Emerald City

In his youth Grandfather cut a rakish figure. Tall, slender, square jawed, a short blunt nose, wavy black hair slapped back across the top of his head, green eyes full of fire and fight, a moustache not much wider then a pencil's lead filling. He often said his slim profile made him a smaller target before, during and after the war. Hardened from war, business reversals and three failed marriages, now at the front end of his eighth decade, he looked twenty years younger. He lived with a mistress 45 years his junior. Unruly thin white hair covered his head and the fiery light in his green eyes had softened to a twinkle. Still energetic, no less a commanding presence, he was calmer, thinner, and bonier in old age.

I resembled the young version of Matthew Findlander. With little of his youthful flamboyancy, no moustache and a less severe hair style, I was my own man just as he was. All through his life, Matthew Findlander's slash and burn, take no prisoners, cut throat attitude had served him well in the business world if not the marriage bed. I tended to be more reflective, tactful, and bookish and gave my life and love to one woman. Matthew Findlander lived his life as a free willing buccaneer with few if any boundaries. Jack Findlander, me, his grandson, lived by a more restrictive code of conduct, tried to live my life as a knight but sometimes I faltered, was more the ignoble knave then a noble knight, but I tried.

Last year, back in the midst of my happy, contented days of my marriage, madly in love with Moira, at his home in Palm Springs, Grandfather and I sat near his Olympic sized swimming pool, a uniquely shaped cement pond, drinking lemonade doused with vodka, eating shortbread cookies off French Limoges porcelain. Gwen, his mistress, returned to the house after delivering our vodka laced lemonade and cookies on a silver platter purchased in Vienna during grandfather's second honeymoon. Teetering on high heels, her hips swayed in the tiniest patch of yellow bikini bottoms as she moved away from us. Gwen, a former actress, a supporting player in several Playboy channel teleplays, the star of a series of hard core pornographic films, ex-centerfold, resembled a mature Ava Gardner. A few minutes earlier, leaning down to set the drinks and snacks on the yellow umbrella shaded patio table, her tits, melons equal in size to soccer balls nearly sprang into our laps. All of Matthew's wives and mistresses were buxom as well as insatiable and wicked to the nth degree. Gwen had let me know in no uncertain terms her availability whenever my fixation with Moira abated.

"Jack, I hope you live to be 82 and you can hang your ass on the side of your pool, still get hard as a crow bar and be blown to heaven by a woman half your age. That means you're healthy, wealthy, and wise and full of cum," Grandfather said as Gwen disappeared inside the mansion. After separating from Moira, I did not bounce back quickly. Moira may have been a gold digging slut but I still loved the gold digging slut. Like a man addicted to nicotine trying to quit smoking and craving one short drag on a cigarette, I found myself still addicted to my wife, wanting to bed her one last time. I resisted. Once a mere millisecond before hitting the send button on the phone to call Moira, I retained the presence of mind to fling the Nokia into the wall, a pitch which proved disastrous to the phone. Another time I typed a lengthy and pathetically maudlin email to Moira and then thank God, smacked down on the delete button. I drank too much. Chivas Regal scotch so tasty and such a phenomenal palliative for my pain. A eunuch showed more of a sex drive then I did. Even the idea of purchasing Gwen, my father's delectable mistress on my prong did not rally me into tumescence. My parents worried about me. My best friend, Paul Pister's ceaseless refrain to me: "Get your head out of your ass Jacko and move on. Forget the fucking whore."

Easier said then done. I wallowed in self pity, my liver worked overtime to burn off my excess alcohol. I often sat around in my tattered bathrobe and ratty house shoes, refused to shave and lived on scotch and the occasional ham sandwich or bowl of clam chowder.

At least the fucking whore's, Paul's description, one I heartily agreed with, expectations of netting a hefty sum after our divorce fell flat. After a private conversation with grandfather, she walked out of his study pale with nothing but a small pittance to show for her efforts. In a vast room with a pool table under a tiffany lamp as its centerpiece, my grandfather, who seldom raised his voice, in all likelihood promised her bloody demise if she did not cut her loses and move on.

I moved into a tiny studio condo my grandfather hooked me up with. Located near downtown Emerald City, in the 60s, the rectangular, architecturally unimpressive brick building was a swinging singles place. The building looked down on a rolling plot of green lawns surrounded by a high wooden fence. Filled with winding brick pathways, fragrant flowering bushes, walled in declivities for barbecuing, and several tennis courts, the foliage provided multiple locales for buff young men in Speedos and buxom young women in string bikinis to fuck whenever the desire struck them. In the past such erotic imagery would have given me a great deal of vicarious pleasure, but not now, not in my sorry state.

In its sexually licentious heyday, fast cars, the occasional Harley, roared in under the portico. Into these colorful chrome chariots, piloted by sexy young men, sexy young women in high heels, short skirts and décolleté aplenty would be whisked off into the night. Breaking bread, inhibitions loosened with liquor, getting high with a communal joint, invariably led to pleasures of the flesh, the transformation of two into a single double backed beast intent on instant gratification.

Now, a more sedate crowd populated the Chateau Vista. The apartments now converted into condominiums housed retired postal workers, widows living off fat pensions and young families. One former tenant was the infamous Emerald City Stasher, a fat slob with a bald head, who hacked up nubile young women in his spare time and hid his victims about the countryside for return visits when so inclined. The cops found mementos of his victims scattered about his apartment. His neighbors said he kept a spotless home and was quite the barbecue artiste. I could only image what taste treats the bastard cooked up for his guests. Thank God, he was gone by the time I moved in.

From the debris of my broken marriage I extracted my belonging, placed them in storage save for some books and clothing. Along with the futon, I purchased a cheap pine dining set: a table and two chairs, some dishes, pots, pans, silverware, a laptop computer and a cream colored plush rocker.

Legally separated, the divorce pending final resolution, I still alternated between aching for Moira, hating her.

On a Saturday afternoon in July eight months after separating from Moira, the bright sunlight and cloudless blue sky inspired me. I shaved the infestation of black stubble covering the lower portion of my face, showered, shed my bathrobe, dressed in denim and dock siders and walked several blocks to a book store, a veritable emporium of books, CDs and DVDs. A bit of book browsing, sipping on a latte might lift my spirits. It had worked before.

Entering the store from street level, I rode the smoothly running escalator with several other shoppers to the store's lower floor and stood at one of the octagonal shaped tables filled with piles of newly printed books, their dust jackets sparkling under fluorescent lights. I picked up one book, thumbed through it, shook my head at the idea of paying $9.99 for a 57 page book. Quickly dispatched back to the table, I considered such a ridiculously high price for such a slim read to be highway robbery on the order of an 18^th century highwayman poking his pistol in the shocked and angry mugs of his victims, demanding their loot. They hung highwaymen. This robbery was couched as literature. Picking up another book, one heftier in number of pages and price naturally, I looked up saw her descending on the escalator. Several times in the past few days this woman, bound for me now on the black tread of constantly disappearing stairs, walked a poodle near my place. Staring, licking my chops, she approached me, her homing beacon apparently, and took up a position at the book laden table.

I was 33 years old and estimated her to be ten or fifteen years older. Her glossy hair gathered in a bun on the back of her head and secured with a shiny yellow ribbon was the color of a sable fur coat, one of those animal skin garments guaranteed to send an activist into frenzy.

Leaving my apartment one afternoon, I saw her through the lattice of the black iron fence fronting the property. She was walking the poodle, a red collar around its neck. Freshly groomed, its fur like white steel wool, the animal pranced. While I was definitely more a dog person then a cat fancier, I barely noticed the small white fur ball; I was so entranced by the prissy canine's mistress. She wore skin tight blue jeans, a too small shirt cut in a wide v to give maximum exposure to her large breasts. High heels, not the closed toed black pumps favored by my mother but the cum fuck me pumps often on my ex-wife's feet. The second time I saw her strolling down the street in front of my condo she once more wore tight jeans, her bust bouncing under a billowing blue blouse. Her black hair tied in a pony tail bounced with the same fervor as her breasts. Her hips swayed and her feet, clad in black pumps with spiked heels, made the most pleasant sound as she strolled down the street toward a coffee place and a health food market. On the busy street every man and every woman did a double take when she passed. I happened to see her from my third floor window. Often at that time of day I looked out the window and watched the passing parade and not once did I contemplate leaping from the window. My penis, limp and disinterested for months suddenly swelled with solidity not experienced since that horrific night I discovered Moira with her lover.

In my youth prior to my marriage I had bedded several delectable older women, had a fetish for them. Some of these ladies exuded the same in your face sexual heat as this woman. The others, more demure in demeanor came across as no nonsense, prim matronly ladies proved just as delightful in bed.

Standing within a few feet of each other I felt my cock stirring. I noticed a diamond the size of one of Saturn's moons sparkling on the woman's right hand. No poodle in sight, this time she wore black pants cut well above her slim ankles. They adhered to her curves like sprayed on paint. I imagined her lying on the floor to get better traction as she tugged, pulled and pushed her fluid hips into them. A pull over black blouse with a scoop collar stretched over her prominent chest. High heel sandals with wispy straps supported her bare feet. A black ribbon secured her hair into a pony tail. She reminded me of a beatnik, a denizen of a 1950s spot where goateed poets read bad poetry, the occasional work of genius, to a small crowd drinking coffee from demitasse cups, snapping their fingers in applause and saying "Cool."

I picked up a book written by a disgraced and disgruntled politician, its cover showering a man in a charcoal gray suit looking plaintive in the picture. I stole another glance. Dropping the book on the table, I retrieved a book on the French and Indian War, looked at her again; not furtively but in the manner you stare at nude model in a painting class, a model who expects you to look, to absorb all her details. She looked at me just as directly. I could feel the heat radiating from her with the intensity of an open coke oven. Her eyes offered promise, an eagerness, and an invitation to come hither.

She tended to hold her mouth as though sucking on something sour, to some a turnoff, to me it was a sexy pout. Faint wrinkles bracketed her blue eyes; the flesh on her throat had lost a degree of suppleness, sagged a bit under the impress of gravity and maturity. A few liver spots dotted the backs of hands holding a book by Annie Rice. Her long fingers ending in long nails brushed with black polish were soft yet radiated a toughness, reflected experience. Age had not demeaned her but delivered a woman whose sexuality seemed more stunning at forty or fifty then at twenty. Her firm and toned body stunning to behold was made all the more alluring by its seasoning, a ripeness never spoilt, apparently not in any danger of decay. She carried herself like a breathtaking and confident grand dame not a beautiful and callow ingénue.

Our eyes met. We smiled and in the quiet hush of the bookstore with customers milling about, we connected. I was going to fuck her. No doubt of that fact whatsoever. I also knew with a certainty she had decided on the same outcome.

"May I buy you a coffee?"

"I would love a cup of coffee." Her speech betrayed no regional dialect. Her eyes conveyed a hunger, an attitude I found alluring.

Our books dropped unceremoniously on the table and off to the store's coffee bar we headed. I followed her, watched the sway of her hips, her graceful, confident stride in extremely high black heels.

My cock is stiff, I realized. If nothing else I was thankful to this woman for affecting me in such a manner. My impotence had drifted away as wind drives off smoke. It felt wonderful. I needed camouflage for this, my first erection, in a long time. Passing a table filled with large books suitable for posting with pride on coffee tables, I grabbed one filled with glossy photographs of celebrity homes, used it to shield my erection. No doubt this particular tome contained aerial photographs of my grandfather's palatial domicile in Palm Springs and an additional photograph of his swimming pool, its silhouette mirroring the lines of a 1957 Chevy.

She veered off to one of the brown wooden tables, sat down near an obviously married couple. Buddy, has anyone talked to you about the downside of candles, I thought heading straight to the counter fronted by a curving display case of cookies and pastries and by shelves of foil bags of coffee, colorful logo emblazoned cups and items to tempt the impulse buyer. I returned a few minutes later with the Café Americano she had requested and my latte, too foamy for my liking but today I did not care. The young woman behind the counter, a small diamond stud embedded in her left nostril, saw my erection behind the immense book. "You really like your coffee." I blushed, my face still hot and fiery red when I returned to the table where my new companion patiently waited. Men sit in the coffee corral, thankful to be in proximity to her. Other men more distant cast longing glances at her over the merchandise.

"You are blushing."

My beet redness returned with full force of course.

"Yeah, it was something the girl behind the counter said."

My name is Jack Finlander, I said. Trying my best to be charming, to make myself sound interesting, I told her I was 33 years old, managed an auto parts store. I did not mention being the scion to a fortune made from sparkplugs, batteries and mufflers. She found out I was in the process of divorcing, no children to prevent us from going our separate ways without further contact. She could not see how much I wanted children, did mind a bit to have them around even if it meant less then a total break with Moira. Nor did I tell this new acquaintance of Moira's willful act to make herself barren pained me like acid dripping on an open sore. Even though it had been some time since I worked out on a Nautilus machine and jogged, I made it sound like I did those very things a short time ago. I let her know I was an eclectic reader, often listened to jazz and traveled when I had a mind to. I did not mention my chronic depression or continuing impotence. Keep it light Jack, I thought.

Once in an airport before my marriage, I sat in a bar waiting for a flight. A stunning woman sat down next to me. Beautiful, vivacious, flirty, within two minutes I wanted to get in her panties. I imagined these panties to be lacy and maybe crotchless, but definitely flimsy. Then she lowered the boom. She was nothing but an undercover Hare Krishna in civvies selling the cult out of a scratched satchel filled with thin and thick publications. Damn.

Hopefully, this woman was not sailing under false colors like a Nazi raider steaming under the flag of a neutral nation. She brought me up to speed on her journey thus far. Her style more polished then mine and she was a much better briefer dispensing her history with clarity and conciseness. Her name was Carmen Sorrento, a name that sizzled as it rolled across my tongue. She freely admitted to being 48, never married, not even close, a former Vegas chorine, teacher of aerobics, model, eye candy in several low budget pictures full of busts and bad acting. Now, she owned and operated several boutiques catering to women with fine figures and fat funds. Sunbathing, she liked to read pot boilers. The image of this sexy woman clad in a bikini and lying on a chaise lounge made my cock rocket upward.

Carmen sipped her drink; I caught a glimpse of pink tongue, she leaned across the table, her breasts almost in my face. She licked her lips, whispered,

"I give the most fantastic head. Why don't we cut through the bull shit? You want to fuck me and I want to fuck you so why don't we go and do it?

I was so near to exploding in my pants I considered standing up and yelling "fire in the hole" at the top of my lungs to give everyone in the coffee nook time to dive for cover.

Ten minutes later, a short walk through a human tide of smiling shoppers and frowning wage slaves, skirting a channel of honking cars inching down the street, the odor of exhaust fumes, her perfume mixing in my nostrils. I unlocked my front door; Carmen stepped bravely into the room, not hesitant at all, showing a leap of faith. For all she knew I might club her before she glimpsed the room's décor. I imagined she had some familiarity with the psychology of picking a man up, the danger signals, the warnings giving off by a man. Apparently, I passed muster and she was comfortable with her course of action. I followed closely, turned on one of the floor lamps.

My studio apartment, not dirty but cluttered and disorganized, as though I had never quite moved in, settled in, planted roots. Books scattered on the floor, unopened cardboard boxes, a box of four settings of dishes sitting on the small dining table still sealed in its box. In the kitchenette another carton held a new drip coffee pot still packed in Styrofoam and plastic. The futon, the easy chair, the dining set were the extent of my furniture. Two seven feet tall lavender floor lamps, their bowl shaped tops holding three 60 watt light bulbs illuminated the room as necessary. A book I was reading lay on its spine next to the easy chair.

On the wall above the small pine dining table, hung a dart board for my entertainment. I considered tacking a glossy eight by ten photograph of Moira to the dart board but I had resisted the notion. I knew the exact picture to center in the board too, the close-up of Moira taken on her wedding day. The one of her smiling, her red hair captured under the white veil, looking innocent, virginal. In view of what happened to our marriage I tried to remember how many dark men, fellows suitable for casting in the Sopranos; the beefcake of Mexican television populated the audience behind us as we took our vows. Did she fuck one of them before or after the ceremony? Was the Pope Catholic? Did bears shit in the woods?