I wore my special quiana knit blouse, with purple grapes and luscious leaves, and the waiters at Manero’s Steak House came visit to me in the little coat check where I worked weekends to tell me how special I looked, how pretty in it. Their compliments were especially florid when the other fat-gutted middle-aged waiters were around: men from Greece, old Italians, young Yugoslavs (my favorite guy had black long hair and green eyes) with tight high asses and spectacular shoulders. Why? One old, paunchy man advised me urgently to steal from the coat check till. Everyone did it, why shouldn’t I make some extra money too? I was underpaid. Well, I was being paid for the first time, and it seemed pretty good to me. Should I take the money? I took $20, felt terrible, put it back the next night.
The night I returned the 20 to the till, I decided I didn’t like these guys, this job, this cubby hole. These big steaks hanging in the refrigerated display case, the floor strewn with sawdust. Maybe I could speak to my mom about quitting this job, find another --- but being the only girl in a joint full of men was intoxicating. What would I learn? Everything here was mysterious, the smoke, the dim red lighting, the way the waiters were protective and solicitous or slavering by turns.
What was I to do? The night I returned the 20 was a Saturday in October, a good dark smell in the leaves as I walked to the job through my suburban development, across route 25A, quick-quick to thread the traffic to cross the intersection. I put the 20 in the jar and breathed out, felt my feet on the ground, steady. I know who I am.
Mike has thick red hair cut to the shoulders, a tickly looking moustache, handsome bronzed skin and bright aquamarine eyes. My feet hurt, but I like looking at him. The night is long and boring except when the men come around to talk about man stuff or complement me on how cute I look. Mike never does that stuff. He’s really old, 27, married. He joins the group where the conversation takes a turn to my curves, tiny waist, pretty lips. I blush, but I want to know more about how they think. Mike says, in front of them all, “Let me give you a ride home. It’s late.” I take him up on it. I can’t remember his ride, but it was a two-seater, not a car that a family man might have. It was sporty and fast. He takes me the three quarters of a mile home to Alexander Drive and he stops the car at the corner, but not in the driveway of my house. I can’t understand it, but I think it’s sexy to get to talk to him for a few minutes. There is light from somewhere. He looks at me and smiles. What does he say? I don’t remember. Mike unzips his trousers and pulls out a large. Pink. Hard. Cock. It’s very big, and maybe only the third one I have seen. I have spied on my brothers and dad when I was so little I could crouch behind the trash basket and not be seen. So I know. My dad saw me and gently put me out of the room saying, “Ohhh, nooo,” very softly. But I remember how he looked, and the difference between his sex and that of my little brothers.
Mike takes my face in his hands and remarks again on my lips. He is very beautiful, I can’t breathe, and I don’t know if I should be scared, don’t know what he wants me to do. But I am scared, I can’t breathe, I can’t be the object of this attention. I know this is as wrong as anything my mother has ever warned me about -- is wrong as she says all sex is wrong for me, anyway. What I hear in her room at night, or used to when I was a child, I can’t understand. The cooing of doves, and the softness of shifting fabric. Something good is in there, I always thought, and I would like to see what it is.
Mike pushes my head down — I can’t remember anything more. I don’t think I stayed there very long, but I had the distinct feeling even then that this gesture would get back to the men, define something for Mike and for them, change everything about me to myself.
I can’t remember how I got into the house. But there was a light, and my mother standing behind the door waiting for me. Furious, seething, a viper. Why mom, if Mike was hurting me, didn’t you come out swinging? Why didn’t you protect me, if it was so dangerous a thing? I can’t ask these questions, I can’t think them for 20 years or more. I don’t remember getting into bed. But just as Mom had slapped me when I first got my period, and barged into my room when I was masturbating as a young girl in that sexy household — why wasn’t there a lock on my door, some privacy, something? But I know I am bad, and I think I may have to get used to it. I may have to learn to like it.
I hate her guts.
That spring I fall in love with a girl, Ilana, hair to her waist, breasts like rising bread, lovely. She holds me, holds me, and asks me if I am afraid. I am afraid. I ask mom if I can go to a therapist.
“No daughter of mine is a lesbian, and no daughter of mine needs a shrink,” she tells me. I work that over. I go into her sanctuary, her bedroom where I am not allowed to be. To her precious jewelry box, to her lovely Elizabeth Arden red lipstick case. And I write a suicide note on her vanity mirror.
The night I returned the 20 to the till, I decided I didn’t like these guys, this job, this cubby hole. These big steaks hanging in the refrigerated display case, the floor strewn with sawdust. Maybe I could speak to my mom about quitting this job, find another --- but being the only girl in a joint full of men was intoxicating. What would I learn? Everything here was mysterious, the smoke, the dim red lighting, the way the waiters were protective and solicitous or slavering by turns.
What was I to do? The night I returned the 20 was a Saturday in October, a good dark smell in the leaves as I walked to the job through my suburban development, across route 25A, quick-quick to thread the traffic to cross the intersection. I put the 20 in the jar and breathed out, felt my feet on the ground, steady. I know who I am.
Mike has thick red hair cut to the shoulders, a tickly looking moustache, handsome bronzed skin and bright aquamarine eyes. My feet hurt, but I like looking at him. The night is long and boring except when the men come around to talk about man stuff or complement me on how cute I look. Mike never does that stuff. He’s really old, 27, married. He joins the group where the conversation takes a turn to my curves, tiny waist, pretty lips. I blush, but I want to know more about how they think. Mike says, in front of them all, “Let me give you a ride home. It’s late.” I take him up on it. I can’t remember his ride, but it was a two-seater, not a car that a family man might have. It was sporty and fast. He takes me the three quarters of a mile home to Alexander Drive and he stops the car at the corner, but not in the driveway of my house. I can’t understand it, but I think it’s sexy to get to talk to him for a few minutes. There is light from somewhere. He looks at me and smiles. What does he say? I don’t remember. Mike unzips his trousers and pulls out a large. Pink. Hard. Cock. It’s very big, and maybe only the third one I have seen. I have spied on my brothers and dad when I was so little I could crouch behind the trash basket and not be seen. So I know. My dad saw me and gently put me out of the room saying, “Ohhh, nooo,” very softly. But I remember how he looked, and the difference between his sex and that of my little brothers.
Mike takes my face in his hands and remarks again on my lips. He is very beautiful, I can’t breathe, and I don’t know if I should be scared, don’t know what he wants me to do. But I am scared, I can’t breathe, I can’t be the object of this attention. I know this is as wrong as anything my mother has ever warned me about -- is wrong as she says all sex is wrong for me, anyway. What I hear in her room at night, or used to when I was a child, I can’t understand. The cooing of doves, and the softness of shifting fabric. Something good is in there, I always thought, and I would like to see what it is.
Mike pushes my head down — I can’t remember anything more. I don’t think I stayed there very long, but I had the distinct feeling even then that this gesture would get back to the men, define something for Mike and for them, change everything about me to myself.
I can’t remember how I got into the house. But there was a light, and my mother standing behind the door waiting for me. Furious, seething, a viper. Why mom, if Mike was hurting me, didn’t you come out swinging? Why didn’t you protect me, if it was so dangerous a thing? I can’t ask these questions, I can’t think them for 20 years or more. I don’t remember getting into bed. But just as Mom had slapped me when I first got my period, and barged into my room when I was masturbating as a young girl in that sexy household — why wasn’t there a lock on my door, some privacy, something? But I know I am bad, and I think I may have to get used to it. I may have to learn to like it.
I hate her guts.
That spring I fall in love with a girl, Ilana, hair to her waist, breasts like rising bread, lovely. She holds me, holds me, and asks me if I am afraid. I am afraid. I ask mom if I can go to a therapist.
“No daughter of mine is a lesbian, and no daughter of mine needs a shrink,” she tells me. I work that over. I go into her sanctuary, her bedroom where I am not allowed to be. To her precious jewelry box, to her lovely Elizabeth Arden red lipstick case. And I write a suicide note on her vanity mirror.
1 comment:
Your story touched me, Susan... so beautifully written.
The last line was chilling. I'm glad you're still around to write about it.
LOVE
Mudd
xoxo
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