Date: Sun, 2 Mar 2008 13:17:21 -0800 (PST)
From: Matt Wess <cow91387@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Color Red: Part Three

        The police make us hang around - interrogating us about the body.
All of us, the group that met in the coffee shop that is, tell the police
exactly the same thing: we were sitting in the shop, heard the car
backfire, Lucinda runs out, opens up the driver's door and the body falls
out.  The police are not exactly satisfied with out testimony, but they
have no other choice but to let us go.  August and I return to the Velvet
Lounge almost immediately - as instructed by Lucinda.  It is clear to me
that she runs the show.
        The car has been confiscated - so we travel on foot, and once
August pulls open the heavy steel door, and once we are securely inside he
lets out a string of curses.  We're standing in the lobby of the Velvet
Lounge - our home - many people's home - which doubles as a whore house in
my opinion.  The lobby is hardly a lobby, just a large gutted room, musty,
with water dripping somewhere off in the distance.
        "Damnit, Jacob," he says to me as we climb the stairs.  "That plan
tonight was fool proof - this does not bode well for the group you met
today."
        "Why do you say that?" I ask (noting that the young couple is no
longer making out in the corner of the staircase - I am oddly
disappointed).
        "Because that means - we have a snitch in our group."
        We reach our floor - the third floor - and make our way down the
crowded hallway.  Sultry, smooth jazz tones filter through the heavy summer
air.  Tenants are stretched out on old sofas that line the hallway.  Some
are wearing clothes, some are not.  Jean Jacques for instance - is not.
He's completely nude like I saw him in this morning - his uncut penis
dangling between his legs.  But I try not to focus on the parts below his
belt area - just on his face and the girl in panties squeezed next to him,
asleep.
        "Jay-cub," he says in a strained tone, "It eez too hot."
        I nod in agreement, swallow heavily, and follow August to the end
of the hall where our room is.  Deborah, the middle aged sex addict, is
still sitting alone on her chair, legs crossed.  She is smoking yet another
cigarette and watches August and I retreat into the bedroom.  She does not
say a word to us.
        Once inside the room - August peels off his shirt - and for the
first time I notice that he does have a pretty well shaped body.  I reason
that during today's society and living at Velvet Lounge for so long permits
him time to work out frequently.
        "It's been awhile since that bed has been occupied by a roommate,"
he says pointedly towards my bed, plopping down on his own.  I suspect him
to eventually talk about what just happened this afternoon, but I do not
pressure him.
        I slowly sit down on my own bed, facing him.  Our bedroom is small.
A rickety old night stand that slopes to the right is the only thing that
separates our beds.  We share the same dresser - he has the top two drawers
- I have the bottom.  When we sit on the edge of our beds - our knees are
practically touching.
        "Nobody wants to live here, huh?" I inquire.
        August shrugs.  "People are sometimes turned off - instead of
turned on - by the open sexual actions and nudity.  I'm guessing it doesn't
bother you - otherwise you wouldn't be here."
        "This place is something of a razz," I say, leaning forward.  "But
it's the only place I got."
        "Yeah, what's your story, anyway?" August asks - getting up from
his bed, he heads towards the dresser.  "Yesterday you just show up here -
looking for shelter like a fucking orphan."  He pauses before continuing to
search through one of his drawers.  "Of course - nowadays most people are
searching for shelter - but it is 1940 - we should be heading up now."  I
wait until he finds what he is looking for - a bottle of whiskey - before I
give him the answer.
        "I lost my parents during the 30's," I start out solemnly, watching
August pull the cork out with his teeth.  He takes a swig and hands it
over.  I take it, though I am not a huge whiskey fan, but the thought of my
parent's death causes me to take a swig as well - wincing as the burning
whiskey scorches my throat.  "The devastated economy was too much for them
- they were both unemployed - and no one was hiring," I continue, handing
over the bottle.
        August takes it, saying, "Sorry to hear that - how'd you find out
about this place?"
        I lie back in bed - the whiskey still burning my throat - and fold
my hands behind my head.  The ceiling fan is spinning lazily.  "I saved
enough money to make one bus trip from Philadelphia to New York City - once
here, I mindlessly followed this one good looking girl - and she came here.
It was pouring down rain - I needed shelter."
        I sit up - my head spinning slightly, saying, "That's the basics -
now what was this afternoon all about?"
        August rolls his eyes - takes a large gulp - and shakes his head.
When I decline his offer for a second drink - he places the cork back in
the top and shakes his head.  "That's a whole different story - which I
would rather not get into."  He stands and crosses to the dresser, where he
replaces the whiskey.
        "Well, that's not fair.  Level with me - I did with you."
        He turns from the dresser and meets my eyes, his hand resting on
his bare chest.  "War is approaching, Jacob.  It's already broken out over
in Europe - it's only a matter of time before America becomes involved."
        I sit perched on the bed, "Ya think so?" I ask eagerly.
        "Most definitely - in some parts of the country it already has.
Traitors, Jacob.  Supporters of what is going on in Germany.  Some of them
among us here in this very city."
        "And that's what you were going after tonight, huh? A traitor?"  I
let out a low whistle.  "Here I thought it was going to be a trip to any
remaining speakeasies.  Then what was the body all about? And that letter?"
        "The guy in the car was one of the traitors," August says.  He sits
back down across from me, looking as solemn as I had when discussing my
parents - if not more solemn.
        "So long as it's one of them that died and not one of us," I say
optimistically, but August is shaking his head full of brown hair.
        "But that's not the point - they were somehow onto our plan - and
undoubtedly that note was some kind of threat that next time one of us in
the group will be dead.  I'll have to send Lucinda a telegram asking her
our next plan of action."  He lies back on his bed and before long drifts
into a nap, snoring softly.
        However, I'm still awake.  Thinking about what I had told August
earlier - I said to him that I had followed an attractive girl over to here
- when it had really been a guy.  During that time it was also night time -
but I'm pretty sure it had been August I was attracted to and followed to
the Velvet Lounge.  For now, though, I decide to stick with my story of the
attractive girl.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, August and I share a dinner in a nearby cafe‚.
August has a few dollars saved up - so he pays, I tell him that I owe him
one.  The lighting is minimal - the walls are paneled with dark mahogany
wood and there are various framed photos of the victorious World War One
around the joint.  While looking at them, I say, "You think this war is
going to be a second world war?"
        August looks up from lighting his cigarette - the light fixture
sitting between us on the table casts dull rays on his sharp face features.
"Certainly looks that way," he responds, bringing the lighted match up to
the cigarette.
        "You going to enlist if it happens?"
        "Ab-so-lute-ly."  He leans forward, saying, "The way I see it,
Jacob, I've got nothing going for me here.  My folks are with your folks -
I'm old enough - and I don't have a honey that's going to weep over my
departure."
        "What can I get for you gentleman," a female voice suddenly sounds
from above us.  August and I look up in unison.  A waitress - in her late
twenties, early thirties - is standing before us with her notepad out, pen
at the ready.
        August speaks up, "I'll just take a cheeseburger and water."
        She doesn't write it down, just swivels her eyes in my direction,
"And what about you?"
        I feel like I'm being put on the spot, so I quickly mutter, "I'll
have the same," while handing back the menu.
        August brushes his forelock of brown hair away from his eyes,
saying, "The same?  Are you a conformist?"
        "What would you say if I told you I'm just a cheeseburger kind of
guy?"
        He blows a puff of smoke out to the side.  "I'd say that makes you
more of a damn conformist.  But who am I to say, if I didn't conform to
Lucinda's beliefs I wouldn't be part of her group."
        "Lucinda started the group?"
        "She claims it's what her father, who died during the first war,
would have wanted.  Her mother was a flapper girl during the 20's - did you
know that?"
        I shake my head "no" and accept the water from the waitress.  "Then
again," I say, sipping the water and peering over at August, "There's a lot
I don't know about her.  I could have guessed, though.  She has that baby
vamp personality, risque‚ almost."
        August leans back comfortably - and while doing so - the warmth of
his leg brushes up against mine and lingers there for what seems like an
eternity, but was probably a mere few seconds.  Our eyes meet briefly and a
sense of arousal spreads through me, but the moment of bliss passes
quickly.  August drops his eyes, pulls away his leg, and says, "Well - you
have no idea just how risque‚ things can get around here."

  WE RETURN TO the Velvet Lounge much later in the night.  For the first
time within a few days I actually no longer feel a sense of everlasting
hunger.  I continue to promise to August that I owe him, but he merely
waves my words away.
        The night is warm and comfortable, which contrasts with the always
dank, dark, cool atmosphere of the Lounge as August throws back the heavy
steel entrance door.  We start on the topic about the "attractive girl" I
followed here the other night.  August is asking me one hundred questions
about her physical attributes, suggesting that if I remember correctly he
could find her and hook us up.  I make up a woman in my mind, saying, "Oh -
she's about my height, black hair, green eyes, polite face, large
chest...maybe could pass as a flapper girl."
        August scrunches up his face - "That don't sound like anyone I know
of in this joint."
        I allow the subject to be dropped as we reach our floor - the third
floor.  Not many people are lying around - it is cooler in here now, and
approaching one in the morning.  A few people are sitting around playing
bridge and Deborah is sitting alone in her chair - legs crossed, foot
bouncing, cigarette dangling from her fingers.
        "I'll be waiting, sugars," she says to the pair of us in her sultry
tone.  "Twenty bucks for both of you at once."
        I don't bother to ask August again if he actually plans to follow
through with his promise he made with Deborah to screw her, because the
moment we're in the bedroom he strips down to his briefs and slides into
his own bed.  "What-a-day," he groans.  "I'll send that telegram to Lucinda
first thing tomorrow," he continues more to himself than to me.
        I'm undressing slowly - sliding off my shirt - unbuckling my belt -
unzipping my pants - and allowing them to just drop down to my ankles,
leaving me in my briefs.  All the time I watch in the cracked mirror to see
if August flips over to take a peek, but he does not; he remains on his
side facing the wall.
        I flip off the light and crawl between the sheets.  But I feel
restless - unable to sleep - turned on for some unexplainable reason.  I
lay on my back for awhile - listening to the sound of movement around the
Lounge - mindlessly watching the ceiling fan twirl.  Finally, around two in
the morning, I hear Deborah's chair scratch the floor as she stands up.
Seconds later - a door shuts.
        Propelled by an unknown force, I slide out of bed and creep to the
door, stepping lightly so that the floor does not squeak beneath my weight.
The door knob is cool to touch and wobbly and squeaks a tad as I twist and
gently open the door to the hallway.
        The hallway light is on as it always is around the clock - but the
hallway itself is abandoned.  I check over my shoulder - the lump under the
sheets signifies that August is still asleep - still facing the wall.
        Without bothering to put on clothes - I slip out into the hallway
in my briefs.  I consider at least putting pants on - but I reason that
others walk around nude - so what would be the big deal if I walk around in
my briefs - even with my semi-hard on noticeable?
        My bare feet press against the coarse wood floorboards.  I am still
stepping lightly, trying not to create noticeable squeaks and squeals from
the floor.  There is little action going on in the third floor.  I'm not
sure what I am searching for, but my sexual energy propels my forward and
when I reach the staircase at the end of the hall - I walk up to the
railing, looking up, then down, trying to decide which way to go.
        I decide to go up.
        It's dark in the cool, wet stairwell.  The smell of urine reaches
my nostrils.  When I reach the top landing - the fourth floor - the smell
has subsided a bit.  I unconsciously adjust the grip my briefs have around
my legs and upon withdrawing my fingers from underneath the fabric it makes
a sharp 'thwap' sound against my skin.
        I have never been down any other hallway in the Velvet Lounge
except my own.  The fourth floor hallway is just about the same and mundane
as ever: old sofas lining the walls, peeling wallpaper, a drippy faucet in
the bathroom, about seven or eight bedroom doors, all of which are shut.
        I move silently down the hallway - stepping lightly - listening for
the sounds of groaning or of love making on the other side of the walls.
But by the time I reach the bathroom - the midway point - and only have
four more doors to walk by, I have heard nothing.
        To make my trip worth it - I slip into the bathroom (which looks
exactly like the bathroom on the third floor and I could only assume is
co-ed as well) and stand in front of the mirror adjusting the grip my
briefs have on me once again.
        "That pair of underwear doesn't fit you very well, does it?" a
familiar voice says.
        I am completely alarmed, spinning on the spot, heart thumping, my
face flooding with the color red in embarrassment.  August is leaning
against the doorframe to the bathroom - also standing in his blue briefs,
arms folded across his bare chest.  When I do not respond, he continues,
"All I am saying is that mine are tight, but fits comfortably and yours are
tighter and we're the same age, same height, same weight - so probably the
same size underwear - I assume."
        I finally find my tongue.  "August I..."
        He holds up his hand to silence me.  "I know what you are
doing...everyone does it.  Hell, I still do it.  But the fourth floor is
not the place to be looking, fresh.  Anyone knows that."  He waves his
hand, indicating that I should follow him.  "C'mon, kid.  I'll show you
what you want to see."
        I leave the bathroom, adjusting my underwear one last time and
noting, yes, August's briefs do have firm, yet comfortable grip on his
tight rear end.