Stuart Dybek - Paper Lantern - Love Stories

Why’s it fucking dark in here? he asks in a raspy whisper.

He’s like I never seen him, pacing, cursing, moaning in that hoarse voice. I’m pleading, Frank, calm down, tell me what happened. Where’s the money?

Gone, he says, motherfucking gone, and pounds the table, and the busted platter and crackers fly like confetti. Weeks after, I was still finding olives under the furniture. He yowls and grabs his hand, and I go, Oh God! You cut yourself.

God, my ass, Frank rasps. That sadistic bastard sets you up, dangles the score of a lifetime so he can bust your balls. Ever think about that on your way to mass, Rosie? Adam and Eve, Jacob and Isaac, Job, all them set-up suckers. Same story: kiss the Big Guy’s ass or else.

I think: Blasphemy , which is not a word I walk around thinking. Once a Catholic always, huh? After that night, Frank never got his voice back, even after he quit smoking. It made him a great bartender, like everything he told you was confidential. Women would tell him he sounded sexy, but I knew shouting at Sportsman’s he’d lost the sweet tenor voice that made him think he coulda sung opera.

I ain’t about to take God’s side, but it’s all I can do not to mention to Frank that if he’d just paid the tax instead of giving Lester a cut, we’d a been eating Ritz crackers and drinking martinis.

He slides down the wall and sits holding his head, a dish towel around his cut hand, telling me how he followed Lester to the window, just far enough behind so as not to look like they’re together, watching that winning ticket like a hawk. When Lester gets handed the money he glances over at Frank and smiles, and right then the IRS grab Lester and cart him away. Lester’s yelling, Racial harassment! Jesse Jackson’s going to hear about this!

An IRS guy looks right at Frank, so Frank vamooses to the car. He changes into his railroad clothes like it’s a disguise, puts on a Sox hat and sunglasses, and rushes back through the crowd filing outta Sportsman’s. He waits for Lester to be released, but they got him in some office, and by now the lights are blinking out on the track and in the concession stands, and the betting windows are grated, and Frank has to leave. He sits in the car waiting for Lester, not sure what exit to watch. An hour goes by, no Lester. Frank figures they musta took him away, that Lester probably snitched it wasn’t his ticket. Oh, goddamn motherfucker, Frank goes, like he’s having a coronary.

I say, Frank, they’ll let Lester go and he’ll come through with the money. And Frank inquires if I was born fucking yesterday.

You believe it? The sumnabitch who hadda beat the system, the big shot dumb enough to give our ticket to a mooch, is asking when was I born.

It’s human fucking nature, Frank says, the longer that crip has my money, the more it’ll seem to him like it’s his. He coulda figured out where I’d be waiting. He snuck out some other exit. I’ll have to kill him to get it and I would, but I don’t know what fucking slum he lives in, or what his phone number is if he even has a phone, I don’t know nothing about him. I don’t even know his last fucking name.

I’d know it if I saw it, I say, and get out the white pages.

What the fuck you doing? There’s millions of names in there and you’re going to find one fucking Lester?

I sit on a kitchen chair with the phone book on my lap, and Frank gets up off the floor to turn on the lights.

Leave them off, I tell him. Blindfold me.

Oh, Jesus motherfucker, Frank whispers.

He ain’t wearing the sparkle tie. His lucky clothes are still in the car. So he wraps the bloody dish towel over my eyes. You can do this, Rosebush, I know you can, he says like praying.

I got the phone book flipped open at random. Tell me like at the track, I say, and he takes my hand and in his hoarse voice says, Touch the names like you’re touching yourself.

More, I say. Dirty. Like those poems you wrote me.

Like you’re fingering that beautiful slick flame in the shadow between your creamy thighs. Like you know I’m watching you do it.

Dirtier. Tell me something you never told me.

Take those voluptuous tits out. I love it when your nipples perk up so everyone at the track sees they want to be sucked, but only I get to suck them.

They’re our tits. I gave them to you. You like them?

I like squeezing your nipples while I fuck your voluptuous tits. You like that?

Pinch them hard. Yeah, harder.

Tell me how you want it, you slut. Tell me the dirtiest thought you ever had.

Tell me you wanta whip my voluptuous ass.

What? he says.

Tell me, you sumnabitch. Like I’m your sparkle horse.

I wanta whip your voluptuous ass.

You gotta really want to.

Phone book’s on the floor, I’m over the chair, his buckle makes this tink as his belt slides from the loops.

Mark me, I say.

When the knot on the dishrag comes undone, he stops. We’re both breathing like we been racing up flights of stairs.

You okay, Rosebush?

I slide up my slip so he can see the marks.

He kneels and traces them with a fingertip, slides his finger lower. You’re dripping, he whispers, and wipes my wetness on the marks like salve, then kisses them. Never kissed me like that before, so gentle. The wicks are flickering out, making smacking sounds like his lips. I don’t tell him it ain’t his marks he’s kissing.

Some crazy night, huh, Rosebud?

Ain’t over yet, I say.

I’m shaky like electric’s running through me, and pick up the phone book from where it fell open on the floor, lay it on my lap, close my eyes, and run my finger along the page. To Lionel James. I look up the James column for Lester. There’s Leo and Leonard and Leroy, but no Lester. There’s L James, and Frank says, Let’s try him.

It’s a her , I say, but Frank calls anyway, lets it ring and ring this tingly ring, then asks, Lester there?

I can hear L James shouting through the receiver. Frank hands me the phone like it’s burning his hand: “Middle of the fucking night, you dumbassed shitkicking motherfuck.” A woke-up girl baby’s crying behind her.

It’s hopeless, Rosebush, Frank says, and starts to cry, too, his face pressed against my legs, the fans whirring at different voooms , me turning pages in the phone book. He’s got his head cradled in his arms like he’s mercifully asleep when I tell him, Frank, he’s one of them guys with two first names. It’s right here, James Lester living on Martin Luther King Drive.

Could be him! I don’t fucking believe it! Only Lester lives in a housing project. Frank gets up off the floor, grabs the phone, and starts dialing the number.

Better wait till morning, I tell him.

No fucking way. Maybe it ain’t him. The phone rings and rings like before, but this time it’s a man’s voice finally answers.

Lester, Frank says, what happened to you, my man?

Frank’s looking at me, smiling this nasty smile the whole time he’s carrying on his cheery, bullshit side of the conversation: Those racist bastards, Lester, and you with Parkinson’s … You got the money? Good man … Yeah, you earned extra for your trouble … We’ll discuss it … Don’t worry, of course we’ll renegotiate. I’m coming down … Where you living? They got it wrong in the phone book. No, now , Lester … We got to celebrate. You wait up for me. I’m bringing a cold six-pack and an everything pizza.

He moved to the Lawless Gardens project, Frank says. They named that right.

Let it wait till morning, Frank.

Can’t, Rosebush. Too much could happen between now and then. I got to get it before he brags to some friend who’ll immediately be figuring how to screw him out of it. Don’t worry, Rosebud, we’re still on a roll.