‘I’ll call you,’ he said, when our tunnels parted at Kennedy. Oh sure, I thought, as I queued for my ticket to London. Three days later he rang me at my sock. He said, ‘We have Lorne Guyland. We have Butch Beausoleil. We have eight million dollars, and climbing. Get your butt on a bird, Slick, and let’s make Bad Money.’
I can see me now. I’m in the design department over at Silicone Valley. The sun shines but no dust stirs. I move confidently among the technicians, the ideas-men and creative consultants, the engineers and fine-tuners. Someone shows me the rough of my new ears and nostrils. I lean over a drawing-board to approve a sample merkin. The heart boys doublecheck on my detailed specifications. I have a preparatory meeting with the rug people. We move on to the gene pool, the DNA programmers, the plasma bank. Occasionally I say things like ‘Looks good, Phil,’ or ‘What’s the guarantee on this, Steve?’, or ‘Yes, Dan, but will it take the strain?’ Eventually I produce my wallet, and silence falls.
‘Okay, boys, now I want to make this absolutely clear. I’m paying top dollar and I expect the best. I don’t care what it costs. I want it blue, I want it royal, I want the best blood money can buy. Go on, God damn it, and give me the right stuff this time around.’
——————
Now with Selina Street here the texture of my life has already changed or shaded. With a moan of effort the unloved flat slowly responds to the female presence. Heavily, and with unpractised movements, it straightens up and tries to look courtly, attentive and willing. Only rarely does the leer of insincerity glow through the mask. It smartens its act. It stows its towels. It keeps the batch at bay. Yes, the smell of the place, even to my clotted nostrils, has definitely improved. For this I thank Selina’s duty-free perfumes and bath essences, the laundry-fresh tang of her clothes, the costly oiliness of her flesh and its smooth secretions. She’s back in the tub again even now, the amphibious Selina. Soon I’ll hear her primping herself in the bedroom, cosseting her curves in silk and lace. We’re going out to an expensive restaurant, a very expensive restaurant, the sort of place Selina can dress up for … The flat feels better, better-run. It’s not that she’s much of a hausfrau or hoover-wielder. The cleaning-lady comes once a day now, instead of once a week. But Selina is efficient, is practical. She is cost-effective.
And with a chick on the premises you just cannot live the old life. You just cannot live it. I know: I checked. The hungover handjob athwart the unmade bed—you can’t do it. Blowing your nose into a coffee filter—there isn’t the opportunity. Peeing in the basin — they just won’t stand for it. No woman worth the name would let it happen. Women have pretty ways. Without women, life is a pub, a reptile bar at a quarter to three… Have you noticed, you guys, the way black or blue or red underpants stay clean for days on end, whereas white underpants—what is it with white underpants ? They barely last an hour. What is it with these exploding, these joke-shop, these trick underpants? Anyway, with Selina here, my life is being lived in white underpants. They’re better, really, I suppose, even though you have to change them all the time.
I went next door with Selina’s toy drink. ‘Mm,’ she said. She stood before the mirror in full brothel gear. What talent. What artistry. She turned. Her sexual features aren’t particularly full or plump. They’re just incredibly prominent. Bum, box, belly, breasts — just incredibly prominent. She looked so pornographic in her gimmicks that I wanted her to take them off again, or better, much better, push bits of them aside.
‘Come here,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘… I saw Terry Linex today. He sent his love. Good news about my golden handshake. He says it should be half way to six figures.’
‘What’s that? Fifty grand?’
‘Easy.’
‘All the more reason then. Terry Linex made a pass at me.’