Ladies' Man Read online

  “Me? I went to Baruch for business. I got fucked up the ass. My senior year I got engaged to this girl there. Her father owned Meyer Brother stationers. You know that chain? The guy was gonna break me in at the top. He loved my ass ‘cause I told him I lived on a kibbutz for a year. Anyway, I got cocky ‘cause I thought I had it in the bag so I dropped out of school with six months to go. He hears this, gets pissed at my disrespect for education and makes his daughter break it off.” I shrugged. “Fuck it. I didn’t really love her anyway. I was a kid, you know? But I never went back to school. After that I did some income tax work with my uncle. Then I did a gig in the reserves and, ah, the last two, three years, I’ve been working for Bluecastle House-wares, which I’ll tell you the truth is ideal for me because”—I counted on my fingers—“I got no boss, I make my own hours and I meet people. My income is directly proportionate to my, my, ah, ability to communicate.” I tried to come off as sober and mature as possible. What a’ steaming pile of horseshit, though- I felt ashamed of myself. I even cut in half the number of years I had been doing door-to-door.

  “What about you, Candy? You went to Bronx, right?”

  “Yeah, Bronx Community. I quit. I got drafted, I was in Nam for a year behind a desk. I got caught selling government office supplies.” He laughed and his chins jiggled. “Christ, did I get into a jam.”

  “You look like you’re into a little more than jam, my friend.” Donny smirked.

  “Hey, fuck you, I’m on a diet.” Candy sucked in his gut.

  Donny imitated Candy inhaling and cracked up.

  “Yeah? I’ll still run your ass into the ground.”

  “You can probably squash it into the ground,” I blurted.

  Donny jerked with laughter. “Fuckin’ Candyman.” Donny snorted. “Fuckin’ Candyman, he, he was any bigger he’d have his own Zip Code.” We both cracked up and staggered toward each other for a double palm slap.

  “Oh no! Oh no!” Candy smiled, waving his finger between me and Donny. “I ain’t gettin’ caught in no crossfire between you two jokers!”

  When Candy said that I started twitching like an electrified frog. “Hey Candy, Donny! Donny! Yesterday Candy went down to Port Authority; two families with suitcases asked him what time’s he leaving for Saratoga!” Donny and I collapsed in each other’s arms. I couldn’t breath. I felt like I was drowning in riff, smothering in riff. They were starting to come so fast and furious I couldn’t see straight. But it felt right, comfortable, like a car that rattled until the speedometer hit 80, then it purred like a Caddy. It felt like me. And it felt like Donny. We. were joker soul brothers. Always had. been.

  I was laughing so hard I was drooling. After a moment I went to turn away, but Donny put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me hard. He turned me toward Candy, slapped his arm around my neck and pinched my cheek.

  “He was the fuckin’ funniest, wasn’t he, Candy?” Candy sat there, his fingers clasped across his gut, smiling like a benevolent Sidney Greenstreet.

  “Kenny the Riffer,” Candy glowed.

  I hugged Donny back. No wonder I was so goddamn lonely. Friends, man. I didn’t have any fucking friends. And friends were the bottom line.

  “No kiddin’, Candy, you should watch it with fats and shit.” I stood arm in arm with Donny like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I felt better, less jealous. I wished he would shed three tons just on my good vibes alone.

  “Hey, no, I am! I am! Vitamins, Tab and yogurt! Vitamins, Tab and yogurt! That’s all I eat all. fuckin’ day. I lost six pounds this month!”

  “Oh, yeah?” Every few seconds a ripple of laughter would lightly spasm my gut and pass through my lips in a weak bleat. “What… what was that cream cheese sandwich there?” I nodded toward the now empty wax paper and wiped my eyes.

  “What, that?” Candy waved. “That wasn’t shit.”

  “Hey.” Donny detached himself from our embrace. “Speakin’ a food, anybody up for some lunch?”

  “Lunch is on me.” Candy got to his feet.

  “Anybody like Japanese food?” I asked.

  Donny and Candy both made to puke.

  “God, remember when we all used to go to Lucky’s for lunch?” Donny mused.

  “You wanna go there now?”

  “How we gonna get up there?”

  “I got wheels.” Candy tucked in his shirt. “You guys got time?”

  “I do.” Donny shrugged.

  I was going to pass but then remembered I had already scored two yards that day. “Me too.”

  “Well, then, let’s go!” Candy held out both palms. And Donny and I slapped simultaneously.

  Friends, man. Fucking friends.

  Candy split to get his car while Donny and I hung out in front of the store waiting for him.

  One of the last times anything felt consistently right for me was with these guys almost half a lifetime ago. Except for a few brief periods I felt as though I had been in a bad mood since high school graduation, but these were the guys and that’s when it was happening for me… Maybe the answer was them. The boys. Even the old merchant marine was hip to that, to the power and need for the boys.

  “Damn Candyman, he better watch his heart, huh?” I turned up my collar.

  “I think he got turned down for life insurance, or they charged him something outrageous.”

  “You been seeing him around, Donny?” I felt slightly jealous.

  Donny shrugged. “Now and then, you know, I drop in sometimes when I’m in -the neighborhood, nothin’, ah, nothin’ to speak of.”

  Candy pulled up to the curb in a long battleship gray Continental, honking the horn and waving us forward.

  “That’s his?” I moved toward the car hunched over and frowning in awe. I tossed my case in the rear and sat in the death seat. Donny climbed in the back. The door closed with a heavily cushioned thud.

  “Mr.. Candy, awright!” I extended my palm. The seats were charcoal gray velveteen. Candy wore deep green racing sunglasses.

  “What you picture me for, a VW?” Candy laughed, twisted his head to traffic and pulled out onto Eighth Street. He punched in an FM station and the car turned into Carnegie Hall. He had more speakers than stations.

  “Hey, this is nice, Candy. What year?” He turned the volume down.

  “Seventy-five?” He drove slowly, with his wrist on top of the wheel, his banana fingers dangling almost to the steering-column. “I .got a deal on it from my father-in-law, Estelle’s old man. He’s a mechanic, for the Police Department. This car was impounded .three years ago. Hie guy who owned it was pushing smack. Some Central Park West Jew. Estelle’s old man had to take it apart looking for dope, you know, like in .The French Connection.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, my theory is he did but he didn’t tell the cops. I think he sold the dope himself because two months later they moved out to Forest Hills, but what the hell do I know, right?” Candy grinned into his rearview mirror to catch Donny’s eye. lie car hummed as we headed up Sixth Avenue.

  “There’s a bar in the back.”

  “A what?” I turned around, knees on the seat, and hung over the backrest. Sure enough, there were two gray padded velveteen cabinet doors built into the back of the front seat. Inside were two glasses, a small copper ice bucket, but no booze. I looked up at Donny. He was leaning back, legs crossed, arms flung out along the rear window ledge. He gave me raised eyebrows but didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if he was pulling out on us. Sometimes Donny would do that, be into things with the guys then all of sudden go off on his own planet, and as they say, when you get older you don’t change, you intensify.

  “So that’s funny about Maynard, huh?” Candy turned onto the West Side Highway.

  “What happened to everybody else?” My brain filled with more faces than a yearbook. .

  “You remember Brazil? He lives near me out near Malverne. He’s got a big liquor store in a shopping center around Green Acres. Doing very we
ll. He married an Irish girl, got a daughter now, and Bobby Bizarro? You know, Bobby Gallo? He’s drivin’ a cab, living out in Queens; he’s married, got two kids, boys. And Terry Fischer? Oh, this’ll blow you away. Terry Fischer runs an aquarium store on Staten Island. And! And! He married a yom.”

  “Terry did?” It wasn’t that big a deal to me. “He was dark anyway.”

  Candy turned to me, slightly disappointed at my lack of amazement. Donny was staring out the window, chewing his thumb. I leaned my head back and cast my eyes in his approximate direction. “Everything okay back there, Mr. Donny?”

  “I’m good, I’m good,” he said without gusto. “Oh and Andy Cady? Andy and Frankie Fahey are somewhere down in Florida now. They got some business going with trailers, boats, I don’t know. Neither of them are married or got kids last I heard. Oh, and Richie Perry? Richie married Jeanette Pella; he’s teaching English in Yonkers; they got a boy and a girl. As a matter of fact, Kenny”—Candy was beginning to sound a little matronly to me—“I’m pretty sure Jeanette’s an Avon lady now that I think of it.” He smiled at me and if there had been enough headroom in the car I would have stood up and kicked his teeth in.

  “Oh yeah?” I said flatly. My brains were cooking. He just made me feel like a pile of shit. I felt like saying “Oh yeah? As a matter of fact, Candy, I know some nigger who sells stolen Earth Shoes from the back of his station wagon.” Avon lady. We drove in silence for about ten minutes. Candy made me feel like I was doing everything wrong. Kids, Continentals—I didn’t have shit. Donny wasn’t saying dick either. I bet he had less than me.

  “How do you know all this shit, Candy? Kids and jobs and all.”

  Candy seemed oblivious to the vibes. He made a face and shrugged. “My mother knows. She keeps tabs. I been to all the christenings and the circumcisions. Kids, man.” He smacked his lips like he wanted some for lunch. “Kids is what’s happening.”

  When we hit the Bronx, I got excited and wanted to start a memory lane riff, but I was also still sulking from listening to the Queen Bee. I shot another glance at Donny. He had left the planet three days ago.

  “Hey! Moshokly Parkway!” Candy extended his palm for a slap and I halfheartedly complied. The car purred on at Candy’s leisurely pace past De Witt Clinton High School, well-kept lawns and thirties-style blond brick apartment buildings.

  “You know, this place still looks good?” Candy nodded, then turned to me and clapped a bear paw on my knee. “So how you doin’, Kenny, you doin’ okay? Financially?”

  “Oh yeah, oh yeah, and you?”

  Candy raised an eyebrow and bit his lip as if trying to remember a date, his hand still on my knee. “Well, I would, at this point in my life, describe myself as, slight-ly higher than middle middle class.”

  “Me too.” Fuck you.

  “You know, I just bought into a parking lot out in Riverhead out in Suffolk. I don’t have the pension security of a city job like this cocksucker back here.” Candy laughed and tossed a few chins back to Donny, then threw his arm over the seat to slap Donny’s knee. Donny brought his knees together to avoid Candy’s swipe but ignored Candy otherwise.

  Maybe Candy was getting back at us for goofing on his fatness in that goldfish bowl on Eighth Street.

  “Hey, Candy.” I winked at Donny. “Maynard got any kids?”

  “Not that I know of, but his brother Elliot? He got twins.” Donny and I cracked up and I held out my palm over the seat for a slap. Candy smiled slightly but couldn’t take his eyes off the road. “What’s so funny?” He laughed uneasily. “It’s true, man, he got twins.”

  I started howling, clasping my hands between my knees, jerking my head back and forth.

  Donny was laughing so hard he bumped, his head on the window. I leaned over the seat, opened Candy’s bar, pantomimed pouring booze into one of the glasses and splashing it over Donny. Donny exploded, pointed to the bar tears rolling down his cheeks and jumped back in his seat like his neck had been yanked. I collapsed flat over the back of my seat like wet wash. I was so tired from laughing I could only moan. Every time I moaned, Donny erupted into high-pitched, staccato giggles.

  “Nice fuck, fuckin’ c-car, Candy.” Donny held his stomach, and I started howling all over, nodding yes! yes! yes! and pounding his palm with a million slaps. Joker soul brothers. We could have torn Candy to shreds with our fingernails. Our rage.

  “Aw, you guys are nuts.” Candy raised the volume on the radio.

  “Hey, Lucky! Remember us?” Candy beamed down at the little German Jew luncheonette owner in T-shirt and apron who had been dishing out lime rickeys since the year one. He looked up at us, squinting behind his Dr. Cyclops glasses.

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember you,” he said defensively like we were bill: collectors. The place was deserted. It looked identical to when we were there as kids—high ceiling, gloomy, messy, greasy—and I was hit with a’ great feeling of “so what.” As a matter of fact, I didn’t even want to eat there because the place was such a pit. I didn’t want to ruin my stomach for the sake of a sentimental journey. Donny thumbed through the Post, by the cash register. He looked like he couldn’t have cared less either. Only Candy was excited, twisting his head this way and that, his mouth gaping in delight. Actually, maybe it was just the idea that we were going to eat soon that was turning him on.

  We sat on stools across from the grill, under aging fallacious paintings of juicy burgers and chilled Cokes. In one picture, against a faded lime green background, two blond kiddies, the boy crew cut, the girl in short yellow curls, avidly licked their chops for an orange Creamsicle as Mom and Dad in pearls and pipe benignly smiled on. “It’s nutritious too!” was scripted underneath.

  “Remember that picture?” Candy chuckled.

  “They should take out the Creamsicle and put in a prick,” said Donny.

  Lucky stood before us wiping his hands on a towel. His almost bald noggin was topped with a wispy gray fuzz, and his mouth was locked open a good two inches, had been since the fifties.

  “Lucky, can I get a spinach salad?” I asked, scanning the. food paintings.

  “A what?” Lucky scowled.

  “A spinach salad!” Donny turned to Candy hand to mouth then across the counter to me.

  “Hey, Kenny, where do you think you are, Soho?” He slapped palms with Candy and I was afraid the alliances were going to shift.

  “Okay, gimme some lettuce and tomatoes.”

  “Guy eats like Bug Bunny,” Candy snorted. No comment.

  “I’ll have a ham sandwich, Lucky.” Candy pressed his palms together.

  “Yeah, make sure you give it to him on Melba toast.” I grabbed a fistful of love rungs.

  “And a Coke,” Candy barked, trying to disengage my claw with his elbow while twisting his hip away from me.

  “Make it a Tab!” I corrected, letting go. “Coke for me,” said Donny.

  Lucky brought me a lettuce and tomato cm white bread and Candy got a ham on white toast.

  After eating we ambled over to the cash register. Candy whipped out a five to pay for everybody and neither Donny nor I protested.

  “Hey!” Candy spied a box of rubber balls. “And now!” He bounced. “You skinny dudes think you’re so bad? C’mon.” Candy marched us across the street into the housing projects playground. As we hit the sidewalk, an el train overhead drowned the street with its grinding roar. For eighteen years that sound was as unnoticeable to me as my heartbeat. It was unseasonably warm for February, almost fifty degrees, and the basketball and handball courts were lightly sprinkled with people. “Whew.” Donny gazed around him, hands on hips.

  “This was the place, remember?” We stood in the middle of four basketball courts separated from four handball courts by a high link fence. Beyond another high link fence were a sandbox, benches, a seesaw, a sliding pond, monkey bars, a wading pool, and a tiny parks department supply cottage, all fenced in, all metal and concrete, all surrounded by red brick city housing. The basketball court bound
aries, key and foul lines had been freshly painted over in bright yellow on the gray-black macadam.

  “C’mon.” Candy violently bounced his; rubber ball. •“I’ll take on both of you.” He headed for the handball courts, and we trailed behind, slightly blown out like soldiers returning home from a three-day gig at Gettysburg.

  Three of the four handball courts were occupied, and Candy started throwing the ball against the wall of the empty court. All four walls were tattooed with massive explosions of spraypainted graffiti. A thick jungle of, purples, reds and blacks, numbers and names. Every time Candy threw the pink ball it seemed to get swallowed up in the artwork and bounced back like it was being spit out by the color scheme.

  “Look what those bastards did.” Candy grimaced, nodding toward the walls. Donny kept walking in circles as if he were stunned.

  “Listen, Candy, I’m gonna pass on the game. Why don’t you play Donny solo,” I said apologetically.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Candy pleaded like a ten-year-old.

  “Nah, really, Candy.” I raised my hands in submission. “I rip this suit, I go to work in a barrel, no kiddin’.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Donny said.

  “No, Donny, play him, play him.” I motioned Donny toward the court. “I’ll keep score.”

  “C’mon, Donny, let’s go, eleven points.” Candy tossed the ball against the wall. Donny took off his coat and hung it on a piece of wire protruding from the fence. He effortlessly touched his toes, then did back stretch exercises. He was as thin and wiry as he had been at fifteen. And the bastard probably never did a sit-up in his life. I walked over to a low foot-high con-crete ledge against the fence by the first court and sat my ass down. The handball court walls were backed by the rear wall of a factory and I recalled the hundreds of balls I’d lost over that factory roof. On the court nearest me a young black mother played paddleball by herself. She had an enormous dungareed butt, an expression on her face like a stoned cow as she lethargically swished her paddle in the air, missing the hard black ball nine times out of ten, walking after it each time, her head jiggling on her shoulders. Her baby half-stood, half-dangled, suspended by his crotch in a walker parked about five feet away from me on the sidelines. The kid was listlessly chawing on the saliva-soaked cookie in his tiny hand. He kept twisting his head to me, but I had nothing to say. Maybe I should have adopted him and invited Candy to the circumcision.