Turning Idolater
A Novel of the Internet Age
Edward C. Patterson
Dancaster Creative Writing
Smashwors Edition, September 2008
Copyright 2008 by Edward C. Patterson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
The webste manluv.org is registered to Edward C. Patterson for the sole purpose of use in this book.
For Peg
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the many helpmates that contributed to the finishing of this book, especially to my editor, Margaret DeRonde (Peg). I am also indebted to the many participants of the Indie-Author forums, brilliant writers all, who have supported me with their advice, both grammatical and technical. Their enthusiasm for my other novels, particularly No Irish Need Apply, Bobby’s Trace and Surviving an American Gulag, has put me on the map with the public as one bookseller among many keen on enchanting the reader with his wares. I also wish to thank my readers, that ground swell that has urged me to keep my fingers on the keyboard and my hopes sky high. Finally, I want to show homage and deep obeisance to Herman Melville and Charles Dickens, the two polar inspirations for this work.
Edward C. Patterson
Contents
Part I: High Time to Get to Sea
Chapter One: The Tools of the Trade
Chapter Two: Manluv.org
Chapter Three: Tdye
Chapter Four: Coffee Ceremonial
Chapter Five: The Agent
Chapter Six: Confidence
Chapter Seven: “Old Times till nearly Morning”
Chapter Eight: In the Shadow of the El
Chapter Nine: Safe Harbor
Chapter Ten: Flight from Avenue A
Chapter Eleven: On Assurity
Chapter Twelve: Brave Old Worlds
Chapter Thirteen: The Spinner
Chapter Fourteen: Pas de Quatre
Chapter Fifteen: Perfect Binding
Chapter Sixteen: The Bantam
Chapter Seventeen: Detective Kusslow
Part II: In the Hammocks
Chapter One: Old Charlotte
Chapter Two: Quartets
Chapter Three: Green Shorts
Chapter Four: Mr. Townsend Goes to Town
Chapter Five: Off-Stage Drama
Chapter Six: On-Stage Drama
Chapter Seven: The Gauntlet
Chapter Seven: “Bright Darkness”
Part III: In Pursuit of the Red Tide
Chapter One: Autumnal Thoughts
Chapter Two: The Secrets of the Book
Chapter Three: Cleopatra’s Needle
Chapter Four: Dark Brightness
Chapter Five: Downtown
Chapter Six: Uptown
Chapter Seven: Crosstown
Chapter Eight: Life-Buoy
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
“And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolater.”
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
Part I: High Time to Get to Sea
Chapter One
The Tools of the Trade
1
It was a small tub in a tiny bathroom, but it served Philip Flaxen well as he prepared. All craftsmen attend to the maintenance and condition of their tools. Chefs hone knives. Hacks change cab-oil on a schedule. Writers look to their quills; and painters care for their horsehairs and camels. Diggers sharpen pickaxes and none but a preacher can fill the fount with consecrated drink. Thus, it was with Philip Flaxen as he plunged his hands between his legs lathering the tool of his trade and, although changing the oil might be less scintillating, the honing of this particular tool gave Master Flaxen pleasure beyond measure.
The bubbles welled in massive peaks, like whip cream, almost eclipsing young Flaxen in a world of cleanser as he finished off. Nevertheless, his emerging better nature prevailed. Wineglass in one hand, he reached for a book with the other, his deep, black eyes intent on the words, not tools now, unless these were considered some additional craftsman’s artifact. Here in the pages was a new world, as foamy as his tub; he was under the prow of the Pequod as it ported its master in pursuit of the Great White Whale. The words may have been from a shelf above Philip’s normal mantel, as he had never finished high school, and in fact never pursued any white whale of education — not even a white elephant of a diploma, but this book was magic to his eyes. The words may not have had keen meaning, but they had rhythm — the beat of the waves; and aroma — the smell of the sea. The pages dripped with foam and he turned them like a capstan, weighing anchor. The margins puckered beneath his pruning fingers, but he didn’t care nor did he wonder. He was tripping beyond the bubble bath, out on old Nantucket wharves. Therefore, when the alarm clock buzzed, reeling him to shore, he flinched. The wineglass tipped turning the suds burgundy and the book nearly swam back to sea. However, Philip caught it before the plunge, diverting it to dry-dock, in this case, a mat on the bathroom floor.
Philip rolled his eyes. He had an evening ahead. It wasn’t difficult work. It didn’t require a Master’s degree to sit at a computer and wait for requests from an invisible audience. He wished that Sprakie was better heeled. They could have rigged up one of them home cams so he wouldn’t have to haul his ass across town to manluv.org. Hell, some of those set-ups could have made the tub his workplace. However, he couldn’t be so particular. Manhattan rents were exorbitant and he was living in Sprakie’s place not by royal decree, but by near-charity. He did pay his share, or near it, but as long as he followed his roommate’s rules, he could luxuriate in the bubbles, sleep on silk and keep his employment across town.
Philip sighed. He would have preferred to keep sailing in Nantucket. The words were tough, and he needed to read each passage twice, but he savored them like a fine corned beef on rye. He wished he could delve beneath the waves, because he knew there were deeper meanings swimming there, but there was hope. The man who had put him onto this book was a generous trick, an old gent who wanted nothing more than to stroke off before a live stripping twink. There were such freaky fetishes about, but Philip was over eighteen. Hell, he was twenty, almost old enough to drink. His roommate nagged him about such tricks — the old geezers who just wanted to recall their long lost days. Sprakie also warned Philip that a few went beyond harmless voyeurism. Some might explode like a firecracker and cause you infinite harm, sweetie. However, Philip didn’t think that Sprakie, that is Robert Sprague, would follow his own admonition. Sprakie was the wildest hoohoo in Philip’s acquaintance, and had proved to be a valuable guide into outrageous waters.
Philip hoisted himself from the tub careful not to drip bath water on the book. He didn’t have many books, at least ones with words only. He smiled at the binding as if it were a candy box with plenty of samples left. Standing before the steamed mirror, he dried off, keeping his own peerless figure in sight. What that old geezer must have thought, he mused. That was a pacific trick. The man was grateful both with money and a shower of grizzled kisses, which Philip could have done without, but as long as things didn’t get too kinky, he supposed it was a kindness — like a charity visit to the old folks home. Then the man gave him — the book. What’s this? Philip asked. What’s it look like? chuckled the geezer. Philip opened it. It had an aroma about it like nothing he had touched before — electric and deep. His eyes scanned the illustration engraved on the page. A huge bump spouted water from its head and aimed at an old-fashioned ship. It was about something called Moby Dick and some guy named Herman Melville penned it. Both were beyond Philip’s ken, but somehow, as the pages turned under his tidal hand, he was hooked — or harpooned, if you will. Call me Ishmael? Then the call to the planks and rigging.
Philip dried off and glanced at the clock. He had better get his ass in gear if he was going to be on time. He wrapped the towel around his toolbox and sought his flip-flops. It was a short trip through the common room (he could never come to call it a living room) to his own small cubby. The apartment was cluttered from necessity. The kitchen was a mere counter with a half refrigerator, two cabinets, a two-burner stove and a toaster. It barged into the common room, the only room with a full window and small enough to accommodate a couch and a chair. There was a Murphy bed in the closet for guests, and Philip had slept on it when he first moved in, but it was a pain in the ass to open, so he slept in a converted closet.
Sprakie’s room once had a window, but the man of the house insisted on making the room wall-to-wall bed, of which the canopy and Arabian valance blocked any sunlight that could have managed an appearance through the barred window that lurked behind some plywood. Philip had to rattle through this bedroom to get to his small cubby. Small, but it was his. By real estate value, his six by six (if it were that) would fetch $500 a month on a good day, but Sprakie let it go for $250 and a third of the utilities. A bargain. The only drawback was when Sprakie entertained — that is, went on the clock. Philip would need to fade to the streets then.
What to wear? Not a huge variety in his clothes stack, which mushroomed in the corner laundry basket. Philip wondered if he had anything clean. The launderette on Avenue A was a pain in the ass to use — all those quarters and little boxes of soap, not to mention the stink. At one time he could flirt with the local hustlers there (it was a good pick up point), but lately the place was filled with haggard old Puerto Rican housewives and skuzzy, green haired Goth girls from the West Village. He reached for his favorite shirt — a turquoise silk affair that favored his curly shock of hair. He sniffed the armpit and choked.
“I have to get to the laundry this week,” he muttered. “Shit.”
He threw the towel aside, grabbed a reasonably clean jock strap and holstered his assets. His underwear was clean, because he was too exposed to the public to have otherwise, but his shirt was a problem. So he ventured into Sprakie’s boudoir, to the dresser that slept under a tumble of oriental silks and aromatherapy candles. He poked about the top drawer — no shirts. The second drawer was more promising. He shook out a golden golf shirt. Nice. Sweet. Philip couldn’t remember when Sprakie wore this. Still he slipped it over his head. It fit like a glove. Most of Sprakie’s duds fit him, but Sprakie would have a fit when Philip borrowed his clothing. This was an emergency, after all. Wasn’t it? No duds — no work. No work — no rent.
Philip strutted to the mirror, clearing away a pink feather boa.
“That’s the ticket.”
He shut the second drawer, but decided that perhaps the bottom drawer held an even better choice. His fingers poked around until it stroked a delightful, satin number. He pulled it out with a snap, and as he did, something came flying from the back and across the floor, slipping under the bed.
“What the fuck,” he murmured. He reached under the bed, his fingers spidering over the traveling knick-knack. He winced. What the fuck? He snapped his hand back. In it was a gun. Not a two-fisted rootin’, tootin’ firearm, but a pearl-handled ladies’ pistol. At first, he thought it was a starter’s gun, but Sprakie wasn’t a runner. Philip sniffed it as if he could detect a firing.
“I better ask him about this.” Then he thought better. He shouldn’t be poking around in Sprakie’s dresser, even to purloin a shirt. The neighborhood was shitty, so he supposed Sprakie kept it for protection, and, in true Robert Sprague fashion, he would want a pearl-handled, purse size affair, something that was fashionable at a mugging — a pretty cap gun. Therefore, Philip shrugged, shoved the gun back into the bottom draw and covered it with the satin garment that no longer held his interest.
“Oh shit,” he said. “I’m going be really late.”
He dove for his jeans, his wallet, and his easy-off loafers and prepared to emerge from this fifteen-hundred dollar per month rabbit warren. He stuffed the book in his backpack, hit his pocket for change, checked for his Metro Card and scooted through the door into the ratty old hallway. Locking the door and securing the bolts, he scurried past the solemn portal of the old lady next door. He felt her eyes though the peephole as she always monitored the hall’s comings and goings. Philip flipped her the finger as he descended the stairs, down three flights, and then over the broken tiles into the foul, urine soaked vestibule. That stink always matched the first breath wafting in from Avenue A. Philip just closed his eyes and imagined the Nantucket wharves, which transformed the slum into a harbor — the tenements into tall-ships. No wonder Sprakie had a gun in this shit-hole. Shouldn’t everyone? Wouldn’t Ahab?
2
His watch stopped. Battery needed changing. Philip had to rely on the street signage and the charity of others for the time. The digital displays increased as he trotted through Greenwich Village, and a good thing, because the charity of others was scant. In any event, by the time he reached the Subway, he was already a half hour late. He debated the issue at hand — subway or bus. They both would get him to Times Square, and a bus was waiting, but he feared the evening rush hour traffic. Therefore, he whipped out his Metro Card and plunged into the abyss taking the stairs two at a time, not that it would matter if there were no trains in the station.
The West 4th Street station was always a busy stop, and at evening rush hour, it was a monster — hot, humid and redolent of foot odor. Most travelers were heading home — tired and weary from a day of rasping bosses, heavy pushcarts, lousy customers and a host of information age combustion. Philip plowed his way through the crowd, swiped the turnstile and prayed for a short wait. The uptown platform was as thickly lined with commuters as the downtown one was, but somehow Philip knew that there would be three downtown trains to every uptown one, but it was better than getting stuck in traffic.
He leaned over the track hoping to feel the hot blast of an approaching train. The air was still — noisy, but still. The downtown train had screeched into the station, its doorbells tinkling and its computerized voice singing West 4th – Watch your step.
C’mon, he thought, moving back to the station wall. He considered the line of crap that Sprakie would hand him for being late. That would be amplified when Sprakie beheld the golden golf shirt. Philip chuckled. He wasn’t afraid of Robert Sprague, but a Sprakie hissy fit could mean missing a meal or even being locked out for the night. However, the streets held no fear for Philip . . . anymore. As he bounced his backpack off the wall, he noticed a young thing sprawled on the bench — a student, perhaps — N.Y.U., or at least from the way he consumed his book, Philip thought it must be. In his slouch, the student brushed the sweat from his curly brown hair. His black rimmed glasses made him appear scholarly. Philip imagined that this guy wasn’t really reading his book, but was using it as a ploy to gaze at the surrounding travelers. Every so often, he’d peep askance and then dart his eyes back to the page. Philip wasn’t impressed. In fact, he considered whipping out his own book as a springboard. My book’s bigger than your book. However, the subway was a crappy place to read a precious work with golden binding and clean white pages. After the near miss in the tub, Philip didn’t want to chance a drop into station crud.
Yes, Philip thought. This guy’s cruisin’ me. It wasn’t his imagination. He knew the call of the wild, and since he had the tools of the trade in evidence, there might be a chance that he could be fed later. Supper was always the short meal. There were usually not enough fixings in the half fridge to constitute a meal. Breakfast was cereal and perhaps an egg. Lunch was some toast, or if the spirit moved, peanut butter and jelly, but supper was always up for grabs. If he was lucky and there was a cash spike at work, he could get a hamburger, but supper was sometimes an every-other-day affair. Sprakie sometimes treated, and of course, if this young college student was interested, he might buy Philip a full course meal as prelude to an evening of passion. So, Philip winked.
The hurricane of the uptown train blew over the platform. Philip would need to finalize the deal in transit. The passengers jockeyed for seats and poles and overhead bars. There was an almighty crunch, but Philip was a master. He managed to pin himself and the edge of his ass against the college student, who smiled an apology and tried to juggle while reading his book.
Watch the closing doors, came the mechanical voice, followed by three chimes. The train chugged uptown.
Philip used ever contour of motion to press himself against the student, who grinned a knowing grin. He knew what was apace. Hadn’t he started it? Philip shrugged, but returned the smiled — one that irradiated the car. Even the Pakistani lady, who stepped on his foot, returned that smile as if she was the target of his attention.
Timing was an issue. When they reached 23rd Street, Philip twisted his head over the student’s book.
“Anything good?”
“Quantum physics.”
Quantum physics? Give me a break. You’re reading quantum physics in a speeding uptown train pressed between the sweaty masses? “Interesting.” Philip smiled again. “N.Y.U?”
“Yes. Engineering.”
“Good,” Philip said. “You can drive the train then.”
The student chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s driving this train.”
34th Street. The Pakistani lady moved away rushing for a seat. A wave of passengers surged out, while a third as many shoved in. Philip almost fell. Not really. It was a surefire maneuver. The student caught him.
“Thanks. My stop’s next.”
“Oh,” said the student. He frowned. He fumbled around his jacket pocket. He managed to grab an index card, and then grappled for a marker. Philip was ready on the spot. He always kept a marker near at hand in the outer slip of his backpack. He whipped it out with rapier speed.
“Thanks,” said the student, who closed the book using it as a slipshod desk. He scrawled a shaky note, and then returned the pen. He slipped the card into Philip’s pocket and smiled. While down there, he groped and Philip was already trying to decide whether he would have the prime beef or the swordfish.
Times Square. Watch your step.
“Bye now,” Philip said, mission accomplished.
“Later . . . but if not tonight . . .”
Philip tapped the side of his nose and went with the flow onto the platform. The doorbell bonged three times.
Watch the closing doors.
Philip turned and saw the soft eyes of the student. He wasn’t reading now, or at least not Quantum Physics. He was now studying a different course of engineering and Philip Flaxen was masterful at steering this craft ashore — as masterful as Ahab on his poop.
3
Philip waited until the train was sucked further uptown before he peeked at the index card. It was a courtesy to ignore the machinations of the deal until the interested parties were quite out of range again.
Dennis H.
212.432.2272
nice
Philip hummed, and then trotted along the platform to the stairs. He had forgotten just how late he was going to be. Funny thing about being late. After the first half-hour, it might as well be two hours. The consequences would be the same. However, his colleagues — his fellow craftsmen, were all on the clock, neatly scheduled and posted on the Internet at anticipated hours. The regular customers would be thoroughly pissed if they saw that the Flaxen One was due for display at 6:00 PM and wasn’t unveiled until 7:00 PM. It also meant a pile-up, and a drop in tips. Someone else would sponge in Philip’s tip bowl, and that meant another hungry night, or shortfall in carfare and a long walk. Philip hastened the pace.
It was hard to rush in the rush. When he popped out of the subway beneath the neon godlessness of Times Square, he tried to jaywalk to avoid the bustle, but this meant dodging the taxis. Still, the wide expanse of 42nd Street as it swept westward from Broadway was his lifeblood. It was noisy, garish and fraught with every aroma from sausages to sewer exhaust. Still, the world exploded into a million colorful lights and unmitigated promotion. Pedestrians walked in buffalo clusters — a human herd against traffic and signals and caution, each destined for their own slot in this dizzy city of the eight million.
Philip rushed across 7th Avenue and, on the other side, the hustle was less. He drifted between parked cars and street vendors heading toward the crappier side of the island. He spotted a digital clock sign that told him he was later than he thought. This inspired him to a gallop. He began to sweat, and now worried about the borrowed shirt. Sprakie would have more than a fit if it had sweat rings — those ugly little armpit smiles. Suddenly, he spied a cop. He broke out into a walk. It was a natural, but unnecessary precaution. The policeman could care less about a slinky faggot running to his job, but Philip wouldn’t chance the law following him to his place of employment. It was legal . . . at least he thought it must be by now. However, the last two mayors had cracked down on the neighborhood, proscribing anything construed as obscene. Late, he would be. Trouble, he could accept it. However, he wasn’t about to invite the fuzz to the party and chance a fine or even an eviction. Even though his salary here was a trickle (mostly tips), it was better than the alternative, which he knew was illegal.
Clearing the cop’s sight line, Philip picked up the pace, and then darted down 49th Street. Between 9th and 10th Avenue, the street was lined with parking garages and warehouses. Three-quarters down, between the Cross-Town Parking Center and Gutman’s Furniture Storage was a doorway. It wasn’t marked, except with a number 1456-A. Philip looked both ways, and then pressed a buzzer over the squawk box.
“Who?” came a voice over the box.
“Flaxen.”
“You’re late.”
“Let me in.”
Long pause. Philip banged the door, and then pressed the buzzer again. Finally, after another punitive pause, the door lock buzzed and Philip pushed his way into the foyer’s darkness. He was in for it and he knew it.
Chapter Two
Manluv.org
1
“Jesus Marie,” said the youth as he quivered before his computer screen. “Ain’t a girl safe anywhere anymore?”
Robert Sprague, known to the world as Sprakie, winked and preened, as he knew the webcam was fully operational and fully on his waistline. He kept that waistline gingerly below the desk, as there was nothing on below the desk and the logged-in voyeurs needed to encourage him to stand up and show his wares. Sprakie was far from coy, but the word flirt was more apropos to the moment, and the phrase more tips came across loud and clear.
The room was stark — a cubicle, whitewashed just enough to hide the masonry within the camera’s pan. Beyond it were threadbare walls, flashing holes and errant wires. There was a time when this space formed a suite of offices for a distributorship — toys and party favors if one could believe the occasional remnant of a Chinese label and an evil looking doll’s head; Chucky came to mind. There were six offices connected to a corridor, and each one enclosed a computer, a web cam, a cot, some other toys (not of the Chucky variety) and a naked to semi-naked twink boy. The last office sported a fully clothed German gentleman named Kurt, who monitored the door, the cameras and the till. He was a shade over fifty, akin to a hippo and smoked a foul cigar, the aroma of which drifted throughout the premises.
Manluv was not a huge investment for this German, whom the boyz called the Porn Nazi. In fact, this was the latest of six marginally legal dens that he had plucked up from the streets of New York, although he had started in Düsseldorf with a site called Männer ist Kinder, which was wholly illegal and nearly clamped him irons. Now he followed the law — everyone over eighteen, all phone records kept, a registrant with the Better Business Bureau, compliant with OSHA and even paid taxes to Uncle Sam, although some of the deductions could have raised an eyebrow. That still didn’t make Kurt any less of a Fagin.
To wander through the smoke in that corridor, to hear the purring doggy boys as they stripped and danced and pumped and grinded — solos and duos and even manage a trois on Saturday nights depending on tips, and to know that manluv was not an on-line fundamentalist’s lovefest, kept the business lucrative and many waifs off the street. These silken skinned, lightly tattooed tushies and ball sacks found liberation in this employment — light work that required more looks than brains and a host of invisible panters-in-the-dark, who drooled behind locked doors in quiet suburbs, or perhaps in public stalls in infested ghettos. The need was always there, and the cubicles at manluv were always opened to the never sated tigers of voyeur sex. Ask any fallen politician.
2
Sprakie raised his hands to the keyboard, waggled his fingers and cocked his head. He flipped a prissy smile toward the web cam. He was about to answer the latest request for him to stand up and twirl his hips.
If you want to see my dick, you need to pay for a One on One, he typed.
A marketing degree was not necessary to understand this rule of supply and demand. This was the chat room and, to those who entered on their discreet computers and ISPs, it was free to watch the manluv boyz strip and twitter and tease. However, if you wanted some real action, you needed to pay. It was the law of the chat room. In days of yore such chats would occur through the windows of cars or across mugs of beer in the club. However, such was the marvel of technology. Chats were not only anonymous now, but also invisible — at least from the customer’s perspective, and that of his credit card where the transaction showed up in his monthly statement as Furley Barnickel Entertainments Inc. The chat also took on the appearance of a cheap playlet, dialog complete and denuded of nicety and style. Each member of the cast, or the tribe, if you will, assumed a nickname that was meant to serve as an avatar to his hidden ambitions (or her hidden ambitions, because the management at manluv was positive that with so much young male flesh displayed on the Internet, many a JohnCock was really a JaneTwat). Sprakie’s monitor was humming tonight.
Papuppy says: Papuppy here. Hi sweetie — how’s Robert tonight?
Sprakie says: Hi Papuppy. Cool, you know. Getting near the end of my shift.
Papuppy says: Robert, show us your ass!
Bonerman says: Yep! Show it to us now!
Sprakie says: Hi Bonerman — you know the rules.
Monitor 1 says: Guys! Press the ‘One on One’ button and Robert can be all yours.
3
Of course, Monitor 1 was none other than the Porn Nazi himself, who monitored all traffic, including this one for the cute blonde in Room 4, Max Gold, a name which was entered on his employment application, but to which Kurt didn’t believe for a moment. However, he didn’t care.
Cumdoggy says: Max more than the smile. By the way, I’ll be in New York this weekend.
Max says: So, are you saying something?
Cumdoggy says: Hey Bonerman, how are you this evening?
Bonerman says: Would be better if you were here, Cumdoggy.
Max says: To Bonerman - how old are you?
Bonerman says: Old enough.
Max says: No fair! You can see me.
Cumdoggy says: Show us more.
Max says: Teaser. How old Bonerman?
= = = = Bonerman has signed off. = = = =
4
Bang on the wall.
Sprakie rolled his eyes. “What is it, Max?” he shouted.
“Bonerman signed off. I scared him away. I asked him his age. It must have scared him good.”
“Fuck,” Sprakie shouted. “I could have told you that, you dumb ass newbie.”
“Watch out or I’ll come over there and kick your ass.”
Sprakie smiled. He wouldn’t mind a good ass kicking from that sweet blonde newbie, but he had his own tip bucket to fill. He glanced at his watch, the last and only garment he wore.
He’s late again. Kurt will have his hide.
He then pressed a grin across his maw and beamed at the camera. He noticed a new name on the screen.
Tdye.
“Shit. What’s he doing here?” Sprakie knew. This was supposed to be the beginning of Philip’s shift and, sure enough, here Tdye was as he had been for the last two weeks. You could set your watch by it.
Tdye says: Where’s the Flaxen one?
Sprakie says: Off tonight.
Tdye says: But the schedule puts him on now.
Monitor 1 says: The Flaxen one will be on later. Sorry for the inconvenience.
“Shit,” Sprakie said. “Nice going Tdye. You alerted the boss.”
Sprakie counted to ten until the expected knock came at the door. Kurt popped his head in, looked around, and then grumbled.
“I expect him soon, Kurt,” Sprakie mumbled.
“Haz he kallt you yet?”
“No, but he’ll be here.”
“Zo you zay. I’ve bin damn gut to dat one and his perfekt bubble butz, but if he’s five moments langer, I vill not pay him tonight. He vill just verk vor der tipz. You hear?”
“It’s not my fault, Jesus Marie.”
“But he’z your freund, and I brought him on at your zay zo. You hear?”
The head, cigar included, disappeared into the corridor.
“He’ll be here,” Sprakie barked. Fucker. He’ll be here. Sprakie gazed at his clothes pile. Deep in his jeans pocket his cell phone had lain quiet and that pissed him off. He had told Philip to call him if he was going to be late.
“I’ll have his balls on toast.”
Sprakie spied the screen and noticed that Tdye had signed off.
Thank God for small favors.
His monitor was clicking away. He needed to stir the tip pot.
Sprakie says to Papuppy: Are you still there?
Papuppy says: Here, dear. Are you queer or what?
Sprakie says: I’m a Kinzie 6.
Papuppy says: What the fuck’s that?
Sprakie says: Men only. What do you do?
Papuppy says: I do them all.
Monitor 1 says: Just press the button for a ‘One on One’ and Robert can be yours.
Kurt was back at his post, thank goodness.
Asspounder says: bon soir Robert.
Sprakie says: Good evening, Asspounder.
Asspounder says: Did I miss anything?
Papuppy says to Asspounder: You missed an exciting show from Robert. He’s the best.
Sprakie says: Thank you, Papuppy.
Asspounder says: Robert, how long have you been here?
Sprakie says: About to sign-off, Asspounder. The Flaxen one will be showing his stuff soon.
Papuppy says: Robert, how much longer?
“Time’s up, Papuppy,” Sprakie said
Sprakie says: See you all Tomorrow.
Papuppy says: What time?
“Check the fucking schedule, asshole!”
Sprakie says: I think I’m back at the same time, sweetie. Have pleasant dreams.
“And don’t swallow any wooden dicks,” he muttered, switching off the web cam. A buzzer sounded. “Thank God, he’s here.”
He heard Kurt’s form waddle down the corridor toward the door.
Who?
Short pause.
Flaxen.
There was a considerable pause.
Shit, he’s not going to let him in. He’s decided to fire his ass.
Then, the buzzer sounded again and finally the door released. Sprakie rolled his eyes back and grabbed his jock strap. He juggled his feet through the loops, and then tumbled out into the corridor. Kurt nearly knocked him over as he trundled back to his monitoring station.
“Next time, I von’t be zo undershtanding. There’z lotz of dem out dere vhere he comez, und I knew vhere to findz dem. You besser straighten him out.” He then muttered a rumble of low Rhenish German.
“Straighten him out,” Sprakie yawked. “Jesus Marie.”
5
Philip took the stairs, all three flights, two steps at a time. His stride surmounted the rats and other vermin that laid in waiting in the paltry corners. They weren’t half as threatening as his expectations on the third floor. He didn’t mind being dressed down by the boss. He had withstood his own father, hadn’t he? Still, the Porn Nazi would scream unintelligible gibberish at him, and that he found insulting. If the man was going to take him out or instruct him on his faults, shouldn’t he at least do it in English?
He reached the door and paused, bracing himself for the worst. When he opened it, he witnessed Sprakie hopping around trying to pull up his jock strap and the Porn Nazi sitting at the corridor’s end, his back to the world, yet not, because his mug was glued to the monitor — a wider world than anything contained at manluv.
“It’s about fucking time,” Sprakie yelped. He adjusted his cup and grabbed for Philip’s arm in a single, acrobatic motion. “You better go see him, and be quick about it, Mary, because when he’s finished with you, I’m gonna spank your ass good.”
“Thanks, mama,” Philip said giving Sprakie a kiss on the forehead.
“That’ll get you nothing.”
“You want more?”
“Please, I’ve been on my back all day.”
“Really?”
“Flackzon,” Kurt yelled, his chair never turning.
“You better go. Did you eat?”
“No.”
“Flackzon. Do you undershtand Anglisch?”
“Coming, Kurt.”
Suddenly, Sprakie reached out again snagging Philip’s wrist. Philip ricocheted backwards. “Is that my shirt?”
Philip shrugged. “Could be?”
“That’s my favorite shirt.”
“I’ve never seen you in it.”
“Just because I don’t wear it, doesn’t means it’s not my favorite.”
“Flackzon.” Now the chair swiveled around and the bull moose was evident beneath his cigar halo.
Sprakie pouted — might have even spit, but he let Philip go face the overlord.
Philip stared at the troll that slung over the swivel chair. He detested this man, but he guessed no more than any employee detested a particularly foul boss. He knew that beyond the brutish scowl on Kurt’s face, lurked a puppeteer — a man more in love with the control he fostered on his young charges than the money or the entrepreneurial inspiration. It was the power, and in that he was not unlike Miss McGillicutty, Mrs. Bane, Mr. Pickering, Mr. John Q. Public CEO and a few thousand other managerial types, who sat in daily judgment of the unwashed millions — minions in this city of mammon.
“I hope I didn’t dishturb anyzing elze you had plant vor today, huh?”
“Sorry I’m late, Kurt. It won’t happen again.”
Kurt grinned. “No pay today, you know zis. Just for the tipz you verk tonight.”
Philip trembled. “Please. No. I need the cash. I’ve rent due and I haven’t eaten in three days.” That was a stretch and Kurt knew it, but Philip’s pleading was a one-way ticket to grovel heaven. “Kurt, have a heart. Have a heart.”
Kurt growled, feigning displeasure, but in fact, Philip knew that by playing the slave, Kurt’s better nature would be revealed, if it could be called better.
“Enough of zis veeping. I hate vhen you kinder go do de veeping.” He was really enjoying it. “You are der lucky vone zat I don’t kick your ass out and get me somezing elze. Der straße hast mit kinder gefüllen.”
Philip pouted, the tears genuinely pumped now. He owed Sprakie this month’s rent and given Sprakie’s current mood (the shirt and all), he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He’d have to hit the streets. That index card in his pocket suddenly sung out a song of subsidy.
“Drop your pantz,” Kurt blustered. “Remind me vhy I hired you in der furst plaze.”
Philip didn’t hesitate. He unbuckled his jeans and let them slide, a funny picture since he still had his backpack on. Kurt’s eyes were alight on the bright white holster that the jock strap afforded.
“Turn around. Let me zee zat bubble butz.”
Philip turned. He felt Kurt’s eyes on his bare ass. They were like razorblades gobbling the hemispheres together into one scrumptious panorama. Philip shrugged as he watched Sprakie shake his head. Max Gold had come into the corridor now, naked also, but with his clothes draped over his arm, and his supper in a brown paper bag. He did a double take upon seeing Philip standing at half-mast before the Porn Nazi. A glance toward Sprakie told him the whole story, a story that perhaps Max had experienced first hand.
“Fine,” Kurt said. “Pull zem up. You are shtill vorth it. Half pay tonight, und zie tipz.”
Philip turned about and pulled his jeans up in a graceful pirouette. “Thank you, Kurt.” Any concession was better than nothing. “I promise to be on time from now on.” He started back to Sprakie, when the Porn Nazi banged his fist on the desk.
“Vorget zomezing, did you?”
Philip halted, closed his eyes and cringed. He sauntered back to the desk, coming around it. If he had had lunch, this would be a good time to heave it. He bent down through the haze of rotten cigar smoke and kissed Kurt on the lips.
“Thank you, Kurt,” he said.
Kurt smiled, and then grabbed Philip’s head and planted a wet, bologna and onion on rye kiss smack on Philip’s maw. Philip pulled away, but not so fraught as to undo the good deed. Still, he choked as his mouth tried to expel the terrible taste of Kurt. He would have rather swallowed the cigar whole than to get it thus filtered.
“You zee, I kan be nize. Und . . . you can have your whole pay tonight. I von’t even take my tip cut. Howz dat? Und you can shtart on zie hour now. Zo take your zweet time about it, ja.”
Philip swallowed, and then gave Kurt another kiss, this one on the cheek, followed by a fond pat on the elbow and a grateful smile. He came out of this ahead, if Kurt was forgoing his thirty percent cut of the tips. Philip thought it best to get out of the office before Kurt went for broke and made him a business partner. Nothing could tempt him along those lines. He headed back down the corridor to face Sprakie, who stood with his hand on his hips — a magnificent salad cruet.
6
“So, while I’m here working my ass off, you’re poking around in my privates.”
Philip locked his arms around Sprakie’s waist and groped downward. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Don’t think you can have your way with me and get forgiveness.” Sprakie unlatched and twirled round. “I’m not Sister Mary Diesel, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” Philip said, as pathetically as he could muster. He could have mustered a sheepish cajole, but since Sprakie had taught him that look, he knew it wouldn’t work here.
“I’m serious.” Sprakie sat on the bench and tied his shoes, now that the rest of him was clad. “I don’t go snooping about your drawers.”
“There’s nothing to snoop in.”
“That’s not the point.”
Philip grinned. The point was that petite ladies pistol tucked beneath the satins.
“What if you found my porn?”
“I know where your porn is and could never understand why you’d bring work home.”
Sprakie bounced to his feet like a crocus in May. “You can never have too many training videos, my dear.” He pinched Max’s ass as he bent for his sandwich. “I don’t know how you can eat after all those heathen men clicking away.”
Max jumped. He winked at Philip, and then proceeded to consume his tuna fish sandwich. “I gotta eat, Robert. I’m hypoglycemic. It wouldn’t be good for business if I conked out over the keyboard.”
“I suppose not,” Sprakie said. He sniffed. “But must you eat Tender Vittles?”
Max yawed. Philip just stared at the sandwich. Cat food or Chicken of the Sea, it sang to him. Max calmed down. “You want my other half?” he said to Philip. “I only need a little to stop from passing out.”
Philip smiled and reached, the second portion deposited into his hand. The smelled was delightful despite Sprakie’s eye roll and hand wave. This might be the last time Philip would see food until foraging through the half-fridge where there was nary an egg.
“Thanks, Max.” Philip ate slowly, savoring the flaky, moist meat and the sweet rye bread. Mayonnaise, just a hint, and perfectly seasoned. It was heaven on the tongue.
“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie said. “If that’s all you need to make you happy, I’d keep the cupboard stocked.”
“Would you?”
“Do you think I made of gold?”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Max yawked, the tuna spread over his teeth and over the corners of his mouth.
“Maybe, so, Kitten,” Sprakie snapped. “But I rule the boards here, and don’t you ever forget it.” He turned on Philip. “And aren’t you supposed to be on now?”
“Kurt said on the hour.”
Sprakie waggled his shoulders. “Kurt said on the hour.” He glanced toward Kurt, who was deep in the monitor. “On zee hour,” Sprakie mimicked causing Philip to choke on the Albacore.
“My break’s up,” Max said, piling the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth.
“Yeah, I’d pay to see that,” Sprakie said. “You look like a catfish.”
“See you later, guys.”
Once Max disappeared through his door, Sprakie rounded on Philip. “Where’s your cell phone?” Philip latched onto his Nokia from the side of his backpack. He pressed the ON button. Nothing. “Out of juice. Gimme that thing.” Sprakie whipped out his charger and felt around the bench for an outlet. “You’re supposed to keep it charged up all the time. So, why are you late?”
“Delayed.”
“Obviously. Who was he?”
Philip finished the sandwich and looked around for something to drink. There wasn’t even a water fountain in the place, and if there were, who would plant their lips around it.
“Dick,” he spluttered.
“I would hope so.”
“Moby Dick.”
“Not that fucking fish story again. I don’t now what’s come over you. I didn’t bring up no scholar.”
“No, I took a long bubble bath . . .”
“Bubble bath?” Sprakie raised his hands up high in a glory hallelujah. “First my shirt and now my bath crystals. And not even for a man. For a book.”
Sprakie grabbed Philip by the neck and drew him close. “Listen, Lady Chatterley. Back copies of Advocate Personals and other hard rock candy stuff are okay reading for you, but a big-ass book about a whale? The last time I picked up a book was the phone book, and that was to call a florist so I could decorate the place for a doctor.”
Philip broke loose. He smiled. His thirst was fierce now. The wonderful fish taste was now somewhat gamey in his throat. “Is there something to drink?”
Sprakie rustled through Max’s paper bag. “How about a Diet Coke?”
“Perfect,” Philip said. “Won’t he miss it?”
“He a dumb-ass newbie.”
Philip took a swig. Delightful. “What ever happened to that doctor and his dick of death?”
“Please,” Sprakie said. “I still can’t sit down. It was Doctor Brian McMoldau of the Gustave McMoldaus, East Hampton’s finest. Well, I thought I told you this, sis. He was hung like a you-know-what, and rich as Margaret Truman, but he had one flaw — a small flaw. He was as ugly as a goddamn monkey’s ass; and although he made it worth my while, there definitely was no call for me to be the permanent houseboy. So, when the doctor was in, my eyes were shut so I wouldn’t start laughing. Giggles meant no supper. No little spending money at Saks.”
Philip released his backpack and sat on the bench. “Did you meet him on-line?”
Sprakie sat beside him after glancing at the watch. “Never date them,” he said. “Be polite, get them in the One on One, make fucking pen pals out of them and they’ll come back and spend hundreds. Take your commission and run.”
“They’re not all that bad.”
“I forgot. You’ve made the rounds there. That geezer. And what did he give you? The clap? No. A two-ton book with no centerfold. Have you found the sugar daddy of your dreams yet?”