Inside With the King of Jugglers

This is part of a collection of short stories I'm just putting together. It was featured in Issue #58 of Rosebud Magazine last year. I'll be looking for a publisher as soon as I'm finished, the book running around 73,000 words (38 stories).

I’m coming off the subway and run into my old friend, Wes. He just finished a stretch in Kingston Penitentiary for burglary. He says he’s on his way to his girlfriend’s place and asks me to walk with him. I want to hear about Kingston. That’s where Wes met The King of Jugglers, Rube Walk. Rube taught Wes how to juggle five balls. Wes tells me that’s a big step for any juggler. “I can do five now,” he says, but he’s only got two balls with him. The other three are at his girlfriend’s place. “We’ll get them and I’ll show you,” he says. “I hope Marcie doesn’t have anyone with her.”

Wes says they haven’t been together long. It’s a complicated arrangement with Marcie doing her johns out of the apartment. Sometimes the phone will ring and Wes’ll have to go for a walk. Other times, Marcie’s pimp will show up. Wes woke up one time and heard the pimp hitting her. I ask Wes what he did about it.

“Pretended I was sleeping,” he says.

Wes learned to avoid conflicts in prison. Nobody beat up jugglers, for some reason. That’s something Rube taught him. Rube never got into fights.

The worse fights were between the trannies and queens. They ran the hair salon in Kingston. You had to be careful with them. “Very emotional, those girls,” Wes says. A few of them were in for serious crimes. Roxy—the head queen stylist—had stabbed three guys. Wes got along with Roxy. It paid to get along with Roxy.

Before Wes left prison, Roxy gave him her card.

“I’m getting out soon, too," she said. "You keep in touch, hear?” The card had Roxy’s Hairstyling and a number. “I got my duckies in a row,” she told him.

Wes says he’ll look Roxy up when he needs a haircut. His hair is black and fine and gets tangled easily. He’s always pushing it back, using his hands. When he does, everything jangles in the deep pockets of his trench coat. It’s one of those old army issues. He’s got bolt cutters, lock picks, a jimmy bar. That’s something else Rube taught him. Rube himself went from burglar to truck hijacker. He told Wes to stick to burglary. Rube got picked up on an airport job stealing a transport.

We cut across the lawn of an old apartment building. At the back is a rusty fire escape. I follow Wes up to the second floor. He goes to the nearest door, knocks, and says, “Marcie, it’s me.” A shadow appears under the door. Wes knocks again. “I know you’re in there, Marcie. I can see your shadow.”

“Maybe she’s with a customer,” I say.

“She’d tell me that through the door.”

He steps back and kicks in the door.

A dog is standing there. It’s a black lab, a young thing. It doesn’t bark. It wags it’s tail. “I forgot about Huey,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t have kicked in the door.”

He checks the bedroom, then the washroom, then he goes back to the bedroom again. He starts pulling out these long silk dresses from the closet. They all have low necklines and long slits up the side. Wes bundles them in a tight ball, sticking them in his coat pocket. The pockets goes right down to the bottom. Then he grabs some of Marcie’s jewelry and her clock radio.

“Why are you taking her stuff?” I ask.

“So it looks like someone robbed the place,” he says.

Out in the kitchen, he finds his three rubber balls on the counter.

“We’d better go,” he says. “I don’t want Marcie to find us here.”

He stuffs the balls in his coat, then the clock radio.

“Isn’t she going to know it’s you if you take the balls?” I ask.

“It could be another juggler,” he grins.

Back on the street, Wes tells me he’s developing a comedy act, something he can do while he’s juggling. Nobody’s hiring jugglers. He figures, if he can develop an act, he can get on the comedy club circuit.

There’s a little parkette just down from the subway station. An old woman is sitting on a bench with her dog. Wes takes out his rubber balls and starts juggling. He gets three balls going, then all five. They go around in a big circle. The old woman’s dog can’t take its eyes off the balls. The old woman claps. She takes a five dollar bill out of her purse. “You’re very good, young man,” she says.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Wes replies.

We start walking again.

“What are you going to do when Marcie says she’s been robbed?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Wes says. “I’m no good at thinking that far ahead. Rube says I’d be a better juggler if I did. He can juggle eight balls.”

“You could say you forgot your key.”

“She won’t give me a key.”

“Do you blame her?”

“No, I guess not.”

He scratches his thin beard, then pulls the dresses out of his coat.

“Here,” he says. “Give these to your girlfriend.”

“They smell like Marcie’s perfume.”

“Get them cleaned. Tell her they came off the back of a truck.”

He says goodbye and disappears down the eastbound platform.

Not far from my apartment, there’s a Chinese laundry. I go in there and the old woman looks over each dress, then squints at me. “When you want?” she asks. I tell her, as soon as possible. She goes off mumbling, talking to a man using the big steam presses. They glance at me, then she comes back and says, “Twenty minute.”

I get the dresses, then hurry home. Louise isn’t there yet. I take the dresses out of the cellophane and drape them across the back of the couch. Then I shower. When Louise comes through the door, she sees the dresses right away. “Where did you get these?” she says. I tell her Wes got them off the back of a truck. “Who’s Wes?”

“He’s a juggler friend of mine.”

“What’s he doing with these?”

“He got them off the back of a truck.”

She holds a black one up against her. “It’s pretty tarty,” she says. “You can see right through it.” I tell her to try it on. “Let me shower first,” she says.

She takes a shower, then comes out in the black dress. Her hair’s pinned up, a few damp curls hanging down. She does a twirl. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I pull her down on the couch. We’re both breathing heavily.

She suddenly pushes me off.

“I want to try on the other ones,” she says.

“Hurry up,” I say.

A few minutes later, she’s twirling around the living room again. She looks even hotter in red. I pull her down on the couch again.

“Wow,” she says. “This is the hottest I’ve ever seen you. Don’t you want to see me in the white one?” I tell her I can wait. “Let me try it on,” she says.

The neckline on the white dress comes right down to her waist.

“I’m about to pop right out of this,” she says.

“I’m ready to rape you,” I say.

I slide the straps off her shoulders. The dress drops to the floor. I’m breathing like one of those presses at the Chinese laundry. I’m dragging her into the bedroom. We’re on the bed, going like mad.

When we finish, I flop on my back, breathing heavily.

“That was hot,” Louise says.

“Damn right it was hot,” I say.

The phone rings.

“Leave it,” I say.

“What if it’s someone calling you about work.”

“Why would they call now? It’s after six o’clock.”

“You should check, anyway.”

Louise is always worried I’ll miss a project. I write for a promotions firm. Flyers, mostly. Quick turnarounds. I go out in the living room and pick up the phone.

“Hello?” I say.

“I need those dresses back,” Wes says. “Marcie figured it out. She says they’re worth three hundred bucks a piece.”

“I just gave them to Louise,” I say. “What am I going to tell her?”

“Don’t tell her anything,” Wes says. “Keep her in the bedroom. Put the dresses where I can find them. What’s your apartment number?”

“Fifty-eight Indian Road. Apartment twenty-three.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Who was that?” Louise calls from the bedroom.

“Wrong number,” I say.

I come in the bedroom.

“You talked a long time for a wrong number,” she says.

“They wanted someone else in our building.”

“Come here,” she says.

“Just let me get the wine.”

I go out in the living room, grab the wine, then turn on the stereo. On my way back to the bedroom, I unlock the front door.

“Why’s the music so loud?” Louise says.

“Because we’re pretty loud,” I say.

I pour the wine, let her have a couple of sips, then I start in on her again.

I keep it up as long as I can.

“Wow,” she says when we’re finished. “That was the longest we’ve ever had sex.” She looks at the clock. “We’ve been at it for thirty minutes. When was the last time we had sex this long?”

We’re staring at the ceiling, and then she gets up.

“I want to try on those dresses again,” she says.

“Don’t,” I say. “I’m too exhausted.”

“Okay,” she say. “I’m pretty sore, anyway. I wouldn’t mind eating something. All this sex makes a girl hungry. Let me go start dinner.”

She jumps in the shower first. I go look in the living room. The dresses are gone. A few minutes later, the shower stops. Louise comes out in a towel. “What do you want to eat?” she asks, then looks around. “Where are the dresses?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I came out and they were gone.”

Louise looks behind the couch. “How can they be gone?” she says. “Is this some kind of joke? Did you hide them or something?”

“I didn’t do anything. I guess we were robbed.”

Louise checks the kitchen and the dining room.

“Nothing else is missing. Who breaks in and steals dresses?”

“Again, I don’t know.”

“Do we call the police?”

“For three dresses?”

“How did the burglar get in here?”

“I must have left the door unlocked.”

“My God,” Louise says, sitting on the couch. “Do you think that’s who called before? Maybe they wanted to know if we were home.”

“They wouldn’t burgle the place if they knew we were home.”

“Do you think they heard us having sex?”

“That’s probably why they stole the dresses.”

“They were pretty hot,” Louise says. “That’s the hottest I’ve ever looked.”

I sit down next to her. Neither of us is hungry anymore. Louise finally gets up and puts on her old sweatshirt and jeans. “I felt so sexy in those things,” she says. “Now I feel like a slob.”

“I’ll get you another dress,” I say.

“Does Wes have any more?”

“I’ll check. If not, I’ll buy you one.”

“They aren’t cheap.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

After Louise leaves for work the next day, I check all of Wes’s usual hangouts. Nobody’s seen him. Then the phone rings. It’s Wes on the other end.

“Heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I need some dresses,” I say. “Last night was the best sex we ever had.”

“I heard you in there.”

“Can you find me some more?”

“I’ll check around.”

He hangs up. Twenty minutes later, he calls back.

“Meet me at the pool hall,” he says.

I go over there and Wes is juggling by the counter. Eddie, the manager, and a few other guys are taking bets. “If he keeps them up two more minutes,” Eddie says to me, “I’ll make a hundred bucks.”

Wes keeps them up and Eddie wins his bet.

“Where are the dresses?” I ask Wes.

“A few blocks from here,” he says.

He stuffs the balls in his coat and we go out the door. Turning north, we walk a couple of blocks to a row of brownstones, Wes starts up the steps. “Just be cool up there, okay,” he says. “Whatever she says, just agree. Don’t piss her off.”

Up on the third floor, Wes knocks on one of the doors.

A chain rattles, then a voice says, “Who is it?”

“Wes.”

The door opens and there’s this thin guy with close-cropped hair and plucked eyebrows. He’s wearing a loose pullover, white jeans. On his feet are some kind of Japanese sandals. “Well, well,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “It’s The Juggler and—who’s this?”—he looks at me—“The Jugglerette?”

“This is Matt,” Wes says. “Matt, this is Roxy.”

“Hello, Matt,” Roxy says, shaking my hand. “Look at those shoulders. I’m not sure my dresses are going to fit you.”

“It’s for his girlfriend, Roxy,” Wes says.

“And what size, pray tell?” Roxy says to me.

“Same size as Marcie,” I say.

“And who’s Marcie?”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Wes says.

“I’m in the middle of a straight man’s convention,” Roxy sighs. “Come in, come in. Excuse the mess. Still getting settled.”

He leads us into the living room. On the walls are posters, all with the word “LOVE” done in different type styles. “My friend is an artiste,” Roxy says.

Over on the couch, there are three dresses.

“This is all I can part with, I’m afraid,” Roxy says. “Go on, darling, have a look, have a feel. They won’t bite.”

They aren’t as hot as Marcie’s. One of them—a red one—looks pretty good.

“How much for this one?” I ask.

Roxy sighs and picks up a cigarette off the coffee table.

“Well, Matt, darling,” he says, “since we’re all business, I’ll put on my dickering hat.” He lights the cigarette and blows smoke out his nose. “For you—and only you—I’ll say fifty dollars. With a codicil. Do you know what a codicil is? It’s an addition. Fifty dollars for the dress if—if, my sweet—you let me cut your hair. That will be fifty dollars as well.”

“Roxy’s really good,” Wes says to me.

“You’re too kind, Wesley,” Roxy says. “But I definitely am good.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Swell,” Roxy says, pointing to a swivel chair by the kitchen sink. “Take a seat.” He starts running the water while I sit down. He pulls out a sheet, throws it across me, then tucks the ends into my collar. “Wes,” he says. “Be a dear and turn on the stereo. Feel free to toss your balls around.”

Wes turns on the stereo, takes off his coat, and gets his juggling balls.

“Please don’t send them flying into the objets d’art,” Roxy says.

He tilts the chair back towards the sink, then starts washing my hair, his hands moving through my scalp, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

Symphonic music plays and, every so often, Roxy conducts with his scissors. His head sways, his arms go up and down. Then he’s tilting me up, rubbing my head with a towel. “And now,” he says, “the art begins.”

Curls start dropping down on the sheet. His sleeves are pulled up to his elbows. He stops occasionally, conducting to a particular symphonic strain, then back again, the scissors clipping away.

Wes stands in the living room, working three balls, then four and five. I watch them go around and around. Roxy takes strands of hair from each side of my head. He measures, then starts cutting again.

The music rises, Roxy’s head sways.

“Isn’t that gorgeous?” he says.

He brings out two mirrors, holding one in front, one behind.

“There you go, handsome.”

“Thanks, Roxy,” I say. “It looks great.”

“My pleasure,” he says. “Straight as you are.”

He looks at Wes. “And you, my sweet?”

“I’m fine for now, Roxy,” Wes says. “Give me a couple more weeks.”

“Can’t blame a queen for trying,” he shrugs, going to the closet. He finds a plastic bag and starts folding the dress. “There you are, darling,” he says, handing me the bag. “I hope you have cash. I’m not set up for debit yet.”

I hand him the money.

“Now, don’t be a stranger,” he says. “And tell all your friends. ”

He hands me his card.

“Off with you now,” he says. “Go wrap your woman in silk. And you“—pointing at Wes—“do whatever it is you do with your Marcie.”

With an abrupt turn, he raises his hands to the music, and strides across the room. Wes and I go downstairs.

“I like Roxy,” I say.

Wes tells me to throw the card away. He says Roxy will be back in Kingston before I need another hair cut.

“Those cards are ten years old,” he says. “That apartment belongs to a queen friend. Roxy shows up there every time she gets out.”

“Why does Roxy keep going back inside?” I say.

“He’s a sensitive girl,” he says.

Wes has business to attend to back at the pool hall. He takes off across the street with everything jangling in his pockets. I head back to the apartment.

I lay the dress across the couch and open a bottle of wine.

Things could get very hot tonight.

Robert Cormack is a freelance copywriter, journalist and novelist. His first novel "You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive)" is available on line and at most major bookstores. Check out Yucca Publishing or Skyhorse Press for more details.