Page 132 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories

120 Jack Fritscher

I love it, Floyd thought, all this talk and no action has been the
braggadocio of a male virgin with very blue balls. “Done what?”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Robert, I bet no one could ever make you do any thing.”
“My mother always said that.” Robert’s eyes kind of crossed
in his head.
“You haven’t done what?”
“I haven’t had sex. Okay? So laugh.”
“And risk another wrinkle? Never. My God, as it is, look at my
face. If wrinkles hurt, I’d be screaming.”
“I’m serious, goddam it. I haven’t had sex. Not really. Not
ever. Not unless you count the time I didn’t want to, and the time
I thought I had to, but I never count those two times and I never
talk about them.”
“Some experiences are too painful to recall,” Floyd said, “but
I can’t recall any.”
“Shut the judas-priest up. I’m not dumb. I can do sex. I know
what goes on out there on those streets. I told you I’ve read and
forgot more stuff than you ever even thought of.” He held up the
picture of the blond athlete. “I know what he’s going to tell me,
but I want to hear it from his own lips, me lying in the dunes at
twilight feeling the warm breeze from the ocean.”
“This is summer in Northern California,” Floyd said. “What
warm breeze? You’ll die of exposure.”
“He’ll tell me. And they’ll tell me.”
“Who?”
“The fellows down there in that intersection. One at a time.
And I’ll listen. One secret at a time. That’s how to make sense of
it. One after another of the men who know the secret ways. One
after the other. They’ll all whisper to me and when I’ve heard them
all, I’ll know all about life and damage and death and the ways to
stay out of hell.”
“Are you sure, really sure, that’s what he wants?”
“I don’t know what he wants. That’s why I’m taking his face

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