Circumstances force my chants
Of songs for money, ’cause I’m broke,
And you can see that that’s no joke.
So share with me your wallet’s wealth,
’Cause someday you’ll be old yourself!”
As he finished his song, the bearded troubadour let the accordion dangle from one hand like some corrugated creature tortured into limpness. He held his other hand out, palm open, as he continued to block the Professor’s path. “Help the needy,” he whined. “Someday you’ll be old yourself.” He repeated the refrain.
“I’m already older than you are,” the Professor pointed out.
“That’s irrelevant. Where’s your compassion?”
“Oh, all right.” The Professor fished a quarter out of his pocket and handed it to him.
Immediately, the troubadour struck up another song:
“Your gift is small,
But from the heart,
Erasmus thanks you,
You old-—”,
He broke off abruptly and grinned a semi-toothless grin at the Professor. “All in good fun,” he assured him. “No offense meant. Anything Erasmus can do to show his appreciation, he’ll be glad to do.”
“Erasmus? Oh. Is that your name?”
“That it is.” The street singer grabbed the Professor’s hand with a grimy paw and wrung it.
“I’m Professor Basil Woocheck,” the Professor responded politely.
“Happy to make your acquaintance, Professor. Say, you don’t suppose you could spare another quarter, do you?”
“I might. If you’d give me some information.”
“You name it. I’ll tell it.”
“I was just wondering-—” The Professor couldn’t help the stammer in his voice. “That is, I thought you might be able to direct me to a house of ill-repute.”
“A cat-house? Is that what you’re looking for? Well now, Professor, you surely are lucky that you ran into me. It just so happens that I have certain connections with such an establishment. For say two dollars, I would be happy to conduct you there and introduce you around.”
“All right,” the Professor agreed. “A dollar now and a dollar after we get there,” he promised cautiously.
Erasmus led the way. A few moments later he ushered the Professor up the front steps of one of the brownstones he’d passed before. A petite brunette girl in the short-skirted, tight-fitting outfit of a French maid admitted them to the foyer.
“Hi, Gertrude. How’s tricks?” Erasmus greeted her.
“How would I know? I ain’t eligible to turn any lately. Goddam travelin’ salesmen! Can’t trust any of ’em!”
“The sulfa drugs aren’t helping?”
“Oh, I guess so. But it takes so effin long. By the time I get back on my back again, I’ll be revirginized!”
“This is a friend of mine.” Erasmus indicated the Professor. “See that you mark down for the Madam that I brought him.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll get your cut.” Gertrude flounced into an adjoining parlor, leading the way for them.
It was a large room with perhaps half-a-dozen girls and three men strewn about it. The girls wore a variety of garb ranging from a transparent negligee with bikini lingerie under it to a skin-tight silken evening gown with nothing underneath it. The Professor’s attention was distracted from them by a large sign covering more than half of one wall. “MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR!” the sign advised. The Professor looked from it to Erasmus questioningly.
“The Madam was brought up as a Quaker,” Erasmus explained. “She doesn’t work at it, but I guess some of those childhood influences die hard. Anyway, it sort of fits in with her profession, don’t you think?”
“That’s true,” the Professor granted. “By the way, which one of these ladies is the Madam?” He glanced around. “She’s really the one with whom I want to speak.”
“She ain’t here tonight,” Gertrude told him. “This is the night she takes off. It’s usually the slowest night in the week.”
“Well, who’s in charge?”
“Nobody really. Unless maybe Xenobia. She’s been here the longest.” Gertrude pointed out a tall brunette with classic Greek features who was wearing an opaque, toga-style white cocktail gown.
“Might I talk to her?” Professor Woocheck requested.
“It ain’t easy. She don’t talk too good English,” Gertrude told him.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Erasmus disagreed. “It’s basic, but adequate to the tasks she performs. And her physical vocabulary is extensive and universal.”
“You’re a dirty old man,” Gertrude told him.
“I suppose I am. But it’s too late to change now.” He turned to the Professor. “If you’re satisfied, how about my other buck?” he requested.
“Look at him!” Gertrude jeered. “Greedy old man! Collecting from both ends!”
“Don’t be so literal,” Erasmus advised her blithely as he accepted the dollar from the Professor. “I trust we’ll meet again, sir,” he told him as he started out the parlor doorway.
“The least you could do is spend it here!” Gertrude called after him.
“My tastes are more refined,” he called back.
“What did he mean by that?” the Professor wondered aloud.
“You kiddin’? That old faggot? He'll be swappin’ candy to little boys so they’ll let him pull their pants down, with that money you gave him. If all the men was like him, we’d be outa business. Come on. I’ll introduce you to Xenobia.”
“Very well.”
Gertrude led him over to the tall brunette. “Charlie, this is Xenobia. Xenobia, this here is Charlie.” Gertrude performed the introductions.
“My name isn’t—-” Professor Woocheck started to protest.
“We call all the customers Charlie,” Gertrude told him brusquely. “That way we don’t get ’em mixed up.” She turned on her heel and left him with Xenobia.
“Greets, Charlie. I loving to know you.” Xenobia held his hand between both of hers as if it was a very slippery captive fish she was afraid might escape. “You like clap-clap first, or in a hurry?”
“Clap-clap?” Naive as he was, the phrase made the Professor suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“Clap-clap! You know! If no, then upstairs rushing.”
“This clap-clap?” the Professor asked delicately. “Is it some sort of—umm-—venereal disorder?”
“Vene--what?” It was Xenobia’s turn to be perplexed.
“Are you sick? Do you have a rash?”
“Rash? Oh, very. I rash. I impetuous. I wild! You name, I do. But no clap-clap, right? Upstairs rushing, right?”
“Well, wait a minute. Let’s not hurry things. You see, I don’t actually-—-”
“Then you want clap-clap!” Xenobia was finding the language barrier exasperating.
“I guess so.” The Professor decided to chance it.
“Delighting!” Xenobia strode over to a corner of the room and put a record on the phonograph. there. Immediately the primitive beat of a Greek folk dance blared out over the room. The other girls and the three men looked up and watched as Xenobia swung into a wildly uninhibited dance. Her hands, clapping together over her head, established the beat. After a moment, she paused and looked at the Professor with an injured air. “Why you don’t clap-clap?” she demanded. Professor Woocheck finally realized what it was she meant and began clapping his hands in time to the music. She nodded, satisfied, and resumed her dance, her long black hair flying wildly in all directions.
With the crescendo of the finale, she threw herself at the Professor’s feet, head flung back, lips parted, breasts heaving against the skimpy white material of the gown she wore. The outline of the nipples stood out plainly like beckoning shadow-fingers. “Young-making, no?” she panted. “Up the stairs rushing now?”