613 West Jefferson

by Lliteras, D. S.

• ISBN13: 9781571742667
• ISBN10: 1571742662
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2001-03-01
• Publisher: Red Wheel/Weiser

Summary

Based on the author's own experiences in Vietnam, deftly explores the emotional and spiritual wounds of war in a veteran's return home.

Excerpts

Chapter One

Tallahassee, Florida

    July 3, 1970: Richard Santo was alone.

    Eight weeks earlier, he was a Marine corporal in Vietnam fighting for his life. Now he was a PFC, a "private fuckin' civilian," living in a place called Tallahassee, Florida.

    The development of his detached nature had been a painful process along a perilous journey. But even to the casual observer, he was nothing more than a bewildered Vietnam veteran.

    613 West Jefferson Street was an address along this perilous journey. Six-thirteen, as its inhabitants called it, was an old, single-story, wooden structure, which used to be a single-family dwelling. The place was an unsupervised halfway house for druggies, drunks, bums, and misfits living on the fringes of the hippie world. They were a sleazy lot who bordered on criminal behavior and perverted acts, but who avoided violence whenever possible.

    Richard Santo parked his car and was walking aimlessly around this North Florida town when he happened to pause in front of Six-thirteen to light a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke deeply.

    "Hey man, don't take life so seriously."

    Santo squinted in the direction of the voice. The shadow approaching a screened door transformed into a man.

    "Relax, you're among friends."

    He opened the door and entered the front porch.

    "Come in ... come on ... nobody's going to hurt you here."

    He found himself among four characters: three men and a woman.

    "Welcome to Six-thirteen, dearie. I'm the queen around here."

    He looked at the pudgy guy with an empty expression.

    "Don't listen to him," the woman said. "He's just a queer."

    "And you, my dear? What does society call you?" the so-called queer said unmaliciously.

    The woman ignored him. Then she stretched and yawned sensuously while seated on a worn-out wicker chair. She looked directly into Santo's eyes. "Don't pay any attention to him."

    "Who's asking him to pay for attention?" the pudgy guy said in a suggestive manner.

    "That's right, you're the one who usually pays," she said.

    He smacked his lips while mentally undressing Santo. "And, in this case, I would pay handsomely."

    The small group seemed hollow and tired. Santo crushed the lit end of his cigarette into an ashtray.

    The so-called queer was overweight and flabby. He was extremely effeminate and spoke with an affectation. His skin was fair, his hair dark, and his eyes gray. He was partially bald and tried to conceal his bare spot with a length of hair combed over the top; it looked like a square patch of sod. He wore a pair of brown denim jeans and a wrinkled dress shirt.

    The woman on the wicker chair had brown eyes, shoulder-length brown hair, and a fair complexion. Her hip-hugger jeans and white halter top revealed a lean, shapely figure. But her countenance was less than plain. Only the charm of her figure prevented her from crossing the border into unattractiveness.

    The other two remained in the shadows of the porch beyond his peripheral vision.

    "In or out," the woman said aggressively.

    Santo hesitated. The queer laughed.

    "Out," he said.

    "From where?"

    "Miami."

    "Lord God, what are you doing in this crummy little town?"

    "Looks kind of nice to me."

    "But it's an awful town for us girls to make a living in," the queer said in a sisterly manner. "Isn't it, honey?"

    The woman didn't appreciate the queer's remark. "It's a she-male impersonator at the Apalachee A-Go-Go."

    "And she's a bitch and a whore."

    "What's your name?" the woman asked.

    "Rick."

    The queer rose from the sofa and approached him. "Hello, Richard, I'm Kerry. And this ... this, I suppose you're interested to know, is Melisa."

    "Hello, Melisa," he said, ignoring the queer.

    Kerry retreated in a mock display of brokenhearted rejection. "He's straight. You always get the good ones, Melisa." She placed a probing hand on Santo's groin.

    When their eyes met, she quickly pulled her hand away, more surprised than embarrassed.

    "I'm sorry, I don't know why I did that."

    "Honestly, dear, keep your pants on."

    "That's alright," Santo said.

    "I don't know what came over me. You were just standing there and ... well ... I had to touch you."

    "Why don't you come over here and sit by me." Kerry's heart was palpitating. "I assure you I won't apologize, Richard."

    Santo leaned against the doorjamb near Melisa's chair. "What is this place?" he asked, trying to appear unaroused.

    "Oh, brother," Kerry said.

    "Shut up," she snapped. "Why ... as Kerry said earlier, this is Six-thirteen: a home for the homeless, a custom fit for the misfit. The prerequisite here is loneliness with a good dose of shiftlessness. True identity is not required. Only the willingness to overlook the sordid, the perverted, the lost, the confused. Murder is the only act considered a crime here, and morality is a civilized term that has no meaning."

    Santo slowly scanned the porch. "Okay. I can handle that." Then he focused his attention on the black and white figures. They were sitting on a sofa projecting insincere smiles at him.

    The black man had a coarse head of hair and a scraggly goatee. His eyes were dark, his eyebrows thick, his teeth pure white, and his large mouth severe. His other features were strong but not as prominent. A dirty tee shirt and a pair of jeans covered his powerfully built frame, and a pair of flip-flop slippers exposed a massive pair of feet.

    The white man wore a cowboy hat and boots along with jeans and a tee shirt as dirty as his sidekick's. And although he was clean shaven, his gaunt figure had an overall unkempt appearance. His straight brown hair drooped down both sides of his face and framed an elusive pair of dark eyes. His nose was prominent, his mouth thin, and a constant smile exposed a set of broken teeth. Crude and blue-black in color, a homemade tattoo of a cross with the name of Jesus written below it was etched into his left forearm.

    "Who are those two?" he asked Melisa.

    "These two are Nat and Julian," the cowboy said. He rose from his seat to meet Santo at eye level.

    "Sounds like an animal act," Santo said.

    They maintained eye contact.

    "You hear that, Julian?" the cowboy said.

    "I'm listening, I'm listening," said the black man.

    "Your compadre seems to be smarter than you," Santo said.

    "Don't let his smile fool you."

    "It doesn't."

    Realizing Santo wasn't in the least bit intimidated, the cowboy offered him a friendly hand. "You're crazy, man."

    Santo accepted the greeting by shaking hands with him. Then he turned to the black man, but waited for him to get up from the sofa and come to him to shake hands. When he did, it completed a small victory.

    Melisa quickly established her alliance. "Would you like a beer, Rick?"

    "Sure."

    "How about us?" Nat complained.

    "Yeah, what about us?" Julian said. But he was more worried about being left out of a beer than anything else.

    "I was just checking," she said.

    Nat waited for her to disappear into the kitchen. "She's a whore."

    "So are you," Kerry said, "but at least she's good." He turned to Santo. "Would you like a glass with that beer, Richard?"

    He sat down on Melisa's wicker chair. "A glass would be nice."

    Kerry went into the kitchen with an inflated sense of dignity.

    Nat pulled the brim of his cowboy hat lower on his forehead. "Faggot!"

    "Screw you!"

    Santo leaned back on the wicker chair. "You really like giving people a hard time, don't you?"

    "We're just having fun ... Rick."

    "There's no fun in calling people names."

    "What's in a name, right?"

    "Yeah, we're just friends," Julian said.

    "Yeah ... like ... Julian's the missing link."

    "Yeah ... like ... a missing link who's going to beat on a cowboy ass."

    "Just trying to make a point, man."

    "Bury the point somewhere else," said Julian.

    Nat raised both his hands in a display of innocence. "Hey, man, it's gone."

    "Are you two always like this?"

    Julian answered the question after the tension dissipated. "No, man. Only when the town is dry."

    "And Tallahassee is dry, man."

    "Right on," Julian acknowledged. "No drugs makes it hard on a friendship, man. And Nat here is my main man. The streets are desolate: no weed, no speed, no acid, no coke, no nothing. Something's got to give soon. People are going crazy."

    The three of them slumped into another silence until music invaded the porch from one of the inner rooms of the house. Melisa entered the porch carrying beer and tossed an unopened can to Nat, then to Julian. She took the trouble, however, to open the third beer and pour it into a glass for Santo.

    Then Kerry danced into the room, in drag, lip-syncing the lyrics to the song. His smile was painted with lipstick, and his head was covered with an orange wig that highlighted the five o'clock shadow on his face. His tight lavender dress accented his excess weight, and his awkwardness in a pair of high heels revealed his lack of talent. It was easy to feel sorry for him. All of them sensed his vulnerability.

    They drank. They laughed. They even enjoyed Kerry's show. Then Melisa sat on Santo's lap, establishing her claim, once and for all.

    As the performance continued, perspiration began to roll down Kerry's face. It ruined the heavy makeup he managed to put on before the show. At the end of the record, he threw himself into an unoccupied sofa, relishing the applause.

    "Where are you staying?" Melisa asked as she wrapped an attentive arm around Santo's neck.

    "I'm living in my car," he said.

    "Well then, you can stay here with us."

    "Or at my place," Kerry wheezed, recovering from his performance and still hoping to score.

    "Nobody wants to stay with you at that dump of a hotel," Nat said cruelly.

    "Where do you live, Kerry?"

    "He lives at the Florida Hotel," Melisa said.

    "It can't be too bad a place," Santo said in Kerry's defense.

    Somehow, this sexually aroused Melisa. "It's not. Really." She got off his lap, took him by the hand, and tugged him to his feet. "Let's go for a visit. It's not far from here. We can walk and talk and ...." She looked at Kerry. "What do you think?"

    Kerry's eyes bulged with excitement. "Who am I to question the desires of others? But I need a second to change. Don't go away." Then he vanished in a flurry of effeminate activity.

    Nat was unable to contain his antagonism. "I don't believe this."

    "Nobody asked you to," Melisa said.

    "He's a faggot! And you're ... you're ..."

    "Leave it alone, man," Julian said. "You've had your day with her. There are other fish in the sea."

    "Yeah. Grow up," she said.

    Kerry dashed into the porch, dressed in men's clothing again, and linked an arm around one of Santo's. And as soon as Kerry escorted him out of Six-thirteen into the early evening's humidity, Melisa attached herself to his other arm.

    The sky was covered with an endless blanket of gray clouds that concealed the stars. The shadow of Spanish moss could be felt everywhere, and the splash of a street lamp showered the sidewalk and street with yellow light. Together they followed the intermittent lights along the narrow sidewalk of West Jefferson Street to Monroe Street. Then they steered left toward the center of town until they reached the intersection of Monroe and Tennessee Street where the Florida Hotel was located. It was the last of old downtown Tallahassee.

    The square, squat, and unattractive building appeared seedy instead of old. Cracks marred its brick façade, and windows dressed with dusty drapes or yellowed shades or torn bedsheets indicated poverty's last breath. A wooden porch built to the edge of the sidewalk housed the main entrance and protected the tenants from the weather.

    There were three elderly ladies and two old men sitting under the veranda's protection when they bounced across the porch and went through the main entrance. Nobody said hello.

    The lobby wasn't air-conditioned, and its musty odor came from a proliferation of mildew and rot. The cranberry carpet was threadbare, and the stairway leading to the next floor creaked from the weight of its ascendants. The long, narrow hallway on the second floor was insufficiently lit, and a dirt-encrusted floor runner stretched across its entire length.

    The gaiety of the threesome waned from the somberness of the hotel's interior Kerry began to apologize.

    "It's not so bad, really. You get used to it after awhile. Most of the tenants are old and quiet ... and nice to me."

    "It's fine, don't worry about it," Santo said.

    They stopped in front of a door located about halfway down the passageway.

    "Well, this is it. Home. And if not sweet," he inserted the key into the lock, "home nonetheless."

    Kerry entered first and turned on the lights, leaving Melisa and Santo in the hallway. She quickly gave him a seductive wink and mouthed the words, "You want to make love?" He nodded his head and pulled her closer to him for emphasis. Then she pointed her finger in Kerry's direction as an additional offering. He emphatically declined.

    "Then," she said, "as soon as we can break away from Kerry ... you and I will ..."

    A square of light appeared on the floor through the opened door.

    "Okay, you two. I can hear you whispering." Kerry stepped into the hallway. "Well, what are you two waiting for?" He ushered them into his room. "Come on in. Or is it ... just come?" He giggled. "Oh, don't mind me. Come on, come on."

    Everything in the tiny room was worn out or decaying. The walls needed painting and the cubicle needed more light. An unshaded table lamp was all the room had to offer. It produced a harsh incandescence, which created an odd assortment of shadows over the damp, stained walls. There were two doors left half-opened: one displaying a crowded closet, and the other an ivory-tiled bathroom.

    Santo felt a little uneasy.

    "I have to use the little girl's room," Melisa said. "I'll be right back."

    "Take your sweet time, dearie," Kerry said nervously. "I believe we can manage to find something to do while you're gone." Kerry proceeded with caution after the bathroom door was closed. "Would you care for a drink, Richard?"

    "Sure."

    "This may not be the Taj Mahal, honey, but it does have all the conveniences that a working girl has to offer." Kerry walked over to a miniature-sized refrigerator. "Rum and Coke is all that I can offer."

    "That'll be fine, thanks."

    He began fixing their drinks. "You know, being straight is often a matter of degree, Richard."

    "Not for me, Kerry. I'm sorry."

    "Are you sure ... you want your rum straight up?"

    "Yeah."

    "Suit yourself. But I hope you don't blame me for trying to change your mind."

    "As long as you can stand the rejection."

    "Oh, don't you know? There's a turn-on even in that."

    "Did I hear something about a rum and Coke?" Melisa said, standing near the bathroom door.

    Kerry handed Santo his drink. "Eavesdropping like a good little girl, weren't we?"

    "A girl has to protect what's hers," she said.

    "And to think, Richard, I taught her everything I know." Kerry finished preparing the other two drinks and handed one to Melisa. "Here you are, my dear."

    "Thank you, sweetie."

    "Now, let me propose the toast: let's see ... to Richard and Kerry ... and Melisa. May they become close." He winked at them. "One can only hope."

    They studied each other carefully as they drank, waiting for somebody to make the first move.

    Kerry set his drink on a table and lay down on the double bed. He stretched luxuriously in an attempt to appear casual.

    Melisa sat on the edge of the bed next to him. And after taking a sip of her drink, she gently patted the spot beside her.

    "Relax, Rick," she said. "Come over here and sit by me."

    He accepted her invitation. And when he kissed her, she passionately responded, leaving Kerry frustrated among the bed pillows.

    With tremendous self-control, Kerry remained calm and quiet while watching several minutes of sexual foreplay.

    The couple broke their embrace and took a sip from their drinks. Then Santo placed their glasses out of the way while Melisa kicked off her shoes.

    Kerry fidgeted excitedly. "Nice sequence, you two. Is there anything left for me?"

    They politely ignored him as they climbed into his bed. He anxiously made room for them. Then the sound of shoes was heard falling on both sides of the bed, signifying Santo's sexual arousal on one side and Kerry's passive hope on the other.

    Kerry cautiously caressed the couple. But to his disappointment, he was not included. He made several frustrating attempts, but the couple remained passively resistant. Then all the fun drained out of Kerry; he thrust himself out of the bed.

    "Alright you two, have it your way. Fuck yourselves to death for all I care."

    Melisa broke away from their kiss but maintained their embrace. "Don't be that way, Kerry. Please."

    "Yeah, Kerry," Santo said. "It's nothing against you personally."

    "Oh, sure. Placate an overweight faggot so you can use his bed."

    "Wait now, you invited us."

    "She invited us." Kerry pouted.

    "And you resisted the whole way over here," she said.

    Kerry's figure slumped. "Hell. I'm sorry. I was simply hoping, well ... you know."

    "It wasn't going to happen, Ker." She got out of the bed and gave him a sisterly hug.

    "I know. I'm sorry, Richard."

    "I'm sorry, too," he said.

    "Really?"

    "Really."

    Then Santo climbed out of the bed and gave Kerry a brotherly hug. "Say ... why don't we go out somewhere and conjure up some mischief together? Come on. What do you say, Ker?"

    "That's a wonderful idea!" Melisa exclaimed with an increased desire for him.

    "You two," Kerry said perceptively. "Oh, well. At least we can be friends."

    "Friends," Santo agreed.

    "That's right," Melisa said.

    And after they snuggled up together in a three-way hug, they exploded out of the hotel room into the hallway. Then they screamed down the stairs like children and joined hands when they reached the sidewalk.

    "To Six-thirteen!" one of them cried.

    "To Six-thirteen!" they shouted together.

    Then they marched away, locked together within a bubble of hope, on the lookout for an adventure, and always ... always in the search for happiness.

Copyright © 2001 D.S. Lliteras. All rights reserved.