This short story was originally published by PulpSmith (New York, Spring 1987). This is one of many journals no longer in existence. In this story the main character discovers that cutting the lawn doesn't have to be boring.
Gypsy Feet...a short story by Michael Beres
The evening air was thick and humid as I paced back and forth pushing the ancient sputtering lawn mower I'd purchased at a garage sale several years earlier. The two-cycle engine drowned out all sounds except when I met my eastern neighbor near the property line and the engine of his equally-ancient two-cycle mower resonated with mine. Like two caterpillars working opposite halves of a giant leaf, we chewed away at the uneven crowns of our lawns. In the orange dusk I could see my sneakers turning green with the juice of this feast bestowed upon us by unusually heavy August rains following a spring and summer of heat and drought that had kept us indoors with air conditioners humming.
Laszlo wore no shoes, no socks, and I imagined how vulnerable it must feel to be barefoot so near the whirling steel blade. Not that the canvas and thin rubber of my sneakers would protect me if I slipped while pulling the mower back. On the rear deck of my mower, faded stenciled lettering said, "KEEP FEET AND HANDS FROM UNDER MOWER." And I always do.
Both Laszlo and I finished our front yards at the same time and moved to our back yards. As I passed beneath the crabapple tree in the center of my yard, the toe-sized, grounded apples buzzed like insects as they disintegrated beneath my mower. The juice from the sour, drought-stricken apples spraying from the mower outlet glistened orange in the setting sun. A smell like apple cider overpowered the chlorophyll smell and made me stop to sneeze every few rows. Half way down the back yard I saw Laszlo whip a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and blow his nose.
Laszlo wore baggy blue jeans rolled up to mid-calf. His white tee shirt clung to his belly, darkening damp at his navel. Laszlo's crown of black hair had diminished in size, matting down with sweat as he neared the back of his lot. And his face, especially his Eastern European nose, seemed to grow larger. Only last week, after we had both finished cutting our lawns at the same time, did I find out that Laszlo and I shared common ancestry. Until last week we had never really spoken. Two years in the same housing development and we had known more about one another through our wives until last Wednesday evening when Laszlo offered me a cold beer after our lawns were honed flat.
And now we were synchronized. We had agreed to meet again one week later. This time I would supply the beer. This time our wives were forewarned. Our babies--Laszlo's two girls and my son--were by now tucked beneath cool sheets in the air-conditioned vaults of our matching split levels, the babies lulled to sleep by the muted hum of our machines.
At the western edge of my lot I spun the mower around to head east. I had assumed Laszlo would be finished blowing his nose and would be pushing his mower again. But Laszlo was gulping liquid from a paper cup. And halfway up the lawn, heading back toward the house, was Laszlo's wife, Sheila. She was wearing black shorts stretched tight by her wide hips, and a black halter top too small for her breasts so that even in the orange dusk the sides and tops of her breasts puffed out white. Her breasts jiggled, straining at the confinement of the halter top as if attempting to mock the setting sun, as if straining to risk touching the dangerous rays of the sun while it made its retreat. Sheila was not obese, in fact her waist was quite thin. But her legs and arms were muscular, and the straps of her halter top dug deeply into her wide shoulders. My wife told me Sheila had once tried out for the Olympics. Shot-put. Sheila's breasts were like shot-put balls--heavy.
As she walked on the upgrade of the yard, Sheila waved to me and smiled a "hi" with her lips. Though Sheila and Laszlo and I all shared a Hungarian ancestry, her face seemed almost Spanish, perhaps a Turkish influence. Her long black hair was pinned up for the hot weather. By the time I let go of the vibrating lawn mower handle and waved back, Sheila was climbing the back stairs, her tummy thickened by two childbirths vibrating with each step. Then she disappeared inside.
Laszlo finished the drink Sheila had delivered, crumpled the paper cup, stuffed it into his pocket and began mowing again. We approached the lot line near the same point and I paused to give Laszlo room to turn around. But Laszlo stopped, looked up toward his house, looked back to me, then winked. Laszlo smiled and winked at me, one of his bushy eyebrows raised, before turning his mower and continuing on his way.
As I continued pushing my mower back and forth I wondered what Laszlo's winking at me had meant. That he had seen me admiring Sheila's vast body and that he approved? Was he saying, with the raising of his eyebrow, that, yes, a man can sink into Sheila in the dark when she spreads those powerful legs about him? What would I have done if Laszlo had stared at my wife?
Laszlo wore no shoes, no socks, and I imagined how vulnerable it must feel to be barefoot so near the whirling steel blade. Not that the canvas and thin rubber of my sneakers would protect me if I slipped while pulling the mower back. On the rear deck of my mower, faded stenciled lettering said, "KEEP FEET AND HANDS FROM UNDER MOWER." And I always do.
Both Laszlo and I finished our front yards at the same time and moved to our back yards. As I passed beneath the crabapple tree in the center of my yard, the toe-sized, grounded apples buzzed like insects as they disintegrated beneath my mower. The juice from the sour, drought-stricken apples spraying from the mower outlet glistened orange in the setting sun. A smell like apple cider overpowered the chlorophyll smell and made me stop to sneeze every few rows. Half way down the back yard I saw Laszlo whip a huge white handkerchief out of his pocket and blow his nose.
Laszlo wore baggy blue jeans rolled up to mid-calf. His white tee shirt clung to his belly, darkening damp at his navel. Laszlo's crown of black hair had diminished in size, matting down with sweat as he neared the back of his lot. And his face, especially his Eastern European nose, seemed to grow larger. Only last week, after we had both finished cutting our lawns at the same time, did I find out that Laszlo and I shared common ancestry. Until last week we had never really spoken. Two years in the same housing development and we had known more about one another through our wives until last Wednesday evening when Laszlo offered me a cold beer after our lawns were honed flat.
And now we were synchronized. We had agreed to meet again one week later. This time I would supply the beer. This time our wives were forewarned. Our babies--Laszlo's two girls and my son--were by now tucked beneath cool sheets in the air-conditioned vaults of our matching split levels, the babies lulled to sleep by the muted hum of our machines.
At the western edge of my lot I spun the mower around to head east. I had assumed Laszlo would be finished blowing his nose and would be pushing his mower again. But Laszlo was gulping liquid from a paper cup. And halfway up the lawn, heading back toward the house, was Laszlo's wife, Sheila. She was wearing black shorts stretched tight by her wide hips, and a black halter top too small for her breasts so that even in the orange dusk the sides and tops of her breasts puffed out white. Her breasts jiggled, straining at the confinement of the halter top as if attempting to mock the setting sun, as if straining to risk touching the dangerous rays of the sun while it made its retreat. Sheila was not obese, in fact her waist was quite thin. But her legs and arms were muscular, and the straps of her halter top dug deeply into her wide shoulders. My wife told me Sheila had once tried out for the Olympics. Shot-put. Sheila's breasts were like shot-put balls--heavy.
As she walked on the upgrade of the yard, Sheila waved to me and smiled a "hi" with her lips. Though Sheila and Laszlo and I all shared a Hungarian ancestry, her face seemed almost Spanish, perhaps a Turkish influence. Her long black hair was pinned up for the hot weather. By the time I let go of the vibrating lawn mower handle and waved back, Sheila was climbing the back stairs, her tummy thickened by two childbirths vibrating with each step. Then she disappeared inside.
Laszlo finished the drink Sheila had delivered, crumpled the paper cup, stuffed it into his pocket and began mowing again. We approached the lot line near the same point and I paused to give Laszlo room to turn around. But Laszlo stopped, looked up toward his house, looked back to me, then winked. Laszlo smiled and winked at me, one of his bushy eyebrows raised, before turning his mower and continuing on his way.
As I continued pushing my mower back and forth I wondered what Laszlo's winking at me had meant. That he had seen me admiring Sheila's vast body and that he approved? Was he saying, with the raising of his eyebrow, that, yes, a man can sink into Sheila in the dark when she spreads those powerful legs about him? What would I have done if Laszlo had stared at my wife?
Several years earlier, prior to the first summer of drought, I remembered seeing Laszlo looking at Janice. It had been a hot Saturday in spring. Janice had put on one of her string bikinis--the red one--and lay in the yard accumulating a tan as well as a dose of ultraviolet radiation everyone, including me, had warned her about. I had been in the garage and noticed Laszlo sitting barefoot on the back porch drinking beer. Except to lift the can to his mouth, Laszlo had not moved. When Janice turned over on her stomach and reached around with her thin arms to undo the strap of her bikini, Laszlo began drinking faster, pulling one can after another from the six pack and drinking while he apparently admired Janice whose legs were as thick as Sheila's arms. Instead of waving to Laszlo or joining him, I had remained hidden in my garage, the voyeur spying on the voyeur. And that night, even though Janice complained of a sunburn, I had insisted on making love. Watching Laszlo gulp beer after beer while staring at Janice's flesh, covered only by a thin red triangle on her buttocks, had aroused me. Janice--spinal cord showing on her back, breasts so small that the bikini top need only cover her nipples--had seemed vulnerable in the yard. And for weeks I had fantasized.
In the fantasy Janice has fallen asleep in the yard and, thinking she is in bed, has turned over without re-tying her bikini top. She stretches her arms above her head the way she always does in sleep. It is late afternoon, then dusk, then evening--time sped up for my fantasy. And as the darkness closes in, Laszlo creeps nearer. First hiding behind the bushes between the houses. Then creeping along the back of my house. Then out into the yard until he is upon Janice and begins loosening the ties at both sides of her triangular bikini bottom. Of course in fantasies people aren't themselves. So when she awakens, instead of screaming and striking out with her long, sharp fingernails, Janice wraps the blanket about her and leads Laszlo into my dark garage where she re-spreads the blanket upon the oil-stained cement floor amid the chirps of hidden crickets. Janice and Laszlo making love, Laszlo's grunts and Janice's moans hushing the crickets while my sharp-edged tools--rasp files and screwdrivers and crowbars--witness the lovemaking. In the fantasy Janice's bikini bottom is hung neatly on the vise mounted to the edge of my workbench.
I was mowing faster than Laszlo. I had sped up to avoid confronting him at the lot line. Perhaps when Laszlo winked he had been thinking about Janice. Or perhaps it was simply a sign of brotherhood, a man acknowledging the sensuality of his wife. Sheila was sensual. And there was so much of her. Perhaps tonight as we drank beer Laszlo would speak of Sheila, fill in all the ramifications of the smile and the wink and that damned raised eyebrow.
I finished first. As I carried a six pack from the kitchen I could see Janice's head above the back of the sofa, her brown hair shiny beneath the lamp turned up three notches, two-hundred-fifty watts. My wife settled in for an evening of reading, a thick, dog-eared romance novel clutched in her hands. A novel in which a strange mysterious man, for whom the heroine has longed, returns after years in strange lands. A Gypsy with thick black eyebrows who tilts the heroine's head back and threatens to eat her neck.
Janice spoke without turning around, without closing her book. "Going over to Laszlo's to get pickled again?"
I paused at the front door. "No. I buy tonight, so we'll be right out here on the front porch. And we didn't get pickled last week. We're simply thirsty from cutting the back forty."
She turned the page in her novel. "Please keep the commotion down to a mild roar. Sheila said you two woke up her kids last week."
The outside air warmed me, took away the chill I had gotten in the air-conditioned house. The sky was almost completely dark. Above, the moon shining through the haze was bloated and blurry. I opened a beer and took a mouthful, allowing the beer to warm before swallowing. Next door Laszlo's garage door was open, the light on. I could hear the rattling of rakes and shovels, Laszlo probably putting his lawn mower away.
In the fantasy Janice has fallen asleep in the yard and, thinking she is in bed, has turned over without re-tying her bikini top. She stretches her arms above her head the way she always does in sleep. It is late afternoon, then dusk, then evening--time sped up for my fantasy. And as the darkness closes in, Laszlo creeps nearer. First hiding behind the bushes between the houses. Then creeping along the back of my house. Then out into the yard until he is upon Janice and begins loosening the ties at both sides of her triangular bikini bottom. Of course in fantasies people aren't themselves. So when she awakens, instead of screaming and striking out with her long, sharp fingernails, Janice wraps the blanket about her and leads Laszlo into my dark garage where she re-spreads the blanket upon the oil-stained cement floor amid the chirps of hidden crickets. Janice and Laszlo making love, Laszlo's grunts and Janice's moans hushing the crickets while my sharp-edged tools--rasp files and screwdrivers and crowbars--witness the lovemaking. In the fantasy Janice's bikini bottom is hung neatly on the vise mounted to the edge of my workbench.
I was mowing faster than Laszlo. I had sped up to avoid confronting him at the lot line. Perhaps when Laszlo winked he had been thinking about Janice. Or perhaps it was simply a sign of brotherhood, a man acknowledging the sensuality of his wife. Sheila was sensual. And there was so much of her. Perhaps tonight as we drank beer Laszlo would speak of Sheila, fill in all the ramifications of the smile and the wink and that damned raised eyebrow.
I finished first. As I carried a six pack from the kitchen I could see Janice's head above the back of the sofa, her brown hair shiny beneath the lamp turned up three notches, two-hundred-fifty watts. My wife settled in for an evening of reading, a thick, dog-eared romance novel clutched in her hands. A novel in which a strange mysterious man, for whom the heroine has longed, returns after years in strange lands. A Gypsy with thick black eyebrows who tilts the heroine's head back and threatens to eat her neck.
Janice spoke without turning around, without closing her book. "Going over to Laszlo's to get pickled again?"
I paused at the front door. "No. I buy tonight, so we'll be right out here on the front porch. And we didn't get pickled last week. We're simply thirsty from cutting the back forty."
She turned the page in her novel. "Please keep the commotion down to a mild roar. Sheila said you two woke up her kids last week."
The outside air warmed me, took away the chill I had gotten in the air-conditioned house. The sky was almost completely dark. Above, the moon shining through the haze was bloated and blurry. I opened a beer and took a mouthful, allowing the beer to warm before swallowing. Next door Laszlo's garage door was open, the light on. I could hear the rattling of rakes and shovels, Laszlo probably putting his lawn mower away.
Last week, after talking about the weather and our jobs and various problems we had with the construction of our houses, was when I found out that Laszlo, too, was Hungarian. Both of us with grandparents who still spoke Hungarian to our parents. Last week we drank three or four beers each to the coincidence. Then, as always seems to happen after three or four beers, we spoke of our youth. Our parents conversing in Hungarian whenever they did not want the children to listen in. Our grandmothers' chicken soup. The traditional blessing of the Easter meal, baskets of ham and sausage and homemade cheese taken to church on Holy Saturday. The coincidences flowed from us until we began to wonder if we might be related. But my grandparents escaped from Budapest after the fifty-six revolt while Laszlo's grandparents came from a Hungarian farm village in the Ukraine, a village that was once part of Czechoslovakia, before the border was moved during World War II.
The light went out in the garage next door and Laszlo, his tee shirt grey in the moonlight, walked slowly over the lot line. Laszlo stopped on my driveway and alternately brushed the bottoms of his feet with his hands. Then he joined me on the porch, bowing before he sat down when I handed him a can of beer.
"Hogy-vagy, Steve?"
Hogy-vagy. How are you. The last time I had heard this was from my grandfather. My grandfather had taught me the greeting with its answer. Jol. Fine. A game between my grandfather and me, who could say hogy-vagy first.
"Jol, Laszlo."
Laszlo took a long drink of beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Very good, Steve. But please don't start talking to me in Hungarian because all I know besides that is Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."
"I don't know any more than that myself."
"Not even swear words?"
"No. Although there was a phrase my grandfather always used. I don't remember how it went in Hungarian, but whenever he said it my grandmother slapped his arm and mumbled something. My grandfather always said it when he was really angry at someone. Once, when I was about fifteen or sixteen, I asked my grandfather what it meant. I'd asked him before but he always declined. But that time he said he guessed I was old enough. The phrase meant, `Your feet are still inside your mother.'"
Laszlo looked down at his feet and laughed, a high-pitched laugh that I feared Janice would hear in the house. One beer and they're already cackling like old women spreading gossip.
We finished our first beers in silence and started two more. A pair of bicyclists rode by on the street, chains chattering. Tires screeched at the end of the block as a car took the corner too fast. A jet climbing away from Chicago thundered steadily overhead, the strobe lights at its wing tips in perfect synchronization. As the sound of the jet tapered off I could again hear the hum of the neighborhood air conditioners and the drone of trucks on the interstate a mile away. Except for the haze lit by the moon and the streetlights, the sky was dark.
Laszlo scratched his back, a loud scratching as though he were tearing through his shirt, as though he were tearing flesh. "Nice night to be traveling, Steve."
"Traveling?"
"Yes. Driving with the window open, a full tank of gas and a damp breeze blowing across your face. On a night like this I'd just like to drive. Maybe a couple hundred miles like I used to."
"You mean back in your cruising days?"
"No, after that, but before these damn electric cars. I mean driving a car that could get you somewhere fast, a car you wouldn't have to put on a charger every night, a car that growled like an animal. My wife never understood this desire to drive. She said it was the Gypsy in me. About once a week, when I couldn't stand being cooped up any more, I'd drive half the night. A couple years after we were married I drove halfway into Michigan on a Friday night." Laszlo took a quick sip of beer. "Sheila almost left me that time."
"What happened?"
"I called her from Michigan and told her I felt like driving around the lake."
"You drove around Lake Michigan in one night?"
"No. I slept at a rest stop and came back the next day. On the phone Sheila reminded me that our credit cards were topped out and wished me luck buying gas. Crazy, huh? If I'd had the money to fill the tank a couple times I'd have taken a thousand mile drive just for the hell of it." Laszlo was looking up at the moon, the tip of his nose glistening with perspiration.
I remembered the times I had purposely taken different routes on the way home from work to extend the trip. I remembered the evenings when Janice and I were dating. We would get on a road and drive, keep on driving just to see how far the road went. I remembered when I still lived with my parents. Even after I had been driving a couple of years my father would wonder how I could put fifty miles on the car when I went to the store for a gallon of milk.
"We should've become truck drivers, Laszlo."
"You mean I should've been one."
"No, we. Every time I see a cross-country trucker cruising along I imagine being up there in that cab with a stack of diesel fuel coupons and an interstate highway map spread out on the seat next to me."
"The highways are old and bumpy, Steve. Their kidneys go out on them and they get hemorrhoids."
I opened another beer for Laszlo and another for myself. The last two cans of the six pack were wet with condensation. "Finish up. I've got more in the fridge."
Laszlo placed his empty next to the others on the step below us. "I sure would like to be driving tonight. Everything else goes away when I'm behind the wheel. Nothing else counts except watching the road ahead. It's like being suspended in time and space. When I'm driving I never take a phone with me and nobody can make me talk or make me think about things I don't want to think about. You're lucky, Steve. At least you can drive to work."
I imagined Laszlo watching me leave for work then running barefoot across the lawn for a quick rendezvous with Janice. "Why don't you drive to work, Laszlo?"
"Are you kidding? Driving into the city every day isn't the same thing. It's just moving up a few feet every once in a while so the guy behind won't honk his horn. Besides, I tried it once and I can't make it on one charge unless I leave the air conditioner off. Driving in the old fossil-fuel days was something, especially at night. The cool air sucking into the engine, those old pistons humming. I always liked the way the smells outside changed when I drove at night. Sometimes different trees or a swamp or a smashed skunk. Damn! I'd sure as hell like to go somewhere!"
Laszlo's sudden outburst while I was sipping beer made me choke and he patted my back while I coughed. I imagined Janice hearing me cough and putting down her novel--the hero's nibbling of the heroine's throat interrupted. I imagined Janice coming to the door expecting to see a squad car pulling up, the cop telling us to settle down. But Janice was not at the door and there was no cop. When the stars of choking went away, I saw real stars again, faint stars and a dull moon not even worth howling at.
Laszlo continued patting my back. "Didn't mean to startle you, Steve. Sometimes I get carried away."
Carried away. Laszlo unable to control his passion when he sees Janice in her nightgown, its fabric made semi-opaque by the backlighting of the house. But Janice was still not there.
"It's okay, Laszlo. I'm okay now."
When I went into the house to get another six pack I was glad to see the television on, a news special on the break in the drought apparently turned up loud so Janice could hear it from the bathroom. She would not have heard me choking and, clearing beery flem from my throat, I escaped the cold house with the six pack unseen.
The light went out in the garage next door and Laszlo, his tee shirt grey in the moonlight, walked slowly over the lot line. Laszlo stopped on my driveway and alternately brushed the bottoms of his feet with his hands. Then he joined me on the porch, bowing before he sat down when I handed him a can of beer.
"Hogy-vagy, Steve?"
Hogy-vagy. How are you. The last time I had heard this was from my grandfather. My grandfather had taught me the greeting with its answer. Jol. Fine. A game between my grandfather and me, who could say hogy-vagy first.
"Jol, Laszlo."
Laszlo took a long drink of beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Very good, Steve. But please don't start talking to me in Hungarian because all I know besides that is Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."
"I don't know any more than that myself."
"Not even swear words?"
"No. Although there was a phrase my grandfather always used. I don't remember how it went in Hungarian, but whenever he said it my grandmother slapped his arm and mumbled something. My grandfather always said it when he was really angry at someone. Once, when I was about fifteen or sixteen, I asked my grandfather what it meant. I'd asked him before but he always declined. But that time he said he guessed I was old enough. The phrase meant, `Your feet are still inside your mother.'"
Laszlo looked down at his feet and laughed, a high-pitched laugh that I feared Janice would hear in the house. One beer and they're already cackling like old women spreading gossip.
We finished our first beers in silence and started two more. A pair of bicyclists rode by on the street, chains chattering. Tires screeched at the end of the block as a car took the corner too fast. A jet climbing away from Chicago thundered steadily overhead, the strobe lights at its wing tips in perfect synchronization. As the sound of the jet tapered off I could again hear the hum of the neighborhood air conditioners and the drone of trucks on the interstate a mile away. Except for the haze lit by the moon and the streetlights, the sky was dark.
Laszlo scratched his back, a loud scratching as though he were tearing through his shirt, as though he were tearing flesh. "Nice night to be traveling, Steve."
"Traveling?"
"Yes. Driving with the window open, a full tank of gas and a damp breeze blowing across your face. On a night like this I'd just like to drive. Maybe a couple hundred miles like I used to."
"You mean back in your cruising days?"
"No, after that, but before these damn electric cars. I mean driving a car that could get you somewhere fast, a car you wouldn't have to put on a charger every night, a car that growled like an animal. My wife never understood this desire to drive. She said it was the Gypsy in me. About once a week, when I couldn't stand being cooped up any more, I'd drive half the night. A couple years after we were married I drove halfway into Michigan on a Friday night." Laszlo took a quick sip of beer. "Sheila almost left me that time."
"What happened?"
"I called her from Michigan and told her I felt like driving around the lake."
"You drove around Lake Michigan in one night?"
"No. I slept at a rest stop and came back the next day. On the phone Sheila reminded me that our credit cards were topped out and wished me luck buying gas. Crazy, huh? If I'd had the money to fill the tank a couple times I'd have taken a thousand mile drive just for the hell of it." Laszlo was looking up at the moon, the tip of his nose glistening with perspiration.
I remembered the times I had purposely taken different routes on the way home from work to extend the trip. I remembered the evenings when Janice and I were dating. We would get on a road and drive, keep on driving just to see how far the road went. I remembered when I still lived with my parents. Even after I had been driving a couple of years my father would wonder how I could put fifty miles on the car when I went to the store for a gallon of milk.
"We should've become truck drivers, Laszlo."
"You mean I should've been one."
"No, we. Every time I see a cross-country trucker cruising along I imagine being up there in that cab with a stack of diesel fuel coupons and an interstate highway map spread out on the seat next to me."
"The highways are old and bumpy, Steve. Their kidneys go out on them and they get hemorrhoids."
I opened another beer for Laszlo and another for myself. The last two cans of the six pack were wet with condensation. "Finish up. I've got more in the fridge."
Laszlo placed his empty next to the others on the step below us. "I sure would like to be driving tonight. Everything else goes away when I'm behind the wheel. Nothing else counts except watching the road ahead. It's like being suspended in time and space. When I'm driving I never take a phone with me and nobody can make me talk or make me think about things I don't want to think about. You're lucky, Steve. At least you can drive to work."
I imagined Laszlo watching me leave for work then running barefoot across the lawn for a quick rendezvous with Janice. "Why don't you drive to work, Laszlo?"
"Are you kidding? Driving into the city every day isn't the same thing. It's just moving up a few feet every once in a while so the guy behind won't honk his horn. Besides, I tried it once and I can't make it on one charge unless I leave the air conditioner off. Driving in the old fossil-fuel days was something, especially at night. The cool air sucking into the engine, those old pistons humming. I always liked the way the smells outside changed when I drove at night. Sometimes different trees or a swamp or a smashed skunk. Damn! I'd sure as hell like to go somewhere!"
Laszlo's sudden outburst while I was sipping beer made me choke and he patted my back while I coughed. I imagined Janice hearing me cough and putting down her novel--the hero's nibbling of the heroine's throat interrupted. I imagined Janice coming to the door expecting to see a squad car pulling up, the cop telling us to settle down. But Janice was not at the door and there was no cop. When the stars of choking went away, I saw real stars again, faint stars and a dull moon not even worth howling at.
Laszlo continued patting my back. "Didn't mean to startle you, Steve. Sometimes I get carried away."
Carried away. Laszlo unable to control his passion when he sees Janice in her nightgown, its fabric made semi-opaque by the backlighting of the house. But Janice was still not there.
"It's okay, Laszlo. I'm okay now."
When I went into the house to get another six pack I was glad to see the television on, a news special on the break in the drought apparently turned up loud so Janice could hear it from the bathroom. She would not have heard me choking and, clearing beery flem from my throat, I escaped the cold house with the six pack unseen.
Six empties were lined up on the step. An old gas-powered station wagon with a bad muffler roared past. Then the street was silent again. No cars. No bicycles. A mosquito buzzed in my ear. Laszlo rubbed his feet together and slapped his arm. A jet roared overhead then vanished like an exhale. Laszlo belched.
"Steve?"
Something coming. A question. Just like in bed when Janice says, "Steve?" Perhaps now Laszlo would say something about his wink, about Sheila.
"Yes?"
"You have any vacation left?"
"A couple days. Why?"
"Let's go somewhere."
Wonderful. Last week we talked about the drought, the sea level, the ozone layer, the new UV resistant siding and glass used in the construction of our houses, our lives in general, and now that the mundane was out of the way, Laszlo sounded as if he were proposing to me. Too much beer. The alcohol journeying to the skin. A neighborhood full of drunken mosquitoes and my neighbor asking if I'll go away with him. I could already imagine the neighborhood gossip. Steve and Laszlo, the Gypsy twins, running away together. Did they go on a fishing trip? No, they said they wanted to go for a long ride.
"What say, Steve? Just a two-day trip around Lake Michigan. I've got some great maps."
"Maps?"
Laszlo sat forward, excited now. "Yeah. I sent away for them. Detailed county maps of Michigan and Wisconsin. We can take all the back roads. We can use my van. I figured out I can put some gas cans in the back and we'll have a range of over five-hundred miles. That means we can stay on back roads for most of the trip. How about it? We can leave early in the morning when it's still dark. Nothing like driving at dawn, watching the old sun come up. We don't have to spend anything except for gas. We'll bring along food and I've got a tent. We'll camp out half way around and charge our batteries way up north where you can see the stars and maybe even the aurora." Laszlo was staring up at the moon. "If it's a cool night we'll build a campfire."
Sure, I liked to drive once in a while. But a ride around the lake with Laszlo? "I don't know, Laszlo. Janice and I planned a trip to her folks' place this summer. I need the vacation days to tie in with a weekend. We were going to take the train."
Laszlo leaned back slowly, the excitement gone. But he kept staring at the moon and taking sips from his beer. Staring like he had stared at Janice a long time ago before the drought. "Where do your in-laws live?"
"Missouri."
"A hot place," said Laszlo, sounding quite depressed. "But even that would have been a nice drive. All my relatives live around here. Sheila's relatives too. I should've married a woman from outside the old neighborhood. The whole family, both sides, Hunkies. What nationality is your wife?"
"English and Danish."
Laszlo downed his beer and opened another, the second six pack almost gone, vaporizing into the hot night with the smells of cut grass and sweat gone sour. A cricket chirped at the side of the porch. My head felt slightly swollen, a comfortable dizzy feeling.
"Ah," said Laszlo, "Danish pastry."
Ah, indeed. Perhaps now the subject would change, a discussion of mates would ensue, I'd find out a little more about Sheila, about Laszlo's wink on the back lawn.
"Your wife doesn't look Hungarian, Laszlo."
"She is. One big hunk. But your wife--ah yes--your wife is very pretty. And so petite. I just love that word. Petite."
I recalled Sheila climbing the back porch steps, the jiggling of flesh, no bones to poke one's ribs. "Your wife is also very pretty, Laszlo." As soon as I said this I wondered how we would sound to a passerby. I wondered if we were drunk.
"Thank you," said Laszlo.
"You're welcome," I replied.
My head began to feel very pleasant, then suddenly very dizzy. I had to relieve myself and when I stood I held onto the railing for balance. "I've got to take a leak."
Laszlo grabbed my arm and stood. "So do I. Let's water the bushes."
We relieved ourselves in the darkness between our houses. I felt like having more beer. Just one or two more. But instead of going back to my front porch, Laszlo held my arm and pulled me toward his back yard.
"Come," he whispered. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Just come."
Laszlo led me around his back porch toward a light coming from a window on the lower level. As we rounded the porch I could see that the light came from the thick glass-block window of the lower level bathroom. And, since Laszlo's house was identical to mine, I knew that below us behind the thick distortion of glass was the shower stall.
I pulled my arm away. "Where the hell are we going?"
But Laszlo renewed his grip, held my wrist tight with his sweaty hand. "Just come, Steve."
The nearby air conditioner compressor behind Laszlo's house was off and I could hear the splash of water in the shower. Behind the glass-block window I could see flesh-colored movement. I tried to stay back but Laszlo was too strong for me. I almost fell when he jerked me toward the window.
"Laszlo! Let go!" I whispered as loud as I could, trying to sound angry, though I was staring at the distorted shape in the shower. "I'm going! You stay if you want! I'll wait for you!"
Laszlo squeezed my wrist harder. "Shh! She'll hear you."
Then Laszlo bent forward, tapped on the frosted jalousie insert in the center of the glass blocks and I saw a hand move close to the glass. Then the window cranked open and I could see Sheila. She cranked the window all the way open and I could see down into the shower stall. I could see Sheila's huge breasts glistening white under the glaring bathroom fluorescent light. I could see her black pubic hair matted down wet. I could see her wide hips. I stood to the side where the inside light would not illuminate my face.
Still holding my wrist, Laszlo bent forward, his face near the window. "Hello, my pet. It is only I."
Sheila was washing her shoulders with a violet washcloth and I had a momentary thought of violet church statue coverings during Lent when I was a boy. Sheila's hair was pinned up but wet around the edges, hair clinging to her neck and temples. I felt a trickle of perspiration on my neck. Sheila brought her face close to the window, stuck out her tongue, splashed water in Laszlo's face, giggled and cranked the window shut.
When Laszlo let go of my wrist I realized I was no longer pulling away. I stepped quickly away from the window and ran between the houses where my own air conditioner compressor hummed behind the bushes.
Had Laszlo winked earlier in the evening because he had planned this all along? To show off his wife? Or perhaps Laszlo was insanely jealous and now the retribution would come.
"Jesus Christ, Laszlo! Why the hell did you do that?" Even as I said this I was still able to visualize the detail of the violet washcloth and of Sheila's wet skin, her body seen from above seeming grotesque, larger than she really was. "Jesus Christ! I said she was pretty! You didn't have to show me!"
I walked quickly back to the front of my house. Laszlo caught up to me on the front porch. He held my arm, stopped me from going into the house. His hand was cold.
"But I did have to show you, Steve. Sit down. Please sit down. I won't do anything else. I promise."
We sat silently for a few minutes, both of us finishing our last can of beer. On the way back to my front porch I had wondered if Laszlo was dangerous. I had feared an attack from behind. Perhaps I had run, I couldn't remember. Laszlo was leaning back against the porch steps again, looking at the moon. A drunken act, that's all it was. Tomorrow Laszlo would not remember the details. Just so he remembered that he dragged me behind the house.
Laszlo took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. Then he looked at the moon again. "I wonder if it was like this in Gypsy times, Steve."
"Like what?"
"Our ancestors--not the farmers, the ones before them. Camping after a day of travel. Wagons and tents. A campfire. The moon. The men exchanging stories late into the night. The children asleep. The women preparing themselves. A clannish people. No secrets between them."
"What are you getting at, Laszlo?"
"I have to confess, Steve." Laszlo looked down, his hands folded on his knees as if in prayer. "I spied on your wife, Steve. And I'm sorry. I looked in your window at your wife."
I visualized our bedroom drapes. Thick and always closed with sufficient overlap at night. Janice never walking into other parts of the house undressed. Except in the shower, the lower level shower in the back of the house just like Laszlo's.
"Where?"
"I spied on your wife in the shower." Laszlo touched my knee and lowered his head. Cowering. "But the window was never open so I didn't really see that well."
He never saw that well? "You mean you did it more than once?"
Laszlo inched forward, moved down one step so that he was lower than me. He took his hand from my knee, folded his hands again. "Yes. I have to get it out, Steve. Many times. Once I saw the light on and spied in the window for a long time before I realized it was you in the shower. I'm so sorry."
I didn't know what to say. I tried to imagine how Janice must have looked through the distorted glass blocks. Thin arms and small white breasts flashing with her rapid movements. Never very long because Janice showered quickly in order to conserve water. What could I say? I couldn't very well hit Laszlo for seeing a few distorted flesh-colored images.
"Well, I guess it's okay, Laszlo. I guess as long as you're sorry."
I was concerned that Laszlo might hug me or weep or something. But he simply looked up at the moon and said, "Good. That's a load off. You won't find me doing that again."
Then Laszlo and I gathered up the empty beer cans and carried them to the recycle container in my garage, the same garage used as a backdrop for my voyeuristic fantasies of Laszlo and Janice when all along Laszlo had been the voyeur. We said goodnight and went into our houses.
* * *
In the shower I kept looking at the window. Unless Laszlo had put his face against the glass he would have remained unseen. Tomorrow night, when Janice showered, I would creep out to the back of my house and check to see just how well she showed up behind the glass blocks. Not that it would change anything. I simply had to know. Poor Laszlo. I wondered if I would ever have enough courage to confess something like that. But then I hadn't snooped around peeking into windows.
Of course I had my fantasies. But I kept those to myself. A new fantasy would probably emerge from this. Janice in the shower. Laszlo peeking in. Janice hearing a noise and opening the window. Laszlo seeing her. Janice asking who's there. Laszlo staring. Janice wrapping herself in a towel and going out the door into the yard. Janice shushing Laszlo and inviting him into the dark garage. The same Janice-Laszlo fantasy, different lead-in.
I turned off the shower, opened the curtain, got a towel. With the water off I could hear the muted chirp of a cricket outside the window. Then the cricket stopped chirping and I heard a slight rustling of stones. The garden stones outside the window. Laszlo!
When I cranked the window open I saw a dark outline move across the lot line to the east.
"Laszlo! Is that you?"
The bastard! And after his moon-eyed confession!
I put on my jeans and ran through the lower level and out the door. The grass in the yard was wet with dew, cool on my feet. The light was on in Laszlo's kitchen. I climbed the steps and knocked. My hair was wet against my neck making the night seem cool as if it were a different night in a different time. I would tell Laszlo to keep his damn promises and keep the hell off my property or I'd call the cops.
But Sheila opened the door. She was wearing a long violet robe that glowed beneath the fluorescent kitchen ceiling light. She did not peek around the inside door or turn on the porch light. She opened the door wide, then opened the screen door and motioned me inside. Her hair was not pinned up. It hung down long and black, blending into her robe and seemingly taking on some of its deep violet color.
"I need to speak with Laszlo."
I stepped aside as Sheila closed the door behind me. The cool air in the house made me shiver after my hot shower and the muggy air outside. I became aware of my bare chest as Sheila stared at me.
She stood before me, her hands in the pockets of the robe making it even wider. Like wings getting ready to unfold. "Laszlo's not here."
"Not here? But--"
"Laszlo went for a ride, a long ride."
"Steve?"
Something coming. A question. Just like in bed when Janice says, "Steve?" Perhaps now Laszlo would say something about his wink, about Sheila.
"Yes?"
"You have any vacation left?"
"A couple days. Why?"
"Let's go somewhere."
Wonderful. Last week we talked about the drought, the sea level, the ozone layer, the new UV resistant siding and glass used in the construction of our houses, our lives in general, and now that the mundane was out of the way, Laszlo sounded as if he were proposing to me. Too much beer. The alcohol journeying to the skin. A neighborhood full of drunken mosquitoes and my neighbor asking if I'll go away with him. I could already imagine the neighborhood gossip. Steve and Laszlo, the Gypsy twins, running away together. Did they go on a fishing trip? No, they said they wanted to go for a long ride.
"What say, Steve? Just a two-day trip around Lake Michigan. I've got some great maps."
"Maps?"
Laszlo sat forward, excited now. "Yeah. I sent away for them. Detailed county maps of Michigan and Wisconsin. We can take all the back roads. We can use my van. I figured out I can put some gas cans in the back and we'll have a range of over five-hundred miles. That means we can stay on back roads for most of the trip. How about it? We can leave early in the morning when it's still dark. Nothing like driving at dawn, watching the old sun come up. We don't have to spend anything except for gas. We'll bring along food and I've got a tent. We'll camp out half way around and charge our batteries way up north where you can see the stars and maybe even the aurora." Laszlo was staring up at the moon. "If it's a cool night we'll build a campfire."
Sure, I liked to drive once in a while. But a ride around the lake with Laszlo? "I don't know, Laszlo. Janice and I planned a trip to her folks' place this summer. I need the vacation days to tie in with a weekend. We were going to take the train."
Laszlo leaned back slowly, the excitement gone. But he kept staring at the moon and taking sips from his beer. Staring like he had stared at Janice a long time ago before the drought. "Where do your in-laws live?"
"Missouri."
"A hot place," said Laszlo, sounding quite depressed. "But even that would have been a nice drive. All my relatives live around here. Sheila's relatives too. I should've married a woman from outside the old neighborhood. The whole family, both sides, Hunkies. What nationality is your wife?"
"English and Danish."
Laszlo downed his beer and opened another, the second six pack almost gone, vaporizing into the hot night with the smells of cut grass and sweat gone sour. A cricket chirped at the side of the porch. My head felt slightly swollen, a comfortable dizzy feeling.
"Ah," said Laszlo, "Danish pastry."
Ah, indeed. Perhaps now the subject would change, a discussion of mates would ensue, I'd find out a little more about Sheila, about Laszlo's wink on the back lawn.
"Your wife doesn't look Hungarian, Laszlo."
"She is. One big hunk. But your wife--ah yes--your wife is very pretty. And so petite. I just love that word. Petite."
I recalled Sheila climbing the back porch steps, the jiggling of flesh, no bones to poke one's ribs. "Your wife is also very pretty, Laszlo." As soon as I said this I wondered how we would sound to a passerby. I wondered if we were drunk.
"Thank you," said Laszlo.
"You're welcome," I replied.
My head began to feel very pleasant, then suddenly very dizzy. I had to relieve myself and when I stood I held onto the railing for balance. "I've got to take a leak."
Laszlo grabbed my arm and stood. "So do I. Let's water the bushes."
We relieved ourselves in the darkness between our houses. I felt like having more beer. Just one or two more. But instead of going back to my front porch, Laszlo held my arm and pulled me toward his back yard.
"Come," he whispered. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Just come."
Laszlo led me around his back porch toward a light coming from a window on the lower level. As we rounded the porch I could see that the light came from the thick glass-block window of the lower level bathroom. And, since Laszlo's house was identical to mine, I knew that below us behind the thick distortion of glass was the shower stall.
I pulled my arm away. "Where the hell are we going?"
But Laszlo renewed his grip, held my wrist tight with his sweaty hand. "Just come, Steve."
The nearby air conditioner compressor behind Laszlo's house was off and I could hear the splash of water in the shower. Behind the glass-block window I could see flesh-colored movement. I tried to stay back but Laszlo was too strong for me. I almost fell when he jerked me toward the window.
"Laszlo! Let go!" I whispered as loud as I could, trying to sound angry, though I was staring at the distorted shape in the shower. "I'm going! You stay if you want! I'll wait for you!"
Laszlo squeezed my wrist harder. "Shh! She'll hear you."
Then Laszlo bent forward, tapped on the frosted jalousie insert in the center of the glass blocks and I saw a hand move close to the glass. Then the window cranked open and I could see Sheila. She cranked the window all the way open and I could see down into the shower stall. I could see Sheila's huge breasts glistening white under the glaring bathroom fluorescent light. I could see her black pubic hair matted down wet. I could see her wide hips. I stood to the side where the inside light would not illuminate my face.
Still holding my wrist, Laszlo bent forward, his face near the window. "Hello, my pet. It is only I."
Sheila was washing her shoulders with a violet washcloth and I had a momentary thought of violet church statue coverings during Lent when I was a boy. Sheila's hair was pinned up but wet around the edges, hair clinging to her neck and temples. I felt a trickle of perspiration on my neck. Sheila brought her face close to the window, stuck out her tongue, splashed water in Laszlo's face, giggled and cranked the window shut.
When Laszlo let go of my wrist I realized I was no longer pulling away. I stepped quickly away from the window and ran between the houses where my own air conditioner compressor hummed behind the bushes.
Had Laszlo winked earlier in the evening because he had planned this all along? To show off his wife? Or perhaps Laszlo was insanely jealous and now the retribution would come.
"Jesus Christ, Laszlo! Why the hell did you do that?" Even as I said this I was still able to visualize the detail of the violet washcloth and of Sheila's wet skin, her body seen from above seeming grotesque, larger than she really was. "Jesus Christ! I said she was pretty! You didn't have to show me!"
I walked quickly back to the front of my house. Laszlo caught up to me on the front porch. He held my arm, stopped me from going into the house. His hand was cold.
"But I did have to show you, Steve. Sit down. Please sit down. I won't do anything else. I promise."
We sat silently for a few minutes, both of us finishing our last can of beer. On the way back to my front porch I had wondered if Laszlo was dangerous. I had feared an attack from behind. Perhaps I had run, I couldn't remember. Laszlo was leaning back against the porch steps again, looking at the moon. A drunken act, that's all it was. Tomorrow Laszlo would not remember the details. Just so he remembered that he dragged me behind the house.
Laszlo took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and neck. Then he looked at the moon again. "I wonder if it was like this in Gypsy times, Steve."
"Like what?"
"Our ancestors--not the farmers, the ones before them. Camping after a day of travel. Wagons and tents. A campfire. The moon. The men exchanging stories late into the night. The children asleep. The women preparing themselves. A clannish people. No secrets between them."
"What are you getting at, Laszlo?"
"I have to confess, Steve." Laszlo looked down, his hands folded on his knees as if in prayer. "I spied on your wife, Steve. And I'm sorry. I looked in your window at your wife."
I visualized our bedroom drapes. Thick and always closed with sufficient overlap at night. Janice never walking into other parts of the house undressed. Except in the shower, the lower level shower in the back of the house just like Laszlo's.
"Where?"
"I spied on your wife in the shower." Laszlo touched my knee and lowered his head. Cowering. "But the window was never open so I didn't really see that well."
He never saw that well? "You mean you did it more than once?"
Laszlo inched forward, moved down one step so that he was lower than me. He took his hand from my knee, folded his hands again. "Yes. I have to get it out, Steve. Many times. Once I saw the light on and spied in the window for a long time before I realized it was you in the shower. I'm so sorry."
I didn't know what to say. I tried to imagine how Janice must have looked through the distorted glass blocks. Thin arms and small white breasts flashing with her rapid movements. Never very long because Janice showered quickly in order to conserve water. What could I say? I couldn't very well hit Laszlo for seeing a few distorted flesh-colored images.
"Well, I guess it's okay, Laszlo. I guess as long as you're sorry."
I was concerned that Laszlo might hug me or weep or something. But he simply looked up at the moon and said, "Good. That's a load off. You won't find me doing that again."
Then Laszlo and I gathered up the empty beer cans and carried them to the recycle container in my garage, the same garage used as a backdrop for my voyeuristic fantasies of Laszlo and Janice when all along Laszlo had been the voyeur. We said goodnight and went into our houses.
* * *
In the shower I kept looking at the window. Unless Laszlo had put his face against the glass he would have remained unseen. Tomorrow night, when Janice showered, I would creep out to the back of my house and check to see just how well she showed up behind the glass blocks. Not that it would change anything. I simply had to know. Poor Laszlo. I wondered if I would ever have enough courage to confess something like that. But then I hadn't snooped around peeking into windows.
Of course I had my fantasies. But I kept those to myself. A new fantasy would probably emerge from this. Janice in the shower. Laszlo peeking in. Janice hearing a noise and opening the window. Laszlo seeing her. Janice asking who's there. Laszlo staring. Janice wrapping herself in a towel and going out the door into the yard. Janice shushing Laszlo and inviting him into the dark garage. The same Janice-Laszlo fantasy, different lead-in.
I turned off the shower, opened the curtain, got a towel. With the water off I could hear the muted chirp of a cricket outside the window. Then the cricket stopped chirping and I heard a slight rustling of stones. The garden stones outside the window. Laszlo!
When I cranked the window open I saw a dark outline move across the lot line to the east.
"Laszlo! Is that you?"
The bastard! And after his moon-eyed confession!
I put on my jeans and ran through the lower level and out the door. The grass in the yard was wet with dew, cool on my feet. The light was on in Laszlo's kitchen. I climbed the steps and knocked. My hair was wet against my neck making the night seem cool as if it were a different night in a different time. I would tell Laszlo to keep his damn promises and keep the hell off my property or I'd call the cops.
But Sheila opened the door. She was wearing a long violet robe that glowed beneath the fluorescent kitchen ceiling light. She did not peek around the inside door or turn on the porch light. She opened the door wide, then opened the screen door and motioned me inside. Her hair was not pinned up. It hung down long and black, blending into her robe and seemingly taking on some of its deep violet color.
"I need to speak with Laszlo."
I stepped aside as Sheila closed the door behind me. The cool air in the house made me shiver after my hot shower and the muggy air outside. I became aware of my bare chest as Sheila stared at me.
She stood before me, her hands in the pockets of the robe making it even wider. Like wings getting ready to unfold. "Laszlo's not here."
"Not here? But--"
"Laszlo went for a ride, a long ride."
My feet stuck to the waxed tile as I stepped back. When I looked down to see if I had dripped water on the floor I saw Sheila's white bare feet. Her toenails were painted violet to match her robe. Her toes were long, multiple-jointed like fingers. And between her toes were freshly-cut blades of grass.
She pulled her hands from her pockets and untied her robe. When the robe was open she stepped closer. Her pubic hair was vast. Her breasts touched my chest. I could smell perfume and soap. She held my wrist, pulled my hand across the softness of her tummy, then down between her thighs where it was hot and damp and dark like a summer night.
She whispered in my ear. "My name is not Laszlo. It's Sheila. One should get to know one's neighbor."
I could feel Sheila's long toes wriggling upon my toes. I remembered my grandfather once telling me that long toes were a sign of Hungarian royalty.
Behind me, through the door, a cricket began chirping. Slowly at first, then a regular rhythm like the squeaking springs of an ancient bed. My hand, then my feet and legs and hips, felt as though they were being drawn back out into the hot summer night. In the distance I could hear thunder, yet another storm coming, and the sensations of drought and dryness withdrew into another world.
Copyright 2009 Michael Beres
She pulled her hands from her pockets and untied her robe. When the robe was open she stepped closer. Her pubic hair was vast. Her breasts touched my chest. I could smell perfume and soap. She held my wrist, pulled my hand across the softness of her tummy, then down between her thighs where it was hot and damp and dark like a summer night.
She whispered in my ear. "My name is not Laszlo. It's Sheila. One should get to know one's neighbor."
I could feel Sheila's long toes wriggling upon my toes. I remembered my grandfather once telling me that long toes were a sign of Hungarian royalty.
Behind me, through the door, a cricket began chirping. Slowly at first, then a regular rhythm like the squeaking springs of an ancient bed. My hand, then my feet and legs and hips, felt as though they were being drawn back out into the hot summer night. In the distance I could hear thunder, yet another storm coming, and the sensations of drought and dryness withdrew into another world.
Copyright 2009 Michael Beres