Date: Sun, 2 Mar 2008 13:17:21 -0800 (PST) From: Matt Wess Subject: The Color Red: Part Three The police make us hang around - interrogating us about the body. All of us, the group that met in the coffee shop that is, tell the police exactly the same thing: we were sitting in the shop, heard the car backfire, Lucinda runs out, opens up the driver's door and the body falls out. The police are not exactly satisfied with out testimony, but they have no other choice but to let us go. August and I return to the Velvet Lounge almost immediately - as instructed by Lucinda. It is clear to me that she runs the show. The car has been confiscated - so we travel on foot, and once August pulls open the heavy steel door, and once we are securely inside he lets out a string of curses. We're standing in the lobby of the Velvet Lounge - our home - many people's home - which doubles as a whore house in my opinion. The lobby is hardly a lobby, just a large gutted room, musty, with water dripping somewhere off in the distance. "Damnit, Jacob," he says to me as we climb the stairs. "That plan tonight was fool proof - this does not bode well for the group you met today." "Why do you say that?" I ask (noting that the young couple is no longer making out in the corner of the staircase - I am oddly disappointed). "Because that means - we have a snitch in our group." We reach our floor - the third floor - and make our way down the crowded hallway. Sultry, smooth jazz tones filter through the heavy summer air. Tenants are stretched out on old sofas that line the hallway. Some are wearing clothes, some are not. Jean Jacques for instance - is not. He's completely nude like I saw him in this morning - his uncut penis dangling between his legs. But I try not to focus on the parts below his belt area - just on his face and the girl in panties squeezed next to him, asleep. "Jay-cub," he says in a strained tone, "It eez too hot." I nod in agreement, swallow heavily, and follow August to the end of the hall where our room is. Deborah, the middle aged sex addict, is still sitting alone on her chair, legs crossed. She is smoking yet another cigarette and watches August and I retreat into the bedroom. She does not say a word to us. Once inside the room - August peels off his shirt - and for the first time I notice that he does have a pretty well shaped body. I reason that during today's society and living at Velvet Lounge for so long permits him time to work out frequently. "It's been awhile since that bed has been occupied by a roommate," he says pointedly towards my bed, plopping down on his own. I suspect him to eventually talk about what just happened this afternoon, but I do not pressure him. I slowly sit down on my own bed, facing him. Our bedroom is small. A rickety old night stand that slopes to the right is the only thing that separates our beds. We share the same dresser - he has the top two drawers - I have the bottom. When we sit on the edge of our beds - our knees are practically touching. "Nobody wants to live here, huh?" I inquire. August shrugs. "People are sometimes turned off - instead of turned on - by the open sexual actions and nudity. I'm guessing it doesn't bother you - otherwise you wouldn't be here." "This place is something of a razz," I say, leaning forward. "But it's the only place I got." "Yeah, what's your story, anyway?" August asks - getting up from his bed, he heads towards the dresser. "Yesterday you just show up here - looking for shelter like a fucking orphan." He pauses before continuing to search through one of his drawers. "Of course - nowadays most people are searching for shelter - but it is 1940 - we should be heading up now." I wait until he finds what he is looking for - a bottle of whiskey - before I give him the answer. "I lost my parents during the 30's," I start out solemnly, watching August pull the cork out with his teeth. He takes a swig and hands it over. I take it, though I am not a huge whiskey fan, but the thought of my parent's death causes me to take a swig as well - wincing as the burning whiskey scorches my throat. "The devastated economy was too much for them - they were both unemployed - and no one was hiring," I continue, handing over the bottle. August takes it, saying, "Sorry to hear that - how'd you find out about this place?" I lie back in bed - the whiskey still burning my throat - and fold my hands behind my head. The ceiling fan is spinning lazily. "I saved enough money to make one bus trip from Philadelphia to New York City - once here, I mindlessly followed this one good looking girl - and she came here. It was pouring down rain - I needed shelter." I sit up - my head spinning slightly, saying, "That's the basics - now what was this afternoon all about?" August rolls his eyes - takes a large gulp - and shakes his head. When I decline his offer for a second drink - he places the cork back in the top and shakes his head. "That's a whole different story - which I would rather not get into." He stands and crosses to the dresser, where he replaces the whiskey. "Well, that's not fair. Level with me - I did with you." He turns from the dresser and meets my eyes, his hand resting on his bare chest. "War is approaching, Jacob. It's already broken out over in Europe - it's only a matter of time before America becomes involved." I sit perched on the bed, "Ya think so?" I ask eagerly. "Most definitely - in some parts of the country it already has. Traitors, Jacob. Supporters of what is going on in Germany. Some of them among us here in this very city." "And that's what you were going after tonight, huh? A traitor?" I let out a low whistle. "Here I thought it was going to be a trip to any remaining speakeasies. Then what was the body all about? And that letter?" "The guy in the car was one of the traitors," August says. He sits back down across from me, looking as solemn as I had when discussing my parents - if not more solemn. "So long as it's one of them that died and not one of us," I say optimistically, but August is shaking his head full of brown hair. "But that's not the point - they were somehow onto our plan - and undoubtedly that note was some kind of threat that next time one of us in the group will be dead. I'll have to send Lucinda a telegram asking her our next plan of action." He lies back on his bed and before long drifts into a nap, snoring softly. However, I'm still awake. Thinking about what I had told August earlier - I said to him that I had followed an attractive girl over to here - when it had really been a guy. During that time it was also night time - but I'm pretty sure it had been August I was attracted to and followed to the Velvet Lounge. For now, though, I decide to stick with my story of the attractive girl. LATER THAT NIGHT, August and I share a dinner in a nearby cafe‚. August has a few dollars saved up - so he pays, I tell him that I owe him one. The lighting is minimal - the walls are paneled with dark mahogany wood and there are various framed photos of the victorious World War One around the joint. While looking at them, I say, "You think this war is going to be a second world war?" August looks up from lighting his cigarette - the light fixture sitting between us on the table casts dull rays on his sharp face features. "Certainly looks that way," he responds, bringing the lighted match up to the cigarette. "You going to enlist if it happens?" "Ab-so-lute-ly." He leans forward, saying, "The way I see it, Jacob, I've got nothing going for me here. My folks are with your folks - I'm old enough - and I don't have a honey that's going to weep over my departure." "What can I get for you gentleman," a female voice suddenly sounds from above us. August and I look up in unison. A waitress - in her late twenties, early thirties - is standing before us with her notepad out, pen at the ready. August speaks up, "I'll just take a cheeseburger and water." She doesn't write it down, just swivels her eyes in my direction, "And what about you?" I feel like I'm being put on the spot, so I quickly mutter, "I'll have the same," while handing back the menu. August brushes his forelock of brown hair away from his eyes, saying, "The same? Are you a conformist?" "What would you say if I told you I'm just a cheeseburger kind of guy?" He blows a puff of smoke out to the side. "I'd say that makes you more of a damn conformist. But who am I to say, if I didn't conform to Lucinda's beliefs I wouldn't be part of her group." "Lucinda started the group?" "She claims it's what her father, who died during the first war, would have wanted. Her mother was a flapper girl during the 20's - did you know that?" I shake my head "no" and accept the water from the waitress. "Then again," I say, sipping the water and peering over at August, "There's a lot I don't know about her. I could have guessed, though. She has that baby vamp personality, risque‚ almost." August leans back comfortably - and while doing so - the warmth of his leg brushes up against mine and lingers there for what seems like an eternity, but was probably a mere few seconds. Our eyes meet briefly and a sense of arousal spreads through me, but the moment of bliss passes quickly. August drops his eyes, pulls away his leg, and says, "Well - you have no idea just how risque‚ things can get around here." WE RETURN TO the Velvet Lounge much later in the night. For the first time within a few days I actually no longer feel a sense of everlasting hunger. I continue to promise to August that I owe him, but he merely waves my words away. The night is warm and comfortable, which contrasts with the always dank, dark, cool atmosphere of the Lounge as August throws back the heavy steel entrance door. We start on the topic about the "attractive girl" I followed here the other night. August is asking me one hundred questions about her physical attributes, suggesting that if I remember correctly he could find her and hook us up. I make up a woman in my mind, saying, "Oh - she's about my height, black hair, green eyes, polite face, large chest...maybe could pass as a flapper girl." August scrunches up his face - "That don't sound like anyone I know of in this joint." I allow the subject to be dropped as we reach our floor - the third floor. Not many people are lying around - it is cooler in here now, and approaching one in the morning. A few people are sitting around playing bridge and Deborah is sitting alone in her chair - legs crossed, foot bouncing, cigarette dangling from her fingers. "I'll be waiting, sugars," she says to the pair of us in her sultry tone. "Twenty bucks for both of you at once." I don't bother to ask August again if he actually plans to follow through with his promise he made with Deborah to screw her, because the moment we're in the bedroom he strips down to his briefs and slides into his own bed. "What-a-day," he groans. "I'll send that telegram to Lucinda first thing tomorrow," he continues more to himself than to me. I'm undressing slowly - sliding off my shirt - unbuckling my belt - unzipping my pants - and allowing them to just drop down to my ankles, leaving me in my briefs. All the time I watch in the cracked mirror to see if August flips over to take a peek, but he does not; he remains on his side facing the wall. I flip off the light and crawl between the sheets. But I feel restless - unable to sleep - turned on for some unexplainable reason. I lay on my back for awhile - listening to the sound of movement around the Lounge - mindlessly watching the ceiling fan twirl. Finally, around two in the morning, I hear Deborah's chair scratch the floor as she stands up. Seconds later - a door shuts. Propelled by an unknown force, I slide out of bed and creep to the door, stepping lightly so that the floor does not squeak beneath my weight. The door knob is cool to touch and wobbly and squeaks a tad as I twist and gently open the door to the hallway. The hallway light is on as it always is around the clock - but the hallway itself is abandoned. I check over my shoulder - the lump under the sheets signifies that August is still asleep - still facing the wall. Without bothering to put on clothes - I slip out into the hallway in my briefs. I consider at least putting pants on - but I reason that others walk around nude - so what would be the big deal if I walk around in my briefs - even with my semi-hard on noticeable? My bare feet press against the coarse wood floorboards. I am still stepping lightly, trying not to create noticeable squeaks and squeals from the floor. There is little action going on in the third floor. I'm not sure what I am searching for, but my sexual energy propels my forward and when I reach the staircase at the end of the hall - I walk up to the railing, looking up, then down, trying to decide which way to go. I decide to go up. It's dark in the cool, wet stairwell. The smell of urine reaches my nostrils. When I reach the top landing - the fourth floor - the smell has subsided a bit. I unconsciously adjust the grip my briefs have around my legs and upon withdrawing my fingers from underneath the fabric it makes a sharp 'thwap' sound against my skin. I have never been down any other hallway in the Velvet Lounge except my own. The fourth floor hallway is just about the same and mundane as ever: old sofas lining the walls, peeling wallpaper, a drippy faucet in the bathroom, about seven or eight bedroom doors, all of which are shut. I move silently down the hallway - stepping lightly - listening for the sounds of groaning or of love making on the other side of the walls. But by the time I reach the bathroom - the midway point - and only have four more doors to walk by, I have heard nothing. To make my trip worth it - I slip into the bathroom (which looks exactly like the bathroom on the third floor and I could only assume is co-ed as well) and stand in front of the mirror adjusting the grip my briefs have on me once again. "That pair of underwear doesn't fit you very well, does it?" a familiar voice says. I am completely alarmed, spinning on the spot, heart thumping, my face flooding with the color red in embarrassment. August is leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom - also standing in his blue briefs, arms folded across his bare chest. When I do not respond, he continues, "All I am saying is that mine are tight, but fits comfortably and yours are tighter and we're the same age, same height, same weight - so probably the same size underwear - I assume." I finally find my tongue. "August I..." He holds up his hand to silence me. "I know what you are doing...everyone does it. Hell, I still do it. But the fourth floor is not the place to be looking, fresh. Anyone knows that." He waves his hand, indicating that I should follow him. "C'mon, kid. I'll show you what you want to see." I leave the bathroom, adjusting my underwear one last time and noting, yes, August's briefs do have firm, yet comfortable grip on his tight rear end.