Pages Torn From a Travel Journal (8 page)

When I backed away from that awful peep-hole–truly the eye of Hell–I dazedly noticed all of the other peepers had departed, leaving lines of their own spent seed on the tent canvas. The madness of what I saw–indeed, the madness of this
entire
wretched
enterprise
–left me mad myself, mad as a babbling alley vagrant. Common sense was now beyond my ken; at once, I knew what I must do: I must somehow smuggle Bliss out of this infernal place, & take her away forever. I would spirit her away to Providence with me. I would discover some way to see to it that her life of forced debauchery at the hands of her petty satrap of a husband would be over forever. I would find a way to support her even in the harsh light of the truth that I could barely support myself.

Oblivious now to the roiling crowd & boisterous chatter, I waited outside the entrance of the execrable Red Walk, my mind’s eye bruised from the outrage of what I’d witnessed inside. An hour’s time had passed since our last meeting, & an hour was what she’d asked me to wait. An utter nervousness overcame me. What would I say? How could I convince Bliss–a beautiful woman in spite of her disabilities–to come away with me, a writer of the poorest strata, a spindly form & otherwise unemployable recluse & none-too-handsome nervous wreck?

But the hour had passed, then so did half of the next one, yet Bliss had not yet shown herself. I began to pace back & forth along the midway’s edge, oblivious to the barkers, jugglers, stilt-walkers, etc., deaf to the screaming clang of railed thrill-rides thundering overhead. Soon it was as though my volition had been expropriated by some supernatural agency, & when my watch told me Bliss was now more than an hour late, said agency puppeteered me back into the guarded maw of the Red Walk. Blank-faced, I paid another entrance fee, then waded through the familiar red-lit murk. “Back again, eh, Mister?” one of the rousters jawed at me. “So it seems,” I replied, then he: “Back for more lookin’, or is it
doin’
you’re after now?” “Doing,” I blurted. “Previous counsel has led me to believe that time with a woman can be arranged at the end of the walk. Might this be true?” “Previous counsel, huh?” the ruffian chuckled. “If you got the copper in yer pocket, yeah. Down there. They got gals who’ll do things ta yer willy you ain’t never thought of.” I passed him then, as though his very existence had expired, cantering my way to the terminus of the carnal labyrinth. The tent-flap leading to what could only be the bordello seemed to glide toward me rather than me toward it, where the largest of the musclemen stood guard, massive arms crossed. One side of the brute’s face was scar-lined; in a pure Irish dialect he asked, “Top a the evenin’ to ya, Sir. What’ll it be?”

“Bliss,” I said.

“Aye, she’d be for all of us if we had our way, but not for you, not tonight.”

In an instant, I grew enraged. “And why
not,
Sir? This is a business enterprise, is it not? Where the company of a woman may be procured in exchange for funds deemed sufficient?”

“Oh, I know what it ‘tis you’re after, lad. A dick-suckin’ from Bliss is a sweet deal indeed, and she’s sucked mine on many occasion–and likewise sucked on my billfold as well”–he laughed, while I remained deadpan. “Aye, you must’a heard that she’s got not a tooth in her mouth.”

“She was born without them, yes–—he informed me of that.”

An accented laugh rumbled like tumbling stones. “That may be what she told ya, man, but the truth is O’Slaughnassey himself pulled all them choppers out years ago.”

The words turned me to stone. “He . . . deliberately . . . pulled them . . . out?”

“A’course, lad! Once he married her proper, that is. She weren’t but a lass of twelve or so back then–well, maybe eleven. But with her feet the way they is, she gets every pervert this side of the pond sweet on her, and that dandy mouth with no teeth in it?” He laughed aloud. “Don’t tell me you ain’t been thinkin’ about it. O’Slaughnassey’s a right smart man. Yankin’ them out made her the best dick-sucker this show’s ever seen. He makes more money whorin’ her than he makes the rest’a the whores all together, that he does.”

The bruiser’s grinning face seemed to contort into something half-Mephistopholian. I hoped, even prayed, that his horrendous exposition was just a carnal-house lie, but somehow the sheer evil in his cast told me it was not.

It was truth.

& with that truth, I could’ve collapsed, muttering aloud my own despair. “What kind of a world could let such horrors be? The girl is pure innocence, yet fate gave her a father that bound her feet & a husband who pulled her teeth? Surely the cosmos should prolapse and suck this pest-warren of a planet into abysmal voids of uncreation–”

But now the Irish brutarian laughed all the more. “Oh, Mister–you yanks are somethin’, aye? We ain’t all from New England, ya know. How is it ya can be so hot on Bliss while ya know nothin’ about her?”

“I assure you,
Sir,
” I snapped, “that I am
not
in reception of your meaning.”

“Things are different all over. See, Bliss’s father and her husband are one in the same,” & then the bout of laughter redoubled.

Evil,
evil,
evil,
I thought, wanting to vomit. To hang myself summarily would’ve been better than learning this. My voice trembled along with my hands when I demanded, “That may well be, Sir—nevertheless I insist on purchasing an allotment of time by which I may share in some of her company.” I emptied my billfold & shook my entire stack of notes at him. “How
much?
”

“
No
amount of money is enough tonight–”

My ire grew to full-scale rabidness. It was not even a “trick” I wanted, but only a few moments to convince her to come away with me, not that I could have told
him
that. “What’s
that
supposed to mean! Is there something
irregular
about me? How is it that shylocks such as you & your ‘carny’ brethren refuse hard cash?”

“Best to let your dander down, lad,” the rapscallion adjured gregariously in spite of the nihilistic cast. “Your money’s good as the next one’s, but Bliss won’t be turnin’ no tricks tonight on account of–” but before the explanation’s remainder could be made sonant, a brief commotion ensued from the darkness of the adjoining canvas corridor, then from the murk emerged 2 more overly muscled toughs.

They were bearing a makeshift stretcher fashioned from heavy sheets of fabric wrapped about 2 poles; upon this lay a wan form beneath some sheets.

No,
no,
no,
my psyche groaned even before my eyes registered the truth. It was
Bliss
who lay crumpled, shivering, & battered upon the stretcher.

“What in the name of all things decent happened!” I yelled.

A large hand opened over my heart & pressured me back. “You keep yer dander down, man, else I’ll be introducin’ your kisser to my fist. Bliss got a bit of a pranging is all–”

Spittle flew when I yelled further, “A
pranging?
Someone’s beaten her senseless!” & as I made the exclamation, she was carried briskly past me, one eye swollen closed, her cheek a grotesque purple contusion, mouth crimson with blood. In that last irreducible fraction of a second that I saw her, her good eye opened, bloomed at the sight of me; then she smiled & susurrated “Howard . . . ”

Then she was taken away, & I knew, somehow, that I would never see her again.

“Why was she beaten?” I pled. “What could someone so filled with benevolence as Bliss have done to incur such wrath? Was it a customer–er, I mean, a john, a trick, or whatever it is you call it?”

“Wasn’t no john, my good fellow. See, Bliss’s job when she’s not doin’ her peep-tent is to work johns’n turn tricks. Earlier today, when she
should’
a been haulin’ in some possum-belly quickies before her show, the lazy tart was loiterin’ about & squandering time with some fella she had eyes for—”

“Some . . . fella?” I questioned, my throat going dry.

“Aye, ‘s’what I heard. Whores do that on occasion, turn a lotta tricks, make a lotta cash, then they start gettin’ a big head’n thinkin’ they’re somethin’ special. Specially the good ones, the ones like Bliss that can suck a dick like dicks never been sucked or lay a fuckin’ on a man so good he just can’t get her out’a his head so’s he keep comin’ back over’n over’n over again, handin’ over his cash. That’s Bliss, see? Every so often, she gets ta takin’ her life for granted, forgettin’ that she wouldn’t
have
no life if’n it weren’t for Mr. O’Slaughnassey marryin’ her.”

Of all the interminable outrage; all the diabolic
abuse
. My blood seemed to crackle in my veins as my guts sunk deeper & deeper as if into a bottomless pit of roiling bitumen.

“So,” the Irishman continued, “you can understand that she was properly punished. No bones was busted, and nothin’ of her insides was broke accordin’ to the doc. She just got mussed up a bit is all.”

Mussed
up.
The words curdled my stomach. This human animal perceived women as mere property, as pets to be utilised for profit, & when they misbehaved, they were
mussed
up.
Had I a revolver, I surely would’ve emptied it into this bounder’s noxious face. But the worst insinuation was already festering in me as a malignant growth. “And you say that she was beaten for squandering time with . . . some ‘fella’ in particular?”

“Some skinny chap was all I heard. She didn’t even
try
to work him for a trick. Had
eyes
for him, even though she’s married proper.”

The “skinny chap,” of course,
had
to be me. Hence,
I
was the primary cause of her unspeakable beating.

I wished for that revolver again, to put, this time, to my own head.

“So’s get’cher mind off Bliss, lad, and take your pick of one’a our other lovely whores. We got
all
 kinds’a doxies, just you believe it–ah, there’s one now!” & down the insubstantial corridor I momentarily glimpsed a willowy strumpet with bare breasts like white cupcakes on her chest. She disappeared into a flap. “That lass there, Sir, is called Squeegee, and she’s as fine a place ta drop your baby-batter as you’ll find.”

“
Squeegee?
” I asked, perplexed as to the name.

“Pussy
so
tight,
when your John Thursday’s sluggin’ in and out of it”–he nodded–“makes a sound like cleanin’ winda’s, it surely does.”

“How . . . unrepresentative,” I offered.

“All our harlots, my friend, are fine as bloomin’ China. Not a schlupper among ‘em.”

My curiosity left me unable to resist. “Schlupper?”

“Aw, lad, are ya daft! A gal that while’s you’re fuckin’ her? Her pussy makes a sound like soldiers marchin’ through mud. Schulp-schulp-schulp. You know?”

“How . . . majestic . . . ”

“My point is, when one’a
our
 lasses is done with ya? You’ll not have a drop’a sap left in the two balls God put in yer sack.”

This
man
is
deplorable,
I thought with the sharpest of frowns. But before I had time to decline, footsteps were heard, & from the adjoining corridor, an ectomorphic, stooped figure proceeded. At once, my vision was riveted.

The coattails, string tie, & white vest seemed to shout at me, as did the thin face & hooded eyes.

“Why, Mr. O’Slaughnassey,” the Irishman greeted. “Now that you’ve got the wife back in line, perhaps you’d care for a nip.” He produced a vulgar hip flask.

The 60ish show owner’s voice creaked like old timbers. “No, McMullen, I’m tipsy enough from the joy of beatin’ that cunt’a mine silly, don’t cha know?”

“I’m sure I do, Sir. And it ‘twas as fine a beatin’ as I’ve seen in a long while.”

“The more ya do for ‘em, the more they lie and connive. Leaves a man no choice but ta bloody ‘em up.”

“Aye, Mr. O’Slaughnassey.”

The hooded eyes turned to me. “And what a coincidence
this
is! I’ll be damned if the gentleman to your side is not the same scoundrel who wasted so much of Bliss’s time earlier, and cost me money!” His bony finger pointed right at me.

Odd as it seems, it was not trepidation that ensnared me, but a very pure & unadulterated furor. The sight of this treacherous man–a father who would marry his own daughter, cripple her, & pander her out; indeed, the very man who’d just beaten Bliss unmercifully–sent my wits asunder, leaving only my physical body fueled by the rage of humankind’s ancestral days of half-ape barbarity. I flew past the Irish ruffian, & in a second had my hands about O’Slaughnassey’s thin neck, spitting words of venom, “An abomination you are! A slime of the worst of human effluence from the bung-port of Hell!” I began to squeeze the thin neck. “May a
pox
be on you, you who would maim & molest your own daughter solely for profit in this flesh market that can only be described as
luciferic!
” but just as my grip would tighten in this crazed phantasy of strangling the wretch, fists the size of grapefruits battered me from behind until the entire world was spinning about me.