint buzz of voices from the hotel corridor. Levanter refilled her glass.

“I began wearing my grope suit everywhere,” she continued. “Even under my bathing suit. I wore it to go shopping, to dinners with my in-laws, to picnics and cocktail parties. At these posh affairs, I would often find myself talking politely about this or that with Impton's finest. Then, out of the corner of my eye I'd see this type giving me an obliging smile — you know, one of those guys who's so proud of his hairy chest, the kind who pretends to take life and women as they come. I'd encourage him by smiling back. And as he was walking over to introduce himself, I'd turn toward him, and the rubbing of the rod and the bra would arouse me like crazy. I'd be all heated up and come even before I could tell him I was married. And the jerk would never know how well I was doing without him.”

Levanter listened without stirring.

“I once wore my secret to church,” she said. “Even there, with Greg and his family, I could not resist the temptation. But every time I knelt, I felt a little damned when that drive took hold of me.”

She finished her drink and put the glass down.

“And I'm wearing my secret tonight, Mr. Levanter. Are you willing to compete with it?”

Without waiting for an answer, she unhooked her brassiere and took it off. After a slight delay, she removed the G-string. She did not display her costume, but as she stood up, naked, and carried it across the room on her way to the bathroom, Levanter could see that her description was accurate.

When she came back into the room, Levanter was ready for her. Without warning, he grabbed her by the waist and forced her down onto the floor. She did not resist. For a moment, he lay still on top of her, feeling her cool skin. Then he pinned her down, wedging his legs between hers, spreading her wide apart. He flung her arms over her head with one hand and held her wrists still until she was flat and taut. To make certain she was pinioned, he first trailed his other hand idly over her body, then cupped and pulled at her flesh until she squirmed. She couldn't free herself from his hold.