Feb 14, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“What are you calling yourself now?”
He takes in the blond guy, who looks like a lot of forty-something year old men who make good money, maybe go to Vegas for their kicks, have a wife, kids, an affair or two. His mind races around the fact that the guy knows all about him, has been following him for some time, has mentioned his twin. Has also mentioned the woman who died some months ago, and the one who had not on Christmas Eve. He’s busted. The blond guy’s next few words confirm it:
“We’re guessing you don’t want to go back inside, do you?”
He shakes his head, trying not to appear guilty. “I’ve been calling myself Blue. Like the color.”
The blond guy’s own blue eyes take him in. “Blue, it suits you. I like it.”
Photo: Joel Goodman
His mother had named him Steve. Not Steven just Steve. He never liked that name. His twin had gotten the far better name, Anthony. Anthony and Steve, identical twins, one good as gold, the other, a bad ass from the get go.
“So, what’s your name as long as we’re getting personal?”
“For now it’s Greg Endless. Would you like to see my ID?”
“Not unless you want to show it to me.”
This makes Endless smile.
Endless had been following him for a couple of days. He was there when he came out of the shelter. He was there when he did some panhandling in Beverly Hills in the Neiman Marcus parking lot, one of his favorite spots. He was even there when he walked off the metro, at the last stop in Santa Monica under an umbrella in the pouring rain, wearing one of those old fashioned trench coats, collar turned up, like a man in gangster movie.
About an hour ago, on the first bright day in a week, when the sky is the blue of postcards, and the trees a deep primal green, Endless quietly approaches and asks him to have a cup of coffee.
He and Endless are now sitting in the corner of a stylish café in Santa Monica. The coffee he had just enjoyed, in a small cup, made the shit at Starbucks taste like swill. His time inside, his time on the street hadn’t adulterated his innate good taste. He knows—without having a lot of experience of it—what good food and drink is. He appreciates it and wants more in his life. Could he afford to, he’d have the cappuccino they served here three times a day.
“We’d like you to do a job for us.”
“You don’t look like a cop. FBI?”
“Not exactly,” Endless replies. “It’s complicated—national security.”
“Can I get another one of these? As long as you’re paying?”
“Yeah, but get it to go…”
II
Blue now has a clean furnished room above a shop that sells antiques, on the trendiest street in Santa Monica, a couple of blocks from the café where he enjoys his morning coffee, wearing decent looking sweats, good sneakers. His soft thick hair is clean and cut and tied back in a pony tail with another clean band. He has soap, shampoo, socks, underwear, pots and pans. Right away Endless had handed him store cards for the Whole Food market, for a restaurant a few blocks from here, and a pass for the yoga studio across from the market.
“I get it,” Blue had told Endless. “You want me to off someone.”
Endless merely shrugged his shoulders.
“We know you liked yoga when you were inside. I’d try Nate’s class.” He handed Blue a sheet with a schedule on it and certain classes highlighted.
Probably they wanted Blue super cool before he did their dirty work for them.
“Piece of cake, Mr. Endless.”
III
“Welcome to class Blue!” This from the pretty girl behind the desk when ever she sees him.
The teacher Endless suggested is great. Who would have thought? Nate is around his own age, and is funny. His clothes no better than Blue’s maybe a little worse. He has an innocence Blue admires, something like his own twin brother. This teacher seems to like him, his twin never did—always looked at him a little scared. Was Blue learning to act like a rich shit head, or was the teacher just naturally hip? What did it matter? Outside had always been sweet, but never this sweet. Whatever he had to do for Endless would be worth it.
Within a couple of weeks or so, Blue could feel himself calmer, his anger not boiling up inside, even slipping away, like a heavy coat that has fallen off his shoulders on the first warm day. With a place to live, a place to have coffee, clean food to eat, and now this yoga practice that suits him in every way.
Updog, Downdog, Triangle, Half Moon; he’s getting better at the transitions. He can go from Tree pose, to holding his leg out almost straight. He vows he’ll learn how to stand on his head.
His teacher Nate gives him the thumbs up.
His second week, after class, the two of them end up walking on Montana Avenue.
“How long have you been practicing?”
Without thinking Blue replies, “I practiced for a couple of years in prison. A while ago.”
The teacher nods. “Good place to learn yoga.” No sarcasm in his voice, just acceptance. Blue has a warm rush of unaccustomed pleasure in his chest, like someone is patting his heart then rubbing his chest.
Nate says, “Looks like things are going ok now?”
“So far, so good,” Blue replies. And seeing where they are, at the café where he comes every morning, Blue asks, “Hey, Nate, let me buy you a cappuccino?”
Inside, the place is almost empty, not like the rush and the line he’s gotten used to in the morning.
“Sit,” Blue says, “Cappuccino, macchiato?” Blue’s always been an excellent mimic, and he’s enjoying the foreign names, knowing he’s saying them as exactly as the guy who makes them does.
Nate smiles. “I’ll have a chai, they make great chai here!”
Blue is enjoying himself, being host. Glad to be in the company of the yoga teacher he likes, feeling almost proud to have a friend, it’s obvious the dude could be his friend. How long has it been since he had a real friend?
Someone once during his first time in juvenile detention… a lifetime ago.
He places his order, watching the barista expertly fill his cup, and then do something different with the chai Nate has ordered.
He puts a dollar in the tip jar. Why not? Cups and saucers in both hands, he turns and heads toward the table.
It is then, he sees Endless standing at the door, sun behind him, partly in shadow. Endless who tilts his head very slightly indicating Nate. Nate, whose back is turned to the door. Endless makes the faintest gesture of his pointer finger across his throat, and then vanishes as swiftly as he appeared.
Fuck, It’s him…. do I hafta? Not him. Anybody but him.
*The characters in this story appear and reappear in Hot Water, Safe Zone, Blinded By The Light, Christmas Eve and New Year.
by 
Jan 28, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
We had just made love in the afternoon, in the big king size bed in the master bedroom facing the back where huge trees, none of them palms, a rarity in Los Angeles, had been growing for decades. And where there was a rose garden with mature roses, a little bench, a fountain, quite a set up for a “lonely bachelor” as he called himself when he showed me around the place. Actually, since I’d done my research: he’d been married and divorced four times, and had grown children. Was he close with any of them? Was he generous with his money? Did he love them? Did they love him?
I knew it was going to happen today, because I was going to make it happen today. And, after all, we are consenting adults: I am early fifties, he sixty-three. He’s pretending to be around fifty now. There’s a prescription for the pills in his medicine chest—I checked that out when I went in to pee forty minutes ago. He had done the same five minutes before that. The pill takes a quarter hour or so to activate. It says so right on the label. Sounds like a missile about to launch, doesn’t it? As in, ready set… I felt like asking him, “Are you seeing blue?” That’s one of the side effects.
Photo: Joel Goodman
It was my freshman year of college. We met at a mixer. I had half a dozen real dates with him before he did the dirty deed. He wooed, he tickled, he licked, he caressed, he bought dinner, he discussed, made sure the proper birth control was in place. On the night when “it” happened, he moved in for the kill swiftly, like a cat, total focus, breath drawn in. I remember opening my eyes with him above me, the terror of the thrust itself—the pain—then he moved off the body, got dressed and drove the corpse home, still dripping.
I came from a strict, religious family. It wasn’t anything like today: no Internet, no helpful sex education, no cell phones, it was a simpler time.
I was the only virgin in the dorm, my most experienced friend had told me to get it “out of the way.”
I didn’t get it, that I was going to get deflowered and dumped and that’s what it was all about. His game. I certainly thought I’d see him again. I didn’t see him again until after three weeks of wondering what happened and no phone call. I saw him at a mixer going through the same motions with a girl he had gone through with me. I watched him from the dark fringes of the room, music blasting, coming in on her. I did what I always do when something pierces me to the very core. I simply went dead, zoned out.
Left my body.
It wasn’t until years later, after I married, after I had children, and after the children were grown, when I was getting my hair done, and the young girl who was working on me told me about the ring she was wearing. “My father gave it to me. We had a ceremony, I pledged my virginity to him.” When I looked at her trying not to gasp, she said, “In our religion, we have a ceremony and our father gives us a ring. Then when we get married, we take off that ring and our husbands give us another.”
“They hand you off!” I was fascinated.
And then I realized what had happened to me all those years ago and what had happened to the others, I’m sure there were dozens of us.
This person who had just made love to me, and nicely too—had once been an assiduous cherry popper: an ancient ritual, as old as man and woman themselves!
Soon after, my own long marriage ended. My children left home. I had a short and very unpleasant brush with death. And decided since I was in remission, what I’d do with my remaining time.
We lived in the same town, after all, different neighborhoods, his much more plush. I found myself obsessed with killing the man who took my virginity like that. Yes, to get even with him. Do something to him. Why? Because he deserved it. I could probably even get away with it.
I bought a pretty little gun, a Smith and Wesson “Lady Smith”. The salesman assured me it would be lethal if the need arose. They were so helpful at the gun range and I learned to master the recoil and hit the target.
Last week I made a first attempt. I made an appointment pretending I was a journalist. He’s famous enough to have not thought it weird. But I chickened out.
Today I came back, seduced him, and he swallowed a pill that did or did not make him see blue, and here we are…
I’m not going to kill him today, I didn’t even bring my little lady gun. But I’m going to break his heart before I break his neck, or do something really awful to him. The bastard. He deserves it.
“That was wonderful,” I said, stroking his arm. “You’re such a stud, so manly!” I saw him smile in the dying light of the afternoon. The gloaming the English call it.
I got up. Went for my clothes, and heard him asking, “Don’t go, stay. We’ll have dinner!” And at the door his rapt expression, “When can I see you again?”
“Soon,” I replied. “Very soon.” And I closed the door firmly.
by
Jan 10, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
Photo: Joel Goodman
I
“I can’t make love with him. I can’t use words, I can’t ask for what I desire, it is something like what it was with the fool I married. Only the man who wants to marry me isn’t a fool. And I would like to marry him.”
Tatiana told me this in her slightly accented English that like nearly everything else about her was so sexy. She reached for my hand…
I’m a yoga teacher and Tatiana’s brother had come to one of my classes last year and after class convinced me to meet his sister, and become her sexual surrogate. Maybe he thought that yoga teachers have some special sexual expertise, or maybe he heard that yoga started as a sex cult.
She had been married briefly, found the whole physical aspect unsatisfactory and wanted to learn how to have pleasure. I was broke; lots of bills were coming in. I agreed to meet with her. She was beautiful and I guess we sort of fell in love.
My face was burning. I was aware of being jealous.
“Have you said you’re going to marry him?”
“No.”
I didn’t inquire, “Has he seen you without your mask on?” Tatiana had always kept the dark holes covered where eyes should have been, until the last time we got together. Then I saw what she hid so skillfully. I’m still ashamed at the horror I felt that day.
“It takes time to learn anything, Tatiana, the body needs practice.”
“You and I needed no practice.”
“True. We were special. It isn’t always so easy.”
“Your wife?” she asked in that soft sexy voice. “Sometimes I’m jealous of her.” Then she added, “I know she is beautiful and rare, as you are.”
I didn’t say anything. My wife is no longer as outwardly beautiful or as young as Tatiana.
I nodded my head, knowing Tatiana couldn’t see me and my wife couldn’t either.
We were sitting in the living room of Tatiana’s luxurious Westwood high-rise apartment with incredible views of mountains, rooftops and the green of the Veterans Administration campus a half a mile away. Ironic that she couldn’t enjoy the view.
“I thought, perhaps, you could teach him!”
“Teach him what?”
“What you do. My brother says you’re a teacher. I was content to go online, but he didn’t like the idea and found you.”
“Tatiana, honey, that’s different.”
“What’s different? You’re a teacher, you impart knowledge!”
I thought of the difference the money had made, the bills paid, the Christmas presents last month. My yoga classes were not getting as many students as they used to. And to be honest, here was something I knew how to do, that paid well, but it was bad for my head, and worse for my marriage.
I took up a handful of pecans and threw them in my mouth. They were spiced and delicious. At home we never bought things like this.
“You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”
“It was wonderful with us. I don’t think it could happen that way again. Even between us.”
She put her head to the side and rested her cheek against her own hand. Her dark glasses were askew. Her gesture seem to say, with us it would always be wonderful.
And probably she was right. As long as she kept her eyes covered.
“How do you see this happening?”
See. I was aware of the word I used, as I wasn’t usually aware of words. When you are with a blind person, you think about see, you think about pointing, you think about all sorts of things the rest of us take for granted.
She made it sound so simple. “You watch us, and you tell us what we do wrong. How to do it better. Is there such thing as a sex coach?”
“Probably, but I’m not one. And I don’t think I want to be one either.”
“I will introduce the two of you. And you’ll have sessions like you did with me.”
I wondered if it would be the same price as what I did with her. Her brother of course, would make all the arrangements.
Once more she took my hand. She placed it on her round firm breast.
“You know I had implants.”
“You told me that. I remember.”
“You like them, yes?”
“Yes! Very much.”
She was urging herself toward me, both of us so hot; you could cut it with a knife.
I stood up; her poodle Lancelot sprang to his feet too.
“You would be doing me the greatest favor in the world!”
I headed for the door. “I’ll think about it. Happy New Year!”
II
I decided I couldn’t do it, and I texted her brother. That’s the end of that, I thought, but it wasn’t. He showed up at class a few days later, looking exactly the same as I remembered: the very best yoga clothes, black hair
like Tatiana’s with a good haircut, a body in excellent shape except for a small gut, and the very white teeth that you see mostly in women.
Like before, we went outside and sat in the little seating area off the parking lot. The day was cold for LA, the sky was the unreal blue of postcards and swimming pools. I thought about my parents who had moved from Boston to North Carolina because it was cheaper. Both of my brothers lived near by and their wives were caught up in the family madness. I had come west to escape that and them. I was the favorite son, what would they think of me doing what I had done with a woman for money?
“So I hear you have turned my sister down.”
“Yes,” I replied, looking at the ground. He had on leather sandals, really nicely made expensive, no doubt. He had a noticeable fungus on both his big toes.
“If it’s not enough money, I’m prepared to double your fee. I’m imagining five sessions should do it. This is very important for my sister, she wants to get married; she wants to have children. She genuinely believes you can help the situation!”
“Chemistry is chemistry,” I told him. “If it’s not there, it’s not there.”
He started to try and persuade me again. He’s spoiled, I thought, he has to have his way. And maybe Tatiana whom I halfway worshiped was more like him than not. I felt like shouting out childishly, “you’re not the boss of me!” Instead, I watched the owner of the studio exit the door, raise his hand to me and smile. I waved back and called out, “Happy New Year!”
III
“What do you think about prostitution?”
“I don’t really think about it.”
I was asking my wife this question later that day, toward evening. We were in our little kitchen, she was at the counter; her back was facing me. Unlike me, she never worked out. And now it was beginning to show.
The smell of onions and garlic in the black pan filled the small place. Tonight when we went to bed, the smell would still be there in our bedroom. I didn’t like that, like I didn’t like so many other conditions of our life, but I had to lump it.
“Do you think it’s bad?”
“Hey, I’m not one to judge. It’s not the kind of job I could do, but who knows?” She turned to me and smiled. “You thinking you might become a prostitute? You could probably make a ton of money, but wear a rubber,”
she laughed.
IV
I hated Tatiana’s boyfriend, Christian, on sight. We met at a neighborhood café, near the studio, a place where a cup of coffee costs four bucks. And where the tip jar is often filled with as many fives and tens as ones. I recognized him by his description: blond, five-eight. He had arrived first, and stood up to shake my hand firmly with the shake that I’ve noticed business people make: firm to the point of crushing.
His voice was a surprise as well. He obviously came from way below the Mason Dixon Line. A voice I always associate with good manners and racism. I couldn’t imagine Tatiana with this guy. No wonder the sex wasn’t
happening. Maybe I should pick someone out for her. I was glad the meeting was just the two of us, so I could get the feel of the guy and see if I could actually do this. At the moment, I was still thinking no way – what kind of guy takes instruction on sex from another guy?
“Would you mind telling me about your relationship with Tatiana and her brother?”
I looked him in the eyes: “I was going to ask you the same question.” I took a few breaths trying to steady myself.
“Tatiana wants me to teach you about the birds and bees.” I said this sarcastically, hoping he would be insulted, tell Tatiana it wasn’t going to work and get me off the hook. Though why was I on the hook? I owed her nothing and she owed me nothing. We’d had an affair of sorts, we obviously still felt close to one another, I had paid a few bills as a result of this relationship, and that was that.
“You were her sex partner, correct?” He said this softly, I was glad for that as who knows when someone I teach or might teach would walk in the door.
I nodded my head, “I guess you could call it that.”
“Did she ever talk about her work?”
“No,” I replied. “She told me she’s a linguist, I assumed she worked for UCLA or one of the universities.”
Just then, the owner of the studio walked in the door. The last time I’d seen him was with Tatiana’s brother when we were sitting outside at the studio in the parking lot. He was with his girlfriend—not his wife—and I pretended not to see him or him me.
Christian drew his wallet out of his pocket and laid a card on the table: a very official government ID with a gold seal. And the famous initials FBI.
“Tatiana and her brother are agents for a foreign government.”
To read an earlier chapter of this story, see my blog post, Blinded by the Light
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Dec 21, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
Right after sex a certain kind of woman wants to tell you everything.
He now knew her former house where she once had lived with her two kids was four times the size of this spacious condo. That her kids were off skiing with the hubby and the nanny he had replaced her with. And that the nanny, taking on airs, had hired an interior decorator to do her new house, the decorations, every last detail. And of course all the holiday goodies were brought in from the outside. The nanny did nothing now. Nothing.
He did not tell her about his own Christmases, the ones of his childhood in the Midwest: the plastic tree, the pathetic cheap gifts, the Santa hat his mother’s boyfriend of the moment always wore, not to mention the Santa hats the guards wore in prison, or what it was like getting punched in the face by a dick wearing a Santa hat.
Photo: Joel Goodman
She thought it was pretty great that they met at the church service on Christmas Eve. She wanted to know how often he want to church.
“Me? I go in spurts, you know, when I’m feeling Godly.”
Actually he could count on one hand the times in his forty-four years he had ever been inside a church. His mother, Alma, had been a rabid church hater, claiming the pastor in her church molested her at age nine. The three of them, his twin, himself and his older even crazier sister, all thought she was God. And he knew that was just the way she wanted it.
It was Christmas Eve in the evening, in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles, O.J.’s old stomping ground. He was having a lot of luck in Brentwood this holiday season. First, the fires where he’d been given shelter, clothes and food and now had a pocket full of keys and pass codes to security systems which was like having money in the bank.
On a whim, he had decided to put on his best and take a stab at a Christmas Eve service. And sure enough, he had spied a nice looking chick, around his same age, with good clothes, and an expensive watch, who he could discern
was alone, and not too happy about that. Weeks of being well fed and housed and the hand outs he had acquired along the way, including a better phone than his brother had given him and much better clothes had him really blending in the casual style of the rich who worked, golfed and drove around in the space ship looking car of the moment, the Tesla. He had counted eleven in the parking lot of the fancy grocery store.
When he was on his game, looking his best, he could not just attract attention but could maneuver himself into strange beds, new hearts, practically anyplace he wanted to be if he put his mind on it.
She was newly divorced, her ex had the kids for the holidays, and her parents were dead. All her friends were off skiing or doing whatever rich shits did over the holidays, and she was nice and she smelled good. She smelled rich, she smelled pampered, she smelled like flowers and hand cream, and he liked being in bed with a woman like that. He had enjoyed making love to her too.
“Wanna watch a little Netflix?”
He had seen some billboards, and heard some talk in the fire shelters, but he was not exactly sure what she was talking about. Was it a show? Was it some special kind of porn, what was it? Not knowing, made him angry. He prided himself on being up on the world, even if he hadn’t really lived in the world for quite a while, only on the fringes of it. It was always a struggle pretending to be above it, when he knew somewhere deep inside him, he was below, a place where he could sometimes swear he could smell the fire and brimstone. And that wasn’t just because a lot of the time he’d been in jail.
Now, as his hands began to tremble, he closed his eyes.
“Are you cold, here let me warm you up!” She took his hands in her own, this trusting soul and held them first in her hands, and then placed them on her breasts which were harder than normal breasts, he had noted that right away, but then forgot as lust took them both over. He supposed they must be fake ones. Now that he considered that, it made him angry too, the first tits in a while were fake; he had a great desire to snatch the nipples and twist them off like caps on beer.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, just the usual holidays blues, I’m glad we both went to church, you’re a girl in a million, and I’m really glad you brought me home.”
He said this with as much sincerity as he could muster and let go gently of her breasts.
“Let’s watch that Netflix,” he told her. “And drink a little booze, hey pretty one!”
He studied the hallow of her neck where a good sized diamond gleamed on a nearly invisible chain. A thumb right there, would knock her out in seconds, but would leave a purple bruise.
He watched her as she reached over for the remote control, a whole big bowl of them were beside the big bed. She held it up with an authority he did not like. It reminded him of something. But he didn’t remember what. Probably because he didn’t want to.
As she flicked on the giant flat screen TV, all at once the dark room was full of sound and motion and color; a whole new world dancing before his eyes bouncing off their faces and bodies. The screen was one whole wall of this fancy bedroom with the king where they lay. The big side lamps, the padded chair that held their clothes, the soft carpet beneath it could all brace the shock if he lost it and the shaking started again.
He wondered how long it would be. It was only now a matter of time.
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Dec 10, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No, please remind me. I can’t believe I don’t remember someone as, well rememberable as you are.”
“Rememberable isn’t a word.”
The truth is, he means it. I can see on his face I please him even if he isn’t attracted to women near his own age. Actually, I’m ten years younger, but to him that’s an old bag.
“You said in your email you wanted to talk to me about my businesses. Which one?”
“I was one of your early successes, I’m guessing.”
“Really! Refresh my memory.”
“We were in college, at least I was. You were older, somewhere in graduate school; I met you at a mixer. You courted me. It went on for a month or more. This was way before cell phones and the Internet. I waited by the pay phone booth in my dorm. You took me to your house. We drank a little wine, smoked a joint. You pushed me down–no more foreplay. You took my virginity. Then you disappeared and never called.”
Photo: Joel Goodman
We are standing in the doorway of his old fashioned white house in Kenter Canyon, up on a hill, where no one can see the front door for all the trees. It is practically like being in the country and perfect for my plans. No doubt he bought the place for three and it’s now worth ten times that.
He’s wondering what he should say. He knows I’m right. It had been a little hobby of his in business school: taking girls’ virginity after a little struggle and then well, never seeing them again.
Once upon a time he had possessed a little book with all of his “first” names, he had been very handsome, all his hair then, so the list had been quite impressive. But he hadn’t seen that little book since two moves ago, long after that little hobby had been discontinued—and another one had taken its place. Another similar, but different hobby: affairs with married women who admittedly were a lot more fun. What fun is a virgin after all, the blood, the emotion, the inexperience, the blind devotion?
“How did you find me?” He wants to know.
“That’s ridiculous, anybody can find anybody today. You haven’t changed your name.”
“Would you like to sit down and talk about it?”
“Sure.”
And in fact, he would love to talk about it. I can practically hear him crooning, “Bring it on!”
The black gloves I’m wearing, and the memories from the old days are turning him on. Porn has its gratifications, but memory can be the most potent aphrodisiac of all. It would be amusing to try and remember this thin, handsome woman of fifty-something quivering under him at eighteen or nineteen, in love and about to bestow the greatest gift a woman can give… who knows, maybe he can even get my clothes off today. I bet he hasn’t had sex with a real person in quite a while. I might be just the thing to take the edge off his slight, but growing depression. Especially if I fall for him the second time. It has been known to happen…
We’re still on the couch. He’s saying, “How about something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A glass of water? A glass of wine even. It’s just two hours before it’s strictly kosher.”
“Kosher? That’s an odd word for a Jew-hater to use.”
“Jew-hater?”
“You told me Jewish girls shook hands, and it was very pushy of them.”
“Odd. I don’t remember that.”
“How do you feel about Jews now?”
“I feel fine about Jews in fact….”
“Some of my best friends are Jews.” I finish the sentence for him and he doesn’t even seem to notice.
Then I ask, “Do you mind if I use the loo? Or is that too vulgar a word for you? Should I call it the ladies room? The powder room? Maybe the W.C.?”
“Please!” he smiles. “My loo is your loo.”
He sits there. The big house is so quiet he imagines he can hear me pee.
The screech of pipes, I’m taking a long time to wash my hands. He’s wondering if his cleaner has put fresh towels out.
He hears the door shut, and the sound of my footsteps coming toward him on the wooden floor.
“Get up!” I command.
In my hand is a small but surprisingly heavy Smith and Wesson .38 and the look on his face tells me he knows it’s not a toy. It’s the real deal. And Goddamit, though he is scared, his heart pounding, he hasn’t had a boner like this in five years of steady porn.
“I’m dying,” I tell him flatly. “A day, a week, a month, and killing you is on my bucket list.”
Mouth open, eyes wide–he’s scared out of his mind. I aim the gun. He puts his hands in the air…
I’m about to open the car door and go inside and confront him. The gun is in my bag. It’s small, but surprisingly heavy. I pull my gloves on tight; open the car door and head toward his house, wondering if I can really do it.
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Nov 22, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“We’ve taken in a man and his dog. He’s lost everything! I knew not to buy in Malibu, we’re so lucky to be in a safe zone.”
A safe zone. He had to smile hearing his hostess’ description. His cute, plump, bouncy hostess in her bright, exercise clothes looked like a lot of contended mamas he saw on the street. Though in her case, the boobs looked real. She was standing by a marble counter at one end of the huge room, yakking on her big gold cell phone for him and everyone else to hear. Her fingernails were bright purple and so were her toes. Maybe she and her family would have been better off in Malibu wearing gasmasks than here in Brentwood —O.J.’s old hood—with the likes of him.
Photo: Joel Goodman
The fires in Malibu had been an incredible piece of luck for him. And so was finding the stray white poodle with no collar. At the community center where they were fed he was given new clothing. They fit right in with the people who were burnt out of their homes, wandering around with nothing but shopping bags full of family photos and their cell phones. He filched a photo when its owner was standing in the coffee line and stuck it in his jacket pocket. It was of old-fashioned couple from another time that could be anybody’s great grandparents. Also lucky for him, his twin brother in San Francisco had arranged for him to pick up a cell phone a few weeks before so they could stay in touch. His new iPhone—not fancy, but good enough—was another passport to respectability.
After 24 hours in the shelter, where they’d made a few friends and he had managed to cop drugs—people left their burning houses with photos, drugs, their computers, and one man, a wooden mask. He and Destiny were now at a host home. A nice guy with a round baby face had come up to him and Destiny, and she had licked the guy’s hand. What a great partner she was. Maybe the best partner he’d ever had!
Before he knew it, they had a room off the kitchen—the guy explained, their “live in” was gone for the weekend. There was a bed, a small flat screen, and the best bathroom he’d used since the woman who had mistaken him for his twin brother had died some months ago. She too had been a good soul, a kind soul, and when he thought about it, that death made him sad. The one before that had been necessary. And the one before that too.
Now a little later, at the long table in the kitchen area, he raised his glass.
“Here’ s to family!” he clinked the heavy glass with the tiny ice cubes.
“You taking me and Destiny in like this. A real act of mercy, yes, you are true Christians.”
“But we’re Jewish, giggled the daughter.” The mom and dad were smiling too.
Of course he knew they were Jewish, they couldn’t have been mistaken for Italians as some Jews could. He could smell a Jew a mile away.
“Family!” His host raised his glass in the air.
The little one was still giggling. She was about thirteen, the little Jew girl, and though her square chest was fitted with a bra, she was still clutching a teddy bear. At a similar age his older sister, big round boobs, two abortions under her belt, was torturing him and his brother with matches and pins, cakes made out of fertilizer that she had promised was chocolate. He had been so dumb and trusting; hungry too, that he ate the cake and was sick afterwards for days. Even now the smell of fertilizer made him want to puke.
He reached in his pocket and brought out the old fashioned picture he had filched at the community center.
“My great grandparents!” he said proudly. “At least I still have their picture.”
The mom clucked her tongue; his host reached over and patted his arm.
He passed the picture around the table. And everybody oohed and awed. Then they had take out pizza. The men had beer, the mom, a glass of white wine. They all watched a movie on the big couch, and Destiny, he noticed, curled right under the feet of the mom. Brilliant!
Now, it was late at night, everybody had gone to sleep. Elated, having the downstairs to himself, first he went to the fridge and took a beer. Then he found his way to the food pantry and marveled at its contents: expensive prepared food in glass jars, chips, crackers, every kind of snack food imaginable. People actually lived like this.
Back in the maid’s room, in the drawer of the bedside table, he found a rosary, a spare key and a Spanish language magazine with some dark haired beauty on the cover.
The key as he suspected fit the back door. He had already found the alarm code in the kitchen drawer.
“Would you mind if I left Destiny here for a few days?” He and his host were having coffee and bagels the next morning. The girls—including Destiny—were still in bed.
“What are you going to do?” asked his host.
He had his phone in his hand. And gestured to it. “I’ve been in touch with my brother. He’s going to meet me at the community center and we’ll go from there.”
“I’ll never be able to thank you for what you’ve done. You gave me a whole new lease on life.”
“Do you need money–or a lift?”
He looked down; there was at least five hundred bucks in the guy’s hand. As much as he didn’t like Jews, he had never found them to be stingy. Other things, yes. Stingy, no. Always trying to buy their way out of everything.
“You don’t have to do this—and I’m happy to have a walk.”
“I want to! You lost everything. But for the grace of God and all that!”
He took a hundred, and thanked his host again.
Then he looked him square in the eyes, “I’ve always liked Jewish people.”
Fingering the stolen key in the pocket of his sweat pants, he wondered what he would do with it. He headed out the door into the air where the smoke was blowing in from Malibu.
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Nov 8, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“God, that feels so good!” she sighed. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Now, he was pressing his thumb, into some previously unknown hard place outside her shoulder blade and was holding it there. “Release!” he commanded her softly. All she could do is grunt. She hoped she didn’t sound like some porno movie…
Meanwhile, he kept on pressing, while his softly accented voice sounded grave and concerned. “You have the tightest upper trapezius I have ever felt. I noticed that last time. If you don’t learn to relax you will certainly be at the doctor. Your whole body is filled with stress…”
Photo: Joel Goodman
Her eyes were closed, but her shoulders still felt as though they might be attached to her earlobes. This was her third visit to the chair massage station at the health food store on Broadway, next to the green market where she often stopped after work to pick something up they needed at home. Who knew what pleasure lay beyond the doors where healthy, wholesome, totally unappealing food was sold in bulk? Where wheat grass, CBD oil and seventy-five dollar vitamins were displayed like diamonds were at Tiffany, with pomp and gravitas.
Like before, she began to feel her stiff shoulders melting, her arms felt liquid, her painful neck relaxing as the handsome youngish masseur dug his fingers into her upper body; a body no one had touched since her husband officially took off some months ago. Not that he had done a lot of touching in the year before that, or even the year before that one. Though he had hugged her when he told her he was moving in with Phillip and that he would always love her as a friend.
“That’s a little better…” he said softly and then began, as he had on previous visits, crooning something operatic. He had a good voice, maybe even a trained voice. Was he Italian? He looked sort of Italian with his thick wavy hair, and feet too small and wide for an American man. She tried to identify the melody so she could say something intelligent and show him she was more than just a high tipping businesswoman with a briefcase and a tight whatever. But for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a name of a single opera. She’d been to the opera of course, she’d even seen the three tenors years ago. Not that she could remember their names either.
I’m forty-eight years old, once upon a time I was a hot tamale, and now my closest relationships are with the chair massage guy and my vibrator.
It being the dreariest time of the year in the city didn’t help matters any. Just after the holidays, the decorations were down, the sky was grey, everyone’s coat sort of smelled fusty. Pretty soon it would be Valentines Day, and the whole city would be studded with hearts and flowers, jewelry and cashmere and all the considerable love money could buy.
“You’re still holding …let it go. Breathe!”
“What’s it called again? My tight?”
“Trapezius,” he seemed to be scolding her. Why was it her fault she was a single mother with two snotty daughters, a high monthly maintenance on the coop, and a job with a huge title—and the insecurities that came with it.
She breathed in and smelled the paper condom where her forehead was resting, and the faint whiff also of lavender from something he was using on her neck. She exhaled. At least the long holiday vacation was over. Spring break they were going off with their father and Phillip somewhere skiing and she’d get to stay at work as long as she needed to.
Maybe she could get the tenor here to come to the office. She’d spring for chair massages for everyone on her team. Team tight trapezius, maybe she’d get T-shirts made up. Placida Domingo? Well that was one… was he dead or was that someone whose name she couldn’t recall?
Tonight before she went to bed, she’d finish filling out her online profile.
Hobbies, special interests: chair massage, vibrators. Favorite foods: chocolate fudge ice cream. French fries… cheetos.
“Your twelve minutes are up. Would you like to extend?”
“Sure, why not?” She thought she’d paid for fifteen. Everything was a little less than it used to be. Shrink appointments, exercise classes…
The tenor was shaking her gently. She’d fallen off to sleep in the middle of her massage. It was, she realized, the first un-drugged sleep she had experienced in several years. The paper condom was wet; she’d been drooling like a baby. Still, even with the gift of sleep, she felt slightly cheated not to have experienced the last few minutes.
She sat up and turned around, her legs straddling the front of the chair. “You fell asleep,” he said sweetly, kindly and he was smiling at her too, like a proud father, of a proud somebody. Her husband, she realized now had never been proud of her. Were the girls?
She fished through her purse to find her wallet. She always carried a hundred and today she had a fifty and a twenty as well.
She handed him a fifty. Quite a tip, but he deserved it. And anyway, why the fuck not?
He was smiling down at the fifty. Then up at her again.
Without thinking she asked him, “Would you like to get a bite to eat sometime? After work?”
His smile vanished, like the sun sinking down into the horizon. He looked at her darkly and seriously.
And in the familiar scolding tone that told her to relax, he replied, “You need some nice businessman your own age. Anyway, I’m gay.”
“You and everybody else!”
That made him smile. “Until next time,” he replied.
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Oct 22, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
Although he had known for several weeks he was going to see her, he still was astonished when she walked through the gate and into the garden for the party. Would he have recognized her anywhere? Probably not. She was thinner than when she left, all those years ago; he remembered having told himself at the time it was that she wasn’t quite sleek enough to really turn him on. She was certainly sleek now, and his husband Brad, who was thin and buff when they were first together, now had a noticeable pot with or without a shirt. No, he and Brad were not going to turn out to be one of those cozy couples who started to look alike after many years. He was short and in, he had to admit, impeccable shape for a guy of 55, even a gay guy of 55. Meanwhile, very tall Brad had gone almost entirely too fat.
“Welcome!” Brad was saying, and he noticed they hugged, his first wife and his first husband warmly, unconditionally. Now he was hugging her, and he was remembering something clearly: they were exactly the same height.
Photo: Joel Goodman
She stood away from him and grinned. “This is hilarious!” And she tossed her hair back and hooted. Another thing he had loved and hated about her: something totally wild and uninhibited in her nature that he could never match. Brad who was grimacing like a jack o’lantern with capped teeth was far more out there than he’d ever be.
I’m steady as a church, or an old wooden desk. I’m upright and dependable and boring.
His ex wife’s voice cut through his reverie.
“This place is fabulous! I came a little early, because I have to get to the airport this afternoon. Uber says it could take more than an hour to get there? My gosh, LA is so sprawling. Do you like it here? Not here, here, but LA here? I don’t know if I do or don’t, it’s hotter than I remember.”
“Global warming, darling,” Brad replied. “I’m having a Bloody Mary. You?”
“Seltzer!” he heard her reply, and watched them walk off, arms linked. When he knew her, she could put it away. Once he had secretly called her an alchie in his thoughts. Maybe like everybody else she was AA or vegan or wheat free, or on the inflammation diet. What exactly was the fucking inflammation diet?
Had he known he was gay when she left all those years ago? She hadn’t mentioned it. And he hadn’t either. Coming out was a big deal and he had been heartbroken for a while. She had been the one who had insisted on getting married. Or maybe it was their mothers who had insisted on them getting married. People didn’t live together so freely in those days. Not people from small towns and certainly not small mid-western towns like they had been. It was so long ago; it was not just ancient history, but absurdly ancient history.
Both of them had been miserably unhappy, almost from the beginning.
And that’s what he remembered now, before leaving she had told him how unhappy she was.
She certainly wasn’t unhappy now. She was laughing, she was gleaming, she was shaking hands with the few early guests –was she telling them who she was, “ I knew him back when he pretended to be straight!” It would get a laugh, especially with the older crowd, would she be that unfeeling? Why hadn’t he thought of this?
When she emailed back after the handwritten note he had written when he learned her mother had died, and written back that she was going to be in LA on business the next month, Brad had insisted he wanted to meet her.
“I’m game!” she had written. “I looked you up on Facebook and Brad is adorable!”
“Thank you,” he had written back.
People were starting to trickle in. A couple of friends from Brad’s office, a neighbor and his giant dog, why did people insist on bringing dogs to other people’s parties?
They were all standing in a group. And she was the center of attention.
Someone asked, “How do you know these guys?”
She looked from one to the other.
“I can’t remember who I knew first, you or Brad?”
Brad was smiling again. And she was smiling too. He didn’t feel so amused, in fact he felt insulted. She could have at least said she knew him first. That they were childhood friends, or old friends, or from the same shithole in the Midwest. He tried to remember what it was like to have sex with her, or any woman, but it was all a blur.
Brad was laying it on thick. “I found her. I brought her home. She used to live next door to my brother, back when Santa Monica was affordable…”
Someone else started talking about real estate prices and she was laughing and being charming. He remembered now how charming she was.
A little later, as he watched her walk toward the gate, phone up to her ear, skillfully dyed hair brushed aside, he had a wild desire to run after her, throw her against a tree, thank her for not making a spectacle of them both, and even kiss her. Would Brad mind? Brad was on his third Bloody Mary, Brad wouldn’t mind anything at this point…. he walked back to the same group. “I knew her first,” he told no one in particular. And then when no one reacted or paid attention, he stopped trying to explain his complicated, confusing feelings.
“Excuse me!”
He turned around. His very tall neighbor with the huge furry dog was saying without a sign of regret. “Do you have a poop bag? I forgot to bring one.”
He looked up and glared at the neighbor. “Poop bag, what do you think this is? A fucking dog park?”
His neighbor blanched. He felt his own face turn red.
“Just kidding, I’ll run in and find you something…”
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Oct 11, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“I’m a little early, hope you don’t mind! It’s weird, I’m usually late!”
“Come in, Tommy! You don’t mind if I call you Tommy, it’s how your mom always spoke of you. My boy Tommy, she’d say.”
Inez got up on her tip toes and kissed him on both cheeks and then strangely, on the mouth, mitigating somewhat his hatred of being called Tommy. His mother knew since he was four his hatred of Tommy and had honored his wish from then on, though obviously once he left home, she had reverted back to his toddler-hood.
“Sit down! Sit down!”
Photo: Joel Goodman
Inez’s living room in West LA was small and cramped with furniture. A lattice child’s gate separated the living room from the kitchen. She was little, like a Barbie doll with big real boobs and perfect little legs and feet. She was, he supposed, around his mother’s age.
“Water? A glass of wine? I know it’s early.”
“Sure. Wine would be great!”
Now she was sitting next to him on the vaguely uncomfortable sofa that had two pillows embossed with Disney characters.
The wine, white and chilled was surprisingly good.
“This is delicious, thank you!”
Inez took a sip. Then another. Tears fell from her eyes, down her cheeks. She had a long sleeve T-shirt on, and she pulled a cloth handkerchief from the cuff. This she used to mop her face.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t want to cry!”
“I’m glad you’re crying. I wish I could! Poppy always told me I better cry at her funeral.”
He watched her sniff. “Your mom told me the story of why you called her Poppy. So sweet!” She sobbed.
His father had left, practically as soon as he was born. And as soon as he was old enough to ask for one, a Daddy, a Pop, she had told him not to get his hopes up.
“But I want a pop!” he had cried. “Lots of the boys and girls have pops!” A lot of them didn’t he remembered now, but he had not wanted to be like them.
“So call me Poppy,” she had suggested. And so he had. Everyone else called her Caro, which was her real name.
“What did you call her?”
“Mostly we just called each other hon!”
Tom took a swig of his wine. His glass was almost empty now.
“Poppy left you some money to take care of the dog. Funds are supposed to clear in a few days.”
Inez started crying again. He noticed her breasts quivered when she sobbed. “I miss her so much!”
His mother had left the dog thirty grand. Or this Barbie neighbor here thirty grand. He supposed he missed her too. But he was still in shock. How could he not be? He’s been off on a diving trip. And he hadn’t told her where. Odd, because one of his underwater thoughts had been about being a fetus swimming around in amniotic fluid. When he returned to the mainland, and turned on his phone, Poppy was dead in a four-car crash on the 405. During the time in which they couldn’t find him, approximately eight days, she had died, been cremated, and her beloved dog, had come to live with Inez who had sometimes been his pet sitter.
Did he miss her? Yes, he supposed he did miss her. But now that he had his first million in cash, (thanks to the unexpected life insurance policy) plus the condo, plus the 401 K, the CDs, a surprising amount of them, he knew he’d miss his new unknown, unexplored riches more than his well-known mother.
“How long will you be in town? Are you staying at the house?”
“No. It freaked me out there. I’m staying in Hollywood.”
Inez nodded.
“She left you thirty grand to take care of the dog.”
Inez looked up: her eyes were wide and amazed.
“Really?”
“Really!”
“That’s so nice,” she sighed. “I loved your mom and that’s just like her to think of me that way. She knew I would do it for free. She asked me when she was making her will. But she didn’t tell me about the money.”
“Poppy was great!” he said.
Inez wasn’t crying anymore. She seemed a little stunned.
“Would you like to see Tommy? He’s sleeping in his crate. I didn’t want him rushing at you the second you came in the door.”
“Sure!”
He got to his feet and followed her as she unlatched the lattice door. They were both standing in the small kitchen now. And he was recalling the first time he had met his namesake, six or seven years ago and the unexpected rush of hatred he felt for the animal. “Why did you name the dog after me?” He had wanted to know. “You’re Tom, he’s Tommy!” Poppy had replied, and they had left it at that.
He had wanted a dog when he was growing up. Just as he had wanted a father: passionately and in vain. She worked. He went to school, there was no one to take care of a dog, so they had a cat—he had a cat now too at home, probably, he’d never have a dog.
The dog was standing up in his cage. He was a sharp-faced, handsome terrier with velvety eyes, a coat as white as milk with one prominent spot. Why did people call it a crate? Did it make them feel better about caging an animal?
The dog was wagging his tail so furiously the whole crate was shaking.
Inez was crooning like his mom used to, in that stupid voice people use to talk to dogs and babies.
“Tommy, Tommy…. your brother Tom is here!” She slid the door of the cage open.
Tommy burst out of the cage. He jumped up and began wagging his tail furiously.
“He’s not my fucking brother!” Tom cried out. And the tears he had not shed before, came rushing from his eyes. Inez drew him to her, whispering, “There, there….good boy….”
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Sep 27, 2018 | Blog - Mary Marcus
“Ever do it with one of your patients?” This, she asked him a few minutes after one of the best orgasms of her life. She was still underneath, he was pressed against her, covering the back of her on the examining table where he’d thoughtfully laid a long cushion and placed a pillow for her face. Both smelled faintly of the antiseptic they used here at the vet hospital.
“Depends on what you mean by done it?”
“You know what I mean!”
“Are you calling me a dog fucker?” He laughed and she liked his deep hearty laugh, which was cheery, and sort of bark-y.
Photo: Joel Goodman
He rolled off her now. She in turn rolled over. Her skirt was hiked up. She pulled her underwear up. And he smoothed her skirt down. She sat up, and he hoisted himself up and sat down right next to her on the examining table.
“What do you weigh? Should we go weigh you before I tell you about it?”
She followed him out of the examining room and into a larger office where there was a great big metal scale, the kind suitable for four legged creatures.
“Step on!” he told her and patted her backside again.” That’s a good girl.”
“One forty one.” And patted her behind again. “Too many treats!”
Why weigh her? It seemed kinky at best. But maybe there was a deeper, darker reason, like how much would it take to put her out?
A chill shuddered down her spine. A minute before, she’d been elated, now she was terrified. She glanced over at him furtively.
He, Dr. T., though many years older than she, unlike her husband, or herself or her stepchildren for that matter, was in nearly perfect trim. No excess gut, lovely muscled arms, and what had felt like equally muscled thighs, not that she really saw that much. She wished she were still in therapy. She’d walk in and announce, “I did it with the vet doggy style!” But maybe she’d never see any shrink again. Could it be he lured her here to fuck her then kill her?
“Go sit on the couch in the waiting room and I’ll join you in a sec,” Dr. T smiled. She did as she was told in so far as going back to the waiting room. But she stood staring at the bulletin board, the one that had started this whole ball rolling, so to speak.
It had been last week when she brought in Freddie, their long haired dachshund who had erupted with hot spots, following a very intense week long Santa Ana at the end of September. The hot dry winds were over now, thank God, and so were Freddie’s hot spots. But she, her husband and her step-children were still going at it. Freddie was her only comfort. Her husband defended his children, they knew it and wouldn’t listen to anything she had to say, even if it was she who was home cooking for them after work, checking on their homework, scheduling their appointments, while he stayed as long he wanted to and needed to at the office. Sometimes until 9 at night. God she hated teenagers, especially teenagers who still needed to be driven places. The nerve of them, just sitting there with sullen faces, thinking they deserved this and more.
She’d been standing in front of the bulletin board staring at the adoption notices. A five-year-old yellow mix breed looking for his forever home. Same thing with a white cat, a teacup poodle. All God’s children want their forever home.
At that moment, the thought entered her mind: I’m in my forever home and I’ll never have fun again.
One thing led to another, and here she was after sex with a sex maniac vet or a serial killer or both. She thought of running out the door, but she was desperate to hear his story.
He entered the waiting room carrying two large plastic cups full of wine. He sat down quietly next to her. He was as quiet as a cat she thought. She took a sip. Delicious expensive wine. Drugged?
“I did have an affair with the most beautiful German Sheppard I’d ever laid eyes on. She was golden with black marks, and the minute our eyes met it was love at first sight. For both of us.”
“Oh my God!”
“Her owner had left her to be spayed, but I couldn’t. She weighed more than you. She, how can I forget, weighed one forty five!”
“Like me, too many treats! What was her name?”
“Renata!”
“What happened how did it end?”
Dr. T. stared straight into her eyes. He had deep dark velvety eyes that looked right through her.
“I’m a vet. I don’t fuck animals. That was a shaggy dog story.”
“Shaggy dog?”
“Jesus,” he declared. “You come from a whole different generation. How old are you?”
“Forty three!”
“And how old are you?” she ventured.
“Never mind! Finish your wine and I’ll walk you to the car.”
It was very dark in the parking lot. Off toward the ocean a sliver of a moon with a star shined and twinkled near by. They stood together and he turned to kiss her. It was a beautiful kiss that she was almost sure meant goodbye.
“May I ask you something?”
“Go right ahead.”
“If I came to you, with some horrible disease, and I was suffering terribly, would you put me down?”
“Probably not.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Where are you going?” she asked presently. “Home, to your wife?”
“I’m divorced,” he stated matter of factly.
“You?”
“I’m going back to my forever home. You know how it is.”
He shut her door, she started the engine and the last time she saw Dr. T. his chin was raised to the sky. It pleased her to imagine he was howling at the moon.
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