David Goodis - The Blonde on the Street Corner

Ralph stood on the corner, leaning against the brick wall of Silver’s candy store, telling himself to go home and get some sleep. It was half-past two in the morning and he should have been in bed long ago. The December wind hacked at his face and seemed to slice through his flesh, like saw-toothed blades biting away at his bones. He kept telling himself to go home and slide under a warm quilt. But somehow he couldn’t move away from the corner. He was staring at the blonde woman on the other side of the street.

She was wearing a coat of muskrat fur that fitted tight in the waist and emphasized the outward sweep of her wide hips. The coat was somewhat short and it showed her legs with the full calves tapering smoothly to small ankles. She wore high-heeled shoes that propped her up to show the flaunting bulge of her big bosom. She’d been standing there for several minutes, smiling at him and waiting for him to come over and say hello.

He told himself to quit looking at her. She was a married woman who lived here in the neighborhood. That was one thing. Another thing, she was the sister-in-law of one of his close friends. From that point of view, he had no business getting friendly with her. From a deeper point of view, he was afraid of her. There was something about her that caused his brain to sizzle and he was really afraid of her.

He couldn’t understand it. She was strictly bargain-counter merchandise. Her type was a dime a dozen. A ripe blonde who used peroxide on her hair and too much lipstick and mascara and walked along the street like she was doing a shake-dance. The sight of her gave him an unclean feeling and he begged himself to quit looking at her. But his eyes remained focused on the big bosom and the narrow waist and the wide hips. On the screen of his mind the fur coat disappeared and he saw her standing there naked.

Just then she raised her arm and beckoned to him. Her thick voice seemed to drift like syrup across the street as she called, “Hey, you.”

He didn’t reply.

She was putting a cigarette in her mouth. “Hey,” she called. “You got a match?”

Mechanically he reached into the pocket of his tattered overcoat. His fingers touched the edge of a match-book. He kept his hand in his pocket as he watched her placing her hands on her hips and shifting her weight onto one leg.

“Well?” she called. It was a dare. It was as though she knew he was afraid.

He took the match-book out of his pocket, pulled himself away from the wall of the candy store, and crossed the pavement to the curb. As he walked slowly across the street, he told himself it didn’t mean anything, he was offering her a light for her cigarette, that was all. He promised himself it wouldn’t go any further than that.

He came up to her, struck a match, cupped his hand over it, and applied the flame to her cigarette. He was trying not to look at her as she inhaled the smoke. But her greenish eyes were like suction cups that fastened his eyes to her face.

She puffed slowly at the cigarette, took a backward step and looked him up and down. She said, “You need a new overcoat.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you get one?”

“Can’t afford it,” he said.

“You that poor?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m that poor.”

Again she looked him up and down. She said, “You’d make a nice appearance if you had some decent clothes.”

He didn’t say anything.

“What kind of work you do?” she asked.

“I’m unemployed.”

She was quiet for some moments, taking long drags at the cigarette. The smoke seeped out of her nostrils and she watched it curling and climbing in a thin column. Her eyes were focused on the column of smoke as she murmured, “Got a girl friend?”

“No.”

“How come?”

He shrugged. “It takes cash.”

“Not all the time,” she said. She leaned her head to the side, giving him the up-and-down look that caused him to squirm. She let the smile build slowly and said, “No reason why you can’t have a girl friend. In your case, it wouldn’t cost a penny.”

He frowned slightly. “How do you figure?”

“You got something,” she said. “It’s on the special side. I always know when it’s on the special side.”

The frown deepened. He stood there telling himself to walk away. He couldn’t move.

He heard her saying, “You’re not like the other bums on the corner. There’s something about you that’s different. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’d sure like to find out.”

He tried to switch the frown to a grin. It became a scowl and his voice was tighter than he wanted it to be. “You looking for trouble?”

“I’m looking for something special.”

“In what line?”

“A good time.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He stood there scowling and blinking and wondering what to say.

She took another long drag at the cigarette. She said, “I’m hungry as hell for a good time. I’ve been without the real thing for so long, I can hardly remember what it’s like. I mean the kind of action that knocks me out, puts me on a roller-coaster going haywire. I’m dying for something like that.”

He looked down at the torn leather of his battered shoes. The scowl faded and his face was expressionless as he mumbled, “That’s no way to talk.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a married woman.”

“For Christ’s sake,” she cut in, “let’s grow up.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mess around with married women.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“I mean it.” He looked at her. His face was expressionless. “I don’t play women cheap and I don’t let them play me cheap. What I think you better do is go home to your husband.”

“That clown?” She snorted. “He can’t even give me laughs any more. Only thing he gives me is a stiff pain you know where.”

He smiled thinly. “That’s your problem.”

“Sure it is. But I can’t handle it alone.” Her tone was matter-of-fact as she added, “Want to help me handle it?”

“No.”

“Afraid?”

For some moments he didn’t reply. Then he nodded.

“Why?” she murmured. She took a step toward him.

He could feel her breath on his face. It came against him like hot vapor that pushed aside the winter wind. He stared past her and saw the endless line of row-houses that rented for forty-a-month and were assessed at under three thousand. He wasn’t sure what his thoughts were, and he scarcely heard himself saying, “I’m fed up with this neighborhood. Damn sick and tired of hanging around on the corner and waiting for something to happen. Gotta get away, that’s all. Gotta do something. Find something. Something better than this.”

“Better than me?”

He went on staring past her. His eyes remained focused on the sameness of the row-houses that went on and on and finally vanished in the darkness. “There’s gotta be something better than this. It can’t stay this way all the time, day after day the same loused-up routine, nowhere to go, nothing to do, just standing on the corner and waiting, waiting—”

“For what?”

“Damned if I know.”

She took a final drag at the cigarette, flipped it away, and said, “I don’t get this line of talk. It’s way over my head. I think you been reading fairy-tales, or something. Maybe you’re waiting for some dream girl to come along in a coach drawn by six white horses, and she’ll pick you up and haul you away to the clouds, where it’s all milk and honey and springtime all year around. Maybe that’s what you’re waiting for. That dream girl.”

“Maybe,” he murmured. And then he looked at the blonde. His smile was soft and friendly and he said, “I guess that’s why I can’t start with you. I’m waiting for the dream girl.”