Joe's Black T-Shirt (24 page)

The walls of the apartment were decorated thoroughly in posters for metal bands, gore movies, and occasionally a photo of Vincent. The latter being was what she found interesting. While he busied himself, trying to pick up empty beer cans and dirty clothes, she compared the guy he was then with who he was now. In the pictures he wore white face paint with red streaks meant to look like dripping blood. His strawberry blonde hair had been dyed coal black. In every picture he looked so serious, but so did the three other guys she presumed to be the remainder of the band. Despite the make-up and the sourpuss expressions, she could tell they were young kids then, having the time of their lives. Jeannie wished she had something like this as a watermark to her life. Since leaving home at seventeen, she had done nothing to speak of unless you counted having two abortions as something to be proud.

Vincent came into the front room with a pillow, a sheet, and a blanket. She was mildly ashamed of the assumption she had made in the van. It was refreshing that there were still some men in this world who didn’t expect what she had grown accustomed to giving in trade. She had never felt safer alone with a man.

Finished with the couch, Jeannie was blown away by his skill. She thought even Nurse Dugan would approve of the tidy bed he had assembled.

Vincent, though, seemed edgy. Something was on his mind, something important enough that Jeannie figured he’d let the cat out of the bag soon enough. Relaxed, she sat on her freshly made bed, waiting on him to either speak his piece or bid her goodnight.

Out of habit, she set a cigarette to her lips, then paused with her lighter before her face. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Now, that’s funny,” Vincent said. He opened pair of doors below his meager television, pulled out a tray, and set it on the coffee table. A pipe obviously used to smoke marijuana and a sandwich baggie full of the stuff lay before them both. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Vincent,” she said, “I never thought I would be so happy my car broke down in my whole life.”

After four bowls apiece, Jeannie couldn’t remember going to sleep.

***

The next afternoon she awoke with the start of awaking a foreign place. She stepped to the bathroom, took an enormous pee, swabbed her mouth out with toothpaste using her finger to brush, and came back to the couch.

She could see Vincent from where she sat sleeping face down on his bed. He was still fully clothed except for his bare feet. It was more a surprise to her she hadn’t woke up next him than on his comfortable couch.

Jeannie grabbed for her cigarettes that were lying next to the dope tray. She enjoyed as much as needed that first daily hit of nicotine as she deeply inhaled. The sun was full and bright, but did not enter against the turned blinds. Jeannie could hear the cars regularly pass on the nearby highway and she wondered what time it might be.

She found her pants under the blanket, theorizing she must have removed them while she slept. The phone was still lodged in her right front pocket. Jeannie held the power button for one second and waited for the digital display to appear. The phone’s clock read one-eighteen p.m., this however, she did not find disconcerting. What alarmed her was the icon for her voicemail blinking full.

Jeannie punched another button and held the phone to her ear. A feminized robot voice announced, “Message one,” followed by a short beep. It was Steve. Pushing the number three, the same robot voice told her, “Message erased. Message two.” It was Steve and again, she deleted without listening. By the time she had opened the thirtieth voicemail, she disconnected from her messages by pressing the red button marked ‘END.’ He had called every ten minutes since she had hung up on him in the ladies room. The few messages she had actually listened to, he was drunk. Served him right she thought. Until there was a ring on her left hand, she was free to do what she pleased. She hoped he was in agony right now, the same kind she experienced every time she sat like a goddamn dog at her window waiting on him to come Sunday mornings.

The phone rang before she had thought to tun the power off. It’s ring-tone seemed loud in the still apartment. In an effort not to awaken Vincent, she quickly answered. It was no mystery to her who was calling.

“Hello,” she said.

“Where the fuck are you?” Steve demanded.

“None of your business.”

“You fucking whore!”

“Fuck you. Remember whose idea this shit was to begin with.”

She noticed Vincent had begun to stir. Jeannie had been trying to be quiet, but found it particularly difficult not to be led by her emotions with Steve.

Vincent was definitely awake. Propped up on his elbows, he smiled at the sight of her.

Jeannie pointed to the phone and mouthed ‘my mom’ to him. He shook his head, something between saying he understood and whatever. Out of his bed, he went to the bathroom. Even with the door closed, she could hear the strong sound of his urination. It took her a second re-focus on her phone conversation.

Steve hadn’t stopped talking. She heard him say, “trailer,” reclaiming her attention to his futile rant.

“Two hours I waited and called and waited before I fucking knew it. I had no choice, but to go back home. Now I’m fucking stuck at my kids’ basketball game.”

“So what,” she said.

“So what? I’ll tell you so what, bitch. This thing ends now. It was a stupid idea anyhow.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “In fact, I think its probably one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”

“Fuck me!” Steve yelled in disgust. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

“None of your business.”

“Quit fucking saying that.”

She could hear in the background somebody chastise him for his language. In typical Steve style, she could hear him respond to the anonymous do-gooder with a vibrant, “Go fuck yourself.”

Vincent came out of the bathroom and stood in the hall. Too polite to interrupt, he had the good manners to wait until she was done.

“Mom,” Jeannie said, “I have to go.”

“Mom?” Steve asked. “What the fuck Je---”

“I love you, too.”

Promptly, she closed the phone and turned off the power. Steve was no doubt calling her back this instant. His sudden neediness was both disturbing and emasculating. It gave her a secret pleasure to think that big, bad Steve, the manly plumber man had been reduced to acting like a little bitch.

“How’s your mom?” Vincent asked with a hint of facetiousness.

Jeannie laughed and lit up a smoke. “She’s going to be okay.”

***

Jeannie took a shower and changed into clothes Vincent lent to her. His standard uniform of jeans and a t-shirt fit her fairly well. The pants were a bit tight, but she hoped the over-sized t-shirt hid her muffin top. She had never worn men’s clothing in public before, yet she felt oddly empowered.

They smoked a joint in the van as Vincent drove. It didn’t take Jeannie long to figure Vincent smoked a lot of weed. That was certainly all right by her. It was an inconsequential drug in her opinion and if given the choice between alcohol and pot, she would choose weed every time.

By the time they had arrived at the auto parts store, they were thoroughly stoned. Jeannie was pretty sure the sales clerk knew. He was cool about it though and while it seemed to be an effort for her to recall the make and model of her car, he seemed pleased to help them. Vincent paid for the battery, insisted on it, and Jeannie found his chivalry quaint.

Starved, they ordered tacos and hamburgers at a Jack-In-The-Box drive thru. The greasy food tempered their collective buzz. Jeannie applied hot sauce to his deep fried Mexican treats while he drove. She told him she didn’t mind, that it would be far better if he could fully concentrate on the road considering their current mental conditions. In truth, she wanted to return some of his kindness. He had done so much for her and hadn’t made even a furtive pass toward her. It was rare to be so appreciated and she couldn’t help herself for liking it.

Her buzz pretty well disposed, she watched as Vincent installed her new battery. He worked methodically, doing one thing at a time, careful as a surgeon with the greasy car.

Vincent started the car without any hesitation. He closed the hood and climbed back into the van’s driver seat. Through the windshield they watched the car idle. It was funny to Jeannie. Her car was fixed, but she had no desire to leave.

Vincent asked, “You got a boyfriend?”

“No,” she said thinking about Steve. The last two years seemed vulgar in comparison to the few hours she had been with Vincent. Steve was right in calling her a whore. She was his whore.

Jeannie found a scrap piece of paper in her small purse and a pen. She wrote her number down for him and handed it over.

Vincent couldn’t keep from smiling. The ten digits might as well been the winning lottery numbers to him. With precision, he inserted the jaggedly ripped paper in his billfold.

“I guess I better get going,” she said. “It has been a long night and I had better get some rest before work tomorrow.”

“I’ll call you.”

“You better.”

Jeannie leaned over the seat and rested her body weight between the steering wheel and the back of Vincent’s seat. With delicate restraint, she kissed his rutted cheek. Through her lips she could feel him trembling.

She worried as she left the van and went to her car. He hadn’t looked at her or said a word. Behind her own steering wheel she mustered the courage to look one last time at Vincent. He was staring directly at her.

He put his hand to his lips, kissed the tips of his fingers, and blew a kiss toward her. Jeannie reached up and pretended to grab it. After a lifetime of being with men, of seeing their naked exposed flesh upon her own, this was the closest thing to intimacy she had ever experienced.

***

Monday was busier than usual at work. Two of the other girls had called in sick, and Jeannie was forced to do the work of three people. Not impossible, but exhausting none the less. The only highlight was that it also kept Nurse Dugan too busy to ride her ass.

Jeannie drove home at a break neck speed. Her pathetic stereo system cranked as loud as it would go, she loudly sang along with the radio to relieve the day’s stress. She hoped there wasn’t any cops between her and home. If she got another speeding ticket, there was a hell of a good chance she would lose her license. Fuck it, she thought. She was tired, hungry, and desperate to clean the elderly stench from her body.

The surprise she found when she pulled into the driveway dumbfounded her. Red, long-stemmed roses in half a dozen vases covered the steps leading to her front door. Their magnificent, overwhelming aroma dwarfed her body odor. She caressed a handful of buds to prove to herself she was not hallucinating. The petals were softer than an infant’s skin and without warning she began to cry.

It took her half an hour to carry them all inside. The interior of her dingy trailer looked like a display at Shaw’s Garden.

A green ribbon attached a tiny envelope to one rose. Carefully she loosened it from the flower and read the card inside.

The penmanship was obviously printed by a computer, but the sentiment was from a romantic’s heart.

“
There are many beautiful things, but the silent beauty of a flower surpasses them all.”
S. Teshigahara

They were from Vincent. There was no doubt in her regarding that. This sure as hell wasn’t something Steve could even fathom doing.

Surrounded by her private garden, Jeannie sat in the middle of the floor. The magnificence was surreal. Was this what they called love? She didn’t know, but if it was, Jeannie couldn’t imagine a more wonderful thing.

***

Steve was in hell. That ungrateful cunt, Jeannie, how could she do this to him?

He had been lucky enough to bid a job in Chesterfield that would last him all week. The affluent home set among the rolling hills, abutting to a golf course that had hosted several PGA tournaments, would pay handsomely for work that was simple enough. The home had six bathrooms and the owners wanted each re-fitted with custom vanity hardware. Of course, it also meant the removal and installation of six commodes as well. The most challenging aspect would be in the lady of the home’s personal powder room. In addition to a regular toilet, she had insisted on a matching bidet. That was what would take the majority of his time. The sum total he would collect from this job was almost embarrassing by his standards.

This kind of a job would normally put him a terrific mood, but he couldn’t help himself. Every minute of his day was consumed with her. He was having constant flashbacks to their sex, her body pleasing his every wanton pleasure.

After Sunday, he had been drinking heavily every night. His usual four or five beers a night became twelve accompanied by half a bottle of tequila or whiskey. The bitch of it all was he drank to forget, yet it only intensified the remorse.

He woke up Brenda Monday night desperate for sex. Not with her, but with Jeannie. In the darkness he kept his eyes closed, drunkenly imagining his mistress’ body under him. Tuesday, he did the same but did not enjoy it. Brenda complained mostly through the motions, and his ability to fantasize his lover presence couldn’t be accomplished. Disappointed with Brenda’s cooperation, he masturbated in the basement, using his wife’s dirty panties for inspiration.

Each morning though he awoke more depressed than the last. Work a chore to be faced with no hope to escape his constant misery. He thought if he could just talk with her, not on the phone, but face-to-face. Maybe he could reason with her. He wasn’t above using every cent made on this job to bribe her back if he had to. The only thing he wouldn’t put on the table in trade was himself.