Don’t go, Alice said. I don’t want to be alone.
Sometimes Jimmy called to complain about his girlfriend or Johnny. I don’t know how they met. Johnny got on his nerves. He repeated everything he said and needed constant attention. Sometimes Jimmy called to buy weed. I always had a connection. One day he invited me over to his place. His girlfriend was at work and he wanted to play.
I lived in the Village. He was in Spanish Harlem. I took the subway. I had to change trains a few times. It took forever. You gotta get out of that habit, he said. He looked mad.
He had a one-bedroom on the eighth floor. He poured me a cup of coffee and locked himself in the bathroom. Excuse me, he said. I gotta go shoot up.
What a joker. I laughed. And I waited. I sat on the leather couch in his living room, thumbing through the gun and fashion magazines on the coffee table. Thirty minutes later, he emerged in full makeup and a dress.
Am I gorgeous or what? he said, sashaying across the room, a hand on one hip then the other. His gravelly voice had become a breathy falsetto. He ran his tongue over his lips. Think I could get a guy to pick me up in a bar? he twittered. I could go for some handsome devil in a suit.
His slinky blue frock clung to his body, which suddenly seemed curvaceous. The slender legs were good and he walked in his girlfriend’s gold heels as if born to them. I took out my lipstick and applied it, partly in self-defense.
You ought to be a model, I said.
I know, he replied. I’m wasting my time taking bets. C’mon, he said. Come out with me. Let’s see if we can pick up a couple of jocks!
There was a mirror on the wall and he checked himself out in it. Did his girlfriend know?
Don’t you breathe a word, he barked. She hates when I wear her clothes. But see? They fit me better.
I couldn’t say. I’d never met her. I was thinking of Alice. His eyes met mine and fluttered. He asked for help with his zipper.
He was naked beneath the dress.
Jimmy wasn’t hugely endowed, considering the rest of him. It didn’t matter.
Let’s go watch the game, he said, and led me into the bedroom. The bed was large and had a steel frame. Its white satin sheets glowed in the waning sunlight from the windows. He closed the blinds and turned on the TV at the foot of the bed. Under it was a large black suitcase. He opened it. Don’t peek, he said. When I looked up, he was holding two sets of leather cuffs on short lengths of chain.
Jimmy’s tongue filled my mouth and I didn’t resist. I was stoned and feeling amorous. He undressed me. Take a breath, he said, attaching a metal clip to each of my nipples and screwing them tight.
That hurts, I said at the pinch. I was surprised by how much it excited me.
Lie down, he said, and I did. He cuffed my wrists and ankles, and hooked the chains to the bed. A flame of desire leapt through my body from my toes to my eyes. They were burning. I opened my legs. I needed air.
I knew you’d like this, he said. He turned on the television. He rolled a joint.
Jimmy!
Don’t rush me, he said, and busied his hands in the suitcase. Blood rushed into my ears. I was throbbing. He lit the joint and took a deep toke. Watch the game, he said. Relax.
How does anyone fall in love? I couldn’t guess. I thought about money. Money was something you could measure and count. It added up to something. Love was intangible and confusing, impossible to manufacture or predict. Escaping it had more pitfalls than embracing it.
Jimmy!
He put tape on my mouth. He sat down to watch the game. I heard the sound of a crowd cheering, of helmets cracking, men grunting. He turned back and held himself over me, caressing me with his hair and licking me. He tightened the screws and I bucked. He was hard. You look beautiful, he said, and kissed me again. His mouth was soft and his tongue was long. What was I doing? Most of the time, I preferred women to men. But they weren’t Jimmy.
He reached into the suitcase.
Fuck me, I said.
He stood up. Now he was holding a shotgun and jerking off. I can’t fuck you, he said. My girlfriend would kill me. She’d cut off my hair! She’d dismember me.
The gun went off. I felt the bullet rush past my ear. It hit the pillow inches from my head. You weren’t worried, were you? he said. C’mon, let me teach you how to shoot.
He released me and slipped back into the dress. He showed me how to hold the gun, click the safety, how to take the gun apart and clean it, how to put it together again. He stood behind me to guide my aim. The gun had a telescopic sight. We were standing by the bedroom window, looking at a man on the roof of a building across the street.
Get that dweeb, he said. Let me know when you’re ready.
I wanted badly to pull that trigger, but not at a total stranger. All that provocation. It got to me.
I’m ready, I said.
That was the last time I saw Jimmy. He called a month later. He was moving to Hawaii, where he was going to get rich growing pot. He was leaving for the good life. He would call. Don’t forget me, he said. And stay out of the subway.
For a while, he called every week. The land was fertile and the sensemilla was prime. He still wasn’t sleeping. Poachers kept him awake. He shot them. Police helicopters flew overhead. It wasn’t the life he expected. But he was determined to stick it out. Once you go a certain distance, there’s no turning back.
On my worst day of the hepatitis, the mailman brought a cardboard box postmarked Hawaii. Some books for you, he said. The box was filled with plastic sandwich bags of Jimmy’s marijuana, his fat, perfect buds, very clean, very sweet. There was an envelope in the box. Inside it was a Polaroid of Jimmy. He was dressed in a tank top and grinning at the camera. He had a rifle on his shoulder, poking through his hair. I could see mountains behind him and the sky. On the back of the picture it said, How do I look?
After that, we lost touch. People come, people go. They cross your path and alter it. There’s no turning back.
Life grew more complicated. I no longer lived alone. I quit drinking and smoking pot. It bored me. I hated the smell. Twenty years was enough. My relationship ended. I changed my look. I never thought about Jimmy. Until he phoned, out of the blue, an epoch or so later.
Hey, it’s Jimmy! Remember me?
What, you kidding? Jimmy!
He was back in New Jersey, in the town where he grew up. He was a family man, married, two kids. He even had a job coaching high school football. Yeah, he said. White picket fence. The whole nine yards.
He wanted to come into the city. He was clean now, he said, but he still had his weed.
Alice was gone, I told him. Breast cancer. Johnny, his brain exploded. That’s all I knew.
I heard, Jimmy said. But you sound good.
I’m good, I said. Call anytime.
He never did.
J
ONATHAN
S
ANTLOFER
is the author of five novels, including
The Death Artist
and
Anatomy of Fear
. He is the recipient of a Nero Award, two NEA grants, has been a visiting artist at the American Academy in Rome, and serves on the board of Yaddo. He is coeditor, contributor, and illustrator of the anthology
The Dark End of the Street
, and editor and contributor of
LA Noire: The Collected Stories
, and Touchstone’s serial novel
Inherit the Dead
. Santlofer is director of the Crime Fiction Academy at the Center for Fiction. He lives in Manhattan where he is at work on a new novel.
the last toke
by jonathan santlofer