The Bell Tolls for No One (13 page)

A Day in the Life of an Adult Bookstore Clerk

I
t was the usual type of adult bookstore: tip sheets, the
Racing Form
, the daily papers . . . Further, it was divided into three sections—the legit section with the regular magazines and non-porno paperbacks; the section you entered through the swinging door where the porno bits are housed; and the section that led from the porno section to the arcade room where you could see a quick dirty flick for a quarter. It cost 50 cents to get into the porno section but you were given a silver token which was applicable to a purchase.

It was Marty's first day on the job and he had the day shift. He stood on the raised platform that gave him full view of the porno room. He couldn't see the arcade room.

Well, it seemed a better job than the furniture factory. It was clean and it was quiet. You could look at the boulevard and see the cars going by, you could see people walking by. The yellow cabstand was just outside.

It was 8:15 A.M. A guy around 35 in a yellow t-shirt and long sideburns walked in. Grey pants, long arms, black and white shoes, very pink clean face, large open blue eyes. He stood there and looked up at Marty.

“You got anything without hair on the box?”

“What?”

“Young girls, man.”

“I don't know.”

“You don't read the stuff?”

“I don't read it.”

“I gotta pay 50 cents and take my chances?”

“That's right.”

The guy put the 50 cents up and Marty gave him the token and he walked through the swinging doors. There were already two other guys in there. 30 minutes passed. The guy in the yellow t-shirt came out.

“You don't have shit in there, man. You oughta have some stuff without hair on the box.”

Marty didn't answer.

“I saw something, though, in one of the glass cases. One of those masks. What do one of those masks go for?”

$6.95 plus tax.”

“I'll take one.”

Marty took one out from under the counter. It was a mask of a little girl crying. Her mouth was open. It was rubber and the entrance to the mouth was tube-shaped to fit the penis. Marty subtracted the 50 cent token from the purchase, put the boxed item in a brown paper bag, gave the man that and his change and he was gone.

Another guy came by, silently handed Marty his 50 cents, got his token and entered the porno room. Then a horseplayer came in.

“Give me number 4,” he said.

“Number ‘4' what?”

“The fourth
Form
down from the top.”

Marty counted 4 down, pulled it out and took the dollar.

“I'm going to bet the number 4 horse in the 4th race, plus any horses that go off at 4 to one.”

Then he was gone.

Next one of the guys came out from the back. He gave the token back but Marty had seen him cut a photo from one of the magazines with a razorblade. He'd also been in the arcade room. Then a young guy, around 22, came through the swinging door, “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” asked Marty.

“Jesus Christ, some of the guys came right over the coin slot of one of your machines back there. It's dripping with come.”

Marty locked the register and walked back there. It was true. The coin slot of one of the machines was dripping with semen. Marty walked to the crapper, got a large handful of toilet paper and wiped the coin slot off. The title of the movie was,
A Girl's Best Friend: A Dog
.

Around 11:30 a guy came in and bought an inflatable doll. The doll went for $20.

“Listen,” said the guy, “will you blow her up for me? I've got asthma.”

“I've got emphysema,” said Marty. “You'll have to take her to a gas station.”

“All right,” said the guy.

“How about some black lace panties for her?”

“Let me see them. Let me feel them.”

Marty handed the guy the black lace panties. He felt them. “How much?”

“$6.95.”

“O.K., I'll take them.”

“How about some nice wigs? We've got blonde, black, brunette, red and grey.”

“No, I think I've spent enough. Maybe later. I'll just take her and the panties.”

You had to eat lunch at the counter. Marty locked the register and went down to the taco stand and ordered the enchilada lunch and a large coke. He took it back and ate it while sitting by the register.

About 1:00 P.M. a young girl came in. She might have been 21. Marty asked for her I.D. She was 21 according to her I.D. She wanted to see the dildoes. She wanted to see all the dildoes.

“Lay them all out,” she said.

Marty laid them out on the counter. There were seven styles. The girl picked one of them up.

“What good is this thing?”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Look,” the girl ran her finger up the back of the dildo, “there's a ridge coming out here on the back. That's no good.”

“Those plastic ones are the cheapest. Why don't you try one of the others?”

The girl handed the dildo back. “Don't you have any black dildoes?”

“No.”

“You ought to have some black dildoes.”

“I suppose we should.”

The girl finally selected three dildoes. She seemed to prefer the one with the large protruding veins. Marty put the dildoes in a brown sack and then the girl was gone. Then Marty had to take a piss. He locked the register and walked through the porno room and into the arcade room. You had to go through the arcade room to get to the crapper. There was a guy looking into one of the machines and masturbating. Marty walked on, had his piss and as he walked by the guy was still masturbating.

When he got back to the register there was a guy waiting.

“I want the hands,” said the guy. The hand was rubber and had little wires running through it. The wires allowed the hand to be fitted around the penis and then the hand was plugged into the wall and the fingers moved.

“The hands?” asked Marty.

“Yes. I want twenty hands.”

“Twenty hands?”

“Yes, twenty hands.”

Marty counted out twenty hands and the man paid for them. He went off with the hands in a large paper sack.

The phone rang. It was his boss, Herman. Herman had done 19 years for armed assault. Now he owned 22 adult bookstores. “How's it going? Any problems?”

“Fine. No problems.”

“How much you takin' in?”

“Around 90 dollars.”

“You'll hit 150 before your shift's up.”

“I suppose so.”

“Listen. I got a problem. I lost my man at the Hollywood shop. The fucking cops got him.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he'd been going with the janitor's wife. He was sitting up with her one night and he got up and strangled her. Then he cut her body all up and buried her in Griffith Park. Then while he was asleep these two guys came and repossessed his car. When they opened the trunk they found two hands in there. He'd forgotten the hands. The cops came and got him. He was a good counter man. He'd been with me two years. He was honest. I never had to worry about him. It's hard to get a guy who doesn't rip you off.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“They're always ripping a man off. You give them a job and they rip you off.”

“Yeah.”

“You don't know a good honest man, do you? I need a man for the night shift.”

“No, I don't know anybody honest, sorry.”

“O.K., well, I'll find somebody.”

“All right.”

Herman hung up.

The afternoon went on. Around 4: 30 a guy came up out of the arcade room. “Those sons of bitches live back there,” he told Marty. “It's dark and it stinks back there, they suck each other off.”

Marty didn't answer. “That's not bad enough,” said the guy, “but now somebody's shit back there!”

“What?”

“Yeah, a shit freak. You got a shit freak coming here. It happened last Tuesday too. There's a big stack of stinking shit back there right in the center of the floor!”

Marty walked back there with the guy and flicked on the lights. There was a guy at one of the machines, masturbating.

“Hey,” said the guy, “cut the damned lights!”

There was the stack of shit right in the middle of the floor. It was an enormous stack and it stank, it stank very much.

“Did you shit on the floor?” Marty asked the guy at the machine. The guy had put his eyes back on the viewer and was still masturbating.

“Listen, I asked you if you shit on the floor.”

“You're ruining my movie. I ought to get my quarter back.”

“All right, I'll give you your quarter back. Did you shit on the floor?”

The guy at the machine pointed to the other guy, “No, he did it.”

The other guy looked at Marty. “Listen, do you think I'd shit on the floor and then come and tell you about it?”

“He does it all the time,” said the guy at the machine, he used to do it with the guy who worked here.”

“You're a fucking liar,” said the other guy.

“Who you calling a liar? I'll punch you out. I hate you shit freaks!”

The guy at the machine put his penis in his pants, zipped up and moved toward the other guy.

“All right,” said Marty, “we'll have no fighting in here.”

Marty found an old newspaper and picked up the shit with the old newspaper and took it back to the toilet. He was careful not to put the newspaper in the toilet. The main trouble, though, was that while he was back there somebody could be stealing something up front. He had to keep coming out of the arcade room to check the customers, then go back to carrying the shit.

When Marty was finished the guy at the machine asked for another quarter. Marty gave him the quarter. The guy put it in the machine, unzipped, got his penis in his hand and began watching. The other guy was gone. Marty walked back up front and sat down by the register.

When the night man came in, one Harry Wells, Harry asked him how he liked the job.

“Not bad,” said Marty.

“It's got its drawbacks,” said Harry, “but all in all, it's O.K.”

“It beats the furniture factory,” said Marty. He got his coat and walked out on the boulevard. Harry was right, all in all it was O.K. He was hungry and decided to celebrate his new job with a steak dinner at the
Sizzler
. He walked on down.

T
he place was high in the Hollywood Hills. It was a nice place. Three German Police dogs slept in the yard. The latest burglar alarm systems had been installed. But Herman couldn't sleep. He turned on his back; he turned on his side. That side. Then the other side. He tried the stomach. He went to the bathroom. There wasn't a sleeping pill in the house. It was hot. He sat in bed and smoked a cigarette. Then he stretched out. He tried his back. He tried both sides. He rolled and scratched and stared at the ceiling. Finally his wife said, “Herman, what the hell's the matter with you?”

“Joan, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you read the papers?”

“Yes, I like to keep up with things in the Women's Liberation Movement.”

“I know that. That's fine, but look, there are other problems too.”

“I know, Herman. I'm no dumb wife. I'm an individual.”

Joan read
Playgirl
,
Ms
.,
Woman
, and
California Girl
, among others.

“All right, I grant you that. You're an individual. We don't have any arguments there. Let's not get into a Buckley-Greer debate.”

“A Greer-Buckley debate.”

“O.K., a Greer-Buckley debate. Greer won. But Buckley isn't against Woman's Liberation, he's against some of the aspects of the Woman's Liberation movement.”

Herman sat up in bed and lit another cigarette. “Listen,” said Joan, “if this Woman's Lib thing bothers you so much, we better talk about it.”

“I'm not even thinking about it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Joan, I make my living doing these films and printing these books.”

“I know that.”

Herman put his cigarette out. “We've gone back to the dark ages, we've been murdered. The Victorians are back in button-top shoes. The churches are smiling from ear to ear, from parish to collection box.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean today the U.S. Supreme Court passed a decision making the definition of obscenity a state matter.”

“Which means?”

“Which means what is not obscene in Oakland can be obscene in Twin Falls.”

“That's impossible. What's obscene in one place is obscene in another.”

“No, the Supreme Court says obscenity is a local definition.”

“So, you're in trouble?”

“Of course; I distribute nationally.”

“That's what you get for your sexism.”

“And what do you get for my sexism?”

“I'm your wife.”

“You get a fine house in the hills; you drive a 1973 Caddy; you belong to the best of women's clubs; you get maid service, a once-a-week shrink, the best of clothes and foods . . . ”

“And I get you . . . ”

“Well, yes, that's thrown in.”

“Women as sex-objects. You just can't get away with it.”

Herman walked to the bathroom, threw cold water on his face and came back.

“Why don't you put on the air-conditioning?” asked Joan.

“I always get a cold.”

“Well, I don't.”

Herman walked into the other room, put the switch to on and came back. Then he was back in bed again. “We might as well use the air-conditioning. We're gonna be broke soon enough.”

“Herman, we've got two hundred and ten thousand dollars in the bank.”

“You don't know how fast money can go when the conditions revert. We're going to have to bribe local officials. That won't be so bad. Most of them sell-out cheap. The problem will be court costs. That's how they can bust us. We'll be in and out of court constantly.”

“Look, Herman, I don't want to seem against you. I care for you. But you distribute sexism.”

“I distribute crap. But some people need it. It makes them happy.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“It was Hemingway who said, ‘No matter what you believe in, if it doesn't make you happy, you're wrong.' ”

“Hemingway! That male pig! Attending bullfights, putting on boxing gloves, shooting animals . . . ! He was a little boy pretending to be a man. He was afraid of his impotency, of his homosexuality!”

“Oh shit,” said Herman.

“I suppose you've got something against the gays?”

“Look, in my business 80 percent of the people I employ are fags.”

“Gays.”

“Gays, then.”

“Herman, people are coming into their own. Wounded Knee. Marlon Brando says—”

“Please, Joan. You don't know what this Supreme Court ruling can do. It can not only kill off the crap I do, it can affect well-meant literature, painting, sculpture, movies . . . .”

“Movies? Like
Deep Throat
and
Last Tango in Paris
?
”

“Those were good movies because they opened up the air . . . .”

“Would you like your child to see
Deep Throat?”

“Joan, we don't have any children.”

“If you had a child, would you like it to see
Deep Throat?”

“That's a stupid question. It reminds me of the question they used to pop around the forties: ‘Would you like your sister to sleep with a nigger?' ”

“Herman, I'm talking about
deliberate
sexism, I'm talking about a
deliberate
obscenity . . . .”

“Arguing about obscenity is like arguing about God. Nobody knows.”

“But we always manage to argue about something.”

“O.K. We can't sleep. Let's try God.”

“Herman, there
is
a God.”

“Oh shit.”

“Is that all you can say: ‘oh shit'?”

“Shit yes.”

“You pretend to be an intelligent man.”

“I never said I was.”

“I never said you did.”

“Oh God!”

“See?” Joan laughed. “You're calling to Him.”

“I'm going to Him.”

Herman got up and walked to the kitchen. He found the scotch in the lower cupboard. He took three thimbles in a glass of water and drank it in two tries. Then he walked back to the bedroom and got back into bed.

“Why the hell don't you move around a little?” he asked his wife. “You just stay stretched out there. It's not natural.”

“Herman, people sleep at night. They don't get up and scratch themselves and walk around like you do.”

“How do you know they don't? I'll bet half this town is up tonight walking around and scratching itself.”

“Herman, get up and get me a drink, mix me a nice drink and light me a cigarette.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to get up and pee.”

“You're going to get up and pee? Don't women ever piss?”

“Only people who stand up when they do it piss.”

“That's discriminatory. I suppose if you drank some pee and drank some piss each would taste different.”

“Of course. Women's glands . . . ”

“Of course, women's glands. Now what do you want? Scotch? Whiskey? Gin? Vodka? Wine?”

“Two jolts of scotch in some soda.”

“We don't have any damned soda.”

“We have some damned soda. Just look in the refrigerator.”

Herman got up and walked to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. She was right. There was soda. Score one for Greer. He mixed her drink and came back. He mixed two drinks and came back. He got into bed with his wife and they sat upright against the pillows with their drinks. He found the ashtray, the matches and the smokes on the headboard. He lit her a cigarette.

“Those birds,” he said, “they sing all night. When do they sleep?”

“Those birds are happy. If you're not happy, you're wrong.”

“Hemingway birds,” he said.

“Hemingway birds,” she said.

“They're gonna blow their brains out,” he said.

“They're gonna blow their brains out,” she said.

They sat there and listened to the birds. There were crickets too.

“This is ridiculous,” Herman said. “210 thousand dollars in the bank and I can't sleep. Guys on skid row with a bottle of wine are sleeping like babies. I've got to be crazy.”

“Why don't we take a couple of months off and go to Paris?” she asked.

“What? And come back and find the business vanished? I've got to stay on top of this thing. This Supreme Court ruling has me up against the wall.”

“All right, Herman.”

“Don't talk condescendingly to me, please.”

“No, I meant it. Whatever you want to do. I guess I should worry more with you. I don't seem to contribute anything.”

“You contribute.”

“Thanks, if you mean it.”

“I mean it. We're going to Paris. For two weeks.”

“It'll do you good, Herman. It'll do me good.”

“Shit, yes. Fuck the Supreme Court! Fuck the Supreme Court! Rosenbaum can handle affairs. Four weeks in Paris!”

“Rosenbaum can handle affairs. You'll stay in constant touch.”

“I'll stay in constant touch. Six weeks in Paris!”

“Eight weeks in Paris!”

“Two months in Paris. Fuck the Supreme Court!”

“Three months in Paris! You can trust Rosenbaum.”

“Two months in Paris. I can't trust Rosenbaum that much.”

“All right, two months in Paris. Listen to the Hemingway birds!”

“Listen to the Hemingway birds. They're going to blow their brains out!”

They finished their drinks, made love and slept the remainder of the night.