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The Losers’ Club:
Complete Restored Edition by Richard Perez
copyright © 2005— all rights reserved
Novel excerpt 3—page 41
“The Club on Avenue B”
The author, Richard Perez
17.
They were at the corner of Second and Avenue A, where a film—Beyond the Valley of the Dolls—was being projected across the entire side of a building from the bar across the street.
Nikki asked him for an update.
“With the magazines?”
“With the new ad. Any luck?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe the ads work better for women?”
“There’s that distinct possibility.” They crossed the avenue, alphabet-bound. “I’m about ready to join one of those stupid dating services.”
“I know someone who did that. Some gal from work.”
He laughed. “Yeah? How’d it go?”
“Terrible.”
Martin cracked up.
“She put up the money,” Nikki went on. “And zilch.”
“Really?” he asked. “Which agency?”
“Can’t remember. They advertise on TV, though. Late at night. One of those ‘personal introduction’ services.”
“And she didn’t meet anyone? Really?”
“Oh they set her up on a few dates.”
“And?”
“Apparently anyone with money can get over on the ‘screening process.’”
He laughed again.
“Stick with the personals, Marty,” she said. “At least, you have less to lose. And you may still get lucky.”
“Lightning strikes when you least expect it, right?”
“Si, señor.”
He turned to her, grinning. “And, after all, I met you.”
Nikki smiled.
18.On the far side of Avenue B, they turned left and crossed the street.
Avenue B was considerably more run-down than Avenue A, nocturnal types here and there hawking brand names of ecstasy and heroin, with this particular corner being the most popular. The farther you went into the Alphabet (descending B, C, D … crumbling into the East River), the shadier the neighborhood became, until parts of it—bombed-looking, rubble-strewn—began to resemble portions of the South Bronx.
Mercifully, at this hour, there were some revelers on the avenue, jetting to and from the performance space, Collective Unconscious, across the street or, beside that, the Gas Station, a converted Gulf station turned band venue, fenced in by rusting scrap-metal art.
Martin and Nikki safely arrived at the nondescript club entrance where a toothless cretin was outside, strumming a monotonous tune on a homemade, three-string electric guitar. On the sidewalk was a childishly scrawled sign that read:
Show me a man
Whose not confused
And I’ll show yew
A moron.
“Ready?” Martin asked.Nikki smiled. “Yep.”
There was no line to wait on, of course—no velvet rope—so they went right in.
“Hold it,” rasped a shadowy figure just inside.
After being patted down for weapons, Martin and Nikki followed a long dark hallway to the admissions window. Then they turned right and stepped through a short passage that led to a wide, dimly lit room, done in a garish Hong Kong motif of bright reds, yellows, and blues (Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling), the entire floor surrealistically carpeted in ankle-deep sand.
On the east wall flashed incongruous slide projections, and, as Martin and Nikki stepped deeper into the room, they noticed a lank-haired musician crouched over an electric violin, playing contrapuntally to the house ambience music—music filled with all sorts of warped industrial noises, like someone clanking on metal pipes and sawing wood.
As Martin and Nikki progressed to the back, they saw a booth where a tattooed, bald-headed woman was peddling so-called smart drugs, sold in glitter cups like fancy film containers. Beside these were offered certain “herbal treatments” and stimulants containing ephedrine or ma huang, “legal” drugs.
“Up for any?” Martin asked.
Nikki shrugged, pushing on.
Back upfront, full circle, a performance piece was in progress. A blank-faced blond in pearls and formal gown was doing an ultra-slow-motion dance to the warbling music, while another woman, manipulating a claw-like mirror, refracted shards of colored light in some vague commentary. The flashing slide images were mostly of atrocities: holocaust victims piled lifelessly, like rag dolls.
Nikki tried to interpret it, “Society’s indifference to human suffering?”
“Good guess.”
Tired of treading sand, they found a couch. Beside them, piled high, were all sorts of gear and outmoded electronic equipment: EKG machines, scopes, TV monitors, emitting frequency waves and static. They tried to talk but the loud dissonant music made conversation difficult, so instead they settled for holding hands and exchanging amused glances.
Nikki, sweet Nikki. She always made him smile.
Was there ever anyone more attractive?
Oh he doubted it.
Here, now, in particular, she looked sweetly angelic …
She had large pale-green eyes, a faint cleft in her chin, and at the corner of her full mouth, on the right, a perfect tiny mole, a beauty mark. What’s more, tonight, she looked even more striking, with her dense curling hair untied, dressed in a pair of relaxed, low-slung grape flairs and a cropped guava T. At that moment, as she lounged next to Martin, she appeared completely at home and comfortable, as at ease in her own lithe body as a large exotic cat.
How did she manage that? That looseness? Alcohol-free? Living in this city?
“Whatcha’ thinkin’ of?” she asked him at one point.
“You’re looking comfy,” he told her.
“I am,” she smiled.
At one point—for no reason other than she appeared to be happy—she impulsively reached over and embraced him. This, of course, led to a return squeeze on Martin’s part, then to some playful fondling, finally to some light kissing: her skin smelling faintly of lavender, feeling petal-soft and warm to his lips.
Her body leaning against him, her breath soft in his ear, Nikki teased him a bit, rocking gently, gently in his lap. Doped with affection, he took extra pleasure in supporting her weight, every luscious ounce, and in stroking and kissing her mouth and that faint sweet dot above her lip. It was almost too much; unable to resist, he slid his hands along her firm, slender body to warmly caress her lower back, hips, and thighs. He sighed to himself, considering the innumerable, sensual possibilities.
They necked and petted for what seemed close to an hour, the world around them falling off, until she pulled up and sleepily asked, “Maybe we should see what’s downstairs?”
Her warmth a narcotic, drowsily content, he whispered, “Maybe later?”
19.Emerging from the dream —
When they languidly rose from the couch, still holding hands, they noticed the room had become considerably more crowded.
Near the entrance, a different performance piece was in progress. It featured a towering transvestite in an emerald wig, who Martin finally recognized from the band he’d seen at the Continental. “Useless-Nameless.”
Naked this time—except for being bound in Saran Wrap—eyebrows shaved, he/she was dreamily reciting poetry into a microphone without background music. “This one’s called, ‘Sophia’s Recollection.’”
He/she began:
/“Last night
/ I dreamt
/ that you murdered me,
/ that while I slept
/ close to you …
/ you wedged a knife
/ into my chest,
/ until its icy-cold tip
/ pierced my heart.
/ “I dreamt
/ that you held me tightly, then
/ kissed me, warmly,
/ as I coldly bled,
/ and all my life,
/ with all its dreams
/ and wishes,
/ poured softly away .…”
In the dim light Martin noticed the absence of genitalia. It dawned on him: he wasn’t a transvestite, but a transsexual. Post op, at that. The transformation complete, “he” had become a “she.”Interesting .…
“Let’s go,” Nikki urged, tugging at his sleeve.
20.Downstairs, in what resembled an underground bomb shelter, was the murkily-lit dance floor. The music playing in this cavernous refuge was pulsing house/techno.
After buying some bottled juice from the bar (the place being without a liquor license), Martin and Nikki found a lacquered bench to sit on and take in the slamming crowd. It was a freak scene: queens, kings, club kids, B-list models, downtown trendies, ravers (the more frenzied no doubt already high on x)—all grooving, going crazy. Heads wagging and bobbing, feet stomping, hips shimmying, asses shaking; glowing cigarettes dipping and rising in the dark. Through the yellow and red flashing lights and club smoke, as in a dream, Martin could just barely make out the outline of a few smiling girls dancing together topless. And through his heels, Martin could feel the relentless boom!-boom!-boom! of the jacked-up driving bass. Out of nowhere some inflamed queen appeared before them completely bare-assed, shaking his arms and legs in a kind of self-absorbed frenetic dance, then leaping back into the crush, and Martin and Nikki turned to each other and laughed.
Nikki nudged Martin. “Ready to dive in?”
“Let’s!”
As always, Martin felt a bit self-conscious at first—and stiff—before being able to surrender completely to the enveloping rhythms: to convince himself that nobody here was watching, judging, nobody gave a shit—nobody. It was time to get naked: let it all hang out!
Smiling, eyes closed to the world, losing herself in the wailing and swirling sounds, in the here and now, Nikki’s own movements and dance steps were easily more relaxed and fluid, freshly sensual. And Martin derived almost as much pleasure from watching her as he did from dancing. Priceless. Que maravilla, he thought, waves of excitement rising up his back.
21.Martin and Nikki danced together virtually nonstop until 3:30 A.M., at which point the floor became too crowded and wild, and the both of them, exhausted but in good spirits, left the club. Enjoying the cool night air, holding hands, they walked up 2nd Street, past all the swarming night people: eccentrics, fashion victims, wild-ass kids (these mixed with assorted mental patients and homeless crack-heads)—until reaching Avenue A, where they hailed a cab.
“West Fourth Street station,” Martin announced to the driver, club music still throbbing in his ears.
He fell back into the seat next to Nikki. “So,” he grinned. “Have a nice time?”
“Great,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I really needed that!”
“You’re not the only one!” Martin laughed.
In the next moment, they were affectionately touching, then, leaning against each other, playfully groping and kissing. Martin squeezed her moist body tightly, at one point French-kissing the nape of her neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Tasting you,” he said.
“Oh really? Why?”
“Why not,” Martin said. “Besides I may never get this opportunity again.”
“You’re cracked,” she laughed.
Martin whispered in her ear, “Are you sure you have to go to work, tomorrow?”
She smiled. Whispered back, “Yes.”
That night, on the cab ride to the subway, he kept hoping to convince her otherwise.
Complete Restored Edition!
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The Losers' Club:
Complete Restored Edition!
by Richard Perez
ISBN: 0-9713415-5-9
“Original and highly entertaining”—Midwest Book Review
“A story of youth, very well told, and it dwells in the mind
long after a reader finishes it.”
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I Never Promised You A Rose Garden
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