If you drive up on the expressway to the Tobin Bridge you climb past the U.S.S. Constitution in dry dock, climb over the lower end of Charlestown, over the public housing project, over the Oily, over the Navy shipyard, over the Exxon refinery and distribution center, over the Chelsea Yacht Club, and climb up the four-lane Route 1, past the garden supply outlets, past the batting cages, past the soft serve joints, past the assorted steakhouses and saloons and strip malls and ATMs, past all the motels with names like Shangri-La, Erewon, Utopia Village, New Horizon, until you come to the turn-off for Avalon. Situated in 10 acres of wooded area, Avalon is a motel complex that features simulacra cabins spread out 'in the woods' to effect 'privacy'. If you wanted to, you could tune out the screams of children in Cabin 5 and the women wailing in Cabins 7 and 31, ignore the general squalor, the out of town plates, the drug dealing out behind cabin 26, the general pervasive threat of malignant dark forces at work. Ignore them all, and they would return the favour.
And so the sheeny shimmy limn-o-scene pulls up blithely in front of Avalon cabin number 38 late of an August day, the tired air conditioner emitting a little clack as the motor thrums off. (Was that a whippoorwill?) The trio emerges from the limo, the chauffeur expressionless, goes right to the door, unlocks it, ushers in the boys-the one with a look of airy anticipation, the other with a look of foreboding, feeling for his pocket knife, thumbing its rose-leaf escutcheon. Inside, the door snugly shut, the room is lit, a yellow wan, and reveals a one-room tableau, with bathroom. It is old, with a faded red carpet, old TV chained to the wall, generic dresser, kitchenette, pine chairs, small square table and assorted brickabrackery. And an ancient queen-sized bed with a synthetic cover spread, design from the Seventies. The chauffeur plops on it, lays his cap aside, shades off, long blond strands roll down his shoulders, like the first dawn on the river Jordan, Richy thinks. You want to see something? He drops a quarter in a bedside box and the bed begins to shake, rattle and roll. He thwacks the spot next to him. Ho-kay. Who's on first?He looks left, right, stops and stares at Richy. Oh, you didn't tell him what we came here for, did you? JB stares, too, at Richy, who turns red as the last dawn on the river Jordan, as JB sees it. Never mind. You go in there, JB, and wait.Here, you'll probably want something to read. The Chauffeur thrusts a book into JB's hands and nudges him into the bathroom and closes the door with a click. JB turns on the light. Looking in the mirror he sees he is afraid and then he sees himself seeing himself afraid, and on and on it goes. He looks at the book. It is Schopenhauer's World as Will and Representation. He puts it in the sink and turns on the faucet (cold) as if to drown the World. There is a long stretch of silence outside the bathroom. JB turns off the tap and picks up the wet book with his thumb and index, then opens it at a random page, and reads:
Truth is no prostitute, that throws herself away upon those who
do not desire her; she is rather so coy a beauty that he who sacri-
fices everything to her cannot even then be sure of her favour.
He puts the book back in the sink. Richy, you alright? He goes to open the door. You stay in there.A snarl. JB hears whispering, doesn't like it, turns off the bathroom light, opens the door a crack, and sniffs. The room is lit only by a tiny red night light near the bed. JB makes out two amorphous figures, and, as his eyes adjust, he sees the chauffeur sitting at the end of the bed, legs spread wide, Richy on his knees before him. But then JB sees the chauffeur's black net stockings and red lipstick that transfix him. His mind swirls; he retreats, pulls the sink plug. And then it's over. The chauffeur calls him out, hands JB a $5 note and a $10 note to Richy. They're back in the limo, driving out of the dark, screaming woods, heading home. The chauffeur seems ebullient, luck struck. Moons at the boys through the mirror, the three of them squeezed together in the frame as in some Erich Heckel portrait.
My little Dionysius and junior Apollo. [Hepauses, smiles like Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick.] So then, what was your take on Schopenhauer, JB?
Well, I'm still trying to process what happened back there. But you know"What did you say your name was?
Culp. Felix A. Culp. Call me Felix.
It struck me, Felix, that Truth seems to be pictured as a femme fatale an awful lot of the time.
Indeed, but what is a femme fatale, JB, if not a siren to our deepest desires?
Yes, but I suspect the lady doth protest too little.
Nonsense. Ravish the little lady and she'll sing all the truth you'll ever want to hear. Right, Felicity?
They exchange looks.
Anybody got a piece of gum?
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