hands—and turned and left. While my crotch was thoroughly disgusted, the rest of me was pretty proud of myself.
*
The Six-Ten was another story altogether. It squatted glumly on a side street off Arnwood, but a good three blocks to the closest bar, surrounded on all sides by vacant lots overgrown with weeds, old tires, and a variety of clumps and mounds and piles of things best not looked at too closely. I was fortunate that it was still daylight when I got there, but I recall that at night there was one sixty-watt light bulb above and to the right of the door, over the black-painted number “610”. Which was perfectly all right, since it was highly unlikely anyone in their right mind might ever wander into the place by accident. Since it was the only occupied building for a block on either side, you only had to look at the number of cars parked on the street to know how many patrons were in the place at any given time. This night, I noted, there were all of four. Well, it was early.
Taking a deep breath, I forced open the front door and entered. The 10-foot-by-10-foot room also doubled as an X-rated bookstore and sex-toy boutique. One wall was lined with plastic-covered magazines; across from it was a long glass-topped display case showing off a fine selection of dildos, harnesses, and various lubricants, and a smaller section of little glass bottles of whatever it was that had been substituted for amyl nitrate after it had mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by a far inferior product that cost as much but did not provide anywhere near the same wallop.
Hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room over the dildo-and-harness section was a plastic inflatable sheep.
The back wall had another rack of magazines and paperback books, a door marked “Members Only,” and a large open window—well, actually it was more of a hole than a window—extending from about 3 feet off the floor to just below the ceiling, and which apparently had been cut out of the wall with a chain saw. Behind this opening sat a gentleman who looked like someone off a recruiting poster for Atilla the Hippie’s army, reading a recent copy of Guns & Ammo.
He looked up disinterestedly as I walked in, then immediately dropped his eyes back to his magazine. I looked around for a moment, then walked over to the whatever it was supposed to be…a counter?…it was, as I said, only about 3 feet off the floor…in front of him.
“Ten bucks,” he said, laying his magazine on the floor beside him and standing up.
“Ten bucks?” I assumed he was referring to entrance to the “bath” portion of the building, though from what I’d seen the word “bath” would be an oxymoron.
“Ten bucks one time membership fee. Five bucks return visits.”
Yeah, like that was going to happen, I thought.
“I think I’ll pass on the membership.” I reached into my pocket for Shea’s photo. “I was wondering if you know this guy?”
I extended the photo toward him, but he made no move to take it.
“Still ten bucks.”
I put the photo into my other hand, reached for my wallet and, balancing both photo and wallet, extracted a ten. I put my wallet back in my pocket before offering both the ten and the photo. He reached out one tattooed hand on the end of a solidly-tattooed arm, took both the money and the picture, looked at the photo almost dismissively, and handed it back to me, wadding up the ten and shoving it into the front pocket of his Levi’s knock-offs.
“Yeah, he comes in.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Ten bucks.”
The fun was rapidly going out of this little game, I decided. I reached back into my wallet and took out a five and handed it to him.
“Return visit,” I said.
He looked at me and for a moment there I thought he was actually going to smile—a prospect I wasn’t particularly looking forward to. Instead he reached out and took the five, shoving it into the same pocket with the ten.
“Month. Five
*
The Six-Ten was another story altogether. It squatted glumly on a side street off Arnwood, but a good three blocks to the closest bar, surrounded on all sides by vacant lots overgrown with weeds, old tires, and a variety of clumps and mounds and piles of things best not looked at too closely. I was fortunate that it was still daylight when I got there, but I recall that at night there was one sixty-watt light bulb above and to the right of the door, over the black-painted number “610”. Which was perfectly all right, since it was highly unlikely anyone in their right mind might ever wander into the place by accident. Since it was the only occupied building for a block on either side, you only had to look at the number of cars parked on the street to know how many patrons were in the place at any given time. This night, I noted, there were all of four. Well, it was early.
Taking a deep breath, I forced open the front door and entered. The 10-foot-by-10-foot room also doubled as an X-rated bookstore and sex-toy boutique. One wall was lined with plastic-covered magazines; across from it was a long glass-topped display case showing off a fine selection of dildos, harnesses, and various lubricants, and a smaller section of little glass bottles of whatever it was that had been substituted for amyl nitrate after it had mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by a far inferior product that cost as much but did not provide anywhere near the same wallop.
Hanging from the ceiling in one corner of the room over the dildo-and-harness section was a plastic inflatable sheep.
The back wall had another rack of magazines and paperback books, a door marked “Members Only,” and a large open window—well, actually it was more of a hole than a window—extending from about 3 feet off the floor to just below the ceiling, and which apparently had been cut out of the wall with a chain saw. Behind this opening sat a gentleman who looked like someone off a recruiting poster for Atilla the Hippie’s army, reading a recent copy of Guns & Ammo.
He looked up disinterestedly as I walked in, then immediately dropped his eyes back to his magazine. I looked around for a moment, then walked over to the whatever it was supposed to be…a counter?…it was, as I said, only about 3 feet off the floor…in front of him.
“Ten bucks,” he said, laying his magazine on the floor beside him and standing up.
“Ten bucks?” I assumed he was referring to entrance to the “bath” portion of the building, though from what I’d seen the word “bath” would be an oxymoron.
“Ten bucks one time membership fee. Five bucks return visits.”
Yeah, like that was going to happen, I thought.
“I think I’ll pass on the membership.” I reached into my pocket for Shea’s photo. “I was wondering if you know this guy?”
I extended the photo toward him, but he made no move to take it.
“Still ten bucks.”
I put the photo into my other hand, reached for my wallet and, balancing both photo and wallet, extracted a ten. I put my wallet back in my pocket before offering both the ten and the photo. He reached out one tattooed hand on the end of a solidly-tattooed arm, took both the money and the picture, looked at the photo almost dismissively, and handed it back to me, wadding up the ten and shoving it into the front pocket of his Levi’s knock-offs.
“Yeah, he comes in.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Ten bucks.”
The fun was rapidly going out of this little game, I decided. I reached back into my wallet and took out a five and handed it to him.
“Return visit,” I said.
He looked at me and for a moment there I thought he was actually going to smile—a prospect I wasn’t particularly looking forward to. Instead he reached out and took the five, shoving it into the same pocket with the ten.
“Month. Five
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