Chapter 4
He does not ask for her telephone number and she does not volunteer.
Neither of them want or need this.
He is seeking to preserve his image and she is not looking for an affair.
If she wants a repeat, she will see him again on that same beach.
If she does not, then she will select a different beach on her next solo outing, on her min-vacation from house and family.
Most likely, it will be this latter.
He is not her first beach pick-up and probably will not be his last.
He knows this.
Just as he knows that, so long as she sees him only once or, if more than once, then only after a very long interval, she has not been, is not being unfaithful.
She has betrayed nobody and nothing.
Neither social expectation nor sacred trust has she violated, so far as she is concerned.
Because he was not real.
Only his image was real.
She has not fucked and sucked, has not made love to and received the amorous attentions of a real person, but of an image made flesh.
He has no name.
Nor had she.
Strangers when they met, they were, and less than strangers.
Even a stranger can be a real person.
But he was merely the embodiment of a prurient thought, of a salacious idea, which had crept unbidden into her consciousness, only to be perversely reflected into reality, there on the beach.
What, then, was to be done?
Was she to have passed on, to have ignored what was, after all, merely the by-product of her own thought process.
He did not seduce, did not manipulate her, after all.
On the contrary, it was she who had summoned him, first in her mind, then into reality.
Was she then to commit an absurdity?
Has she not the courage of her convictions?
Would there then have been some inner satisfaction, some spiritual reward awaiting her if she were to have resisted temptation?
And not even temptation, nothing so grandly evil as that.
This was a kind of conjuring on the part of her innermost desires.
And it worked; it did work.
So that she can leave the beach parking lot, back to which he has driven her in his Caddy convertible, top down, of course.
And she would not betray her marital vows, her family responsibilities by so much as a short kiss goodbye.
As she gets out of the car, opening the door herself because, naturally, he has not gotten out and come around to assist her.
And he sees her there, in straw hat and terrycloth robe, fumbling with her car keys.
And drives off, not waiting to see if in fact she will be able to open her door, get her car started and drive away.
Because his image calls for doing exactly as he does.
Because, beneath that image, behind it, sustaining it, is a real man, with a real man's weaknesses and shortcomings.
Archetypes, images, symbols don't work for a living, for one thing, are part of no structured environment.
What you see is what you get.
He stands, complete in and of himself, not requiring anything to be added or subtracted to be what he is.
This is, of course, a lie, a lie he told her with his body, a lie he uttered without words, simply by being there, a lie she told herself.
But it is the provisional truth, the truth of the moment, the fact within the fiction.
Like the plot of a book or a movie.
Which is, if you will, an elaborately constructed lie.
A lie, but not a deception.
Because both of them knew, both of them know the truth, the reality, at least in part.
So that they were like actors, playing their respective parts.
Three-dimensional characters projecting two-dimensional reality.
Just like a movie.
And, like a movie, having no permanent effect out here, back in the real world.
As though it never happened.
As though they were merely spectators.
The only truth of the movie was that they went to see it.
And where's the harm in that?
On the other hand, where's the good in that?
For her, at least, Rocco reflects, there was some good.
Because she has the power.
She has the power to summon that which can alleviate boredom, frustration, pointlessness in her existence.
Because she did it, after all, did she not?
Not that she deceives herself that there was any magic at work here.
No, her conjuring is the mundane sorcery of probability.
Such men as he exist.
Not living archetypes, images or symbols, but real men whose personal circumstances are such that, on a certain day, at a certain hour they are very likely to be in a certain location, projecting a certain image.
If, then, she is free to do as she pleases, again not in the absolute sense, but on a certain day, at a certain hour, and she makes herself available to this relative, temporary, limited freedom, then the concatenation, the coinciding of herself with that far from hypothetical image has, in fact, a certain likelihood of occurrence.
And she will have, in essence, demonstrated-what?
A certain understanding of certain aspects of the real world.
It was just that simple. And Rocco?
He was not that personally involved.
Intimately, yes, personally no.
Because images are impersonal.
At that exact moment, on other beaches all over the world, other men were projecting that same image.
It did not have to be the beach, even; it could have been a hiking trail.
It did not have to be the endless summer of summer coastal Florida.
The image could have worn a navy surplus snorkel coat, the tanned, sun-glassed visage encircled with simulated fur.
It would have made no difference.
She did not have to be a wife and mother.
She could have been a convenience store clerk on her day off or a prostitute on vacation.
Because that particular bent, that frame of mind, is also an impersonal image, a universal pattern.
Intimate, but impersonal, they were.
More intimate and less personal, perhaps, than she has ever allowed herself to become, she was.
Moreso than she ever could be with anyone she actually knew, perhaps.
But that is the nature of images.
We do as images what we would never dream of as individuals, in many ways, Rocco knows.
The soldier who does his duty in the face of incredible dangers and in the face of all logic, reason and common sense.
He thereby fulfills his image as a soldier and is maimed or killed in the process.
What could be more individual than that, on the surface of it?
And yet, it was not he but his image of himself which did the deed, even though it is he himself who must suffer the consequences.
There never was a hero who was fearless.
His image was fearless; he, no doubt, was ready to shit his pants.
But enough is enough, Rocco thinks.
There is a time to live as ourselves, and not as our images.
And, believing as he does that we live in a series of nows, then surely now should be that time.
So that he and not his image will have done the living.
Not role playing but actual life is what's wanted here, he tells himself.
And yet, Destiny is no solution, in that regard.
She doesn't know him.
She met him once, knows his name (if she even remembers it), knows what he does-part of what he does.
So that he would come across to her, image to image, which is all that he can be to her or she to him right now.
But then, he reasons, ultimately, is that not all we are, all we ever can be to one another?
Still, there is a difference.
And that difference is not hard to see, to define.
Familiarity.
Knowing a person on good days and bad.
But this can come only over time.
If only, he thinks. If only they knew each other, he and Destiny.
Things would work out or they wouldn't, and there's an end to it.
It would be just that simple.
If only they knew each other, like, like-he and Conchita.
Conchita knows him, knows his surliness, his rotten moods, knows and is not repelled by this.
Conchita knows him, knows what he does for a living, knows that he is more than a bouncer, but less, far less than an executive, that he is, essentially, a foot soldier in the organization.
And Conchita knows him, knows the feel of him, that knowledge garnered playfully, over a period of time.
And yet, now that he thinks about it, not without a system on her part.
At one time or another, she has felt everything on him, from the back of his neck to his calves and all points in between.
Yes, she has grabbed his ass.
And yes, she has even grabbed his balls.
She is after him.
Not the image of him, not some contrived impression, but himself as he is.
Still an image, granted; but an image of his reality, of himself as individual, himself as himself.
She sees him and she likes what she sees.
And her?
How well does he know her? Pretty well, actually.
Hispanic, Cuban parents now living in the Keys, no other relatives, shares a room with another of the dancers.
No boyfriends.
The occasional accompaniment, on the sly, after hours, of a customer, usually older, usually, he suspects, wealthy, so no mystery there, except whether or not she actually enjoys it.
And, for the rest, an inner fire, a dancing for herself alone, partially erotic, of course, because she is stacked, but mostly a private thing, for all its public performance.
So that she has an inner life, an inner fire.
So that she is passionate, but in a way best known only to herself.
Who knows what she really wants?
And Rocco realizes that he has reached the extent, the outer limit of his knowledge of her.
And if he wants to know more, then he will have to get closer to her, as close as she apparently wants him to.
Apparently.
Meaning that she could very well just be stringing him along.
But if this is a joke, then, even as a standing joke, surely it would have worn thin by now.
So that he has to believe that, on some basis, she means it.
And, living as he does in the present, what better time than the present to find out?
Because, now that he thinks about it, it is a long time since Rocco as Rocco, and not as some anonymous image, has actually been with a woman.
In fact, he cannot remember when was the last time.
Because he has played the game for too long, the game of images. Playboy. Phantom lover.
Male archetype, mystery man, superstud, the male principle itself, he has been, has represented, has impersonated.
So that yes, it is time, high time for Rocco as himself.
And there are no other candidates. Conchita, it has to be. He goes back inside.
Conchita is sitting, talking, drinking with a customer.
Rocco could care less.
His hand is on her shoulder.
She and the bar patron both look up, startled.
"Okay, you win." Rocco says.
"I ween? How's come? How? What, I ween?"
"You wanna introduce me to your friend here, or would you rather just the two of us discuss it."
Conchita shrugs.
""Scuse me," she says to the customer, "see joo letter."
And she stands up, preceding Rocco to the edge of the crowd, surging forward now, because Destiny is back on.
Suddenly, she turns to Rocco.
"Wha's op?"
"What's up is I can't take much more of this. "Time to shit or get off the pot."
"Thass what I bin tryna tell joo," she says, with the emphasis on "joo". "Okay, so we're on."
"Okay, so we're on," she echoes.
"See you at three," he says. "Fine weeth me."
And she turns without another word, going back to her sponsor of the moment.
Who has clearly forgotten all about her, engrossed in Destiny's performance as he is.
She sits down beside him anyway.
And Rocco rejoins Alphonse at their table.
"What's up?" Alphonse asks, unconsciously echoing Conchita.
"Gonna give Conchita a fuckin' break."
"Tireda her ball bustin', huh?"
"That's part of it, yeah."
"And uh-" Alphonse inquires, nodding toward Destiny.
"Not ready for that yet. Gotta kinda work my way up to it."
"I can appreciate that."
"Can you, now?"
"Sorta, yeah. You think I ain't still got the old urge?
"That's first class, pal, and no question about it."
"Glad joo like my taste in women," Rocco says. "Your taste. Yeah, right.
"That your seashell collection I see when I go t'the beach?"
"You got it." They laugh.
But there it is again, Rocco thinks. Images.
And Destiny must know something about images too.
Otherwise, why would she have named herself after an archetypal image? Destiny.
She could have been Fortune, or Fate, or, adopting a bizarre costume, Nemesis.
But Destiny is not bad.
Better than, say, Shirley, for what she does.
And much better than Geraldine, for example.
But if all she was doing was looking for a name that would over-ride .her own inappropriate one, she would not have had to resort to Destiny.
And now, he realizes that he has been looking at the table, and not at Destiny.
He looks at the stage, the lower half of her body obscured from his vision by the intervening crowd, which is quite heavy tonight, due in part, no doubt, to Destiny.
Because word spreads fast among travelers in the same company.
("If you gotta hit the Florida office, be sure you see ... )
But, even from what he can see, he thinks, Tony may be thinking about it, but guaranteed he hasn't made his move.
Because Destiny hasn't been here long enough for lechery.
And, face it, Tony means nothing to her.
Not yet, anyway. Too soon.
So that Rocco has time.
He has time to determine if Rocco still has what it takes as Rocco, and then move in on Destiny. Destiny.
Who the hell would have the balls to approach somebody named Destiny and start handing her a line of bullshit.
Not too many, he would suspect.
And that's another thing the name accomplishes.
One more barrier.
One more hurdle, one more obstacle to be cleared, to be passed.
But of course, the first one is that fantastic body of hers.
Who is actually, physically, naturally qualified to match their body to hers. Mister Galaxy?
Okay, but not too many others.
Although Rocco has the size and the conditioning, he reassures himself.
And he is younger than Tony.
But now, he lets his mind travel to the immediate future, to the almost now.
Conchita.
And he wonders at himself, at his lack of anticipatory eagerness.
Because Conchita is more, far more than not bad.
But for her peculiar style of dancing, she could turn guys on almost as well as Destiny.
She is smaller than Destiny, darker, but lithe, well defined, her breasts large and firm, solid glands.
She doesn't have Destinys oversized, exaggerated, almost cartoonish hourglass figure.
But she is broad-shouldered, wasp-waisted and flare-hipped.
And her legs are a dancer's legs, solid and muscular.
And her ass is large enough, round enough, firmer looking than Destiny's.
So that, body for body, there is a serious question whether, put to a vote, everyone would prefer Destiny.
But not, fortunately or unfortunately-Rocco is unsure which-in Rocco's mind.
Conchita he will take in stride, for better or for worse.
Getting back in the swing of things. He will have no difficulty with Conchita, of course.
One thing's sure, new bodies, new specific sexual experiences, hold no qualms whatever for him.
That's all he's done for several years now, fuck new and different bodies, perfecting, polishing his sexual techniques, building, enhancing his image.
His image, but not the image of himself.
Or rather, the image of himself as superstud.
And yes, this had, has a certain kind of deep satisfaction attached to it.
As once again, he triumphs, is awarded the plaque, the trophy which is then shelved, which is his forever, which cannot he taken from him.
Because each act is separate, discrete, complete, in and of itself.
Quality time, it is, his peculiar definition thereof.
Meaning time spent as the embodiment of the perfect male sexual partner, performing to perfection, each act having a beginning, a middle, an end-a beautiful ceremony, performed to perfection, a shining memory for the fortunate woman who is its concelebrant.
And yes, they are a comfort to him, in moments of boredom or of stress.
Whatever else may happen to him, is happening to him, those particular episodes are forever frozen in time, their perfection an accomplished, historical fact.
So that, in that sense, he is looking forward to his date with Conchita.
Because he will apply what he has learned, what he has practiced, what he has perfected over the years.
He will bring to her all that he would bring to a stranger in his role as superstud.
Except that they will not be strangers. He knows her and she knows him.
And, when tonight is history, they will know each other better.
But, even now, he stands up.
So that he can catch the full view of Destiny, as she once again bends over, completely naked now, her back to the audience, bent over.
Amazing, Rocco tells himself. Simply amazing that he could put on a pedestal a woman-a girl, actually-who has opted to make a living showing her ass hole several times a night in a bar.
But that doesn't help, doesn't diminish in any way the fascination she holds for him.
She has passed that test, and Rocco is not particularly pleased that this should have proved to be the case.
Because, dammit, you have to be some kind of a real low-life to feel about somebody who would do that, who does that, as he does.
So big deal, he tells himself, you're a low-life.
What else is new?
That's not even a put-down, it's a fact.
Look what he's into, after all.
And, in a way, that sort of makes his attitude toward Destiny all right.
Yes, we do belong together.
She is not royalty, she is not old money or new money, she is simply, or perhaps not so simply, Destiny.
And by this he means only a name, a stage name with a real one behind it, one he will make it a point to find out.
Later. When it matters.
For now, let that just be her name. Like Shirley or Geraldine.
"What time ya got, Al?"
"One-thirty.
"Another hour an' a half, and you get to see where Conchita is comin' from."
"I'm thrilled," Rocco says. "Not now you're not. Later on, who knows?" And Rocco concedes that Al has a point. Who knows, indeed?
Maybe this is what's been missing from his life all these years.
Maybe being a superstud, the stranger on the beach, has taken its toll.
Not in the physical sense, but in the temporal one.
Because it could very well be that he has wasted his time, trading a couple of hours of satisfaction here and there for what could well prove to have been days and weeks, months and years of happiness and deep inner contentment.
Maybe, maybe not, he tells himself. One way or the other, he will know, very soon.
In less than two hours, to be exact.
And part of him can hardly wait to find out.