The Hollywood Trilogy (67 page)

“No, I don't imagine it's
quite
that interesting,” she grinned, and they both drained their beers. Jerry's spirits continued to lift. This silly little banter would have gone right over Richard's head. He would have pinched his nose above his glasses and pointed out that writing Tips for Retailers had its interesting moments, and probably talking to people about their ring purchases must, also.

“I wish Richard was here,” Barbara said.

“Really? Why?”

“So he could get us another couple of beers.”

“Allow
me!
”

Sinking his hand up to the wrist in the icy water in the tub, Jerry stopped for a moment, an idea springing into his mind. He was going to
fuck
this girl. She was willing for him to fuck her, he could tell. She was shy, but so was he, and yet they had managed in only a few minutes to establish an intimacy, enough for him to delicately and gently lead her, step by step so as not to spook her, into his bed. Was his apartment neat enough for company? No. Then they would do it at her place.

He groped around and got out two cold cans of beer and carried them up to her. She smiled up into his eyes as he handed her the wet can of beer. With the idea of fucking her in his mind, she looked entirely different. Better. More womanly. Less Richard's sister.

“Skoal!” he said, raising his glass on high.

“Well, you two seem to be hitting it off,” said Richard, hunkering down beside them. “How about having dinner at the house tonight? Just the four of us. We'll feed the kids and put ‘em to bed and watch some television, huh?”

“Let's not and say we did,” said Barbara, her eyes on Jerry's.

“Oh-oh, other plans, huh?” Richard said stupidly.

“I don't have a thing to do,” Jerry said to her.

“Neither do I,” she said to him.

“So why not come to the house?” Richard asked.

“Because we'll be helplessly drunk,” Jerry said, taking a long pull at his beer. Barbara did the same.

“Helplessly drunk, and
abusive,
” Barbara said.

“Not fit to be around decent people,” Jerry said.

“Bobby!
Bobby!
Get down from there!” Richard yelled, and left them alone. Jerry took her hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed back. Impulsively, he
leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. It made him dizzy, the way she smelled and felt, and the way her eyes half-closed for the kiss and then opened warm and lazy like the eyes of a female cat, even through her glasses. goddamn, Jerry thought. It had been a while.

“Do you want another beer?” he said shakily.

“We should have something to eat,” she said in her low but quite beautiful voice.

“Yes, we should eat,” he said distantly. “Or we really will get abusively drunk.”

“And we don't want that. Not at the company picnic.”

“The good old company picnic. Do you come here often?”

“Only to meet men,” she said.

“Really? Why should a beautiful girl like you have to come to our little company picnic to meet men?”

“The ones I come into contact with at the office are, how shall I put it, not only married but deep in debt. Not attractive to me. Not at all attractive.”

“I could eat about a dozen of them hot dogs,” he said.

“May I fix yours for you? Don't get up, let me do it. A dozen? How do you want them? Gooey and dripping with mustard, pickles, tomato, onion and glop?”

“Make it two, and yes, dripping with glop.”

He watched her walking down toward the food, her lovely fine square ass swinging to and fro. Pretty soon he was going to have his hands on that ass. He was entertaining fantasies about this when Harris came over and sat gingerly down.

“Having a good time?” he asked Jerry.

It took a minute to come back to reality. “Well, sure,” he said. “Who wouldn't? It's a perfect day, we're all here, everybody's having a good time, the food smells great . . . Jesus, I'm having a ball!”

Harris's face changed, and Jerry remembered that he did not like the word
Jesus
to be used as a swear word. But Jerry felt too good to apologize. He drained his beer. To Harris he said, “What are you drinking?” and got to his feet.

“Oh, I'm still on the wagon,” Harris said shyly.

“On the wagon?”

“Yes, I'm afraid I'm just a reformed drunk. But you go ahead.”

For the first time, Harris seemed interesting. Jerry went down and stood
beside Barbara while she prepared their hot dogs. He put his arm around her waist, and she moved closer to him, continuing her work.

Jerry looked around happily. These were swell people. They all knew that something had happened between himself and Barbara. Buzz buzz buzz and secret glances.

That was
all right!

AND THEY did get royally drunk, and Jerry made a patriotic speech standing on the picnic table and almost put his foot into a big Tupperware bowl of cucumber salad, but Barbara, her eyes twinkling, steadied him, and he continued his speech until some boys came running through their area trailing strings of lit firecrackers, and Jerry climbed down to scattered applause and a fusillade of explosions. He kissed Barbara affectionately in full view of anybody who cared to watch and she wrapped her arms around him and hung on. Over they both went, in the dirt, and more applause.

“Did you bring a car?” he asked her.

“I came with Richard,” she said.

“How about letting me drive you home?” He would have to be careful not to say anything stupid, just because he was full of beer. “Drive you home” was plenty.

“Of course,” she said. “Is it time to go? Is the picnic over with?”

“Let's see,” he said. “We ate, we drank, I made my speech about America, God bless 'er, yes, it's over. As far as I am personally concerned.”

Without saying goodbye to anybody (why give Richard a chance to say something stupid?) they walked up the path under the trees toward the parking lot. It was too uphill to hold hands or touch comfortably, so they just trudged along. At one place they broke out into the open to see below them on an open meadow a boisterous game of touch football, which they stopped to watch while Jerry caught his breath. It was the usual Americana football game, except that it seemed to be played between a gang of motorcyclists and a band of homosexuals, and what had probably begun in a challenge of humor and mischief was now being played grimly, and for blood. Everyone was dirty and tight-lipped, and the couple of plays that Jerry and Barbara watched, between kisses, ended in sharp grunts of pain and pileups that had
nothing to do with sex or fun. It was no longer motorcyclists and homosexuals, it was football.

Barbara's eyes glittered as she watched. Jerry wanted to suggest they leave, and was about to tug on her hand, when there was a long pass and then a heavy three-man tackle, and a loud snapping sound, really loud, as the three motorcyclists slowly got up from the ground and the homosexual didn't, but lay there broken and still. Others began running over toward the accident, and still others began drifting away.

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Jerry said, and pulled her away. It took some pulling.
What was this?

She admired his old black Porsche and loved the red leather interior and the comfort of the bucket seats, as they rode slowly in the dusty caravan of cars leaving the park. It was terribly hot in the car. Jerry had parked in the shade of a tree, but the shade had moved long ago and left it locked up tight in the burning sun for hours. Jerry was immediately sweat soaked and dizzy, and for a few minutes as they crawled along and Barbara talked about how nice his car was, he thought he was going to throw up. It became unbearable, and he knew he must pull the car over to one side and
get out,
under the shade of a tree, into a pond, anything to get out of this oven. But there was no place to pull out of the string of equally baking automobiles. Jerry was stuck.

Then there came a wide spot on the road, but in it was a car, pulled over, with the driver hanging red-faced out the open door.

“Oh, the poor man,” Barbara said.

“Couldn't take the heat,” Jerry said grimly. Now he was goddamned if he was going to stop or pull over and collapse; it was not the manly thing to do.

Barbara was sweating, but she did not have the red face Jerry knew he had; she was not as affected by the heat. That was good. Horns started blaring up in front of them, and Jerry forced a grin. “That's a big help,” he said.

“We should have brought along a couple of cold cans of beer,” Barbara said, as the caravan stopped again. Kids raced by on bicycles, throwing firecrackers into cars. Desperate redfaced men chased them. Jerry and Barbara were lucky: no firecrackers fell into the Porsche. While they waited, Jerry explained to an uninterested Barbara why he had not had air conditioning installed in his car, pointing out that the strain placed on the engine by adding
the unit could make an already oversensitive machine even more cranky, and that Porsches did not come with factory air, as they called it.

“Factory air,” he said. “Sounds a lot like L.A., huh?”

At last (at last!) they were out of Griffith Park, and moving fast enough to buffet a little cooling air into the car.

“Where do you live?” Jerry asked. “Or do you feel like going home yet? We could stop for a tall cold one somewhere . .”

“On the Fourth? Let's go to my place. I've got a fridge full of beer and wine, and I want to take a shower.”

“Okay, where is this garden of paradise?”

She gave him instructions. She lived in a large apartment house in Studio City, a block off Ventura Boulevard. When Jerry pulled up in front, he managed to find a parking place in the shade of a big tree, just in case.

Her apartment was large and cool, Spanish-looking and a bit formal for Jerry's tastes, but he was grateful to be out of his car. Barbara breezed through to the kitchen and he could hear the percussive snap of a couple of cans of beer. She came out with his tall cold glass of beer on a little tray, with a folded napkin.

“If you'll excuse me,” she said, “I'm going to plunge into the shower.”

“I'll just take off my shoes, if you don't mind,” Jerry said.

“If you'd like to shower off,” she said, “I'll be out in just a minute.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, and drained off half his beer. It was awfully good. He burped, tapped his chest, made a face, and drank some more. He could hear the shower going faintly from the direction of the bedroom. Her bedroom. He got up and went over and peeked in the door. Dark, cool, neat as a pin. The bathroom door was shut. Jerry decided not to undress and try to join her in the shower. Too pushy. And he did not feel the need to push.

When she came out she was in shorts and a tee shirt, her hair pulled back. She had very good legs, legs like a ballet dancer, long and muscled with full calves and unrippled thighs. Jerry had been afraid her thighs would be heavy, but no. He rose. “My turn,” he said.

“There's fresh towels for you on the toilet,” she called after him. The bathroom was damp and cozy, and the shower most refreshing, almost sobering Jerry up. He was really beginning to be interested in sex now, and she must be feeling the same way. This was wonderful, no fuss, no strain, two adults who desired each other and were civilized enough to be able to handle it
without a lot of bullshit and social nonsense. He was amazed that Richard's sister should be so much more sophisticated than he was. The apartment alone showed that much. And her attitude. And the kissing and the intimacy.

Jerry looked at himself critically as he toweled off. Too bad his own body was not at its best. He resolved to get himself into shape before it was too late. He would have to begin exercising again, and restrain himself with food and drink. Especially drink. But not today. His mouth was dry again, and he wanted another beer. They would sip their beers, listen to music (he could hear music coming from the living room, classical music) and let the night gently fall.

But when he went to kiss her, as they sat on the couch side by side, he felt a restraint that had not been there before, and he pulled back, looking at her. Her eyes were downcast.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

He kissed her again. More restraint. He kissed harder, and the restraint became refusal, as she pulled away.

“I think I should tell you,” she said.

His heart sank.

“I don't think we should make love,” she said.

His heart sank further.

“On this, you know, first time we've met . .”

“I understand,” he heard himself saying.

“I'm glad you do,” she said, brightening and looking at him again. “So many men don't.”

“I'm not that kind of a guy,” he said.

“It's not
you,
” she said, and took his clammy hand. “It's just the situation, you know?”