Turn at the corner of West Gray and Montrose, admiring one’s reflection in the windows of the recreational motorboat showroom. Has anyone ever actually bought one of these sleek white machines? Shiva recalled seeing a customer inside once, some years back. A parody of midlife crisis and disposable income, heavy gold watch, gold chain disappearing in the ringlets of greying chest hair, tanned but running to fat, tasteless windproof pompadour above his goat’s eyes, which turned to size her up, from top to bottom, through the tinted glass.
On past the plumbing supply store, the laundromat, the tire and hubcap place and into La Jaliscience for an afternoon breakfast of migas and Tecates con limon. Every inch of wall space was covered by posters and photographs of Mexican movie stars, heroes of the Revolucion, the lords and ladies of Chihuahua and Morelos, Sonora and Chiapas, and, of course, Jalisco, famous for its food, famous for its women, heart-throbbing, ballbreaking spitfires as likely to scorch one’s lap with spilled coffee as to help one negotiate the menu.
Shiva and Mary found a booth by the window. Shiva was a-chirp with gossip, playful innuendo, recurrent allusive teasings back to her and Mary’s night of sisterly love. Mary in turn admitted to her surprise at the epic nature of that night, for it had not ended with Shiva armchaired, and bucking, surrendering to Mary’s cunnilingual payback, little Shiva-heels exploding an epileptic Keith Moon drumbeat on Mary’s dutiful straining back, Shiva whipping Mary’s black ponytail to an ardent blur while the fingers of her other hand dipped in the overspill between her thighs and painted her hard nipples and bruised her lips between exhortatory curses of joy and praise.
Afterwards they had rested, Mary’s head in Shiva’s damp lap, Shiva’s head hanging down like that of a dead heroine in the final reel of a silent film, their breathing like twin oceans breaking in parallel surf.
More wine, more grass, a leisurely exploration of each other’s bodies in a tub of warm water, one hundred watt bulb full on to banish what shyness might remain. Then on to the kingdom of ‘have you ever wanted to?’, experimenting upon each other on the kitchen floor, loud and nasty, punctuated with third-grade giggles and affirmative ‘oh god!’s.
Still more wine, and sweet hot tea which they didn’t swallow, rinsing to coolness in their mouths, letting sugar and tea dribble out the corners of their mouths as they kissed, thin streams running along their throats and down between their breasts, making a laughing sticky mess of one another.
The wine was gone, they were both falling asleep on their knees but rallied, like marathon runners at the last mile, for one final and simultaneous climax, masturbating each other past the soreness into stagger-legged, skygazing, froth-lipped orgasm, as a neighbor’s pet rooster cockadoodledooed the horizon to crack and flood the window sills with daybreak.
That had been nearly three weeks ago and the possibility of a repeat had been hanging between them ever since. And while Mary would have accepted responsibility for any sense of drawback, of cool-down, Shiva’s schedule of shows and necessary public appearances with L was as much to blame. For now the memory of those ten nude hours was a nourishment in itself.
Mary crushed a lime wedge on the edge of her Tecate, pressing it to juice over the metal mouth. Shiva forked a glop of runny egg into her mouth, tongue dainty and catlike on the tines, china eyes and mimic mouth, and eager to spill chapter xvii of the latest rehearsal hall scandal.
-So, we’re all in the parking lot, equipment’s loaded, we’re ready to head over to Fitz’s and J …
-Your drummer, right?
-Yeah. So J’s girlfriend Debbie shows up. Debbie never, I mean never, comes to the shows. We used to tease J that this Debbie he would talk about was a fantasy, a blow-up doll maybe, because she never materialized. In two years I’ve seen her maybe four times, max. Anyway, earlier, while we were loading up, Katrin de la Page turns up, looking for a ride to the gig. Do you know Katrin?
-Not sure. Describe her.
-Um, short. Pretty. Big tits. Has a sort of shag haircut but it still looks good on her. She’s at ALL the shows, super-friendly with all the bands …
-Oh. I think I know who you’re talking about. Kind of intense and purposeful but gets very loudmouth and belligerent when she’s drunk? A lot like me, now that I think of it.
-That’s her.
-Wasn’t she, isn’t she, a girlfriend of someone in the Bone Idols? Or the Refugees? Or the Teddy Boys? Or the Galena Park Wizards? One of those all-guy testosterone bands?
-Yes to all the above. That’s the thing. Katrin is hands down the biggest starfucker in town. She latches onto a band and then bangs every member and moves on. Literally sucks ‘em dry. I once heard her at a party bragging, well not even really bragging, just kinda being factual I guess, going on about how she’d already balled something like three hundred guys by her nineteenth birthday.
-Busy girl. If she didn’t look so Catholic I’d suspect it was the Protestant work ethic in action.
-Ha! Well now she’s discovered us.
-And she’s got her eyes on J?
-The rest of the band thinks that maybe he’s already pounding those skins.
-And then there’s Debbie.
-Right. So Debbie shows up and we’re all thinking oh shit but instead Debbie is the one who offers Katrin a ride.
-Do you think she knew what was going on?
-No way. She barely remembers who L is, which is hard to do, and she re-introduces herself to me every time we meet. I’m sure she doesn’t have any idea who Katrin is.
-Must have been awkward. I hate double-entry bookkeeping. Daddy meets back door. How was the gig?
-It was fine, although I thought J was counting the songs in just a tad slow. Not draggy, just slower than usual.
-Didn’t want to get offstage and face the real music. Were there fireworks?
-No. In fact, the three of them left together not long after we stopped playing. We haven’t heard from them since so we’re dying to see if J shows up at tomorrow’s rehearsal in a body cast.
-Or with a huge cat-ate-the-canary grin.
-A double-header, you think? Not really Katrin’s style from what I’ve heard. She’s more Lone Ranger, collecting scalps as a solo. Although I’ve heard she doesn’t care if there are witnesses when she’s carving the notch. Oh …
-What?
-Joey just came in.
-Joey Calhoun? Mary asked, not turning around.
-Yeah, with some of the guys from the print shop. He’s coming over. Hey, Joey.
Joey Calhoun, elegant wastrel, walking rock n roll encyclopedia, Shiva’s former back door before things heated up with L, distant-memory one-night stand (two weekends running) of Mary’s, smiled down at them.
-Shiva, you beautiful tramp.
He leaned and kissed her, surfaced with a manly grunt of appreciation.
-Mary, my dear.
And Mary craned to the buss of stubble against her cheek.
-What you been up to, Joey? Shiva smiled.
-The usual, the usual. Making money, spending money. Right now I got the shakes, and he held out his hands above their plates in exaggerated palsy.
-overdid it last night. I need to stabilize with some eggs. But what are you two plotting?
Shiva looked suddenly guilty, though her smile continued its radiance. Mary shrugged, trying to think of something witty or sexy to send him on his way. Intrigued by their silence he pressed.
-Wait a minute … are the two of you …
-Yeah, Mary said, you guessed it. We’re …
Shiva gave her a violent kick under the table.
Mary shot fire with her eyes then back to Joey.
-We’re thinking of maybe starting a band. A jam band, you know, open-ended. Wouldn’t affect our regular gigs, of course.
-Whoa, Joey said, the guitars of Purl and Effingham in the same lineup? Fucking outstanding!
Shiva gave an hysterical whoop.
-That’s what we thought too.
-Do you all have a name picked out, Joey asked, clearly enthralled at this latest news.
-Rossington Collins, Mary said, straightfaced.
-Queen Scarlet, Shiva countered.
-Yeah? Queen Scarlet. Queen Scarlet. What am I thinking of here? Whore of Babylon, uh, Terry and the Pirates. Am I close?
Even Mary had gotten the joke and softly played him the punchline.
-Fripp? Belew? King … Crimson …?
Joey laughed and slapped the side of his head with his palm.
-Now go stabilize, Shiva laughed, your waitress is taking orders.
-Great. See ya later. And I’ll be checking Der G for coming attractions.
When he was gone Mary kicked Shiva with considerably less violence than she’d received.
-What the fuck was that for?
-Sorry! I thought you were about to tell him something else.
-Like what? Like what? Oh. Really? You actually thought I was going to tell Joey, motormouth Joey, the Hedda Hopper of the Heights, that you and I … got skinny together? … went pussy to pussy?
-Shhhh! I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure …
Shiva’s look of jittery concern made Mary want to laugh.
-Sheee-vah, oh Shiva. I don’t believe it. You’re ashamed of me!
-No! No, I’m not. It’s L. He can’t know. Oh shit. Oh fuck. I’ve blown it, haven’t I.
Mary, cruel Mary, let pass a long moment of silence.
Then she stretched and trapped Shiva’s knees between her tapdancing feet.
-It’s cool. Really. I get it. You and L. I’m not looking to fuck that up. You want a little something strange on the side and hey! it won’t be the first time I’ve been that little something strange on the side. I’ll be your backstreet girl, Shiva, I’ll smile and curtsy and act nonchalant, I won’t tell, I won’t rock the perfect couple boat.
-Perfect couple, my ass.
-Imperfect couple then, but still couple.
-So we’re …
-We’re whatever you want.
-I want … Shit, I don’t know … I just can’t stop thinking about …
-So let’s add a few new memories to the pyre. What have you got planned for the rest of the afternoon?
Shiva’s eyes were shining.
-Let me go pee and then let’s get out of here.
Mary settled the bill and while she figured the tip she watched Shiva returning, half-dancing, silly gypsy once more, and watched the heads of Joey’s companions swivel, following her friend, that lovely backside tracer-lit by their unblinking covetous eyes.
They want her so bad they can taste it, Mary thought.
And she was hers. And when, in the next hour, they were making love, Mary knew there would be a third body, a ghost to laughingly manipulate her fingers and tongue, the ghostly golden body of Anais pressed like silken gold-leaf between them, evaporating like sweat from their skin, returning, mockingly, with each moan and sigh.
If Mary were to offer herself to Anais, a bowl of cherries to eat till there was nothing but white porcelain bloodied with pips, would she get a ‘yes’, a ‘no’, or the torture of a ‘maybe’?
-Come on, Shiva whispered, I’m wet just from looking.