The Love Machine (6 page)

She was suddenly conscious that the doorman was staring at her. She left the building and started to walk. Maybe she’d stop at P. J. Clarke’s.

They were three deep at the bar and she connected with some agency men. She stood there for over an hour, exchanging dirty jokes, toying with one beer, her eyes watchful for some good prospect at the door. Someone who might buy her dinner… .

At seven thirty she saw Danton Miller walk in alone. She wondered where in hell was Susie. He looked straight through her
without even nodding and joined some men at the other end of the bar.

Another hour passed and then as if a timer went off, the agency men suddenly gulped down their drinks and raced to catch the last decent commuter train. And not one of the bastards picked up her check. She was hungry now. If she went inside and had a hamburger, Lillian would be through with the peroxide and jazz by the time she got home.

She sat alone at a small table and ate the hamburger. She was starving but she left half the roll. Damn, why had she had the beer? She weighed a hundred and forty now. Well, she had a small waistline and her boobs were sensational. Size thirty-eight—upright and firm. Her problem was her ass and thighs. If she didn’t get it off now, she’d never lose it and next month she was going to be thirty. And still not married!

She could have been married, if she had wanted to settle for a civilian—the cameraman at CBS or the bartender in the Village. But Ethel wouldn’t settle for anything less than a top celebrity. A one-night stand with a celebrity was preferable to a mediocre existence with a nobody. After all, when she held a movie star in her arms and he murmured, “Baby … baby,” as his climax came, that moment made up for everything in the world. During that one moment she was beautiful—she was
someone
. She could forget who she was… .

She had always wanted to be beautiful, even as a child. Fat little Ethel Evanski from Hamtramck in Detroit. Eating mashed potatoes and fried onions, listening to everyone on the block talk Polish, playing potsy, double Dutch, double Irish, reading movie magazines, sending for genuine autographed pictures of Hedy Lamarr, Joan Crawford, Clark Gable. Sitting on the front steps and playing “The Game”—talking dreams and pretending they were real—with Helga Selanski, a stringy-haired little Polish kid the same age. The whole world was Polish on that block in Hamtramck. And the second-generation Poles seemed locked in, destined to marry their own kind. They went to movies and saw that there
was
another world, but it never occurred to them to try
and enter it. But to Ethel, movies and the places she saw on the screen weren’t merely two hours of silver escape. Hollywood was a real place. New York and Broadway actually existed. At night she would stay awake and listen to the radio, and when the voice announced that the music was emanating from the Cocoanut Grove in Hollywood, she would hug herself with excitement—at that very second, the beautiful music she listened to was being listened to by the famous stars who were there. For that one moment, there almost seemed to be physical contact, like she was
there
.

Ethel had always known she would leave Hamtramck. Getting to New York was Phase One in her dreams. One night when she and little Helga were listening to a band coming from the Paradise Restaurant in New York, Ethel began “The Game.” Planning what she would wear when she grew up and went to such a place—what movie actor would escort her. Usually Helga played along with The Game. But on this night, Helga suddenly protruded her bony jaw and stated, “I’m not playing anymore. I’m too big.” Ethel had been surprised. Usually she could make Helga do anything, but this time Helga was stubborn. “My mother says we shouldn’t talk and play like this, it’s time for us to be practical and not play make-believe games.”

Ethel had answered, “It’s
not
make-believe. I’m going there someday, and I’ll know movie stars and they’ll take me out—and kiss me.” Helga had laughed. “Like fish! Kiss you! Oh Ethel, I dee-double-dare you to say that to anyone else on the block. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay right here like all the rest of us and marry a nice Polish fella and have babies.” Ethel’s eyes had narrowed. “I’m going to meet stars … go out with them … maybe even marry one.” Helga laughed. “See, my mother’s right. She says it’s all right to talk about Hollywood if we know we’re just dreaming, but not to believe that it’s true. You’re crazy. And you won’t go out with movie stars. You’re Ethel Evanski and you’re fat and ugly and live in Hamtramck, and what movie star would want to go out with you!”

Ethel had slapped Helga—hard. But she was frightened because she was afraid Helga might be telling the truth. But she
wouldn’t
stay on the block and marry a nice Polish boy, raise kids and
make mashed potatoes and onions! Why
had
her mother and father come from Poland if it was to live in a little Poland in Detroit?

The incident that triggered “The Game” into determined action was Peter Cinocek, a boy with protruding ears and large red hands who had “come to call” when she was sixteen. Peter was the son of a friend of Aunt Lotte’s. He was a “real catch,” half Polish, half Czech. Her mother and father had looked idiotic with delight at the prospect. She recalled how diligently her mother had cleaned the house. Everything had to be spotless the night Peter Cinocek came to call. She could still see them. Her mother nervously waiting, in a freshly ironed housedress. Her father skinny and bald, so old. God, he had only been thirty-eight. He had seemed worn and bloodless in her eyes, but her mother had appeared massive and strong.

She would never forget the night Peter Cinocek arrived. First she saw the big ears, then the pimples on his neck surrounding a great red boil that had not quite matured. But he could have been Clark Gable the way her mother had beamed as she placed a pitcher of lemonade on the porch and discreetly disappeared into the kitchen to wait.

Everyone on the block waited. Everyone in the small row of houses knew a “suitor” had come to call. She sat on the swing with Peter Cinocek. They sat in silence, listening to the creak of the swing, to the whispers of the neighbors on the porch that adjoined theirs. She could still see that house. A small cubicle, sandwiched in a long block of identical small frame houses. Every house had the same broken-down porch, the same small dinky dining room, the tiny living room, and the kitchen where everyone spent most of their time. And, oh God, the endless garbage pails and the cats that frequented the back alley. Even now she could still hear their mating sounds, and some disgruntled neighbor tossing out a pail of water to shut them up. Either their aim was bad or the cats were extremely passionate, because after a brief lull the mating yowls commenced again.

She thought back to that night when she sat on the creaking swing and listened to Peter Cinocek. He told her about his job at the A&P, then he took her hand in his. It felt moist and limp.

And he told her how he hoped to have a home just like this and many many children. That’s when she had bolted off the swing and run! Of course she came back, when she was sure the big-eared Peter had gone. Her folks had laughed. In Polish they kidded, “Little Ethel, she was scared of a boy. Ah, but she was born to have children—nice broad hips, she would have an easy time.”

Ethel was silent, but she doubled her efforts at school and that summer she got a job in an office in downtown Detroit and became fairly efficient as a secretary. She never dated. But she was not unhappy. She was waiting. Saving all her money—and waiting.

When she was twenty she had saved five hundred dollars and she came to New York. Her final job in Detroit had been in the publicity department of a small advertising agency. In New York she landed in the secretarial pool at a large advertising agency. Ethel’s big chance came the day a drunken movie idol who was appearing on one of the agency’s shows wandered into the office. She had been thrilled to follow him back to his hotel. He had sobered instantly when he found he had taken a virgin. But he had been too drunk to remember that the virgin had practically raped him. He was frightened there might be repercussions. He offered her money. Ethel haughtily refused. It had been love, she insisted. His panic mounted. He was married and loved his wife. Was there anything he could do for her? Well, she explained she wasn’t exactly thrilled being in the secretarial pool … He had acted immediately. With quick finesse and help from his agent he arranged for Ethel’s transfer to the New York publicity office of his movie company.

This was smorgasbord for Ethel. She met a lot of drunken actors, even some sober actors. And she did it all for love. The word spread, and Ethel’s career had begun. When an opening came in the publicity department at IBC, Ethel took it. After all, she had practically gone through the movie company’s talent list. IBC offered more money and a whole new arena with its ever-changing shows. She was good at her work and superb at her hobby—her job was secure at IBC.

She was well aware that her reputation had traveled from coast to coast. She enjoyed the notoriety, even her title. One of
the Six Swingers from Fire Island had gone to work in Los Angeles in the publicity department of Century Pictures. She and Ethel exchanged voluminous letters. Ethel described every detail of each current affair, gave the man a rating, and even included the size of his equipment. Ethel had a funny style and Yvonne, her correspondent, had Ethel’s letters mimeoed and they passed freely around the office. When Ethel learned this, she took even greater pains to be more descriptive. It worked almost like a paid ad for her. Many big names called her when they came to New York. Famous men … beautiful men… .

Often she wished Helga could see her on some of her dates with the handsome stars. Helga must be faded and loaded with kids by now. Helga had married Peter Cinocek!

She looked up suddenly. Danton Miller was standing at her table. He was very drunk.

“Hello, baby,” he said with his Cheshire smile.

She smiled casually. “Well, well, if it isn’t City Lights.”

“Meaning what?” he asked.

“Like the picture of the same name. You only recognize me when you’re drunk.”

Dan pulled up a chair. He laughed. “You’re a funny girl.” He waved for another drink. Then he looked at her with a grin. “They say you’re the greatest. Do you think I should lay you?”

“I
choose who I lay, Mr. President. But don’t feel sad—I’ve got you on my list, if there’s a slow night.”

“Is tonight slow?”

“It started that way …”

He threw his arm around her. “You’re an ugly broad. In fact, you’re really a beast. But I hear you’re the greatest. Want to come home with me?”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

His eyes narrowed. “I hear you also have a big mouth. That you spread the word, give a Nielsen rating on every guy you lay.”

She shrugged. “Why not? My ratings save some of my girl friends from shacking up with a blintz.”

Dan’s smile was ugly. “Who the hell are you to give a guy a rating?”

“Let’s say I have an excellent basis for comparison.”

“Want a drink?” he asked, as the waiter placed his Scotch before him.

She shook her head and watched him drain the glass. He stared at her. “You’re getting prettier by the minute, Gargantua. And I’m getting curiouser and curiouser.”

“You’re also getting very drunk,” she said.

“Yeah, time to go home. Maybe I’ll take you home with me.”

“You forget, Mr. President.
I
make the decision.”

He was almost humble as he stared at her. “Well, wanna come?”

She thrilled at the glorious surge of power. He was begging now. “If I do, you have to send me home in a Carey car.”

“I’ll send you home in a Rolls-Royce if you’re half as good as they say.” He lumbered to his feet and signaled for his check. She was relieved to see he automatically picked up hers.

“Are you sure you’re sober enough to enjoy it?” she asked.

“You
make
me enjoy it,” he challenged. “I think it’s about time someone gives a rating on
you
.”

She stood staring at him on the street. “Forget it. I’m too great to waste on a drunk.”

He grabbed her arm. “Scared? Maybe your reputation is phony. Probably is. How could you be any different from any other dame—unless at the finish your cunt plays ‘The Star Spangled Banner’?”

“I think I’ll show you, little man.” She hailed a cab and helped him in.

He had a nice apartment in the East Seventies. Typically bachelor and typically executive. He led her directly into the bedroom and fumbled out of his clothes. She saw the surprise on his face as she undressed. Her perfect breasts always caused this reaction.

“Hey, baby, you’re stacked.” He held out his arms.

She came to him. “A little better than Susie Morgan, huh?”

“Wouldn’t know,” he mumbled. He threw her on the bed. His kiss was sloppy. He tried to mount her but he was limp. She slid out from under him and rolled him over.

“Take it easy, sonny,” she said. “You may be president of the network, but you’re just a boy to me. Now lie back. Ethel will show you what love is about.”

She started making love to him. And as his excitement mounted, as he responded and whispered, “Baby, baby … you’re the greatest,” she forgot that tomorrow he would pass her in the hall without a nod. Right now she was making love to the president of IBC. And right now she
felt
beautiful… .