The Education of a Young Gentleman

CONTENT WARNING: BAD THINGS


“And I eat men like air.”
—from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962.



In 1960 I was living at home with my parents. 

“Charles!”

“Uh?”

“Richie has a flat.”

“Where is he?”

“On the phone, honey.”

I rolled out of bed and stumbled after her into the kitchen.

She thrust the receiver into my hand and lit a Chesterfield.

“He’s such a bad influence.”

I grunted into the phone. “What?”

“Git your ass over here.”

My mother stiffened and clasped her robe.

“I guess it's pretty serious,” I said.

“Shhhh. You're not leaving my house like that. I'll get a clean shirt.”

I put on jeans and the shirt, and found my keys.

“You have something on your face.”

She moistened a finger with saliva and wiped my cheek. “That's better. Don’t forget to check in.”

“Bye, mom.”

“No kiss?” 

“Aww, mom.”

I went out the back way and hopped into the '52 Pontiac—a hunk of junk that cracked up Ollie, Richie’s father. An anxious excitement propelled me through the ghostly streets; I slid in behind the dark shapes parked outside Richie’s and hurried into the plain suburban house.

An atmosphere of blighted camaraderie prevailed in the tidy, Sears-chic living room. Larry, Richie’s older brother, saddled with a welfare cheat and five kids in the projects, had an athlete's body, a damn good Elvis, and a fondness for women.

Between Larry and two strangers was an individual whose boyish good looks and fine complexion hid a touch of cruelty behind an impish grin. His proclivity with young cooze earned him the nickname ‘Bunny’.

J. T., the muscle in the group, lit a thoughtful cigar-butt.

Larry turned up the collar of his shirt, took out a comb and slicked his red duck tails. “We were drinkin' Blue Ribbons in Prescott when Bunny sees this 18-karat chick sitting all by herself puttin' down doubles. She had a blow-out with her old man and wouldn't go home, not to her kids neither.”

Bunny took up the story with a grin and a characteristic lisp. “When she was done gettin’ lit, we took her here. Before you know, she’s grabbin’ dicks in the middle of the living room and we ran a train on her.”

This was a different way of life from anything I was used to.

J. T. cut Hound Dog from the Philco and shoved a beer in my hand.

From the hall came the sound of a toilet and hard boots. Richie strolled in, sporting a bowling shirt and jeans. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and slumped onto the blue bouclé couch.

“Richie was being a pig,” said Larry with a laugh. “It’s gettin’ late. We’re all tapped out.”

Bunny swung his beer at Richie. “His room.”

I froze.

“Got the yips?” said Richie.

J. T. puffed on his cigar. “Put yer whole face up in there. Take a mouthful. Bitch’ll make your tongue hard.”

“No rough stuff,” said Larry.

The two scatty strangers laughed and nudged each other. My pulse quickened. It amused them to watch me flat-guzzle my beer and gravitate to the hall. The Virgin Mary above Richie's door beamed down on me. My hand was sweating the knob when the door swung open and I stepped into the room where Larry had beguiled us with lurid tales of seduction.

Warm, moist air hung heavy with stale perfume and semen.

A low, seraphic voice called out from the gloom, “Larry? Larry, is that you?”

The breath went out of me.

I uttered, “Yes,” closed the door and moved closer—heart beating out of my chest.

The coverlet my mother made for Richie lay on the floor alongside women’s things. I was not in my right mind as I pulled back the sweaty bedclothes and gazed at the small form on the bed. I felt her eyes. “Show me,” she said.

I took off my clothes. She splayed herself open with her fingers—no need to lick or remove anything. She pulled my face to her. I shut my eyes and sank into unguent warmth. She arched, let out a moan and a slight cry.

I had lost all meaning and consciousness when I released her ankles and found my clothes. Richie was in the avocado-green living room. The two bounders were in the kitchen, the others had vanished. I crashed on the couch, her soft, moist blood-warm clinging to me.

Bishop Sheen's Way to Happiness lay on the coffee table beside a pair of yellow gloves and a few careless pieces of jewelry. Richie opened the drapes and moved to Ollie’s chair by the TV.

“I thought Larry was in KC,” I said.

“J. T. hauled his ass back.”

“Oh, yeah? I didn’t see the Olds. Where’s Rose and Ollie?”

He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Up north—Hanson’s place.”

Richie tossed a half-eaten bag of potato chips at me, “Don't go downstairs. I gotta clean this place and get over to Belmont’s by noon.”

Richie went to reclaim his bed. I yawned, settled on the sofa and picked up Bishop Sheen from the coffee table.

Quiet had descended over the house when she suddenly appeared from the shadows—little more than five foot, late twenties, a blue-dyed rag around her head and a high, womanly chest cosseted in Richie's rough flannel shirt. Her breasts moved in a way that showed their firmness. She stopped to gaze at the fine rain falling on the scattered leaves, searched her purse for a match, brought the cigarette to her lips and lit it. I shrank back and put the book down. She closed the drapes and lowered herself next to me with half-averted eyes. “My nails need trimming.”

Yellowish light fell upon a face fixed with traces of care and thwarted sleep that had retained much of its girlish beauty. How pretty she’d be in a wide-brimmed hat! I took her scent and felt her breath—we were almost touching.

She took a long drag and opened her mouth wide. An arabesque veil of smoke drifted into her cloudy, gray-green eyes. She straightened a tangle of dusky hair with her wedding finger, and bumped me with her toe. Her low, angelic voice was at my throat. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

She blew a jet and forced a laugh. “I'm an old lady. You're bad for my reputation.” My tongue paralyzed. I had forgotten everything but her half-parted lips. “I don't—”

“Ssshhh.” She kissed her index finger and put it crosswise to my lips. I prickled at her touch. What did she want? If the answer lay in her eyes, I could not find it. 

The atmosphere had shifted into quiet tension. She cleared the empty beer bottles and poured herself a drink, the mist smoke not yet gone from her mouth. 

She stared at me from under thick dark lashes, the glass trembling in her hand, leaning forward, as if to tell me some long-kept secret. “The big bad wolf is going to eat me up,” she whispered, kissing slow and wet, tasting of tobacco and stale mint. 

I slid fingers to her breasts and to her nipples. Her nostrils flared, a tremor crossed her face. She took the top off her drink, ashed her cigarette, and led me downstairs.

“Are you tired? You look tired. Don't go to sleep on me,” she said. 

She stretched out on the cold hard floor with her eyes closed and we fell to it. I forced her legs wide and pressed the soft tip of my tongue on her c-section and in her low, sweet places—a sharp breath when I snagged a hair. I eased on top. Painted nails dug into my back. We took each other slow until we passed out in a tangle next to our spilled drinks.

A spot of light filtering through the casements spread on the floor. I dressed silently and climbed the stairs in an unsteady haze. The restless one with horn-rimmed glasses and plaid shirt in the kitchen spoke first, with overdone cordiality. “You're Charlie?”

“Richie's friend.” I stuck out my hand; none was offered. “Who are you?”

“My name is Friday.”

“You carry a badge?”

He yawned and removed his glasses, revealing a pair of small eyes fixed on a rectangular face.

“Just kidding. I’m Roger. J. T. married my sister.”

He winked at the short, pasty fellow in white bucks and rounded shoulders tending the hissing coffee maker. “That’s Johnny.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten.”

Roger frowned. “She awake?”

“No. Is Richie in the bathroom?”

“He’s out in the garage.”

Before I finished in the bathroom, Roger was down the stairs and back up, beady-faced and pop-eyed, barely able to talk. “She ain’t breathin’.”

I flinched. “Don’t joke.”

“She ain’t movin'.”

“Are you sure?”

“You had her last.”

Perspiration broke out on my forehead.

Richie came in from the garage. “Geeze, Charlie, you look like you seen a ghost.”

“The chick, Richie.”

“What?”

“Somethin’s not right downstairs.”

Richie threw his rag across the floor, “I don't have time for this!”

“Don't go apeshit!”

He cursed through pursed lips and padded down the stairs in his slippers. He returned to the kitchen flushed-faced. “Why the hell you sweatin’ her down there, Charlie? Stuff's all over the fuck’n floor. Rose’ll kill me.”

He rocked back and forth, wiping his nose as we stared at him from around the table. Then, in a hard little voice, “She’s dead.”

A dull pain entered my brain. Johnny looked up from the counter, “Did you touch her eye? If it don’t blink—”

Richie made fists. “I can’t tell a stiff? I said she’s a stiff.”

Richie pulled up a chair, sat down beside me, spun the sugar bowl and whispered, “Jesus, Charlie. Were you out of your fuckin’ mind?”

“It’s not your fault. There’s no case. It’s an accident, not murder,” said Johnny. “I know a guy in the court district. Tell ‘em.”

“Tell ‘em what, exactly?” replied Roger, with a touch of insolence.

“Tell ‘em what happened,” said Johnny with a pant.

“Tell the jury we fucked her to death?” said Roger, putting his glasses back on and twitching my shoulder.

“Hold on, now—what are we gonna do with lil’ sis down there?”

“Do wha—?”

Roger snapped his fingers, “The body, stupid. The stupid body.”

“Okay, I guess we should bring her up now?” proposed Johnny.

“Yeah, yeah, that would be good,” said Roger.

“Nobody touch her until Larry gets here,” ordered Richie.

Johnny nodded and poured the coffee.

Roger stroked his chin. “Larry’ll blow his stack.”

“Hey, fucker. Keep my brother outta this,” Richie shot back.

Johnny took out milk and Rice Krispies. “Her spirit is in the throne room of God.”

The air came out of the room.

“We should take a moment of silence,” said Johnny. The only thing I heard was snap-crackle-pop, the beating of my heart and the dull whir of the refrigerator. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee. Johnny brought his head almost in contact with Roger’s.

“Wool.”

Roger looked at Johnny quizzically.

“What are you talking about?” said Richie.

“Cotton wool for her rectum.”

“Is that what that's for?” said Roger.

Richie struggled to control himself. “That's ridiculous.” His eyes raced around the table. “I’ve heard enough shit already. Nobody says nothing. Nobody calls nobody. Not the cops neither! An’ nobody fuck’n leave. Nowhere.”

Roger took a good pull on his cigarette. “Who’s this fuck job anyway?”

“She’s a human being,” Richie said softly. “Somebody get her purse.”

I stood up, eyes fixed on Roger, and scrambled to locate the black leather purse. I laid it on the table in front of Richie and sank back into my seat. Richie picked through the contents with interest. He set pictures on the table. I picked up two of them. A cold shock went through my veins. “A boy like Corky, a little girl, too.”

Roger cracked his knuckles. “Jesus. Are you writin’ a fuck’n book?”

“Quit lookin’ at me.”

Richie flipped the license and the billfold to Roger. “Corine Whitney, 1236 Quail Circle, Hudson, Wisconsin. Birthday in nine days. Thirty. She don’t look it.”

Roger took out a Tupperware check. Johnny cleared the saliva from his mouth. “Tupperware?” Roger jabbed Johnny with his elbow. “Cut the gas.” Next was a pill bottle whose contents spilled onto the table.

“She's on pills?” asked Johnny.

“Red devils,” replied Richie.

Johnny started to say something and changed his mind. Roger got up and looked out the window. “It’s half-past. I don’t see Larry.”

Richie was up on his feet, shouting with a bitterness I'll never forget: “Who’s talking to you? Nothing happened here!!”

<Clink>

The sound came from below. My feet stuck to the floor; Richie took the stairs slowly. A moment later he came madly up the stairs into the  kitchen grinning. “She's up!”

We drew a long breath and gave her free reign of the bathroom. A sidelong glance in the mirror from the curved figure in black—spike heels, cigarette in one hand, eye-liner in the other—was the last I saw.



“You look upset,” my mother said when I returned home. She picked up a pack of cigarettes. “Maybe you don’t want to talk.”