Pieces: A Collection of New Voices

  “No, no, everything’s fine,” I told him.

  Coach is what you’d call a touchy-feely person. The word in the mall is that he used to teach high school athletics in Delaware; an incident occurred involving two of the Junior Varsity boys, and the Board of Education fired him. I don’t know how anyone could have found this out, so maybe it’s bullshit—but I wouldn’t put it past him, either.

  I grabbed a clean referee jersey and then walked to the nearest men’s rest room, which was directly across from the food court. It was empty when I arrived, but I changed in a stall, anyway. I tried to remind myself that Coach was just a very physical person. And no one else seemed to mind the way he acted—the other guys were always clapping him on the back, or bumping butts when someone scored a good sale. Like it was all normal behavior.

  After changing shirts, I lowered the toilet seat and sat down, not wanting to return to work just yet. Once I was sick with a stomach virus and sat in the very same stall for twenty minutes, reading graffiti and playing with squares of toilet paper. A man had entered the stall next to mine, dropped his pants, and began to masturbate. Right there on the toilet. He didn’t even try to hide it. His shoes slid back and forth across the tiled floor, sometimes extending all the way under the divider, into my stall. I had wanted to get up but couldn’t—not because I was sick, that was gone—but because for some reason I felt obligated to stay. As if we were sharing the experience.

  Today I was alone. The walls surrounding me were covered in graffiti: crude drawings of women getting fucked by gigantic cocks, their legs spread at 180-degree angles; lots of names and numbers—women with big tits, men with big dicks, girls with deep throats. And everything started with the words “I want.” I WANT TO GET FUCKED. I WANT A BABY-SITTER WITH A TIGHT PUSSY AND FLAT CHEST. I WANT TO SUCK THROBBING YOUNG COCK. I want, I want, I want. It made me almost want to beat off, right there in the stall, but I wasn’t bold enough to risk it. I had friends who worked for mall security, and they were always patrolling for wackos.

  But looking back, I wish maybe I had, because perhaps then I wouldn’t have made the mistake I did. After listening to make sure there was still no one else in the room, I took the black inventory marker out of my pocket and, underneath the words I WANT TO SUCK THROBBING YOUNG COCK, I hastily scribbled back ME TOO.

  • • •

  That same night I made up with Shereen. She came over at eight and I cooked us both dinner: spaghetti, red wine, and Häagen-Dazs. I apologized a hundred times, insisting I loved her over and over until I convinced both of us it was true. Then together we proved it, making love in my bathtub, the showerhead raining down on us.

  Afterward we lay in bed, spent, the sheets damp from our bodies. I felt exhausted but at least the guilt was gone; I’d tried erasing the words, scrubbing them off the wall with wet toilet paper, but the marker was permanent and now they were there for all the world to see. ME TOO. I regretted writing them immediately, but of course it was too late. I shoved the soda-stained shirt in my knapsack and fled.

  Shereen rolled on top of me, stroking my chin with her fingertip. “And how was that?”

  “Awesome,” I said. She rested her face on my chest and closed her eyes.

  It was a long time before she spoke again. “My parents are having their anniversary dinner on Friday. They want you to come.”

  “And meet your family?”

  She sat up. “Yes. And Meet Them.”

  “I’m kidding. I’ll go.”

  Shereen reached under the sheets and pinched my thigh. “You better go, you—”

  I flipped her off me, rolled on top, and pinned her shoulders to the bed. She beat her fists against my chest, threw back her head, and shrieked. Everything, I decided, was going to be all right.

  • • •

  And everything was fine for the next three days—Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Shereen stayed over every night and we made love constantly, all over the apartment, the way we did when we first started dating. There were no mystery phone calls in the middle of the night; even my boss had backed off, too busy with business to goose his employees. That Friday afternoon, just before I had to meet Shereen, I stopped in the rest room to wash up.

  I hadn’t been there since Tuesday. Someone was using the stall I’d changed in; as I entered, he stood up and flushed the toilet. I leaned over the sink, washing my hands and face, watching for him in the mirror. Finally the door opened and he came out: a huge black guy in a Gold’s Gym T-shirt, with a barrel chest and enormous biceps. I looked down to the sink, inspecting my palms. He grabbed some paper towels and left.

  I dried my hands on my jeans and walked out, through the mall, as far as the Hallmark store before turning around and walking all the way back. I closed the door to the stall and locked it. Underneath the words I WANT TO SUCK THROBBING YOUNG COCK and underneath the words ME TOO, someone had written:

  2/24—6:00—Arcade. Green Cap.

  I didn’t even have to look at my watch. I knew that the day was today, and the time was only an hour away, and that my life had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

  2.

  He is now more than twenty minutes late.

  Or is he? Maybe he’s the Korean man sitting on the bench next to me, a cluster of shopping bags around his feet. Or the guy in the biker jacket who just walked out of the arcade, the one in the Harley shirt with the frizzy hair. How should I know? I haven’t seen anyone wearing a green cap. I realize maybe that’s not what the message meant—maybe I’m supposed to be wearing the green cap, so he can spot me. But I won’t let that happen. Right now, I want to be invisible.

  Shereen had been furious, of course. I went by Glamour Shots to tell her I couldn’t make dinner, that something had come up. And she started shouting over the ear-splitting dance music that I had no right to do this to her.

  “I’m sorry,” I’d said. “I forgot about this thing my parents are having. For their anniversary.”

  “Their anniversary? Today?”

  “Yeah—”

  “They have the same anniversary as my parents, and you forgot?”

  “You know I’m terrible with dates—”

  “You’re not a very good liar, either.” Two of the photographers overheard this and tittered. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then just come by for an hour,” she said. “Can you do that? Can you spare an hour?”

  The funny thing is, part of me really wanted to go. Part of me couldn’t resist a big family dinner, with grandparents and godparents and lots of little kids running around, with hot covered dishes and homemade desserts and everyone teasing me and Shereen, the two lovebirds, about when we were getting married.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I can’t promise anything—”

  “Then forget it,” Shereen said, and away she went, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, even as I called her name. The photographers looked down at their platform shoes and burst into giggles.

  But no matter: I’ll be at Shereen’s in less than an hour, ready to apologize again, with fresh flowers or a box of Godiva chocolates. I only want to stay here a little longer, to see what this guy looks like. If he shows up. Because you really have to wonder what kind of guy would do this.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Do you have the time?”

  I look up. Facing me is a man in his early fifties, short and heavyset, in a white shirt and light blue tie. His face is pink and fleshy, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He reminds me of a pharmacist.

  “No,” I say.

  He pinches the brim of his Oakland A’s hat, pulling it down over his forehead. “I was supposed to meet someone, but I’m running late.”

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “My girlfriend’s running late, too.”

  He apologizes for disturbing me and walks into the arcade. So maybe he’s not a pharmacist, I think—maybe he’s a businessman. The clothes and wristwatch suggest that he’s well off. But this
man lacks a businessman’s confidence; he slinks around the arcade, like he’s getting ready to shoplift something. He studies the guys on Mortal Kombat for five seconds, then moves on. His methods are obvious:

  Ignore the ones in groups, the ones with girlfriends, the ones with children. The whole time I’m watching, he doesn’t even approach another person. Finally he leaves the Pinball Palace and walks away, disappearing into the crowds.

  I catch up to him in front of Banana Republic. “Hey,” I say. “Are you—”

  He recognizes me and nods. “Green cap.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you were the one,” he says. He extends his hand and I notice crescents of sweat under his arms. “Dennis,” he says. “Dr. Dennis Mulvey.”

  I wipe my palms on my jeans and shake. “Brad.”

  “Just Brad?”

  “Just Brad,” I say. His grip is strong, a doctor’s handshake. He isn’t lying about his profession.

  Then we’re both standing silent again. “I guess I ought to be honest with you,” Dennis finally admits. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  “Met someone. This way. To do what we’re going to do.”

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  His face flushes. “I guess that’s up to you,” he says. “There’s a bar off Route 18—”

  “I want to stay in the mall.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Is that all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’d like to get some Chinese food,” I decide.

  “All right,” he says.

  So we walk toward the Golden Wok Restaurant. I’m moving fast, trying not to look at him, but at the same time I want to learn everything I can. I smell the Old Spice he’s wearing, the same cologne my father’s used for the last twenty years. I listen to the inseams of his pants sweeping together, faded and worn by his short stumpy legs. And I can hear his labored breathing as he struggles to keep up with my nervous strides.

  “You must be hungry,” he calls.

  I slow down a little. “I don’t want to see anyone I know. I work here.”

  “So do I.”

  “You said you were a doctor.”

  “In Lenscrafters,” he says. “I’m an optometrist.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where do you work?” he asks.

  “Circuit City,” I tell him. “And look, would you mind not staring at me?”

  He only moves closer. “What?”

  “The way you’re looking at me. People can tell.”

  Dennis frowns. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he keeps right on looking anyway. I wonder what he sees. My body is in much better shape than his. I’m lean and muscular from working out; women have told me I have a nice smile and a great ass. Would a man notice these things? Would Dr. Mulvey? And what does he have to offer me in return? He’s fat, he’s old, he’s losing his hair. He must realize I have the advantage.

  • • •

  We are seated in a far corner of Golden Wok at a small table for two; a single candle burns between us. An anonymous waiter comes for our order.

  “Wonton soup,” I say.

  “This is on me,” Dennis says. “Order what you want.”

  I close my menu and hand it to the waiter. “Just soup.”

  Dennis orders something called the Phoenix and Dragon, then folds his hands and studies me from across the table.

  “So,” he says.

  “What?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  I stick my finger in the candle, prodding the melted wax. A warm layer of it coats my fingertip. Then I accidentally push too hard and snuff out the flame.

  “I’ve got matches,” Dennis says, reaching into his pants pocket. He comes up with a heaping handful of spare change, at least four dollars’ worth, and picks through it, plucking out half a pack of Breath Savers, a Visine dropper bottle and, finally, a small Bic lighter.

  I spot a gold wedding band amidst the silver and copper coins. “You’re married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why aren’t you wearing the ring?”

  Dennis shrugs and puts it back on his finger. Then he removes his hands from the table. I relight the candle.

  “Does she know?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “She suspects.”

  “Which is worse?”

  “Does your girlfriend know?”

  “How did you know I had a girlfriend?”

  “You said you did,” he tells me. “You said you were waiting for her.”

  “That was a lie,” I say.

  “Oh.”

  “If I had a girlfriend, why would I be here with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think about it,” I say. “Does that make any sense?”

  “I guess not. You’re young. You can do what you want.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  “When you get to be my age,” he says, “and you realize certain things? And you’ve got a family? It’s too late. Unless you want to lose everything.”

  I don’t say anything. Dennis reaches across the table and pours us both some tea. “You’ve been in a lot of relationships,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “I meant, with other men.”

  “I know what you meant. Yes, I have.”

  Dennis sips his tea and I can tell he’s disappointed. It takes him a while to find the right words. “When I said I’d never done this before,” he begins, “I meant everything. I mean, never. Nothing.”

  I try to look disappointed. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It isn’t to me if it isn’t to you,” I say, and I smile, and Dennis leans back in his chair, relieved.

  “I’m so glad I just told you that,” he confesses. “I’m so glad all the cards are on the table now.”

  • • •

  Our food comes. I finish my soup fast but Dennis takes a long time with his meal. He keeps offering me some and I keep refusing until, finally, I wave the waiter over and ask for an extra plate.

  He tells me about himself. Dennis graduated pre med from Penn State in 1970 and received his optometry degree six years later. He met his wife in ‘78; she came into his office with a tear duct problem and they were married within the year. His wallet is full of photographs: Dennis and Mrs. Mulvey, holding hands in front of a Christmas tree; Dennis and his ten-year-old son, waiting in line at Space Mountain; Dennis and his teenage daughter, seated side-by-side on a piano bench. He’s your basic family man: homework helper, Little League director, conscientious member of the PTA.

  I tell him my last relationship was with a man who used to coach high school basketball in Delaware. “A real big guy, built like an ox,” I say. “But a total control freak.”

  Dennis shifts in his chair, uneasy, just as the waiter appears with our check. The doctor pays the bill and we’re ready to leave. “I’m parked out by the movie theater,” he says. “We can go in my van.”

  “Where will we go?”

  He pauses. “I thought we’d just go in my van.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t stay away from home all night.”

  “No. Neither can I.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The van’s fine,” I say.

  “Now?”

  “I don’t care.”

  So we pick up and leave. Back in the mall, business is winding down; the stores will be open for just another hour. As we pass the display windows, Dennis asks if there’s anything I need, if I have enough money, if there’s anything I’d like him to buy.

  “No.”

  “Anything,” he says.

  We exit the mall under the bright lights of the Loews theater marquee. It’s freezing outside and groups of moviegoers are huddled together in line, hands shoved in pockets, scarves wrapped over faces. I recognize a bunch of them: friends from Waldenbooks and Eddie Bauer and F.A.O. Schwartz. They wave to
us and I smile back, praying to God I won’t have to introduce Dennis. We both must look so obvious. We may as well be holding hands.

  Dennis stops and points. “Do you know those people?” he asks.

  “Just keep walking,” I whisper, and steer him toward the parking lot.

  • • •

  We walk all the way out to Q12, the most distant corner of the parking lot, which most people only use during the Christmas shopping season. Dennis turns on the engine and starts up the heat, but after ten minutes the van is still freezing. There are no windows in the back but no seats, either, just a cold corrugated metal floor. The ceiling is too low for either of us to stand, so for a while we just pace around, hunched over, and wait for the van to warm up. Then Dennis uncovers some lawn chairs from a long-ago family beach trip; he unfolds two and we sit down across from each other.

  Another ten minutes pass, probably more. I can hear Dennis breathing fast, can see the condensation of his breath and the faint outline of his face. I’m supposed to be the one with the experience, so I slide my hand up his thigh; Dennis exhales, leaning back in his chair. I can feel him through his pants, smaller than I expected but already hard and wedged up against his thigh. I kneel before him, help him unbutton his trousers, and slide them to his knees. “Oh, God,” he sighs.

  “Don’t talk.”

  I fumble for his dick through the flap of his boxer shorts.

  “Oh, God,” Dennis murmurs. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  “Shut up,” I whisper, and take him in my mouth.

  Dennis comes fast but I take longer. I make him remove all his clothes and then all of mine, provoking him with small insults until he’s yanking and tearing them off my body. “You’re so strong,” I say, mocking him, and he grabs at my white briefs, ripping them down the seam. “Tear them off,” I say. He does. I scissor my legs around his neck and grip the back of his head, pulling at his hair, pressing his face between my thighs. “Come on,” I say. “Come on.” I slouch down, forcing my cock deeper into his mouth. “Come on.” His head bobs faster in response to my command. I close my eyes and hear the voice of Lawrence Donovan, ordering me to visualize; I feel the slap of Coach’s hand on my ass; I see the black muscleman in the Gold’s Gym shirt, sitting in a bathroom stall, throbbing young cock in hand. Dennis spreads his fingers over my thighs, tickling my skin and teasing my balls. Then I explode into his mouth and he takes all of it, everything, not stopping even when I’m pushing him away, when I’m kicking him away. “Stop it,” I say. “Stop.”