Run With the Hunted (40 page)

“Well …”

“Come on.”

“All right. I'll see you in fifteen minutes.”

It was on the top floor of a modern apartment complex. Apt. 17. The swimming pool below threw back the lights. Edna knocked. The door opened and there was Mr. Lighthill. Balding in front; hawknosed with the nostril hairs sticking out; the shirt open at the neck.

“Come on in, Edna …”

She walked in and the door closed behind her. She had on her blue knit dress. She was stockingless, in sandals, and smoking a cigarette.

“Sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

It was a nice place. Everything in blue and green and
very
clean. She heard Mr. Lighthill humming as he mixed the drinks, hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmmmm … He seemed relaxed and it helped her.

Mr. Lighthill—Joe—came out with the drinks. He handed Edna hers and then sat in a chair across the room from her.

“Yes,” he said, “it's been hot, hot as hell. I've got air-conditioning, though.”

“I noticed. It's very nice.”

“Drink your drink.”

“Oh, yes.”

Edna had a sip. It was a good drink, a bit strong but it tasted nice. She watched Joe tilt his head as he drank. He appeared to have heavy wrinkles around his neck. And his pants were much too loose. They appeared sizes too large. It gave his legs a funny look.

“That's a nice dress, Edna.”

“You like it?”

“Oh yes. You're plump too. It fits you snug, real snug.”

Edna didn't say anything. Neither did Joe. They just sat looking at each other and sipping their drinks.

Why doesn't he talk? thought Edna. It's up to him to talk. There
is
something wooden about him. She finished her drink.

“Let me get you another,” said Joe.

“No, I really should be going.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, “let me get you another drink. We need something to loosen us up.”

“All right, but after this one, I'm going.”

Joe went into the kitchen with the glasses. He wasn't humming anymore. He came out, handed Edna her drink and sat back down in his chair across the room from her. This drink was stronger.

“You know,” he said, “I do well on the sex quizzes.”

Edna sipped at her drink and didn't answer.

“How do you do on the sex quizzes?” Joe asked.

“I've never taken any.”

“You should, you know, so you'll find out who you are and what you are.”

“Do you think those things are valid? I've seen them in the newspaper. I haven't taken them but I've seen them,” said Edna.

“Of course they're valid.”

“Maybe I'm no good at sex,” said Edna, “maybe that's why I'm alone.” She took a long drink from her glass.

“Each of us is, finally, alone,” said Joe.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, no matter how well it's going sexually or love-wise or both, the day arrives when it's over.”

“That's sad,” said Edna.

“Of course. So the day arrives when it's over. Either there is a split or the whole thing resolves into a truce: two people living together without feeling anything. I believe that being alone is better.”

“Did you divorce your wife, Joe?”

“No, she divorced me.”

“What went wrong?”

“Sexual orgies.”

“Sexual orgies?”

“You know, a sexual orgy is the loneliest place in the world. Those orgies—I felt a sense of desperation—those cocks sliding in and out—excuse me …”

“It's all right.”

“Those cocks sliding in and out, legs locked, fingers working, mouths, everybody clutching and sweating and determined to do it—somehow.”

“I don't know much about those things, Joe,” Edna said.

“I believe that without love, sex is nothing. Things can only be meaningful when some feeling exists between the participants.”

“You mean people have to like each other?”

“It helps.”

“Suppose they get tired of each other? Suppose they
have
to stay together? Economics? Children? All that?”

“Orgies won't do it.”

“What does it?”

“Well, I don't know. Maybe the swap.”

“The swap?”

“You know, when two couples know each other
quite
well and switch partners. Feelings, at least, have a chance. For example, say I've always liked Mike's wife. I've liked her for months. I've watched her walk across the room. I like her movements. Her movements have made me curious. I wonder, you know, what goes with those movements. I've seen her angry, I've seen her drunk, I've seen her sober. And then, the swap. You're in the bedroom with her, at last you're knowing her. There's a chance for something real. Of course, Mike has your wife in the other room. Good luck, Mike, you think, and I hope you're as good a lover as I am.”

“And it works all right?”

“Well, I dunno … Swaps can cause difficulties … afterwards. It all has to be talked out … very well talked out ahead of time. And then maybe people don't know enough, no matter how much they talk …”

“Do you know enough, Joe?”

“Well, these swaps … I think it might be good for some … maybe good for many. I guess it wouldn't work for me. I'm too much of a prude.”

Joe finished his drink. Edna set the remainder of hers down and stood up.

“Listen Joe, I have to be going …”

Joe walked across the room toward her. He looked like an elephant in those pants. She saw his big ears. Then he grabbed her and was kissing her. His bad breath came through all the drinks. He had a very sour smell. Part of his mouth was not making contact. He was strong but his strength was not pure, it begged. She pulled her head away and still he held her.

WOMAN WANTED
.

“Joe, let me go! You're moving too fast, Joe! Let go!”

“Why did you come here, bitch?”

He tried to kiss her again and succeeded. It was horrible. Edna brought her knee up. She got him good. He grabbed and fell to the rug.

“God, god … why'd you have to do that? You tried to kill me …”

He rolled on the floor.

His behind, she thought, he had such an
ugly
behind.

She left him rolling on the rug and ran down the stairway. The air was clean outside. She heard people talking, she heard their T.V. sets. It wasn't a long walk to her apartment. She felt the need of another bath, got out of her blue knit dress and scrubbed herself. Then she got out of the tub, toweled herself dry and set her hair in pink curlers. She decided not to see him again.

—
S
OUTH OF
N
O
N
ORTH

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but they keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

 

 

I was 50 years old and hadn't been to bed with a woman for 4 years. I had no women friends. I looked at them as I passed them on the streets or wherever I saw them, but I looked at them without yearning and with a sense of futility. I masturbated regularly, but the idea of having a relationship with a woman—even on non-sexual terms—was beyond my imagination. I had a six-year-old daughter born out of wedlock. She lived with her mother and I paid child support. I had been married years before at the age of 35. That marriage lasted two and one half years. My wife divorced me. I had been in love only once. She had died of acute alcoholism. She died at 48 when I was 38. My wife had been 12 years younger than I. I believe that she too is dead now, although I'm not sure. She wrote me a long letter each Christmas for 6 years after the divorce. I never responded....

I'm not sure when I first saw Lydia Vance. It was about 6 years ago and I had just quit a twelve year job as a postal clerk and was trying to be a writer. I was terrified and drank more than ever. I was attempting my first novel. I drank a pint of whiskey and two six packs of beer each night while writing. I smoked cheap cigars and typed and drank and listened to classical music on the radio until dawn. I set a goal of ten pages a night but I never knew until the next day how many pages I had written. I'd get up in the morning, vomit, then walk to the front room and look on the couch to see how many pages were there. I always exceeded my ten. Sometimes there were 17, 18, 23, 25 pages. Of course, the work of each night had to be cleaned up or thrown away. It took me 21 nights to write my first novel.

The owners of the court where I then lived, who lived in the back, thought I was crazy. Each morning when I awakened there would be a large brown paper bag on the porch. The contents varied but mostly the bags contained tomatoes, radishes, oranges, green onions, cans of soup, red onions. I drank beer with them every other night until 4 or 5
AM
. The old man would pass out and the old lady and I would hold hands and I'd kiss her now and then. I always gave her a big one at the door. She was terribly wrinkled but she couldn't help that. She was Catholic and looked cute when she put on her pink hat and went to church on Sunday morning.

I think I met Lydia Vance at my first poetry reading. It was at a bookstore on Kenmore Ave., The Drawbridge. Again, I was terrified. Superior yet terrified. When I walked in there was standing room only. Peter, who ran the store and was living with a black girl, had a pile of cash in front of him. “Shit,” he said to me, “if I could always pack them in like this I'd have enough money to take another trip to India!” I walked in and they began applauding. As far as poetry readings were concerned, I was about to bust my cherry.

I read 30 minutes then called a break. I was still sober and I could feel the eyes staring at me from out of the dark. A few people came up and talked to me. Then during a lull Lydia Vance walked up. I was sitting at a table drinking beer. She put both hands on the edge of the table, bent over and looked at me. She had long brown hair, quite long, a prominent nose, and one eye didn't quite match the other. But she projected vitality—you knew that she was there. I could feel vibrations running between us. Some of the vibrations were confused and were not good but they were there. She looked at me and I looked back. Lydia Vance had on a suede cowgirl jacket with a fringe around the neck. Her breasts were good. I told her, “I'd like to rip that fringe off your jacket—we could begin there!” Lydia walked off. It hadn't worked. I never knew what to say to the ladies. But she had a behind. I watched that beautiful behind as she walked away. The seat of her bluejeans cradled it and I watched it as she walked away.

I finished the second half of the reading and forgot about Lydia just as I forgot about the women I passed on the sidewalks. I took my money, signed some napkins, some pieces of paper, then left, and drove back home.

—
W
OMEN

what you see is what you see:

madhouses are rarely

on display.

that we still walk about and

scratch ourselves and light

cigarettes

is more the miracle

than bathing beauties

than roses and the moth.

to sit in a small room

and drink a can of beer

and roll a cigarette

while listening to Brahms

on a small red radio

is to have come back

from a dozen wars

alive

listening to the sound

of the refrigerator

as bathing beauties rot

and the oranges and apples

roll away.