Bob Fingerman - Pariah

What had he been thinking moving up here?

Okay, so he’d enjoyed the bar scene on York Avenue. He’d nailed a lot of slim high-maintenance Jewesses on his innumerable pub crawls and contrary to stereotype, those women sure knew how to give head. Eddie had thought Italian chicks like the ones in his old neighborhood were proficient, but they were rank amateurs compared to the JAPs he’d scored with ’round these parts.

In Brooklyn, fellatio was merely a Catholic stalling act to keep the cherry intact until the wedding day. How many girls had kept Eddie out of their cootchies by offering up auxiliary inputs? That was a laugh. Eddie thought about all those girls lined up trying to get into Heaven now. Saint Peter would be all like, “What? You safeguarded the ’gina but let ’em do what in your what? Sin is sin, Sweetcakes. Scram!” In cars, attics and basements, in stairwells and on rooftops, in all the clandestine locales available to him in his youth he’d done everything but get in the front bottom. He’d lost his own cherry, so to speak, at fifteen to a twelve-year-old she-devil named Roxanne who sat in her bedroom window and smoked menthols and taunted and teased all the neighborhood boys. Eddie thought she’d singled him out for her affections, but it turned out she’d blown every kid on the block, and some from not on the block, and some from Borough Park, and some from Bath Beach, and some from as far as Bay Ridge. And some who weren’t even so young, like her uncles and cousins.

And so Eddie formed the opinion that maybe the fairer sex were all whores, like his pops implied in a not-so-subtle fashion when addressing Eddie’s mother as such. Eddie’s mother was such a flirt it was easy to see why his pops drank and on occasion showed her the back of his hand. She didn’t fight back much, maybe a little harsh language, but she knew she was guilty of whatever and besides, why screw up a good thing? She had a nice house and a nice car. Eddie’s sister Patty, though. She was a tramp, no doubt.

So anyway, here he was, in a faggy neighborhood, bereft of cunt, getting a blowjob from his former Ice Knights teammate. Go Rutgers . Eddie rolled his eyes impatiently. Dave was getting all fancy, licking it like a lollypop and fiddling with the balls. Eddie just wanted to bust a nut and go to sleep, but whatever. Dave had gone full-bore homo and there was nothing to do about it. The facts were the facts. Look at Dave’s lack of interest in the spooky little shorty who’d shown up and brought home the groceries. And Dave harshing on him for wanting to tap that ass? You’d think Dave would want to give his a break. Whatever. The little chick was probably never coming back anyway, so Eddie would make do.

But he wished Dave would just hurry the fuck up.

Three in the morning, give or take. Moans of brain-dead protest accompanied by regular knifelike squeaks of a trolley wheel in need of a spritz of WD-40. The squeaks increasing in pitch and loudness, and then silenced. The inhuman groaning continues, growing in fervor. The strike of a match, the smell of sulfur followed by paraffin, and then barely audible bare-footfalls creeping across bare floorboards.

Alan slid the front window open the whole way and looked down at York. Standing in the center of the aperture of the crowd of spread-out zombies stood Mona, looking up at the building, nodding her head in time with whatever tune she was mainlining. Alan just looked down at her for a moment, waiting for her to call out and announce her return. But she didn’t. She just stood there leaning her forearms on the push bar of the extra-large shopping cart she’d liberated from wherever, the cart overstuffed with swag.

The crowd was well illuminated, Mona having affixed a high intensity dual-beam LED flashlight to the front of her cart. In the shockingly bright, cool white light, the faces of the undead looked especially ghastly. Every deformity, every laceration, every cluster of rot underscored by deep dramatic shadows, like the ultimate campfire ghost-story teller. During the day the zombies kind of blended into an undifferentiated mass, but now, lit up in the dark, deep black shadows separating them like bold outlines in a woodcut, each one boasted a uniquely disturbing visage.

Alan fought the urge to grab a pencil and begin sketching, but he studied these specimens, making mental notes. One in particular caught his eye, a female with its head dangling backwards from some hideous past injury. Its deadened eyes stared up at him-or at least in his general direction-and Alan found himself craning his head upside down to make out the face.

Gerri!

“Holy shit,” Alan gasped. He’d wondered where she’d gotten off to and here was his answer. When did this happen? Before he could get dizzy he righted the angle of his head and looked again at Mona. Finally she glanced up and saw him in the window and gave a minimal wave. Alan gestured for her to stay put, then scampered into the bedroom and roused Ellen with an urgent whisper-hissed, “Mona’s back!”

Ellen lay there for a second or two, then sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“What?”

“Mona. She’s downstairs. We gotta help her unload the cart and get her back inside.”

Ellen bolted off the bed, stark naked, and made to get down to 2B.

“Uh, Ellen, honey?” Alan said, gesturing at his own nude body. Ellen took in her nakedness, then nodded and bolted back into the bedroom. Within seconds both had thrown on shorts and shirts and made for Mona’s dwelling. When they reached the front windows, Mona had changed position from last Alan saw her. She now sat Indian-style on the roof of Dabney’s van, another flashlight in her lap, the beam fanning across SERVING ALL FIVE BOROUGHS SINCE 1979. She also held a brand-new length of Day-Glo pink mountaineering rope, which she tossed up to Alan, who tied it securely to the nearby standpipe.

Later Mona, Ellen, and Alan shared a round of warm Pepsi around the dining table, Mona sitting on the edge of her chair, her Hello Kitty backpack mashed against the backrest.

“This used to be the super’s apartment,” Alan said as a conversational gambit.

Mona nodded.

“That’s how come there was a rope here in the first place. Although I’m not quite sure what Mr. Spiteri used rope for.”

Mona shrugged, indifferent.

“Shouldn’t we tell the others that Mona’s back, safe and sound?” Ellen asked.

“If no one came to help, clearly they’re all still asleep. Let ’em rest,” Alan said. “They can enjoy a nice start to the day tomorrow.” Alan surveyed the piles of stuff Mona had brought back. “You really did an amazing job out there, Mona. Just great. Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously. You shouldn’t be so modest.”

“I’m not.”

“We were getting pretty worried, I don’t mind telling you, since you were gone so long,” Ellen added, gently grasping Mona’s hand. “Not that I mean to imply that we thought you should have been quicker,” she added. “Far from. We just were concerned.”

“Uh-huh,” Mona said.

Uh-huh .

Alan got up from the table to inspect the loot.

Is it just me? Ellen wondered. She looked at Mona’s blank, pretty face and tried not to stare, not that Mona would notice anyway. Mona, as per, had the headphones blasting away. From the tiny speakers Mona’s music always sounded fast and metallic, like angry insects devouring her brains via the ear canals. Maybe that was it. Maybe all the conservative pundits had been right. Maybe heavy metal, or whatever Mona was listening to, did cause brain damage. Maybe Mona had numbed herself with aggressive music as a way to cope with the harsh reality of the world. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But she was among friends now. Needy friends, admittedly, but friends nonetheless. Maybe she could wean Mona off the tunes-not cold turkey, no need for anything that dramatic, but some nice music to set the tone. Oh my God , Ellen thought. I’m turning into my mother. What, some nice Barry Manilow? Some Ray Conniff? Some Yanni? Get a grip .