Ernest Hartby Bill Bowler |
Part 1 Part 3 appear in this issue. |
| part 2 of 3 |
I woke up, or should I say, regained consciousness, seriously hung over the next morning. Why do I drink so much? My head was splitting and I was only slightly less nauseous lying on my back than on my stomach. Death must be beautiful in the sense that you’re not nauseous.
It was already light out and birds were singing and I wondered what time it was. The clock said seven-thirty. Some people are getting up and going to work. I wondered if there were any hung-over bankers that had to be at the bank by eight? I was working the lunch shift myself and had three hours left to repair the damage and replenish my bodily resources.
I crawled to the bathroom for some aspirin, crawled back to bed, set the alarm and rolled over. The alarm went off immediately but it was 11:00 and I got up, still feeling sick, but well enough to put in an appearance at The Oasis. At work, I was slow and couldn’t concentrate or remember anything and gave bad service all day. I forgot miscellaneous items like soups and salads, spilled wine on one lady’s suede coat, addressed a man and his wife as “fellas,” stuff like that.
The manager didn’t say anything about my performance. She looked a little pale herself. Maybe she had a rough night, too? At the end of the shift, I sat down and ate a burger and fries and drank my fifth cup of coffee, and was beginning to feel okay again.
I left the restaurant and was walking down Main St. looking in the store windows when I saw Stella in Discount Discs browsing through the racks. I started to feel nervous. It was like I bumped into her deliberately, like I knew ahead of time. It wasn’t for nothing that our paths kept crossing, although it is a small world, but it wasn’t going to keep happening indefinitely. The time had come. It was now or never. I could no longer justify delay. I walked into the store and up behind her,
“Hi, Stella?”
She sort of jumped and looked startled, turned around, recognized me, smiled and answered,
“Hi, Ernie. How are you?”
“Ar’right,” I answered.
My voice sounded strange, sort of hoarse, and my intonation seemed unnatural. My mouth was getting dry, my heart was pounding, my palms sweating. It was incredible. I tried to swallow and continue, “Listen, Stella, I know this is kind of sudden, but what would you think about going out for lunch one of these days or for a drink one of these nights or something?”
I was starting to get a headache again. Why do I even bother to get involved in these situations? We’d never last. She’s smart to say forget it. I’ll be depressed for a couple of days, but there’s millions of girls.
“Well, Ernie, I don’t know...”
Here it comes.
“...I just don’t know. I do like you but... Don’t look so sad.”
She glanced at her watch.
“I have a little time before I have to be home. Let’s grab a cup of coffee at Nick’s.”
The shipwrecked sailor washed up on shore. First base! We walked next door to the coffee shop and sat in a booth by the window. As Stella slipped out of her sweater, it pulled her blouse up underneath. Her waist was narrow and her stomach firm and smooth. The blouse kept rising, like the curtain for Act One, up towards her chest but she grabbed it at the last minute and the curtain came down. The show was over.
I stared at the silverware. She blushed and tucked her blouse back in and smiled, and I realized her eyes are the same pale blue as my mother’s. Stella was childlike but incredibly erotic, like those eighteenth-century statues I used to not like. I felt like saying, “Let’s go steady,” and canceling the rest of my social life. We ordered two coffees.
“So what albums were you looking at, Stella?”
“The Buzzbombs new one, ‘World War III.’ I heard a song from it on the radio the other day and it sounded really good.”
“You like the Buzzbombs? I love them! I went to hear them when they played the Cave Inn last month. They play great dance music. You can’t stop your feet from moving. But they’re a little loud. I put cotton in my ears. Things did get a little out of hand. It was really crowded and hot and some people were shoving and throwing beer mugs. A few fights broke out. Everybody was really high. There was a bunch of transvestites in the men’s room and some black leather boys, and some guy puking all over the place. And the music was great. Outstanding concert!”
“I wanted to go but my uncle said no.”
“You’re kidding. That old guy you were with last night? What’s his problem?”
Stella was turning pale and starting to look upset. “I don’t like to talk about it, Ernest. My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was thirteen. My father and uncle were enemies and hadn’t spoken to each other for years, although they had once been close friends and business partners. After the accident, Uncle took me in and has taken care of me ever since.”
It was hard to believe. I didn’t have that great an impression of the guy. But why should I talk like this? What’s he ever done to me? I’m not giving him the benefit of the doubt at all.
“He looks pretty prosperous. What does he do for a living?”
“I don’t understand his business affairs very well. He’s an executive with a corporation that does business with the government and with the governments of foreign countries. He says he just takes generals out to lunch.”
Well, enough of him, I thought. Time to change the subject.
“So, what do you do, Stella? Are you going to college?”
“No. I’d like to, but Uncle thinks it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t want me exposed to Communism and sexual permissiveness. He says the college boys will take advantage of my inexperience and that they’re after one thing...”
I examined my own motives.
“...He’s very protective. At least I persuaded him to let me get a part time job.”
“Where do you work?”
I tried to ask the question as nonchalantly as possible.
“At the Main St. Book Store.”
She glanced at her watch again. “Sorry, Ernie. I’ve got to get going now. Uncle insists that I come straight home from work. I wouldn’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”
I attempted to exercise restraint. Stella is extremely attractive and I doubt I’m the only one trying to get her attention. I don’t want my pursuit to look too blatant. “The hunter gets captured by the game,” you know, in the words of the great poet. I know from my own psychology that if something seems out of reach, you want it more. If it’s too easy, it gets boring. This thing with Stella was a delicate operation requiring careful timing, so I waited what seemed in terms of social etiquette an appropriate amount of time before trying to catch her at the bookstore.
I had Wednesday off this week anyway. I got up around ten, picked up a newspaper and went over to Nick’s for breakfast. I was nervous in anticipation of seeing Stella, but still hungry enough to eat two eggs, toast, greasy potatoes and to gulp down several cups of the worst coffee in town.
But I couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper. There was something about terrorists shooting police chiefs in Mexico and a deviate sex offender apprehended in New Jersey and locally a six-car crack up and the mayor taking bribes. I know it sounds funny, but I had more pressing matters on my mind, paid the tab, and walked down to Main St.
On the way, I passed in front of The Oasis and waved to the hostess. She’s pretty cute. She was talking the other night at work about how she was having an affair with one of the owners. He’s an old geezer and married but, I don’t know, I guess he feels a lot of fatherly affection for her. The restaurant didn’t look too busy as I passed.
I kept walking and a few minutes later arrived at the bookstore. Stella looked a little surprised to see me and motioned for me to wait. She was busy with some customers in line at the register. I walked over to the poetry section to look around until she was free. I pulled a volume of Poe off the shelf and was lost in reverie, communing with the master, when I felt a hand touch my shoulder lightly.
“What are you looking at there, Ernest?”
“Poe. He’s one of my idols. I was just rereading ‘Dreamland.’”
“He’s one of my favorites, too. He’s a bit morbid, but his language is elegant. I don’t think he’s really appreciated or he’s out of fashion or something. Sometimes I...”
I didn’t say anything. Stella was standing close to me and my mind was wandering. Primal urges were surfacing in my consciousness. I felt a deep desire to be comforted by her. I fantasized that we were lying together and my head was in her lap and she understood what I was going through.
“Ernest? Ernest! You’re not listening to me!”
She was right. I do this all the time.
“I’m sorry, Stella. I have a lot of things on my mind. I drift off sometimes.”
She looked perturbed.
I noticed a few other customers coming into the store. Time was of the essence. I couldn’t prolong this social limbo forever. Stella would have to get back to work soon. I submitted to fate. “Stella, I know this is kind of sudden, but are you busy Saturday night? I read in the paper that the Buzzbombs are doing a return engagement at the Cave Inn.”
She didn’t answer right away. She seemed to be turning pale and to have the same expression as the other day when she was telling me about her parents.
“Is something wrong, Stella?”
“I can’t explain, Ernest. I’m upset because I do like you. But you see, it’s funny, Uncle is almost jealous in a way when I go out. He’d never admit it, but I can tell. He’s very protective and concerned about me and I feel that I just can’t do anything that might hurt his feelings. He has a bad temper, too. But, you know, I think I can explain this to him. He shouldn’t mind if I have friends my own age. I know he’d like you if he could meet you.”
“I’d like to get to know him better, too. He seems like a nice guy.”
Really. What’s a small lie in the service of greater truths? The situation had reached the critical stage. Stella was still pale and her expression betrayed internal conflict.
“Listen, Stella. Don’t worry. I’ll come by your place a little early Saturday night and say hello to your uncle. We’ll get along and I’m sure he won’t object to us going out.
She considered it a moment longer, and with great hesitancy decided, “Okay.”
On Saturday, I was scheduled for the lunch shift. Because of my date with Stella that night, I was in a good mood all day at work. I was a joy to be with. My customers appreciated my good humor.
The walk home from work was full of the pleasure of anticipation. Stella! Stella of my dreams, of my childhood! Oh, hopeless infatuation! Is it too trivial? I’ve been thinking about writing a poem to Stella,
When you raise
Your ice blue eyes
And gaze my way
I’m mesmerized
For several days...
Something along those lines. We have a kind of spiritual, instinctual attraction for each other. When we first met, we both sensed it was no chance meeting. We were being carried along by forces over which we had no control, against which it was useless to struggle. We understand each other.
I felt I had known her since childhood and saw our future as if in a dream. Hope replaced doubt. My ship, long adrift on troubled seas, had reached haven. The wanderer had returned home. At last, tranquility and the end to yearnings! I’m tired of the scene, of endless casual flirtation and superficial social encounters. I hardly enjoy going to bars or parties any more.
I’m concerned about the future, although I take into consideration that this is the present. But what’s taking so long? I should already have embarked on a career, made a contribution to science, achieved success in some field of endeavor or amassed a small fortune or something.
Some of my friends are already settled down and married, with children. Some of my friends are already divorced with children. It’s funny how something set up temporarily can be so permanent, and things meant to be permanent end up so temporary. And what difference does it make, anyway?
In any case, this was going to be an historic night! Things could not be going better! A date with Stella, good music, a couple of drinks. The only problem was Uncle. I imagined Stella and me talking quietly, and her suddenly falling into my arms, “Oh, Ernest. I don’t know what to do. I had almost given up hope before I met you...”
And her beginning to cry, “...You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s capable of. He makes me so unhappy. I feel trapped.”
And me hugging her, and brushing her hair back from across her face,
“Don’t’ worry, Stella. That’s all over now. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of you.”
And her saying, “But Ernest, I’m scared,” and showing me a wicked bruise on her arm, and me starting to get really angry and going after him with a couple of karate chops, and her saying, “I can’t go home tonight, Ernest, I just can’t. I’m through with him. Let’s go to your place...”
Copyright © 2007 by Bill Bowler
