For a Good Time Call.... Donald Ph.D. Ladew

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СКАЧАТЬ Annie-Brown," he stuttered. He hadn't a clue, but her voice was exactly like every fantasy he'd ever imagined.

      "William, my ad means what it says. It is my profession to provide a good time. It is my goal for the next ten life cycles."

      "Huh?" God, he moaned, if I could just wrench my foot out of my mouth maybe I could think of something intelligent to say.

      "Did I not say that correctly, William? Oh, no matter. Would you like to make an appointment?" she asked.

      What am I doing? he thought. She sure doesn't sound like the hookers patrolling the park.

      "Okay." He felt as if he was agreeing to radical surgery with a one percent chance of survival.

      "Good program. Come to the Bellefourche Towers, Suite 1201A at six before sun's end tomorrow, n'est pas?"

      The line went dead before he could say yes or no. I must be losing it, he thought. I'm going for the truly bizarre. Forget it, Will Fennimore, he muttered, you may be depressed, but you're not a damned fool.

      William didn't have many options, or thought he didn't. What the hell, I was crazy to call in the first place, he thought. He finally went to sleep on the couch, listening to the world drizzle on his window.

      Chapter 2

      William worked as a technical writer for an aerospace firm in the San Fernando Valley. It was all part of the big picture, his big picture. He wrote descriptions of things other men designed. They were all probably over six feet. It made him sad.

      After work, sitting at the bus stop, he forgot about the appointment. The redhead sat across from him, and as usual she didn't notice him. He descended into his normal state of apathy. Then he noticed the strange ad again and thought about going. It was crazy. She's probably five feet ten. He was derisive, disgusted. Great! I'll get a close look at the buttons on her dress.

      Once back at the flat, things felt strange. He was like two people. One jabbering away how stupid it all was, the other blank, detached. He took a shower, then as he shaved he was further depressed by what he saw in the mirror. Short black hair, light gray eyes beneath straight, black brows split by an inability to avoid the good left jab. A beaky nose which had also suffered from those left jabs. He still had the mustache, a remnant of his Navy days.

      He dressed carefully in a pair of gray slacks, white cotton button-down shirt, burgundy tie and dark blue blazer, then put a quick brush on his boots; all the while the other person was yammering on about what an idiot he was, how he'd probably catch some disfiguring disease, or get mugged.

      When he was in high school, he overheard the neighbor lady tell his step father it was too bad he had a short upper lip. He didn't stay around to hear what he said. She made it sound like leprosy. If he hung around maybe they'd make him wear a bell or something. Anyhow the image stuck. He was sure it must be bad, so he kept the mustache. She probably had no idea she had added to the dwindling spiral of his self-esteem.

      During his second hitch in Viet Nam, a military intelligence type was sent down from “I” Corps to debrief William and the rest of the team after they went for a little swim in the Rung Sat, one of the foulest swamps in the world.

      He took one look at William and said, “Who's the toy soldier?” William tried to tell the commander he was tired, which was true.

      The commander said he understood, but that was no excuse for breaking the guy's legs, then trying to run over him with a truck. As far as William was concerned the intelligence weenie was real lucky he hadn't run over his head. Didn't matter, he still got busted and lost two months pay.

      So there he was, trying to ignore all the strange internal comments about the state of his decaying sanity. At five thirty, “the other guy” got up and went down to the bus stop. A pretty girl from his building was there. She spoke to him!

      "Hi there. You look sharp, got a hot date?" she smiled.

      William was so stunned, he mumbled something incoherent and stood there like a deranged department store dummy. Maybe he was hallucinating. Mercifully, the bus came and took him away.

      The Bellefourche Towers was located on another park, in the best part of the city. The doorman probably got paid more than William. He told the man he had an appointment with Miss Annie-Brown in suite 1201A. The doorman squinted at something on a clipboard and grudgingly opened the doors, as large as the entrance to the cathedral at Rheims. He pointed to a bank of elevators across a vast expanse of parquet floor.

      Make a great roller-rink, William thought.

      "The one on the left, Mr. Holt-Fennimore," he said.

      William wondered somewhat uncharitably, if she's a call-girl she must be working twenty four hours a day. The elevator rose swiftly and silently, with no sickening lurches or sudden stops. There were only two suites on the twelfth floor. He pressed the doorbell and heard the muted peel of musical chimes.

      God, what am I doing? he thought. He was getting ready to leave when the door opened.

      He saw...a tall woman...no ...a lady about five feet tall. What the...for a moment he was sure he saw a tall woman, now here was this petite girl with lavender eyes and shiny black hair, smiling at him...up at him. She was a wearing a dark green sheath, cut up the thigh in the Chinese style.

      "Please enter, Mr. Holt-Fennimore." Her voice was as musical as a rare jungle bird.

      He'd seen places like this on T.V. They went into a drawing room that was bigger than William's apartment.

      "Please sit here." She indicated a plush divan, long enough to seat ten abreast.

      He sank into the couch until it seemed it would swallow him in one soft, silent gulp. She sat beside him and her dress rode up her thighs provocatively. He tried not to look. Fortunately he failed. William felt gauche and uncomfortable.

      "Why did you call, Mr. Holt-Fennimore?" she asked.

      "Huh! Oh, well, I didn't have anything else to do...I mean I was bored...what I mean is, well it was such an interesting ad..."

      He tried to sink further into the couch. Maybe he'd run out of ways to insert his foot in his stupid mouth.

      "All good reasons to call, Mr. Holt-Fennimore. Before we begin, it is necessary that I gather personal data." She brought out a strange machine. It was modern and shiny. She disconnected a pair of metal plates from it, and moved toward him. He wasn't having any of that.

      "Hey, wait a minute, what are those? I don't fool around with machines. What are you, some kind of psychiatrist? I don't associate with those freaks."

      Maybe this is what the shrinks call a rural electrification project, he thought.

      "It isn't dangerous, Mr. Holt-Fennimore. This is a “Persolyser”, a personality analyzer. I must be certain I tailor your good time as close to your real wishes as possible. This device will help me do that. It is painless, and there are no unpleasant after-effects at all. I assure you, sir, I may not give you a bad time. I am not trained for that. That sort of thing is handled by another company."

      Christ, this is too weird, he thought. "You must be from another country," he СКАЧАТЬ