The Cocktail Waitress (12 page)

“You mean you’ll go?”

“I don’t know why not. We could celebrate too.”

“You’re amazing, Joan. I was starting to think you weren’t—” He stopped and waved away whatever he was going to say. “Never mind what I was starting to think, I was obviously wrong. I’d love to take you out. I’d just love it.”

He said we could go to a place called The Wigwam, which I’d never heard of, but that didn’t mean anything, as what chance had I ever had to learn about the area’s nightspots? I explained about the car, how I’d drive there myself, with him following along, so he’d have to give me the address, then meet me beside my car, so he could take me in. He wrote the address down on my scratch pad and when closing time came followed me out, put me in the car, and stood back to see me off. The car startled him too, because actually it
was quite nice, a small sedan, but nicely shined up and smart. I drove off, following his directions, and at an address on New Hampshire Avenue spotted The Wigwam in due time. Then he was pulling in beside me and walking me to the door. I didn’t appear to be in my Rose Garden costume, as over it was my coat, my nice little light spring coat, which came down to my knees and made it look as though I was dressed in usual clothes.

The Wigwam looked normal enough on the outside, just a double door with a sign over it, which Tom pushed open as though he’d been there before. But inside, it seemed different from any club I’d been in, though of course I hadn’t been in too many. Instead of the bright, somewhat noisy atmosphere you would expect, it was twilight dark, a large room with a tall leather wigwam at one end and booths all around, with heavy curtains drawn close, shutting them off. And the girls were oddly dressed, if you could call them dressed at all. The hostess, a girl Tom called Rhoda, had on a buckskin coat with fringed bottom, which of course was decent enough, but the waitresses, who Rhoda spoke of as “Pocahontases,” were practically naked—they were topless, and except for a skimpy swimsuit bottom in the French bikini style, bottomless too. Each of them also wore a feather, caught in a lock on top, and lopped down over one ear in a coquettish way. By looking at them, I knew those girls were for sale, and I guess I didn’t mind much, as I knew that such things went on and, from talking with Liz, that women I might like and respect could do them; and yet I began to feel nervous, and sick at the stomach somehow— or if not exactly sick, a bit queasy, as they say. I felt I had my foot in something. But I didn’t want to show it—I wanted to come off as a woman of the world, not a waitress. So I maintained an unruffled demeanor, smiled though my narrowed lips, and tightened my grip on Tom’s arm.

Rhoda called us a Pocahontas, then took us to a booth, pulling the
curtain open and sliding the table out, so we could slip in behind. But the table didn’t have seats on three sides, as crosswise booth tables have, but rather just one seat on the far side, and a very long seat at that. It must have been six feet long, with an upholstered pad on it, and a pillow at one end. I slipped in, and Rhoda asked: “Can I take your coat?”

I hesitated for a moment before giving it to her, and she nodded appraisingly when she saw my uniform beneath it. I found myself feeling grateful for the darkness of the room. She put my coat on a hanger that was there, on the rail the curtain ran on. Then she asked what we wanted to drink, and Tom said seltzer, somewhat to my relief, and I said ginger ale. Rhoda didn’t seem much surprised, and as she left us, said: “Amy will be by to serve you in a minute.”

Then she left, and we sat there, very self-conscious, not saying much. Somewhere, a recorded orchestra played
Three O’clock in the Morning,
and Tom said it was one of the great waltzes of all time. It never had hit me that way, but I said: “Yes, isn’t it?” as though I really loved it. Then one of the girls came with our drinks. She put them down, and said: “Now, when I go I’ll close your curtain, and won’t bother you after that—fact of the matter, nobody will. You want your candle out just blow it, and there’s matches, to light it again, you want to. You want me, I mean you want service, like more drinks or something, there’s your light, that button there.” She showed us a fixture on the table, beside the candle. “Just press it, it puts on the light in front, and pretty soon, I’ll come. Or if not me, some girl. Like, with me, I could be tied up, you know what I mean? I might be more or less busy, but if I am, one of the girls will come, just give her a minute or two. What I mean, don’t get antsy too quick. Take it easy, and one of the girls will come.”

“… You could be busy, you say?” asked Tom. “Doing what, like?”

“Well the customer, he can get lonely.”

“And you keep him company?”

“Something along that line.”

I didn’t much care for her, and couldn’t resist the temptation to ask her: “Still wearing that bikini bottom? Or do you take it off?”

“It all depends.”

Then, looking me straight in the eye: “Like, for a guy with a girlfriend that don’t put out and he wants some help of me, I take it off—it unhooks easy as pie. See?” She unhooked it, to give Tom a glimpse of fuzz, and then, continuing to me: “So, if you want me to help you out, put your light on, just press the button once, and I’ll do what I can. Something else you want to know?”

“No—beat it.”

That was Tom, and she said: “On my way,” and left.

“Well,” I said, “that was making it plain.”

“Drumming up trade, I’d say.”

“Though, I have to admit she’s pretty.”

“I didn’t notice.”

He was quite solemn as he said it, and I guess I made a face. He didn’t say anything, but suddenly blew out the candle. Once more, we could hear the waltz going. Pretty soon, in the half dark, he said: “… Well? Where were we?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “Were we anywhere?”

“Yeah, we were somewhere. I recall your making me apologize for it. Maybe we can begin where we left off.” And with that, first putting his arm around me, he slid his other hand right where he’d put it that night, and I locked my legs, in exactly the selfsame way. But he kept sliding his hand higher, up, up, up, stroking with his index finger as he went—until his hand was inside my hot pants, and then working its way across. And then, almost before I knew it, it was in a woman’s most intimate spot, and I was turning to water. Instead of clamping tight to resist, I was quite limp, and have to admit, enchanted his hand was there. It had been a time, not just since Ron’s death but for nearly a year before, and I forgot how much I missed it. Sitting there
with Tom’s strong hands on me, I felt like my ribs might crack from the force of my heart’s pounding behind them. Then he suddenly took his hand away, and began unbuttoning my pants, at the placket on one side, and I was wriggling to help, to shuffle them off. My blouse came next, and his shirt, and then he was pushing me back, back against the pillow, his weight pressing down on me, his bare chest against mine.

Then, then at last, I thought of Mr. White, and how important the plans were that I’d made for him, and how it could all go in the soup if I let this thing happen with Tom. And I thought of Ethel, and her charge that I was doing with my customers exactly what I was about to do; and of Private Church, who’d been blessedly silent for weeks, but might not remain so if he got wind of this, a lover after all, even if it wasn’t Joe Pennington. I thought of all of them, and fighting every instinct I had I got my hands clear and pushed, pushed Tom up and away. He fought me, playfully, and I fought him, to mean it, and at last bit him on the cheek. He began to growl, and I pushed some more, until I could sit up. My pushing reached the table, and suddenly it toppled over into the curtain. I jumped up, banging him in the face accidentally with my knee, got clear, slipped around, grabbed my coat, and raced through the nightclub, out the door, and over the lot to my car. I’d left my pants and blouse in the booth; I ran in just my panties, clutching my coat haphazardly in front of my breasts. Then I remembered my bag—and found it under my arm, how it got there I don’t know, I don’t remember grabbing it. Then into my car, snapping the safety catch down and winding the window up. In the bag I found my car key, but by that time Tom was there, shirt hanging loose, belt unbuckled, banging on the window and grunting: “Goddam it, Joan, open that door!”

I didn’t open. I turned the key, stepped on the pedal, and when the motor spoke went into gear and backed. But to get off the lot, I had to turn and go forward. He raced to block me off, standing in front of
the car and holding his hands up, like some kind of traffic cop. I ran straight at him, so he jumped up on the bumper and sprawled on the hood as I kept right on. Then I suddenly stopped so he toppled off. I swerved to miss driving over him and then kept right on, going straight home, the coat fallen into my lap, my body exposed by each passing streetlight so that anyone looking in might have seen. But I didn’t stop so I could put the coat on; I didn’t even slow down. I just said a silent prayer that no one would see me, and as far as I could tell, no one did.

When I turned in my drive, the dash clock said three o’clock in the morning. “One of the great waltzes,” I thought, climbing out, unlocking the door, and going in.

In bed, I lay there terrified, for fear the doorbell would ring, and that if Tom was there, I would let him in. It didn’t, and at last I slept. Next day, I was able to put on my uniform, as I had the extra pair of hot pants Liz had bought me and my own substitute blouse, and so I was able to go down to work as usual. It was Liz’s week on the set-ups, so I got in just before five, and when I came out, after putting my coat and bag in my locker, there was Mr. White, at his regular place. I went over and asked: “The usual?”—but instead of the friendly nod he always gave me, he didn’t look at me. He just sat there, his face in a scowl, so I knew something was wrong. However, I went to the bar, where Jake had his order all ready, took it over and served it. “Will there be something else?” I asked, taking no notice how he was acting.

“… No—nothing,” he said.

“Nice weather we’re having,” I remarked, on purpose trying to sound idiotic, and all too well succeeding.

Then at last he looked up. “How could you do that to me?” he asked, his voice half choked. “How could you? How could you?”

“Do what, Mr. White? Why don’t you explain yourself?”

“You know what I mean, don’t stand there pretending you don’t. How could you go to that place? That—Wigwam?
That whorehouse?”

“How do you know where I went?”

“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t. You were seen, going into it with a man, at two o’clock in the morning.”

“Was I seen coming out?”

“Answer me! I asked how could you?”

“Answer me, Mr. White. Apparently, you had a spy following me, a CIA man maybe, or someone in your pay. Well you should dock him for not sticking around, because if he had stuck around, for no more than fifteen minutes, he’d have seen me come out, and he couldn’t have stuck around, because if he’d seen me he’d have remembered it. I came out running, I’ll have you know, holding a coat in front of me to cover what was bare—which is to say everything, or nearly so, since I had a struggle inside with a fellow who thought he could have me if only he got my clothes off. But he couldn’t—I assure you I got out of there with everything else intact, what we might laughingly call my honor. I agree it’s kind of a whorehouse, but I didn’t know that until after I went in, I thought I was being taken to a place to have a quiet drink. Now I do know what it is, it’s a place I’ll stay away from. Is there something else you want to know?”

“… Are you telling me the truth?”

“Your man didn’t report my exit?”

“… No.”

“Well then he must have walked away or he would have—I’m supposed to be quite an eyeful with no clothes on, if my departed husband can be believed, and your man surely would have told you about it if he’d seen the sight. Perhaps even shown you pictures. And now, if you’ll excuse me—?”

I caught Liz’s eye and motioned her over. “This is Miss Baumgarten,” I told him, “Liz to her many friends. She’ll bring you whatever you want.”

I went back to the locker room and stretched myself out on the bench. In a couple of minutes Liz was there. “He wants to see you,” she said.

“I’m kind of busy just at the moment.”

“Joanie, the guy’s nuts about you—the whole place knows it, been
knowing it all summer, even if you don’t. And as much as I’d like to say I prefer Tom for you—you don’t brush something like that.”

“Who says I’m brushing him? Please just tell him what I said.”

“… Just right now you’re busy?”

“That’s it. Tell him so.”

I don’t quite know why I played it that way. For a moment there, serving his order, I had had a horrible hunch I had lost Mr. White, had broken beyond repair what we’d had, based as it was, at least in part, on his sense that I was a ‘lady,’ or at least more ladylike than Liz. But then, there seemed to be something squashy in the way he was acting toward me, and I could feel it somehow that if I played it right I still might call him mine. But the last thing in the world, I knew, would be for me to lead to him. It had to be him to me, or he’d look down on me. So I let Liz go with her message, and didn’t move off the bench. In a minute or two she was back. “He’s gone,” she whispered. “And he didn’t like it much, you not coming out. At least to tell him goodbye.”

“He’s not supposed to like it.”

“Joanie, with a fish like that on the hook—”

“You play him, you keep the line tight.”

“I wouldn’t play him that way, but—”

“He’s not your fish.”

What I would say to Tom, I hadn’t the faintest idea. What I had thought I would say, as I rehearsed it during the night, was that I expected to be getting married, and couldn’t risk an involvement with him. But now that I’d been caught by surprise, now that Mr. White knew what I’d done, or almost done at any rate, and had acted as any man would, I didn’t know where I was at, and for that reason hated to face it, the scene I would play with Tom. But anticlimax, he didn’t come. As his time approached I grew nervous, knowing “There
was a reason” was no reason at all, and expecting a miserable mess, but when closing time came, he still hadn’t showed and there I was, not only with nothing to say but no one to say it to. And it went on for some little time—I not only didn’t see him, but didn’t hear where he was, or anything about him. He simply stopped coming, and no one had any news.