Nathan in Spite of Himself Page 4

  I don’t know why I asked that. Maybe her hand slithering up my arm had affected my brain.

  Judging by her expression, Jeanette thought so. “Next you’ll be asking me why we can’t do it.” Before I could prove her correct she explained. “We can’t screw tonight because I’m on my period.”

  No danger of me asking a dumb question about that because I was speechless. Girls weren’t supposed to say such things. No girls I knew did. On the rare occasions when they referred to sexual intercourse or their menstrual cycle, they used euphemisms, and even then they only mouthed them.

  Jeanette dropped her hand to her lap. “You think I don’t know what this is about? You like me? Bullshit. You wanna fuck me, ’cause you Jew boys think we … what do you call us, shikkers? … you think we’re all easy.”

  “Shiksehs.”

  “What?”

  “We call you skiksehs. Shikkers are drunks.”

  “Same difference. The point is, you think we’re loose, that we’ll do it with just anyone.”

  I waited, eager for her next insight, but she offered none. In fact, she stopped talking altogether. Curious again, I looked over at her. Big mistake. She’d drawn her skirt back, and I mean way back, exposing two creamy thighs. I wrenched my head away before I got stiff.

  Too late.

  Jeanette, of course, picked up on this. “What’s that?” Out of a corner of an eye I saw her pointing.

  What could I say? It’s my dick getting hard at the sight of your smooth, firm, delectable thighs? Better to play dumb.

  “What’s what?”

  “Christ, I thought you Jews were supposed to be smart.” She reached over and grabbed me through my slacks. “This. What’s this?”

  I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to, since I was in no shape to say anything, let alone answer a rhetorical question.

  “Well, let’s see.” She unzipped my pants, snaked her hand inside my briefs and grabbed my pecker. “You know, you carry a big stick for such a small man.”

  I knew only that I couldn’t control the car much longer.

  As if testing me, Jeanette stroked my stick. “Feel good?” she asked, proving she too could play dumb.

  “Armmf,” I answered.

  “See? We shikkers have other ways of doing a Jew boy.”

  I was about to let go, and I don’t mean of the steering wheel.

  Jeanette must have sensed this. “Not yet.”

  Quickly she knelt on the car seat, withdrew my penis and thrust it in her mouth.

  Which is when I jumped the curb.

  Chapter 9

  When I awoke the next morning I immediately regretted it, as memories of the night before flooded my brain. I tried going back to sleep, but the recollection wouldn’t let me, so I lay there reliving the night’s two main events: a girl out-bowling me, and then almost killing me. Or rather both of us.

  In a close competition, I decided the latter was the more traumatic of the two events, since it not only nearly cost me my life but my penis as well. Not only that, but it occurred during an act that should have been the highlight of my heretofore sexless life, but obviously fell short of the mark.

  Finished reliving the nightmare, I spent some time stewing and communing with Miss Russell, who gave me one of those sultry looks I normally welcomed, but right then I needed something else. A little sympathy maybe.

  Doubtful he could supply it but with nowhere else to turn, I called Sheldon, hoping for a little understanding if not kindness and compassion.

  “You’re kidding,” he said after I’d recapped the evening.

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  “No, that’s the problem.”

  Before I could ask him what that meant, he said, “Now let me get this straight. You finally take a shikseh out, one who’ll screw any guy with a pulse, and you’re still a virgin?”

  He knew damn well I was, because I’d just told him so in clear, unambiguous terms. He was merely rubbing it in. Why would a best friend do that? Would I do that if our situations were reversed? I had to admit I might, so I cut him a little slack.

  I adjusted the receiver cradled between my chin and shoulder. “Hey, I’m lucky to be alive to, you know, try another day.”

  “Yeah, but at this rate that day won’t come until after you’re dead.” His logic was a little weak, but that didn’t keep him from going into convulsions.

  “Very funny, a real thigh-slapper,” I said after he’d calmed down. “But wait, that’s not all. I had another close call when I got home and told my parents about the Dodge. They were so pissed they stopped arguing long enough to turn on yours truly.”

  “You tell ’em how it happened?”

  Yeah, right. Why wouldn’t I inform my parents I’d smashed up their car getting a blow job from a shikseh?

  “I told them I was trying to change radio stations.”

  “Good one.”

  “They didn’t think so. They really let me have it.”

  My dad even raised his voice, a rarity for him. As a rule when he attacked, his weapon of choice was sarcasm, delivered in a deceptively gentle manner. Last night he’d behaved like Mount Vesuvius, which proved no less disturbing.

  Sheldon and I were quiet a moment before he stated the obvious. “The car must be one sorry-ass mess.”

  “It’s drivable, but the front end’s caved in thanks to that telephone pole. They may get rid of the Dodge and buy a new car. A Buick maybe.”

  “How’s the shikseh?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  “Minor bruises, same as me. I was going pretty slow.”

  “I can see why.” He limited himself to a chuckle this time.

  “I do have one sore spot, though.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Use your imagination, Sheldon.”

  After a few seconds passed I heard him wince, if that was possible.

  “Ouch!” was what he said.

  I shifted positions on the bed, which creaked, as if it too felt my pain.

  “At least I can still use the thing,” I said.

  “For what, peeing?”

  And the hits kept coming.

  “When you gonna see her again?” Sheldon asked.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Oh, you mean Jeanette. Never maybe. After I dropped her off, she said not to call her … she’d call me.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Somehow I pictured him smiling.

  “Well then, forget that dumb broad. There’s plenty of other girls ready, willing and more than able.”

  I was about to dispute this claim when the old biddy on our party line interrupted, crabbing, as usual, about my monopolizing the line. Also as usual she threatened to call Michigan Bell and complain, only this time she likewise promised to tell the police about my “offensive” conversation with Sheldon. As was my policy, I offered my deepest apologies, which seemed to have worked so far because we hadn’t heard from the phone company as yet.

  After a final harrumph, the grump hung up and I suggested to Sheldon we do the same before we provoked her further. With some reluctance, he agreed.

  I doubted my friend sympathized with my plight of last night, but that was all right. I had enough sympathy for the two of us

  Chapter 10

  1959

  Life is a shitload of ironies, or, to put it more delicately, it’s a pinball game full of ironic twists and turns. As well as pings. Take the period beginning the week after I smashed up the Dodge. My parents bought a new Buick—ping!—but refused to let me drive it—ping!—which gave me more time to study—ping!—resulting in an A-minus average—ping!—and returning me to their good graces—ping!—which prompted them to lend me the family car again—pingpingpingpingping!!!!!

  But here’s the biggest irony of all. I didn’t need the Buick except to run occasional errands, because I had no life. And by that I mean I had no love life, and thus no need for transportation other than public.
I seldom saw Diane Goldfarb the last couple months of my final semester at Central, and when our paths did cross we greeted each other casually, as if we’d swapped baseball cards instead of spit. I saw even less of Jeanette Bigelow, who, as expected, failed to call me. I could have phoned her, I suppose, but in all honesty the thrill was gone, or rather the memory of our, uh, misadventure lingered on.

  Yet in a sense none of that mattered as the New Year began, since another priority had supplanted getting laid. And no, I’m not kidding. The price of almost everything had soared over the past year. A haircut now cost two bucks and gas thirty-five cents a gallon, if you can believe it, and that’s just two out of many examples. So clearly I needed more money, meaning a higher-paying job. Which is why between classes and working at Twelfth Street Drugs and Tobacco, I filled out applications for busboy, dishwasher, gas-station attendant and a few other high-class positions, none of which panned out.

  Spring was fast approaching and my hopes for additional income were waning when Harry’s Market came through. Located three blocks south of the drugstore, it lost an employee to the draft after I applied and was now eager to hire me, since, unlike most other applicants, I boasted previous retail experience. The job paid nineteen dollars a week, four more than my previous salary, so I eagerly accepted. But I soon discovered the position had one major drawback: Harry Mendelson, the store’s owner. Tubby and greasy, he smoked rancid cigars, coughed almost nonstop, and griped incessantly about Kroger’s and the rest of those goniffs, who supposedly were stealing his customers. Still, he honored most requests for days off and seldom yelled at employees in front of customers, two virtues absent in my previous boss. So I could have done worse in selecting a new job.

  I suppose.

  #

  Not long after starting at Harry’s I made a new friend. This was a rarity for me, but my new pal, the Negro who delivered bread twice a week, made it easy by being so friendly and likable. People called him Wonderman, and the reason was no big mystery. The bread he supplied built strong bodies eight ways. The guy refused to divulge his given name, declining amiably of course, nor would he reveal his age, a coyness he shared with half the human race. I tried guessing but his appearance made it difficult. On the one hand, his receding hairline signaled he was past his youth, but on the other his smooth-as-marble face signified he might not be. In other words, Wonderman could have been younger than me or twice as old.

  Anyway, we developed a habit of chatting after he finished his chores, and before long he not only became my friend, but someone I admired, the reason being he had qualities I sorely lacked. A cordial personality, for one thing, and, even more impressive, a way with the opposite sex. At least if you believed his accounts, which for some reason I did.

  Wonderman doled out advice on a variety of subjects, but especially regarding women. One day he managed to combine my acne and virginity in one King Solomon session. I’d been at Harry’s about a month when I divulged my virginal status to him, which shows how quickly he’d gained my confidence. He didn’t comment at the time, but I knew he would sooner or later and last Tuesday he proved me right. I was dusting aisle six, bread and cereal, while my friend stocked his portion of the bread section.

  Once finished, he flashed me one of his signature smiles that revealed two rows of even white teeth. “Now don’ you go way, hear? I’ll be right back.” He wheeled his empty cart toward the front door while I continued dusting.

  True to his word, Wonderman returned shortly, shoving the invoice carbon in his front uniform pocket while I leaned against the four-deep shelves.

  He started by peering at me with a severe expression, or as close to one as he ever got. “I notice you still gettin them whatsis on yo face. Means you ain’t gettin no pussy. You get you some, thems’ll disappear overnight. I ain’t shittin you, man.”

  He may not have been shitting me, but he was echoing Sheldon Feinberg, whose guidance on the subject I considered flawed at best. Still, out of respect for Wonderman’s experience, I refrained from pointing this out. Instead I said, “You sure about that?”

  “I am. You ain’t never gonna know, though, lessn you get you some.”

  I gave him a vague shrug.

  “Tell you what.” Wonderman edged closer and lowered his voice. “You need to get you a colored gal, and thass the God’s honest truth.”

  I stared at him. He may as well have suggested I run away from home, which is what I’d be forced to do if I followed his advice.

  “No shit,” he went on before I could mention this. “Not to marry or nothin, or even take out reglar. Just to do it, and do it right.” He gave me a broad grin. “A sister might not be easy, but ifn you kin persuade her, she’ll give you more pleasure than yo lily-white dick can stand. Might even teach you a thing or two.”

  I straightened, though my shoulders still drooped. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “Hey, ain’t no one gotta know. You juss do it, like on the Q-T.”

  “Look, it’s out of the question. I’m sorry.”

  “Ain’t nothin out the question you wan it bad enuff.” A shadow crossed his face. “Hey, you ain’t one a them crackers, is you? I reckoned you was diffrent.”

  “No, no, I’m not a cracker,” I assured him.

  Yet my stomach had knotted at the mere thought of doing it with a “colored gal.” Actually doing it, as opposed to imagining it while jerking off.

  I tried explaining my resistance, to myself as well as him. “It’s just that, if my family ever … if they even—”

  “Hey, man,” Wonderman interrupted, as if anticipating the rest. “Like I said, ain’t no one need to know.”

  After offering this assurance he got a faraway look in his eyes, one mixed with a trace of sadness.

  “You right. You hafta feel at home wit it, cuz ain’t nothin worse than doin a woman when yo heart ain’t in it.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Bad idea. Forget I brung it up. You’ll lose your cherry someday. Only thing is, I hopes you young enuff to enjoy it.”

  He laughed, but I saw nothing funny about remaining a virgin into old age.

  Wonderman departed, his laughter trailing after him, and I resumed dusting. A moment later my spirits, already flagging, dipped even lower as I caught a whiff of putrid cigar.

  He stood at the head of the aisle, hands on hips, stinkweed bobbing between tobacco-stained teeth. “What’re you doing, talking to that shvartz?”

  “I talk to him all the time, Harry. He delivers Wonder Bread.”

  “I know what he does, but more important, I know what I pay you for, and it ain’t to talk to no shvartz. You understand me?”

  I was tempted to say something smart, or at least to correct his grammar, but abstained from doing either for fear of losing my job. Harry probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway, since he followed his question with a coughing jag that purpled his cheeks and bugged out his eyes.

  When he was through he returned to the register and a line of pissed-off customers.

  Chapter 11

  One good thing emerged from my conversation with Wonderman—a rekindled desire to end my virginity. But my purpose in resuming this quest wasn’t to get rid of my zits, since I remained skeptical of my friends’ cockamamie sex-as-Clearasil theory. No, I simply wanted finally, at long last, once and for goddamn all to get laid. But before I could accomplish this feat I had to answer one burning question.

  What the hell was I doing wrong?

  Obviously I’d been doing something wrong or I wouldn’t still be a virgin. Whatever my error, I couldn’t keep committing it, over and over and over again, and expect different results. That, as Einstein once said, more or less, would be crazy. So I had to figure out what I was doing wrong and start doing it right.

  My love life depended on it.

  #

  One Saturday afternoon in mid-April, when sane guys were shagging flies at the local sandlot or watching a game at Tiger Stadium, I was in my room pondering my virg
inal status. After a while, the reason for it became clear.

  I didn’t date enough.

  The more you dated, the greater your chances of getting laid, right? Conversely, the less you dated, the greater the odds against you. If this theory was correct, I’d depended on dumb luck to end my losing streak because I hardly dated at all. Weekdays I went to school, worked at Harry’s, did my homework and watched TV. Weekends I read or went to the movies. By myself.

  Why the loner act? Why didn’t I date more often?

  I compiled a list of possible reasons. Topping it was, I wanted sex so badly I nearly froze in a girl’s presence, especially a pretty, or even almost-pretty, one. Too tongue-tied to ask for a date, I listened to the girl talk but hardly said anything myself, for which I received high marks for being a good a listener but very little—well, no—sex. When you got right down to it, I only asked a girl out when she threw herself at me. Or when someone threw me at her.

  Clearly I needed to be more aggressive while continuing to target shiksehs (but not “black gals,” Wonderman’s arguments on their behalf notwithstanding). Also, since the few girls I’d dated were classmates, maybe I ought to expand my trolling area, like outside of school.

  But where?

  Anywhere, of course. Why limit myself to a specific location when girls were available, or at least hung out, everywhere? The important thing was to stay alert for prospects and assert myself when I found one.

  Simple.

  #

  Whenever I needed a treat after another tedious day at school I stopped off at Morrie’s Café on my way to work. Located on Twelfth Street and Monterey Avenue, the place served typical restaurant fare but with one major exception—its plump, mouth-watering, home-baked apple strudel that appealed even to my spare appetite.

  Shortly after my epiphany I popped into Morrie’s and there she was, my first prospect. Her name was Nancy, according to the tag on her waitress’s uniform, and she boasted three major assets: a sunlit smile, large brown eyes and a zaftig figure. She also possessed curiously thick lips that, oddly enough, I found appealing. Nancy had waited on me several times in the past, and I’d wondered if her bashful manner masked a passionate nature. I never found out, of course, and in fact never talked to the girl except to give her my order. But that was the old me, as opposed to the new, more aggressive guy who went after what he wanted, namely sex, and got it, he hoped.