Family Practice by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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CHAPTER 14
A new summer day and, excepting Candy, all the people arise hopeful of another chance at meeting their goals and dreams, as the brilliant summer sun burns through the haze left by yesterday’s downpour, the clarity, leading to new outlooks.
Candy lay in bed. She didn’t sleep much thinking about the unpleasant surprises she had been receiving from callous Callie.
It seemed such a short time ago that she had the highest expectations. Though the sun was beckoning she didn’t want to go out and face a world she now saw as universally brutal and perverse, so she wandered the large house in her Mickey Mouse bathrobe, looking at nothing in particular.
Warren showed Connie the new pictures he had gotten, saying; “You are the hottest thing on this planet.”
She looked at them, smiled at him and replied; “These are pretty good. How did you get them?”
“Some detective on Journal Square.”
“Not Mark Cinchapport?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Yeah.” She thought that Mark must really be turned on by her now.”
Warren put his head in a book about the Bermuda Triangle as a rejuvenated Connie laid back and tried to count her blessings.
If Benito only wanted her for his “business,” the loss could be minimized by hanging out at most any bar. She felt grateful for Warren in many ways and smiled as he tickled her. He was particularly excited this morning as he had his new collection of Connie photos in his hand and mind. “Slow down,” she said and he couldn’t. She panted, groaned and served his morning juice long before she wanted to and then he made her breakfast.
As Connie greedily gorged herself, she thought back to the beginning of her fascination. As soon as she heard the word blowjob, she couldn’t wait to experience it. The young girls she knew in school regularly talked about it, but always said how disgusting a thing it was. Connie thought that the frequency of the conversation indicated something else.
After her experiences became public knowledge, she was accosted by her female classmates in the girl’s room and was forced to perform. She was then turned her over, without a stitch, to the boys waiting outside. She secretly enjoyed the adventure. When she got back home she played the fiddle and drank egg creams straight from the bottle for hours.
She let go of Warren and said; “Turn around.” She soon found new life, shifted again and got her reward.
She said; “I feel great. I’m really rested after yesterday, very aroused and I’ve got an idea that might kill two birds with one stone.” She thought that it was possible that Mark needed a different kind of incentive to obtain her precious photos. Warren watched her derriere as she walked to the phone to make a call. He heard;
“Hi, Mary Lee, this is Connie.”
“Fine, very fine. I got an idea.”
“How about you and your friend Roberta meet me at my house and then we’ll go see a guy who just loves tasty surprises.”
“Oh come on. He and I can be your slaves. We’ll do anything you like.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll do it myself. Please. I want your big, black, hairy presences for lunch.”
“Yeah, that’s fine, too. Anything you like.”
“Okay, see ya.”
Connie then called Mark’s office and was informed by Vicky that Mark was at home.
When he heard the knock at the door, Warren hid behind the couch, as Connie let Mary Lee and Roberta in. She led them into the family room and they sat down. Connie kissed them and said;
“Here’s my plan. We’ll each put on one of my loose dresses, go to this guy’s apartment and when he answers the door, we’ll show him the news and say, “Lunchtime, slave.”
Mary Lee, a thin light skinned black woman, originally from Georgia, said; “What if he’s not interested?”
Connie said; “I told you he loves it.... And if I’m wrong, I’m your slave all day.”
Roberta, a heavy chocolate delight, with a big grinning face, said; “White slaves have to start on the dark side of the moon.”
Connie smiled and said; “No problem. I’ve already had a white one today and I crave dark meat. Probably both he and I will both love it. Come on, take off those clothes and put on one of my dresses.” She watched the two change and planted more kisses. She donned a dress herself and they left. Warren saw the activity and thought he felt a drop on his hand. He said to himself; “That is the perfect girl.”
When she saw her debauched mother leave, Candy felt free to stroll the rest of the house. She didn’t have any idea what she was looking for, but thought that maybe an answer would pop out at her from somewhere. She looked in closets, drawers and boxes, getting lost in memories of where and who she was when that item was purchased, when this picture was taken and when that book or record was first discovered. It was a bit strange to be fifteen and looking back already, but she was the victim of a broken heart and she found that can happen at any age.
She opened the magic drawer and all sense of reverie disappeared. She had strong suspicions, but to see pictures of Callie and Shari worthy of a porn magazine, shocked her back to a demented, crying, angry and vicious mindset. She kept looking at the photos to see if there might be something there that would indicate that they were taken some time before she had met him. The opposite happened when she saw that the watch Callie was wearing was the one she had given him two weeks prior. She suddenly got focused, put the pictures back where they were, retrieved the card of Mark Cinchapport and intended to go see him. Candy wasn’t sure for what purpose, but thought something might occur to her on the way. Today was destined to be one of reckoning and perhaps her shock had left her with a numb, resolute will. She had taken enough shit from her mother, Shari and most of all, the one who was supposed to love her forever, Callie.
She walked to her room, oblivious to her surroundings and changed into an uncustomary dark green blouse and black pants.
She descended the stairs, conscious of the old carved spindles attached to the banister. They were painted white, but nothing could hide the nicks and chips they had gotten over the years.
She got outside, warm in the torrid sun and started her slow ten block walk to 22 Journal Square.
Mark and Allison were lying on the carpet, getting warmer and warmer from the incandescence streaming in the window. As he contentedly rested, gently nibbling on the “breakfast of champions,” he flashed back to the early times he enjoyed the restful position. His first crush happened in the eighth grade and he made all kinds of overtures to Amelia, who handled them dismissively, but not in a derisive manner. One afternoon he was doing his usual flirtation routine in school and she must have been in a particularly foul mood and blasted him in the presence of the entire class. As everyone was pointing at him laughing, he went into a kind of shock, never before feeling so stupid, surprised that people would find it hilarious to belittle one who was trying to express lovely feelings.
So, attempting to elevate his position, he told what he thought was his best friend that he didn’t really like Amelia, anyway and that his real passion was for Barbara, who was in the other eighth grade class. To really push things he said that he would love to go south with her, slightly outrageous in its time. His “best friend” must have broadcasted the news, as the next day when he was walking home, Barbara was alone on the corner grinding against a metal mail box. As he got nearer, she told him how good it feels when it vibrates, as she hit the mailbox with her fist.
He tried leaning against it and found the feeling a pleasant one. Her round face was partially covered with medium length straight black hair and the early developing beauty wore a tight white knitted top that partially covered her sizable protrusions. The tight black shorts did not hide the fleshy ripples evident when she moved to and away from the mailbox.
She said; “You know what HJR stands for?”
After a few seconds of unproductive thought, he said; “No.”
She explained that Rosalie was her best friend. “Know what BJB stands for?”
“He had a good guess for this one, but chose to play dumb, saying; “No.”
“Barbara.”
“Is that you?”
She put three fingers of her left hand in her mouth and smiled.
He said; “Do you know what CLM stands for?”
She continued her smile and said; “You.”
Actually he had no previous experience in anything other than fantasy, but said; “Yes,” and stuck out his tongue, licking his lips thoroughly, then added; “Is your mother home now?”
“No, she’s out with some guy I can’t stand.”
He said; “Come on,” and they walked to her first floor apartment and closed the blinds. In part out of nervousness, he
said; “Let me do you first,” knowing that he would not experience an inability to perform, but mostly because that’s what he wanted to do.
He practiced his soon to be specialty and then she hers.
The next morning, he scrutinized his face in the bathroom mirror and was encouraged when he found no warts, or any other physical evidence of his activities. Barbara had other boyfriends, but they would continue to periodically meet for the next few months.
High school started in a month or so and Mark got the thrill of his young life, when sitting alone eating in the cafeteria, three women, who were the school cooks, brought their trays to the table next to his and sat facing him. One had medium length frizzy black hair and looked about forty. She was both dark and light complexioned, a Jamaican Dugla girl. One had meticulous long blond hair and was a little younger. The third looked about sixty with short pinned back black hair.
What they had in common was that they paid no attention to him, sat with legs slightly parted and didn’t seem to be wearing any underwear. He did his best not to be obvious, but was compelled to solve the panty mystery with prolonged observation. After determining that today was a laundry day, he continued his gaze and his pants got tighter. This was too good to be true.
“They must know what they’re doing,” he thought. He tried to catch an eye and when he did he would lick his lips and the eye would turn away. Though he desperately wanted to, he couldn’t get up the nerve to approach three older women; one young one was difficult enough.
The same thing went on for days, Mark continually aroused and thinking that this was no accident. Why didn’t one of them at least look his way? Was every day laundry day? Why did they always sit where he had the view of paradise? Don’t they ever cross their legs? He wished that he could meet all three of them, one after the other.
Then one day the frizzy black haired woman showed up alone and took her customary seat. Having no one to talk to, she put a book in front of her face; “The Catcher in the Rye,” and sat with her legs as widely open as nature would allow. Mark looked at her brown unadorned skin and centered on one spot. The hair seemed to cover the entire region and was sticking up as if it had just been back combed. He couldn’t stand it. He kept trying to catch her eye, but both remained behind her book. He fantasized. After twenty minutes passed, he realized that she might leave any time and that he may never again get the opportunity, so he picked up his tray and walked by her, dropping his spoon near her feet. As he bent down to retrieve
it, he whispered; “I see that you’ve prepared more goodies for me today.”
She took her eyes off the book and put it on the table, Mark afraid that she would yell out something. She spoke in a low tone and said; “What took you so long?” Mark heard the sweet patois and learned that she and her friends loved providing munchies.
Mark learned where Frizzy lived and was invited to visit, where he was taught the finer points (or buttons) of the arts.
He liked the taste, aroma and texture of her long curly hair so much, that he became a frequent guest, eventually meeting the other two.
The three continued their lunchtime game, though now all smiling, as he focused on the beauties. He never joined them at their table, not wanting to call attention to his “friendship”
with them, but also because he liked the view from his current seat.
Allison’s voice broke his reverie; “It’s been an hour. Are you going to do this all day?”
“Um hmmm.”
“Well, okay, but I have to take a break.”
“I can save you the trip.”
Allison always had mixed feelings about the procedure; at times it excited her to do what seemed to be a heightened kick
and other times she thought there was something wrong about it.
Today she decided to oblige him, saying; “All right. If you really want it.”
“I want to taste all of you,” and he did.
The door opened and in walked Connie, Mary Lee and Roberta, each holding up their fabric with two hands, legs spread slightly, showing their prizes. Astonished, Mark broke from his drink and ogled them. Allison got up and ran to the bathroom.
In a southern drawl, Mary Lee said; “No need to go, baby. We can wait until you’re done, or we can make it a four on one.”
The three newcomers unbuttoned their obstacles, dropped them to the floor and stood near Mark, massaging themselves and smiling at him.
Candy continued down the wide broiling streets, which led to Journal Square. While she wanted to think of something brilliant, all her mind could focus on were the puddles left from yesterday’s rain, the discarded candy wrappers and paper cups; and the dog shit. She kept her head down, resolute not to step into any of the hazards. To her it only seemed that a minute had gone by when she saw 22 Journal Square. She climbed the irregular steps and made her way to Mark’s first floor office, opened the door to the vestibule and saw Vicky sitting on her chair, legs crossed, her tight black skirt at her upper
thighs, displaying a lot of un-stockinged black flesh. Vicky didn’t move and said; “May I help you?” in a somewhat condescending tone, recognizing Candy’s age and solemnity.
“Yes. I’m looking for Mark Cinchapport.”
“Are you one of his clients?
“No, I just want to talk to him.”
“Well, he’s not here yet. Do you have any money?”
“No, I’d just like to see him for a few minutes.”
Vicky decided not to disturb Mark about someone with no cash, so she said; “Okay, have a seat in his office and he’ll see you when he gets here.”
“When is he expected?”
Vicky laughed; “Whenever he finishes breakfast, most likely.”
Candy wasn’t’ sure what that meant, but had some suspicions. Not having any other questions, she walked into Mark’s office and sat. Ten minutes went by and she got fidgety.
She saw that Vicky could not directly look into Mark’s office from where she sat reading a magazine, so Candy opted to do some exploring. She opened drawers and cabinets, containing a lot of papers of no interest to her, but then came across a manila folder with “Roe, Constance” typed on it. When she removed it, she found another with “Roe, Warren” as the title, behind it.
She put them on Mark’s desk and opened the first, finding a
picture of Shari and her and another of Callie Majors. More than her worst suspicions were confirmed and she felt more alone than ever before. She read through the handwritten notes and saw “Candy and Callie sex acts. Penetration.” She now was certain of who was following her around, but couldn’t quite fathom the perversity of those around her, each moment’s revelation leading her to new disgust. Her mother wanted photos of her “in the act” with Callie. Her sister had been photographed “in the act” with Callie, when she knew full well that he was her love.
She stared at the blank wall, hoping she was in a bad dream. She had read books and seen movies about tragedy in a cruel, uncaring world, but never before thought that her own would rival theirs; after all they were only fabricated words and images concocted to attract a bored audience. She looked into the Warren Roe folder and found a clothed picture of her mother. She found this amusing, as she thought it would be easier to get one of her unadorned. She read through the notes and saw “Sex acts with anyone.” That sounded like her mother all right, but she was mildly curious why Warren wanted someone else to be the photographer. Another question struck her; “Who wanted the Shari photos?” she had seen at home. While she didn’t really understand why Warren would desire photos of her indiscriminate mother, she considered it the height of
perversity to have a mother request shots of her daughters. She knew enough and didn’t dwell on some corrupt thoughts she didn’t want to understand. She was surrounded by a licentious mother, a debauched step-father and a sister with no sense of propriety.
Worst of all, Callie, her hope for escape, didn’t really love her and wanted others to watch them doing things meant for privacy. Though the others were people she inherited and eventually would get away from, she thought that Callie was the worst. He was the one who raised her expectations, only to be secretly laughing at her innocence, while he got another notch on his belt.
She had worked herself up to a hatred she never previously approached. She ripped up the thin folders and stuffed them in her pants pocket. She looked through the rest of the desk drawers to see if she had missed anything and there it was; a beautiful, shiny black handgun. She picked up one of Mark’s kerchiefs, a pale yellow and used it to put the gun in her jeans pocket. She knew what she had to do and the consequences would be irrelevant. She was sick of this rotten life and the devil must pay for his sins. She didn’t intend to get caught, but accepted the possibility, justifying it with the thought that she would merely be trading one prison for another.
She walked through the vestibule where a disinterested Vicky didn’t look up from her magazine. She said; “I’m leaving.
I can’t wait all day.”
“Suit yourself, baby.”
Candy stepped purposefully through a now crowded Journal Square, passing by people ambling about, in an apparent attempt to stay somewhat cool on the scorching day. Candy liked the feel of the sweat she generated, wiping it, only out of necessity, from her eyes. It was the first thing human she experienced in her young day.
Mark tried to follow Allison into the bathroom, but she locked the door. He rapped at it and called out; “Allison, I don’t even know these people.”
Connie laughed and countered him with; “You know me well enough.”
Allison had made up her mind. She was tired of the same old shit, slipped on a simple light white dress and stuffed her other clothes into a duffle bag. She opened the door to see the four of them in all their glory.
Mark reached for her hand, but she pulled it away, saying;
“Mark. This is over. I’m not going through this again.”
He said; “I love you, Allison,” and tried to engage her resolute blue eyes with his pleading brown ones.
Allison said; “You love everybody. Go drink up,” and she moved quickly out the door with Mark in pursuit.
He said; “It’s not my fault,” and received no reaction from Allison, who continued out the front door of the building to her two year old light green Volvo and drove away. Mark stopped at the front door, not wanting to walk Headwaters Road in his present attire and watched her fade into the brightness. He dejectedly walked back to his apartment and saw the girls standing near the couch, with their hands on their hips. He looked at Connie and angrily said; “Who the hell do you think you are to just barge in on me like this?”
Connie was not surprised at the tone under the circumstances and softly replied; “If your girlfriend has hang ups, it’s not my fault,” while Mary Lee and Roberta smiled and nodded.
It touched a nerve. Mark always thought that Allison was slightly hung up and he couldn’t take his gaze off the three waiting treats, thinking of them as different flavors; vanilla, butterscotch and chocolate. The girls sensed his compliant demeanor and Connie approached, grabbed him and said; “Come on over here baby. We’ll make you feel better.” A prisoner of his passions mark allowed himself to be led to the couch, where the three took seats.
He was out of control and instinctively wanted to taste the drumsticks Connie brought with her. She said; “This is a special incentive for boys who do what they’re told and get photos.” She massaged herself and watched him. He elevated to the drumsticks and saved her the trouble of massaging herself.
“Good slave,” she said; “But you’re forgetting my friends.”
She pulled his hair and diverted him to Mary Lee’s light brown delights. He started low and worked his way slowly up as Mary Lee coldly watched. When she was done, she said; “Go get my friend’s dark chocolate.”
Mark shifted over to Roberta and climbed the sweet ladder.
She said; “Tell me how much you love it.” His entreaties worked and he was rewarded with a drink he sloppily got all over himself.
Allison had second thoughts, wanted to see if Mark’s words had any meaning and drove back to his apartment. Rather than entering the front way, she walked through the side alley to the back yard and peered in his first floor window. She saw a drenched Mark on his knees animatedly eating dark chocolate as Connie lay on the floor enjoying her own choice morsel. Allison was glad she made the trip, as she was now 100% convinced that this would be the last one ever. She slowly walked back to her Volvo and casually drove into the burning sun, reflecting on the
clear picture she had not wanted to obtain and wondered what she would do next. “California Dreaming” played on the car radio.
For the next two hours Mark and Connie did as they were told by Mary Lee and Roberta, getting whatever food or beverage they demanded from the kitchen. They danced upon command, having their bodies slapped and pinched while grinding away.
They begged and if done well enough were allowed to sample dark culinary delights. They were head over heels with each other on the floor as Mary Lee and Roberta watched the performance and verbally evaluated it. The two black women gave Mark and Connie treats if their deeds were good enough. Sometimes they greedily kept them for themselves and sometimes they shared them. When they left, Connie said; “There’s more of this available to a good photographer.”