Family Practice by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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CHAPTER 6
Mark woke up feeling very well, an hour after sunrise as the television blared further Viet Nam news, authored by the Pentagon and portentously read by one of the award winning newsmen. Mark thought that he well deserved his honors for his abilities to seem so concerned, but mostly for his way of coming up with a questioning departure from his printed cards, that to many would seem hard hitting journalism, but actually were questions supplied him by the powers that be, which they could very easily answer.
He gazed out his one window at a perfectly clear blue sky, nothing obstructing the sun from radiating its warmth. Perhaps due to last night’s acid trip, he felt vital, young, aggressive and hip, so he decided to put on his light green denim bellbottoms, white Santana T-shirt, red kerchief and walk the few blocks to his office and enjoy the warm spring morning.
Vicky was already there when he arrived, bent over her desk, apparently trying to reach something that was on the other side. Mark used the opportunity to plant a big kiss. She flinched and Mark continued through his open door, motioning her to come with him and saying; “Bring those buns in here. I’m dying for a big breakfast.”
Before he could finish, there was a gentle single knock on the door and Warren let himself in, saying; “A man after my own heart.” Mark got up and looked at the intruder, mildly annoyed that the great morning was cut short, but glad to see a man with similar taste, hopefully with money. Vicky got up from the chair, adjusted her skirt, walked out and said; “How would you like it if I walked in on you and your wife?”
Warren looked her up and down, blew her a little kiss and said; “Promise?”
Vicky shook her head, looked at the ceiling and replied,
“All you white people freaks?” She didn’t wait for a reply and quickly added; “To be continued when Mr. Rude leaves.”
Warren said; “Not Rude. I’m Warren Roe. I got your name out of the phone book and I think I can use your services.”
Mark thought; “Roe, it couldn’t be. I hope he’s not mad about me and Connie.” He proceeded cautiously, saying; “What service is that?”
Surveillance. My wife Connie is screwing around and I want to get photos.”
Mark wondered if this was a coincidence, or if some other game was being played on him. So he decided to look for as much money as he could get and ask a lot of questions. If Roe didn’t like it, his departure wouldn’t result in tears. Mark said;
“I’m really pretty busy right now.”
“Yes, I saw. I’ll pay your top posted $20 an hour rate and provide a meaningful bonus.”
“Meaningful?”
“Five hundred dollars, half up front. Let’s say three eight hour days; that’s $480 plus $250. That’s $730.” He reached for the wallet in his back pocket and Mark said; “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute.” He was having a mini-moral crisis. He couldn’t pinpoint where, but the whole thing seemed as if there was a conflict of interest hidden somewhere. He sat down at his desk, picked up a pen and said; “You say your name is.....?”
“Warren Roe. My address is 694 Liberty Lane, Jersey City.”
“Phone?”
“No phone. I’ll contact you.”
Mark thought; “Oh, another one,” but said; “Great. Next time wait until somebody says ‘Come in.’”
“Sorry.”
“Do you have any photos of your wife?”
Warren laughed; “Not enough,” and pulled one from his wallet and flipped it onto Mark’s desk. It was a smiling fully clothed Connie, standing next to her light blue Camaro.
Mark asked; “Is this recent?”
“Five or six months.”
“And this is her car?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea who’s the guy and where she meets him?”
Warren pondered and decided to be up front, saying; “There are many and she meets them in different locations.”
“You say that as if you’re sure of it.”
“I am.”
“How’s that?”
“She tells me.”
Mark didn’t know what to say next and looked at Warren’s sincere eyes and finally said; “Well, if you already know, why do you want the photos?”
“I get off on them.” Silence. Warren then added; “The whole thing is quite alright with me, but Connie keeps telling me that she’s going to bring back pictures and never does.”
Silence. “I’ve already seen that you’re a man of the world. So am I. Are you going to have the audacity to be some kind of judge?”
Mark considered his point and the $730 two feet away, smiled and said; “Sorry. I forgot that it’s 1972 and that anything goes...... And it’s about time.”
Warren said; “My sentiments, precisely.” He took $730 from his wallet, dropped it on the desk, shook Mark’s hand and left, saying; “I’ll contact you in a few days.”
Mark quickly put the money in his pocket, hoping it was out too briefly for Santo to get a whiff and sat there very contentedly, finally a financial success.
He went to the vestibule and saw Vicky with her arms folded against her chest, with a scowl on her face, looking straight ahead and not at him. He tip-toed over to her and touched her ear. She flinched and turned to him.
Mark said; “I’m sorry. You know it wasn’t my fault. Come on, I’m ready whenever you are.”
Vicky said; “I’m not into any five minute deals, you know.”
“Oh, please, baby. You know I’m extremely slow.”
Vicky pointed at the chair she occupied and said; “Right here. I’m not moving.” Mark got under the desk to investigate, realizing that the door was not locked, but didn’t want to break the mood and thought it would be amusing if they were seen twice in one day.
Near noon, Mark walked back to his apartment, enjoying the sunny warm day and watching people, guessing at who they were and what they were doing. No interesting thoughts came to mind, as everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere and didn’t make any eye contact with him, strongly suggesting that their current lives were about business and being late for a very important date.
He entered his apartment, made a sandwich, sat, looked out the window and thought about how he should proceed with his two jobs. It was obvious that he should again scout Liberty Lane, but looking for who? Various thoughts rolled around his head, none conclusive, so he settled in on following whichever of the two women left the house first.
Still too early to occupy Liberty Lane, he walked slowly back to his office. Who knows? He’d been lucky lately and maybe someone would be there with more money.
Vicky had gone somewhere, so he went into his office to find a young girl with her black hair pulled back into a bun, sitting on his desk, her dark blue mini-dress hiding none of her attributes. Mark’s eyes riveted on the talented black patch.
She picked up one leg and said; “I’m Shari Roe. My mother told me all about you.”
He was in a silly mood and had recently discovered that a roe was a fish egg, so he said; “Are you a little fishy?”
She said; “I don't know. I can’t get my nose down there.
You’re going to have to tell me.”
His mind raced. He didn’t want to again be interrupted and certainly not by Warren, no matter how open minded he seemed to be, so he locked the door, pulled the shade and proceeded to do his work of choice; prolonged, painstaking investigation.
Shari said; “I need a regular.”
He said; “So let’s do it,” envisioning some off the beaten path relationship, maybe like Warren and Connie’s though he didn’t know exactly what that was.
Shari said, “What’s your home address?”
“990 Headwaters Road, Apartment 3.”
After fifteen minutes he heard the door rattle and Vicky said; “Let me in.” Mark looked up at Shari and she nodded. He said; “You’re beautiful,” and opened the door.
Vicky walked in, smiled, put her hands on her hips and said; “It’s such a great day. Can I join the merriment?”
Mark looked at Shari, who said; “Yeah, I think this sucker never gets enough.”
Vicky sat in Mark’s chair and adjusted her skirt while Mark again locked the door and spent the afternoon split between the front of his desk and the rolling chair. After a while, he recalled the possibility of Warren coming back and he didn’t want to tell Shari about his business with her father, but told her; “If someone else also comes to that door, get under the desk.”
Shari said; “No way. That’s your job.”
After a pleasant undisturbed afternoon, Mark again walked back to his apartment where his two cars were parked. Needing a trip to the bathroom, he climbed the stairs, opened the studio door and saw Allison sitting on the couch crying. He was
surprised, not having seen her in months and somewhat relieved, as at least she was one of the more orderly people in his life.
He said; “Allison, what’s wrong?”
She said; “I got fired from my fucking job.”
He sat next to her on the couch and took her hand.
She pulled it away, saying; “Don’t touch me, you fuck.”
Her long blond hair, parted in the middle, flew in her face and she brushed it back, at the same time somewhat stifling her tears. Her light blue button up blouse almost matched the color of her faded jeans.
Mark remembered this as being her typical casual outfit and always wondered if it was a reflection of her eyes. He missed her terribly, but had given up hope of seeing his 26 year old long-term, on again off again, girlfriend after the fourth major breakup.
He pulled back and softly said; “Okay...... Need a place to stay?”
She angrily said; “Yeah.”
They sat silently in the dimly lit sanctuary, both remembering prior times spent there, temporarily forgetting the turbulent ones. When she seemed composed, he said; “Are you with anyone now?”
She said; “Sort of, not really. How about you?”
“Sort of, not really.” Another lull ensued, both looking at the floor. He recalled that they had already been through all the words, so he blurted out; “Not really is the better answer. I can’t get serious about anyone after you.”
She didn’t want this conversation and angrily looked at him and tersely said; “But, you still get serious about every fur pelt you can get your nasty eyes on.”
He wasn’t sure if it was better to shut up at the moment, but decided to push things, saying; “I’d rather it was yours.”
“Yeah, mine and everyone else’s.”
“I’m ready to stop all that.”
She shook her head and said; “How many times have I heard that? Besides, who said I was interested?”
His feelings were hurt, but he also thought that there must be some reason she came to his apartment in a time of crisis.
He felt tired of everything, now that he saw her again. He didn’t want to pursue any “logical” argument as experience had shown him that they only produce circles, soon back where they started. Instead, he got up and walked to the refrigerator, saying; “Watch me. As long as you’re here, I’m a member of the clergy everywhere else. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
When he saw the look she gave him, he added; “I’ve got TV
dinners, sandwiches, ice tea..... and not much more.” He laughed and she made a little smile.
“Not right now.” She got up and turned on the television.
It coldly said; “27,156 Viet Cong dead, 3,526 captured. 1,525
Americans dead, most because of the new offensive......” She turned the channels, saying; “How many years are we going to be listening to this bullshit?” Mark just shook his head, as she found a station playing old movies. She caught the beginning of
“To Have and Have Not,” with Bogart and Bacall. She re-seated herself in the center of the couch. He took his place close to her right and they stared at the screen as the one window showed the day’s brilliant sun prepare for a rest.
After fifteen minutes he put his left hand on top of the right she had on her thigh. When she didn’t offer any resistance, keeping her eyes on the screen, he decided that he would stay here and pursue someone else’s sordid pictures tomorrow.
On the other side of town, the Hook Harbor Road warehouse show was about to start. About 200 cars jammed the parking area and about six hundred eager patrons sat on folding metal chairs, 90% male. Among the female contingent was Connie with Benito and Shari with Callie. The curtain remained down on the
improvised stage, when “Jimmy” Park, the Viet Namese host, climbed up and said; “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have something a little different and special for you tonight and we hope you enjoy it......” When he saw some looks of consternation, perhaps those preferring the same old thing, he wanted to assuage them and added; “As usual, no one is permitted on stage and after the show, the girls will be available as slaves at the usual rates.” He departed and the curtain slowly rose. A white American woman of about forty was sitting in a grand red 1880 Turkish Frame winged armchair. Her curly black hair matched the chair’s thick fringe. Her 5’5”, 160 pound body was covered only with a black push up brassiere and a tight black waist corset attached to and holding up fishnet stockings.
She reached behind her and clasped a red, white and blue leather whip and caressed her body with the handle.
Thirty slim Viet Namese girls writhed onto the stage wearing only hand and foot shackles, each supporting three small US Flags on seven inch stems. They clustered around the great one in the chair, anxious to please. The woman stood and used her whip on them as she walked, followed by the crawling thirty to X-frames nailed to the wall, where she attached each one with four chains, leaving them with a last loving crack of the whip.
She sat back on her throne, while thirty nude dark Viet Namese boys all desirous of showing homage, marched out and
bowed to her. They pushed each other, attempting to get a better location, as she laughed and made use of her whip. As Connie watched them swaying, she grabbed Benito’s arm and said;
“You’ve got to get me in that show.”
Benito pulled his arm away and said; “Well, then get the fucking statutory rape pictures.”
Connie said; “I’m trying,” as she put her hand on his lap and said; ‘Can I, right here?”
The men seated nearby looked her way and smiled a “Yes,”
holding onto their horses. She became the center of attention as people re-arranged their chairs to give her room. The Feds got to know all of Connie’s aspects, though she would never be able to identify their faces. On the other side of the auditorium Shari saw the commotion and said to Callie; “My mom taught me well and I think I can do better than that.”
Callie motioned to his adjoining compatriots, who moved their chairs, making room. She did her best to show that she was number one. A number of other women in the room got a desire to be sociable and followed suit.
On stage, the white woman gave a command to her groveling black slaves. Remaining seated, she said; “Enough. Go over to the girls.”
Half of the flags were protruding from heavy, well watered grass and half were in fields lacking vegetation. The men
looked briefly for their favorite and did as they were told, as the girls bumped and grinded to the much desired attention, heads lowered with their lustful eyes fixed on the prize.
The commandant called out “Switch,” and the men scurried around to find their second favorite choice. Later she would again say; “Switch” a few more times, prolonging the action.
The White Queen got up from her chair and said; “Stop.”
She walked slowly over to the girls and one by one removed them from their frames, allowing each to pay homage to her. She then re-chained each of the girls’ legs, this time to the floor; their arms pulled over their heads and attached to the bolts in the wall, leaving them on eye level with their prizes.
She then said; “Remove the top flag and replace it.” The men roughly did as they were told as the ladies struggled to get the firmest grip possible. The men were content to watch them in their endeavors, while Whitey again called out “Switch.”
Various configurations and permutations were demanded by Miss, Mrs., or Ms. America. When she was out of ideas, she said; “There are prizes for the first three.” The men universally seemed to comply, but each wanted to finish last.
Each knew that the queen wouldn’t be able to tell and did their best to prolong the ordeal. The girls liked this game and were trying to do the same thing.
The audience had broken down into groups, each with a favorite woman interested in exercising her specialty and the men’s eyes diverted between local excitement and foreign affairs.
The curtain came down and “Jimmy” Park came back out and announced; “Show’s over. The girls will be waiting for visitors, as always.” He laughed, prior to adding; “Group rates are available.”
Mark and Allison watched a series of movies, their conversation centering around judgmental commentaries concerning what they saw on the screen. They had seen them before, some while together and their stated predilections often carried secondary and tertiary meanings that communicated something to the other, without carrying the argument potential of a direct statement. They both claimed as their favorite line one near the end of “King Kong,” when the promoter, in view of Kong’s inert body on the concrete below the Empire State Building, says; “Oh no, it wasn’t the airplanes. It was the beauty that killed the beast.”
When they tired, Mark shut the television and gave Allison some covers and tucked her in on the couch. He piled up some blankets and slept on the floor, more contented than he remembered being for some time.