The Demon (5 page)

No, no. No harm done, smiling, everythings fine.

 
Whats your name, tilting her head to one side, looking into his face, her lips slightly parted.

Harry. Harry White, returning the smile and look.

 
Mines Gina. Gina Logan. It used to be Gina Merretti, but thats a long time ago, gesturing with her hand. You can call me Gina.

Glad to meet you, Gina, nodding his head and smiling.

Harry, a quizzical look on her face, thats not so bad.

Thanks, laughing.

Why dont you dance with me, Harry? Come on.

 
O.K., why not? shrugging his shoulders, then putting an open hand on her back as they eased themselves into the group of dancers.

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Harrys reaction to Gina was Pavlovian, and his evaluation and assessment of her attributes were instant. She was probably in her forties, early forties, but looked at least five years younger, maybe even more, even though it was obvious she had a little too much to drink and it altered her appearance. All in all she was not a bad-looking head—her left hand clung to the back of his neck, moist and warm and alive—and his eyes roamed approvingly over the parts of her boobs visible above her low-cut dress. He tried to penetrate the darkness between them, but was unable, and so he simply used his imagination, and experience, to mentally construct the roundness and fullness of her boobs and the purplish-brown nipple in the middle. Twenty years, or so, ago, she was real cunty Italian—his open hand pressed against the bareness of her back and his cheek was brushed by her black hair—and still had that look in her eyes and ass—and krist, her box was hot as it rubbed against his crotch while passing from one thigh to the other. He could feel the cold, metallic security of her wedding ring on his neck—he knew that somewhere between those luscious tits were a couple of short, black hairs, and he would love to jerk them out with his teeth—youre a good dancer, looking up at him with half-closed eyes and half-open mouth, I like the way you move your body—he could open her zipper just a little and slide his hand down her back and under her pants to that nice round ass and just lay his hand between her cheeks, feeling the small beads of sweat, and feel her ass grind his hand as he kept her tight against him—you make it easy. I fit right in. My husband doesnt dance. Used to a little bit, but no more. Says hes too tired. Well, I guess he works hard, (not as hard as my dick). But you need a little fun once in a while too, looking up at him again with the same open invitation, if you know what I mean? Yeah, smiling and nodding, I do. And anyway, who knows what hes doing right now in Poughkeepsie? (POUGHKEEPS1E! Holy shit!) Whats he doing there? really and truly wondering. Business. Always business.

The music suddenly stopped, and Harry became conscious

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of his hard-on. It did not embarrass him, but this was not the kind of party where he could walk her into a closet or the cellar and throw a quick hump into her, not that he was particularly fond of quickies, having given them up with his teens, but he was feeling the drinks and the urgency of his stiffened dick, and the image of the back yard and the huge shade tree quickly flashed through his mind. He disengaged his arm from her hands and excused himself. I/ll be back in a minute. He went to the bathroom and closed the door, then splashed some cold water on his face. Maybe I should take a cold hip bath, hahahaha. He dried his face, looked in the mirror, then at his crotch, then back in the mirror. Well, I guess everythings under control. Krist, I/d like to fuck that broad.

 
He left the bathroom and stood for a moment looking around the room until he saw Gina with a couple of people in a corner. She was profiled toward him and the light seemed to shimmer on the roundness of her ass. He leaned in that direction—a stiff dick has no conscience—then suddenly turned and walked back in the direction of his grandmother, and sat down beside her.

How you doing, ol girl?

 
O, just fine, son. Having a grand old time. Its so good to see so many old friends, and to watch the young folks have so much fun.

 
You mean teenie-bobbers like you? smiling and looking out of the corner of his eye toward Gina, wondering if he should at least try to get her phone number for future reference. Wondering, too, exactly what Ginas relationship was with the rest of the people and who might find out if he copped her drawers and what would happen. His folks would probably die from humiliation and—

 
Come on May, this is my dance. An old friend, of many long and friendly years, stood in front of Harrys grandmother with his hand extended.

 
Well, allright Otto, if you insist, but youre going to have to help me get out of this chair. Otto tugged, Harry pushed, and they all laughed.

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Harry watched them dance, a bit of an eye still in the direction of Gina. He smiled, and glowed inwardly, as he watched them move around the floor, their movements slightly stiff from age, yet projecting a nobility as they danced with each other and their memories.

 
He watched and smiled, yet his eyes slowly and inexorably strayed toward Gina until the dancers were just a blur in the corner of his eye and his mind seemed to be lighted by the light reflecting from Ginas ass and boobs as she—Krist, shes not only somebody's daughter, shes probably somebodys mother. Uh, uh. No good. Bad news, man. Later for that shit. The folks would be destroyed. Forget it!

 
Harry started to sing the words to the old ballad that was playing to himself and concentrated on the dancers and the people around him. When his grandmother finally plopped herself back in her seat with a sigh and a laugh, he took her hand in his, kissed it and held it tightly, but gently. You were great, Grandma. You really do know how to trip the life fantastic. They laughed. Harry loved his grandmother and was suddenly overwhelmed with realizing the fact that someday, soon perhaps, she would be dead. He kissed her hand again.

 
When Mrs. White suggested that they leave—Mothers getting tired, and it is getting a little late, dont you think so, Mother? Yes dear, I am. I guess Im just too old and pooped to pop, laughing and smiling up into their faces and enjoying her joke completely—she asked Harry if he would drive them home? Harrys mind was filled with Ginas ass as he leered at her from the corner of his eye, feeling the sweat from between the cheeks of her ass between his finger tips. Uh? What? fumbling, stumbling, eyes blinking rapidly for a second, concentrating on his mothers words as she repeated her question. O . .. O, yeah, sure. Lets take the old girl home.

 
When Harry went to bed that night he left the blinds of one of his windows open so a piece of sky was visible over the corner of a building. He lay on his back, remembering. Scenes and images floated comfortably through his minds eye and

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there was no need to fight to keep the image of Gina from his mind. He was involved with his family and the warm flow that flowed through him, as if something had been injected into him, as he remembered his familys happiness: the way his parents danced and looked at each other, the way his grandmother laughed and cried as she watched her friends waltz on their fiftieth anniversary—Jesus, the old girl is really something else—but mostly the image that he dwelled on and caressed more than any other was his mother kissing him good night with her happiness not only reflected in her eyes, but just sparkling from her finger tips. Thank you for coming with us dear, it really made our night complete. And you made your grandmother so happy— Yes son, patting Harry on the back, then squeezing his shoulder, it was great that we could all spend the entire evening together. It was quite an occasion. Yeah, it sure was, smiling at his parents, squeezing his father's arm, then kissing his mother on the cheek, I had a ball. . . .

Harry continued

to enjoy the feeling he got from remembering the scene, knowing he had made his folks happy, until the images started to overlap and fuzz out, then he closed the blind and plopped back into bed and drifted into a restful sleep.

 
The next day, Sunday, Harry strolled up to Caseys and got there shortly after his Irish friends who rushed from the twelve oclock Mass to get there when the bar opened at one. He hung around for a while, then left to go to a movie with a couple of the guys. After the show they went to Fin Hall, a small, neighborhood dance hall.

 
Before they had been sitting at their table long enough to change the temperature of the chairs, Harry was dancing with a woman who was there with her younger sister, just passing the time while her husband was away on a short fishing trip. After a few dances Harry returned to the table and told the guys he would see them tomorrow, and left with Irma.

 
Jesus Krist, you see that? I aint even decided who I want to dance with and hes coppin some broads draws, shaking his head and looking at Harrys back with awe and wonderment.

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I tell you that guys incredible. If theres only one broad in the joint that can be made, Harryll sniff her out.

 
Yeah, even if she dont know it. They laughed and enviously watched Harry work his way through the people around the edge of the dance floor, his open hand on the small of Irmas back.

 
The way Irma figured it, they had plenty of time. Her husband usually got back about five or six in the morning, but never before two, and that was only once. Harry was still bubbling with the energy of joy, and he tossed his clothes on a chair and literally dove onto the bed with a flump and a squeal, and lunged at Irma, who was standing at the side of the bed, her panties still on and in the process of taking off her bra. He grabbed her around the waist and kissed her on the small of the back, then cupped his open mouth where the roundness started to swell and blew hot air on her flesh. Irma squeaked, sighed, oooood and panted all at the same time and floated to the bed as Harry yanked her down beside him. She put her arms around him as he kissed her neck and then her boobs and worked the tip of a few fingers under her panties and weaved his way through the brush to the promised land. Irma swayed and rolled and undulated and grabbed frantically at Harrys head and arms and shoulders and back and the sheets and anything else she came in contact with as she floundered and flailed from all the sudden attention.

 
Suddenly Harry remembered whats-her-name sitting on the park bench waiting for him—Mary, yeah, thats it—and he suddenly started to chuckle, his face buried between Irmas boobs. Her left hand was ensnarled in Harrys hair, and she gave a slight tug. Gee, thanks a lot. You know, I really could use a good laugh. Harry looked at her and really laughed and there was so much joy on his face that Irma started to laugh too, thats the funniest thing I ever heard, lying back and rolling her head back and forth, laughing, her hand still entwined in Harrys long hairs while his had her by the short hairs. I think so too, shaking his head back and forth, his eyes tearing, and they continued to lie there, hand in hair,

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laughing, until Harry finally stopped shaking his head, took a deep breath, and filled his mouth with tit. That not only stopped his laughter, but was equally effective in stopping hers.

 
Harry continued to think of Mary from time to time, and somehow the idea of her attitude toward her husband, the coldness that obviously existed between them, and the fact that she was sitting on that bench waiting for him and he knew it, kept his excitement at a peak level for hours. When Harry was finally ready to leave, close to three in the morning, Irma just lay in the bed watching him dress and muttering, Jesus, you really know where its at. You should talk to my husband and give him a pointer or two.

 
Why I would just love to, laughing and giving his clothes one last tuck and tug. Maybe I/ll come around next week and we can play Monopoly. Irma laughed, weakly, and rubbed her stomach gently with her hand. Harry waved goodbye as he left the room, and Irma fluttered a hand in response.

 
Harry stood on the street for a moment, breathing the fresh air. After a couple of days on a fishing boat, that bedroom should smell natural to her husband. Harry laughed out loud and started walking. His step was brisk and buoyant. The air and the night were refreshing, and the sky had a glitter or two of star. It was a beautiful night, a beautiful world. This was probably the best weekend of his life. . . . Yeah, of anybodys life. Harry was one with himself, his fellow man and God.

 
Monday morning the jostling of the subway helped unglue Harrys eyes, hair by hair, as he hung on a strap and drowsed at signs, advertisements, faces, backs of heads, newspapers, magazines, and his vague reflection in the window. When he extricated himself from the man-made mess of men and machinery, he walked as briskly as possible to the coffee shop in his building and got a large container of coffee, with extra sugar, and a cheese danish.

 
Actually it wasnt a bad day at all. There was enough work to keep Harry busy, but nothing that made inordinate de-

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mands upon him; and he was young and healthy and was able to snap back rapidly from a night of frolicking and cavorting. At lunch time he briefly thought of whats-her-name and wanted to find out if she was sitting on the bench, waiting, but wasnt in the mood. Instead he called down for lunch and stayed in the lounge, stretching out and resting his fire-engine-red eyes.

 
The rest of the afternoon went by rather rapidly, all things considered, and Harry jostled home and spent a quiet evening of watching TV with the folks, which made them happy, and went to bed early. Didnt do much today, but we/ll give it hell tomorrow.

 
Ah yes, a good day tomorrow, today, Tuesday. An educational ride to work, reading a little of the Daily News—sports and page four, the Jewish Daily Forward, The Enquirer, La Prensa, the Times, Newsweek, The New Yorker, Mad Magazine, Harold Robbins, Albert Camus (Camus at eight oclock in the morning on a crowded subway?), Lady Clairol (does she or doesnt she, only her gynecologist knows for sure), a crush-proof box (hmmm, now thats interesting), and a dark brown mole with at least five rough black hairs growing out of it and feeling their way around like antennae, and assorted hacks and coughs. Harry emerged from the hole in the ground a true cosmopolite and survivor of the tunnel of darkness. He stood on the corner for a moment, midst the beeps and honks and zipping and rushing, breathing deeply, then sallied forth to do battle with the giants of industry.