Tom Robbins - Jitterbug Perfume

“Here, let me help you with that.”

Throughout Dr. Dannyboy's monologue, he had been trying to unzip Pris's dress, to part the teeth of the Talon that ran down the length of her green knit back; trying to maneuver it coolly, unobtrusively, as if Pris, suddenly noticing her dress falling away, would regard it as a spontaneous act of nature, organic and ordained, but he couldn't budge the damn thing, though he tugged until sweat burst out on his brow, and finally, she said. .

“Here, let me help you with that.”

And with one smooth stroke, she separated the interlocking tracks, the 'gator yawned, and, lo, there she sat in her underwear.

Her bra was rust-stained and more than a size too big.

Is that a brassiere or a flotation device? Wiggs wondered.

At least it was a cinch to remove. He simply pulled it over her head without unhooking it, catching her breasts as they tumbled out, like croquet balls from a canvas bag. They were as smooth as peeled onions and perfectly pinked. He squeezed one, nuzzled the other. The pink did not lick off.

There was a run in the seat of her nylon panties. Neither of them seemed to notice. His hand passed over the run like a streetsweeper passing over a skid mark, maintaining momentum, registering nothing. The longest finger on his left hand curled like a celery stalk and dipped into the bowl of her buttocks, a bowl in which metaphors were easily mixed.

“Sweet Jesus, 'tis wonderful you feel!”

“Wiggs. . you're still dressed for dinner.”

In a minute he was wearing nothing but his eye patch.

“You feel wonderful, baby,” he said, fingering her again. He had dropped his brogue with his shorts.

Priscilla had forgotten how it was with older men. The last man with whom she had lain was a twenty-year-old dishwasher from El Papa Muerta. During a single evening, he had made love to her four times — for three minutes each time. Perhaps it is noteworthy, she thought, that the performance of a young man in bed is roughly the same length as a rock song on AM radio.

“I. . had. . ummm. . forgotten. . how. . it is. . with. . older. . men.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say. Wiggs paused in midstroke. “Age,” he grumbled. “There are only two ages. Alive and dead. If your man is dead, he should go lie down somewhere and get out o' the way. But if 'tis alive he is. .”

He completed the stroke, then paused again. Oh, no , thought Priscilla. Surely he isn't going to get pedantic at a time like this?

Her worry was soon abated, for although Wiggs cleared his throat and tapped his patch with his finger, a clear signal that he was on the verge of expounding, he became distracted by the wiggly thrust of her pelvis, and gradually, after mumbling something about senility being wasted on the old, and something else about never having met an adult who really liked him, he fell silent, except for the occasional sweet grunt, and gave full attention to the further stoking of the hot box in which he found himself.

“Yes, God, yes,” moaned Pris. This was the way Effecto had loved her: muscular and tender, relaxed and confident, carefully modulating rhythm and tempo, prying her apart with sweet determination, kissing her adoringly all the while; a far cry from those young guys who were either trying to score touchdowns in bed or else practicing to join the tank corps. “Daddy!” squealed Pris.

“Daddy?” asked Wiggs.

“Uh, no, Danny ,” said Pris. “Dannyboy.”

“Your man,” said Wiggs.

Effecto had played Priscilla like an accordion. Wiggs worked her as if she were an archaeological dig: spading, sifting, dusting, cataloging. Now, lying in a puddle on the sofa, she felt like she was ready to be shipped to the British Museum. Accompanied by a crate of late twentieth-century come shards.

Wiggs covered her with a Sepik war blanket and lay down beside her. A fresh Pres-to-log sputtered in the fireplace, and rain tapped messages in Morse code against the windowpanes. “You can't stay indoors forever,” and “There's plenty more where this came from” was what the rain was sending.

“Did you invite me here to seduce me?” asked Pris. She didn't care, at that point, she was merely curious. She caressed his flaccid shillelagh, wondering if Ricki would ever forgive her; wondering, too, if she would have felt half this good after sex with Ricki.

“I wish I could say yes, but the truth is, darlin', I wasn't that smart. This was an unexpected bonus.”

“Then why did you invite me?”

“Smell,” said Wiggs.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Now don't be takin' offense. Personally, you smell dainty as a lamb.” Dr. Dannyboy ducked his head beneath the blanket and took a vigorous whiff. “They can have their loaf o' warm bread, their new-mown hay. Nothin' beats the smell of a lassie freshly laid.”

“Hey. .”

“Again, no offense.” He surfaced, and kissed her with earnest affection. “See here, Priscilla, I have an interest in smell. That is, I have an interest in the evolution o' consciousness. Smell is the only sense to communicate directly with the neocortex. It bypasses the thalamus and the other middlemen and goes direct. Smell is the language the brain speaks. Hunger, thirst, aggression, fear, lust: your brain interprets these urges with a vocabulary o' smell. The neocortex speaks this language, and if we can learn to speak it, why we may be able to manipulate the cortex through the nose.”

“For what?”

“For expeditin' the evolution o' consciousness.”

“For what?”

“So's we can be happy and live a long, long time and not be bloody blowin' each other to bits.”

“You're going to disappoint a lot of generals.”

“Worse. It could mean the end o' Monday Night Football.”

“Well, fuck the Dallas Cowboys if they can't take a joke. But, Wiggs, wait a minute. What does any of this have to do with me?”

“You make perfume, don't you, darlin'?”

Priscilla raised herself on one elbow. “Uh, yeah, sort of. How did you know that?”

“I've learned a lot about perfumers since I met Alobar.”

“Alobar. The guy in prison.”

“Him.”

“The janitor.”

“And former king.”

“Who's a thousand years old.”

“Yes.”

She sat completely upright. “This is the nuttiest thing I've ever heard. I'm getting more confused by the minute. . ” She sounded genuinely distressed. Wiggs gripped her sticky thigh.

“'Tis a long story.”

“I don't care. And cut the brogue, please. You talked like an American when we were making love.”

“Sure and 'twas because your wild little wooky sobered me up. Now the grape has got hold o' me tongue again.”

“All right, fine, I don't care if you talk like Donald Duck. Just tell the story.”

“Should I start at the beginning?”

“If that's not too traditional.”

“But what about your date?" "Her?"

“You've already eaten her share.”

“Never mind. Talk to me. Now.”

“I'll start with the sixties.”

“Fine. You were probably more interesting then. I understand every body was.”

“I'll start with the seventies.”

“I like you, Wiggs.”

“Sure and I like you, too.”

He cleared his throat and, tapping his patch with a wooky-scented knuckle, commenced to pin a tail on the beet.

By then, it was that part of the day that is officially morning but which any dunce can see is purest night. The streets of Seattle were as wet and greeny black as freshly printed currency. Despite the hour and the weather, people were lined up outside the Last Laugh Foundation as if the Last Laugh Foundation were a radio station giving away rock stars to pubescent girls. Some of the people looked at Ricki's tea strainer of a car as it ever so slowly rattled by. Others persisted in gazing expectantly at the darkened mansion.