schwanz. Kong is famous. He even has his club groupies. They wear chauffeur’s caps and follow him around.”
“Okay. I mean I actually know what you’re saying.”
“Ah ha! So you’ve seen the caged beast for yourself? El Grande. The big gorilla. Please do tell us. From personal experience, I assume.”
“His robe was open.”
“Uhhhh. So it’s true! You’ve seen the beast.”
“I guess it is. The man does have one giant cock.”
Che-Che giggled all the way to Eighty-sixth Street.
When we got to the movie my client demanded that I go in and watch the film with her and Dennis. I paid one of the outside ushers fifty bucks to watch the big Benz limo and make sure it was out front at the curb when the show let out.
Che-Che bought me popcorn and Gummi Bears and a box of Milk Duds. The large size. We sat in the middle seats in the back row with Dennis on her left and me on her right.
Before the film started, the young director, who was dressed in a too-tight black turtleneck, ratty blue jeans, and Dominick Donne–shaped black horn-rimmed glasses, stood by the screen holding a mic, introducing the cast and acknowledging his film-school mentors and each of the seven or eight executive producers and everybody else he could think of.
I figured that I might be in for a long ride so I decided to take a squirt and get a refill on the popcorn.
In the men’s room after my piss I had a quick smoke and finished the last of the pint in my pocket, then dropped one of my remaining stash of Xanax from my stay in the hospital. I felt smooth and under control. After that I went to the candy counter and got a refill on the ten-dollar box of buttered popcorn.
In the movie Che-Che was playing the slutty girlfriend of the lead man’s business partner. A five-minute scene. She was standing at a Vegas crap table heckling the guy throwing the dice. The performance was okay. Believable.
When the theater lights went up everyone clapped for the director and the lead actors and then, in turn, the supporting cast. When beautiful, tall Che-Che stood up and took her bow every man in the theater’s eyes were on her.
As people began to leave, I was setting my popcorn box down from my lap when I noticed a foot-wide dark stain on the crotch of my blue chauffeur’s pants. The “butter flavoring” goop had drained through the bottom of the box and darkened my slacks.
On the way out, now wearing my chauffeur’s cap and feeling pissed off and feisty, I stopped at the candy counter and showed the teenage kid in the striped jacket the bottom of the box and my stained suit pants while Che-Che and Dennis stood by watching.
The candy guy couldn’t have cared less. “Hey, that’s too bad,” he grunted, faking a look of detached bullshit concern. “It happens.”
“It happens!” I said.
“Yeah, tough break,” says candy stripes. “My advice: Use more napkins next time, is all.” Then he went back to stacking paper cups.
I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done by a long shot. “Look, kid, this is crap!” I snarled. “I’m from out of town. I work in this suit. I’ve got one pair of pants with me. Now they’re screwed!”
Candy boy refused any eye contact and continued replenishing the fucking cup supply from a big cardboard box. When he finally looked back and realized I wasn’t going away he stood upright and faced me. “On behalf of the staff and management of Clearsky Theaters, I want to extend our heartfelt apologies, sir,” the wiseguy punk parroted from some jiveass “How to Handle Complaints” pamphlet.
“Fuck you!” I yelled.
“Calm down, Bruno,” Che-Che whispered. “This is no big deal. I’ll buy you six goddamn blue suits tomorrow.”
I ignored her. “Where’s the manager?” I demanded.
The little shit behind the counter was apparently a master at treating people with blasé nonchalance. To him I was another stack of paper cups.
“Look buddy,” he whispered, “just cool it. I hear what you’re sayin’. Okay?”
“I’m not your buddy, asshole!” I said. “I’m YOUR CUSTOMER.”
His new expression said it all. The kid rolled his eyes in an aw, fuck me, I got a real piece-a-work here look. He walked away down the counter, then threw the words back toward me over his shoulder. “Mr. Aftar went home,” he said. “He leaves at ten o’clock just before the start of the last show. Sorreee. He’ll be in tomorrow at eleven.”
Now