Shelby by Pete; McCormack Page B

dies . It wasn’t brilliant but I’d read worse in published works. I reached into my pocket, pulled out some loose change and slipped it into the bum’s wet jacket pocket. He didn’t flinch. I hoped he was still alive. How strange it would be to put change into a dead man’s pocket—it would make him a sort of a welfare Tutankhamen. Then I wondered, what’s the point of being dead?
    I started to walk again, drawn eastbound as if by another force. The rain kept coming. I felt like a soldier returning home to no one, but happy to be back just the same. For a moment I feared I was being pursued. My heart kicked in. I looked back but didn’t see anybody. I sprinted across the road and stopped by a few wet, empty benches sitting silent and lonely in the rain; no people, no pigeons. I shook my head and smiled—even benches need validation! I moved beneath the shelter of a maple tree and watched the wind-strewn, almost horizontal rain dance in the lamplight. I started walking again, and across the road saw a couple running arm in arm the opposite way. They were laughing and happy. I smiled and moved on. Protective awnings became less frequent. I didn’t care. I just kept walking until the traffic from Main Street got so loud it poured into my brain like a mechanical river, smothering my thoughts beyond recognition. I tilted my head backwards and let a few drops of water land on my tongue.
    And there it was.
    The Number Five Orange, its neon light shining in my eye like the last few embers of a dying sun.
    I peeked inside the door. There was a show in progress.
    Dripping, I crept into a seat at a back table and sunk low. A thick haired, sandy blond waitress dressed all in black approached me immediately. I smiled.
    â€œI’m not really a regular, I … uh … a friend of mine dances.”
    â€œWhat can I get you?”
    â€œOh … uh … I’ll have a … I’ll have a Sprite, please.”
    â€œA Sprite ?”
    â€œYes … please. With a slice of lemon. Her name is Lucy. Perchance—”
    â€œLemon?”
    â€œYes, please. Just a—”
    â€œAnd maybe you’d like some milk and cookies for later, too?”
    â€œMilk and cookies? No. I … would … make it a beer.” She grinned. I didn’t actually see it but I’m sure it was there—one of those internal grins. In a bar for men, she’d crushed one of my balls. Moments later, a man approached.
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œNineteen—I mean twenty. Just turned.”
    â€œDo you have any I.D.?”
    â€œYes.” We looked at each other.
    â€œCan I see it?”
    â€œOh, sorry.” I removed a damp driver’s license from a wet wallet and handed it to him. Back and forth he looked at it and then at me. Then he tossed it on the table and walked away.
    I watched a woman with no pubic hair caress her vagina and jiggle her breasts for ten minutes. It was difficult for me to believe that Lucy did that. Then again, she had a wonderful body.
    By the time the beer came, I needed it. It cost $3.95 and the waitress gave me fifteen bucks back from a twenty dollar bill and I told her to keep the change. I gave her a twenty-five percent tip for treating me with the respect one gives over-chewed gum. Round two and my scrotal sac had been hung from a flagpole half-mast.
    The next woman’s name was Vulvanna Plenty. She was a flexible, confident dancer, hanging off the pole like an angry anaconda. I thought of Lucy and ordered another beer.
    After my third beer, I became aware of how cold, wet and uncomfortable I was—and thinking about Lucy and the voluntary spreading of her vulva didn’t help. I was disturbed that she’d spit out such educated views to me about metaphysics and goddesses and oneness and female exploitation and then climb up nude on a stage and gyrate her naked loins to some patriarchal backbeat.
    I ended up drinking