August 30, 2003
I saw her scoot by in a little white two-door driven by a man I didn't recognize...the man was Joe, I guess. She didn't see me and possibly wouldn't recognize me if she had, but it'll be a long time before I forget Catherine Carter. It's already been well over a year since I've seen or heard from her. We met, as I recall, at the deLucca near the Interstate, a small, clean bar that's not far from my apartment and sometimes has live music. It's chief patrons are horny, alcoholic salesmen from the hotel next door, which shares the parking lot.
If you met Catherine, or even looked at her from a distance, you'd never in a million years think she'd be seen with a guy like me. She's somewhat tall--five ten, maybe, (I'm five eleven)--and thin. Long, dusky black hair, thick as moss, spreads like a wimple from head to shoulders. It's her best feature and she knows it. She seduces with her hair. She has a habit of leaning sideways until it all flows to one side, then, straightening her head with a shake, she'll take both hands, fingers spread into combs, and push it slowly back into place--all the while looking in your eyes, smiling. No man has defenses for that look. Her fingers are long, narrow--almost bony--and deathly white; each nail is lacquered, painted deep red and trimmed to a short arch. Her figure, lean and narrow, almost like a boy's, her breasts small and hidden, barely more than hints. Her face fits her figure, thin and athletic. A small disfigurement on her mouth is strangely alluring: a vertical scar on her upper lip, just to the left of the middle dip makes the two sides slightly unsymmetrical and wonderfully provocative. When she laughs, her habit is to throw back her head, looking past her nose at you through narrow-slitted eyes.
Me, I'm neither a salesman nor alcoholic. Horny?....well, healthy horny. I don't look or act like them, but you couldn't pick me out of a crowd of them unless you knew me. On the doctor's scale I'm a hundred and sixty seven pounds; the circumference of my waist exceeds my chest by a small margin and I've started a comb-over...a lot of guys have comb-overs. Plus, I'm forty-six, single and, you almost have to say this nowadays, I'm straight. When I was married, with one child and struggling to make ends meet, I did a lot of things I shouldn't have: I worked too late, drank too much, fooled around...a little bit, just a little bit. We split after four years; she took the kid and went back home to Momma in Iowa.. And, sure, I get lonely, just like most people get lonely, mostly on empty week day nights when I look around the apartment and there's no one within shouting distance. Although I don't miss my wife I do miss my daughter and I miss all the at-hand femaleness of living with a woman, with all the women I've ever lived with: the steamy rush of soapy incense left behind a bath; or the way some women hold a cigarette, dainty, between nail and first knuckle, with hardly any pressure on the paper; the arrogant tap of high-heels hitting the floor, every third step scuffing. Catherine is nothing like my wife, ex-wife. Catherine is less feminine, but more woman. My wife's charms percolated into my life after months of courtship; I was filled with Catherine within seconds of seeing her on that bar stool.
I'm fairly certain it was a night in mid-week when, depressed by the narcosis of television and desiring to evade the appallingly dreary neighbors-my motherly landlady and her cats--I escaped to the deLucca's hoping for diversion but willing to accept the mere passage of time in a different venue. Music usually starts around nine and I probably got there a little bit early to flirt with the barmaid, an acned co-ed with too much make-up and large, fluttering tits, whose name I can never remember. She has a nice smile, though, and a sense of humor and always a compliment for my tie. I like to dress well, even at deLucca's. When you enter you're at one end of a horseshoe-shaped bar. A sharp turn left, past the video poker machines, leads directly to an alcove excavated from the red brick wall just large enough to fit around a small band. A minuscule, scuffed parquette dance floor spills out fan wise. I can recall the details of that evening with surprising acuity. At the throwing part of the horseshoe were two business-types in wrinkled dress shirts and open ties talking trade: "fuck him," "fuck her," "fuck it." On the other side, near the dark hall to the bathrooms, a couple sat at a small table, super glued at the shoulders maintaining tight eye contact. He was talking with a serious expression while absent mindedly mauling a red plastic straw in his fingers; she had an orange-nailed hand glued high up his thigh. No band in sight, the juke box played light rock low enough to talk over easily. At the opposite end of the horseshoe the co-ed, leaning casually against a cooler, laughed with the only other person in the room, Catherine.
She sat sideways on her stool, cross legged, one foot nodding up and down rapidly with the rhythm of her words. She rested her right elbow on the chair back, hand cocked upwards ninety degrees holding a lit cigarette. Her dress was a shiny polyester, the flashy metallic kind, but soft, dark maroon with no sleeves and pulled up at the hem past mid-thigh. Showing at the neck, were two lacy arcs of red brassiere. I sat down one stool over and, before I could settle in, Catherine reached out with her cigarette hand, touched me on the arm and said, "I'm telling her about my daughter's boyfriend. They've lived together for two years and he won't have sex without a condom." She and the barmaid laughed. So did I. "You'd think he'd trust her by now, wouldn't you? He's fat and she's bulemic: a match made in heaven. My name's Catherine." Her voice was deep like a boy's, from long-time smoking. "Hi. Harry." "Maybe," the barmaid chimed in walking off in the direction of a beckoning salesman, "he doesn't trust himself." I offered to buy Catherine a drink and she accepted only if I agreed with her that it's a match made in heaven. "Absolutely," I replied. She ordered a tequila-something, I got a Bud. We talked--mostly she talked. It was possibly the easiest conversation I ever had with a woman and I began to get ideas. I've never picked up a woman before, in a bar or elsewhere. I'm kind of shy and I know I'm not good looking, just ordinary looking. But I dress ok and I guess I could pick up a woman in the best of all possible worlds, but I never really tried until that night with Catherine. She seemed so accessible I actually believed it might happen. The idea made me both nervous and expectant. "God, Harry, this is my last one, I've been here since five." She didn't look or act the least bit drunk. Trying to sound casual but not slippery I said, "I could use some air. Why don't we go for a drive?" "Yeah, sounds good,'" she said swinging to the floor with a turn that hitched her skirt higher before it fell back into place. I paid Ms Acne and followed Catherine as she circled the bar and passed through the front door. We emerged into tepid night air, still thick and moist from evening rain. She paused to let me lead the way, patting me friendly like on the shoulder as I passed her. I can't recall what thoughts raced through my mind. I know I felt kind of shaky, with the sweaty palms of stage fright, and fearful that in the few steps between the bar and my car Catherine would come to her senses, see how ridiculous it was for her to drive off with a man she met only minutes earlier. But she settled deep into the passenger seat, pushed the back rest down and closed her eyes. I got in on the other side and looked at her. Her hands rested idly at either side, palms up; she sat relaxed, like a trusting old friend; between her thighs, the skirt of her dress dipped into soft shadow; her breasts appeared smaller, tenderer. "Fresh air, please," she told me without moving or opening an eye. I reached across her hips and lowered the window, trying to detect a perfume or an odor that was her's, catching only the sour hint of alcohol. Her chest moved gently with each breath, hair fell from her face covering the headrest in a shiny black veil. Without thought or hesitation I sped out of the parking lot onto the Interstate, heading west. The air flying into the car that summer evening was cool and vigorous, the sky clear to remote constellations. We crossed the bridge, heading into the country darkness on the other side, staying just below the speed limit. In minutes the city was a thin halo in the rear view mirror; there was no moon to temper the blackness rushing past. The highway was empty. The opposite lane, two hundred feet to our left. seemed barely there, so sparse was the traffic and thick the night. I had no idea where I was going, I was content to hear the roar of the wind and watch it press a fluttering outline of breasts upon the quiescent Catherine.
She came to life ten minutes later, straightening the seat, talking up a storm, shaking her head, waving her hands, laughing like in the bar, telling me more about her daughter, a lot about the night and the air and feeling good. She turned on the radio and we sang parts of songs together. I paid almost no attention to my driving, glancing at her often, her face pale in the green light from the dashboard; when she lit a cigarette, the flame revealed nothing new, but her dark hair disappeared into the car's interior and her dress glowed like a meteorite. Mile after mile she belonged to me: she was in my car, I was in control and she was submissive. I felt confident, assertive, masculine in a way that was only delusion before Catherine. Then she put the fingers of her left hand on my arm and said, "Let's go back." I turned around at the next exit.
She was quieter on the way back, we both were. I don't know what she was thinking, but I was preoccupied planning how to hold on to her longer. Catherine seemed as pliable and adjustable as a doll. Still, I worried about what I would say when we climbed the bridge and faced the lights of the city. She pushed the backrest down again and maybe slept. I drove with concentration, watching the road ahead, careful to avoid bumps and dead animals, both of which seemed uncommonly numerous.
It was close to midnight and Catherine hadn't uttered a word in some time when I eased into the parking space beneath my garage apartment. After a moment she stirred. With the motor running and the headlights scattering roaches into hiding places, I turned and gave as non-threatening a smile as I could manage: "You like music?" She yawned a nod, staring at the frantic insects scurrying for shelter across the yellow wall. "You're torturing the roaches. Stop it!" and laughed. When it was dark in the car and quiet, I continued: "If you got time, I'd like to play something special for you." I was almost pleading. "Sure. Got anything to drink?" "Rum," I said. "Love rum." I led the way up the outside stairs trying to remember if I made the bed that morning, it's one of the first things seen in my small apartment and something I wanted to approach subtly. Resting the screen door against my back, I got my keys and let us in while Catherine hummed a song. The lights were on and in the other room the bed neatly covered. "I don't have coke or anything..." "Straight's fine." I poured a generous glass for her while trying to think what music to play. I turned on what was already in the machine, not remembering what it was exactly. Drums and pipes with a fast beat filled the air, and she took to it immediately. She shouted "Yeah" and began dancing wildly to the rhythm: she swept from sleep to song in sixty seconds. I joined her, the overhead lights beating down on us like spots, our drinks spilling, her skirt billowing high with each jump. She pinched the hem of her soft dress with thumb and forefinger of both hands to mimic a Scottish dancer, pulled it all the way to her hips, treating me to quick glimpses of sweating white panties. God knows how long this went on. We were both breathless, sticky wet and laughing. We had to stop. In the bedroom, a huge air conditioner gushed cold air. "Let's sit the next one out," I suggested, pulling her gently by a slippery hand toward the bed. She hiccupped a "Whooo!" pulling her neckline back and forth a few times and followed. Both of us fell diagonally on the bed, arms and legs spread wide to get maximum cooling. I rolled over to her, my face inches from hers and smiled. "Great music, huh?" She just smiled back, silent, looking at me calmly. I leaned forward to kiss her. She stopped smiling, put both palms on my shoulders and, rising easily, pushed me firmly onto my back. She strattled my hips leaning on her hands which were still pressing against my shoulders, her dress flowed around us like a tent, covering her thighs but leaving her knees bare and white. Her wet black hair hung down past her shoulders, emphasizing her thin face. Her smile returned. "Hey," she said, a stray trail of hair stuck to her left cheek, "don't spoil it." I didn't say anything. My body was limp and unresisting under her weight. I looked from her eyes to her quiet moving breasts. "You're sweet. You're nice. I've had fun. But there's Joe and we have an understanding." I shifted to her eyes, ignoring Joe, and said, "I want to hold you, just for a little while. Under the covers, just hold you." She leaned forward, I thought to kiss me on the mouth, and I raised my head to meet hers, but, still keeping me pinned, she shook away my gesture and quickly kissed my cheek. "Joe your husband?" She laughed, "Harry, I ain't never getting married again! Don't need another kid. He's my roommate, a real groovy guy. I won't marry him but I'm comfortable with him. Mostly because he don't boss me. He knows I ain't going to sit staring at the TV every night. I got my friends and he got his. But we have an agreement: I don't sleep around, he don't sleep around. That's our rule. I like you, but I won't sleep with you and I won't take off my clothes. I'll suck your thing, if you want, but that's all." I wasn't sure what I heard. For a second or two I didn't say or do anything. When I finally understood, I didn't know what to say and her statement made me uncertain of what I wanted. A blow job wasn't it. I looked at her, moving my hips around, pushing up and down trying to arouse her, but she didn't respond. Where she sat she could feel my excitement. "You'll...what did you say?" She laughed again. "Sucking a man is nothing to me. I mean, I get nothing out of it. If I don't enjoy it, it's ok. I like you, you're cute and fun and I had a great time tonight, but like I said, Joe doesn't sleep around and neither do I. I know this guy, Charlie. He's always asking me to go down on him, especially when we're smoking, but he's a jerk and I won't do it just because he's a jerk. You're real sweet, a gentleman and I'll suck you if you want, but that's all." I didn't say anything for a while, just looked at her, rubbing her arms from elbow to shoulder, pushing my hands under the sleeves of her dress, threading my fingers around the straps of her bra, searching for a way to get her dress unbuttoned. She just sat there shaking her head. I switched one hand to her thigh, creeping underneath her skirt toward the elastic edge of that white triangle I saw earlier. Looking squarely into my eyes she wordlessly but firmly gripped my hand and pulled it across my chest. "Harry," she half whispered, "no." We watched each other for a few seconds. I couldn't fight her, I didn't have the will. This isn't what I expected. She pulled back, taking my wrists, exhaling, said "Wow, I'm tired. Gotta get back. C'mon." Then softer, coaxing, feeling my resistance, "C'mon, let's go." I didn't say anything, letting her lead me to the door as I had led her to the bed. I drove us back to deLucca's talking about nothing special, laughing a little bit, trying to act like I wasn't bothered. Part of me wanted to speed ahead and get the evening over with. What had I expected, hours earlier, as I coaxed Catherine out the bar? A relationship? A fuck and farewell? God, I was ready! Why wasn't I more aggressive, demanding that she put out because, goddamit, she let me pick her up and that's what pick up's do? Jesus, was I an idiot! Another man--Charley, maybe--would have acted differently, for sure. I was exhausted, relieved that the drive to deLucca's was a short one. In the parking lot, before switching off the motor I turned to her and ran my fingers slowly through her long hair. It wasn't soft and no longer clean, the day and the dancing added their textures, but I could have combed her hair for a long time. "Give me your number," I asked. "Ok." I hadn't seen a purse all night and there were no pockets on her dress. She jumped out of my car and opened her's: no key, it was unlocked. I went and held the door for her as she leaned over to the glove compartment, extracted something and began writing. I squatted down to be at her level as she handed me a business card. She touched my cheek with the palm of her hand, "Thanks, it was fun. Give me a call when you get a chance." She started the motor and I closed her door while stepping away. Tiny bugs flew lazy-8's around the red tail lights. She lowered the window moving forward and waved. " 'Night, Harry!" then drove off. I looked at the card. Her full name, Catherine Carter, and a phone number was on the blank side. I turned it over: Joe Turner, Realtor. The phone number was the same. If Joe is real, I guess everything else is. Except me. For the first time in my life I picked up a woman and it was Catherine and nothing happened. Was she teasing me? Did she get a kick out of bringing me to the edge and letting me fall? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Somehow, she knew I wouldn't force her. The same way I knew, in the back of my mind, that nothing would happen. Somehow, Catherine sensed my timidity--she was trusting as a school girl, and, in some oddball way, as innocent. It was not the evening I hoped for, and I never called her because Joe might answer, but distance has added charm to that evening and, seeing her drive by today, I know I would do it again anytime.