Irvington is quiet in the light of the moon. The streets that had been so busy in the morning now sleep. But he drives the grid, letting the layout of the neighborhood sink deep into his cortex: the houses and small apartment buildings, the alleys and cul-de-sacs, the fences, the garbage cans and detached garages. He turns onto East Lowell and thinks of her, his little Cinnamon, walking along with her cigarette. As he passes by the homes, only a few with lights on, a few others with televisions glowing behind window shades, he wonders in which one she lives. He’ll find out. It will take days or weeks, but it will happen eventually. It’s a question of luck and timing, of schedules and effort invested.
He’s seen enough for now. It is time to clear out, but he can’t go home. Not yet. Instead he steers north toward the airfield and parks in the near-empty lot of Lover’s Lane. The adult bookstore’s red neon sign shines down on the hood of his car. He gets out and whiffs the jet fuel on the cold night air, and then he goes inside, where the chemical smell of bleached filth takes its place.
There are only a few people shopping at this hour—two other men around his age, and one much older. The clerk strokes his ponytail, a worn paperback copy of Game of Thrones facedown on the counter, as he speaks to the only other customers, a young couple who already have their cylindrical purchase in a black plastic bag.
He moves past them into the store, beyond the expensive lingerie and high-heel shoes, down the rows of DVDs and sex toys. The shop is a little high-end for his taste, but there aren’t many like it left anymore. The Internet has replaced them and threatens to render them obsolete altogether, just like it will do to people one day. But he’s grown up with magazines, and they are still what he prefers, and this is where to get them. He thinks of the hundreds he has in his garage, maybe a thousand. The frozen images and the slick feel of the paper in his hands bring him back to his childhood. He still remembers the day when he was eight years old and discovered the cache of blue magazines at Grandfather’s house. His young body and mind had exploded in excitement at the sight of the pages.
All the pretty women, with their cone-shaped breasts and tight-fitting girdles, standing with a leg up on the bed, or bent over chairs, as they looked back at the camera. His heart had pounded at the images. He understood then, deeply and immediately, that it would always be the images for him. What he didn’t understand was what the magazines were doing there in Grandfather’s study in the first place. Did Grandfather look at them? The question didn’t stay in his mind long, because soon, mixed in with the others, he’d discovered some old-school crime journals. Startling Detective, True Crime, Police Tales. They were even better than the porno books.
While he didn’t dare take the nudie magazines, he had cadged two issues of Detective Dragnet. Leather-gloved hands were wrapped around the neck of a startled-looking young blonde in her underwear on the cover of one issue. He had to have it, and another with a similar scene. He was shocked and relieved that Grandfather had never discovered them missing or at least hadn’t pursued where they’d gone.
But then, weeks later, Mother had. She thought he’d stolen them from a newsstand, and he’d kept Grandfather’s secret.
You little thief …
Then came the smack and thump of her open hand.
You little thief …
His head hit the wall.
You little thief …
It went on. Oh, how it had gone on.
He didn’t cry at the beating, he never did, even though that made Mother go after him worse, and he hadn’t been able to get out of bed and go to school for a week afterward. But it was worth it.
There is a jingle as the young couple exits the shop. He reaches the “literature” section, passes by what he doesn’t want, Hustler, Genesis, Club, and the like—fluffy crap—and then rounds the aisle and finds what he is looking for: the vintage stuff. Stalked, Captured, and Fettered. He waits for the familiar flutter in his stomach, the tingle in his limbs, at the sight of the buxom young women on the covers, shackled, gagged, staring pleadingly out at the reader. The colors are supersaturated, the lighting stark and procedural. The images pop in a highly detailed way. His reaction to the covers has hardly waned over the years. He gathers up a few issues he doesn’t already own and goes to the register to pay.
While the clerk makes change of his fifty-dollar bill, his hand goes into his pocket and his fingers slide around the smooth souvenir there. It was white once, years ago, but has aged down from exposure to air and his touch. He used to carry the piece every day, though now he takes it out only when he’s feeling a certain way. It is a length of bone, the first proximal phalange from someone very special that he’d known briefly long ago. It is both a reminder of the past and a promise of the future.
“Have a good night,” the clerk says, perhaps recognizing him from his other visits, perhaps not. At some point he needs to stop coming to places like this. There are cameras and it isn’t wise to continue. Of course, he’s thought that for years and years and nothing has happened, nothing has changed. The fact is: he’s invisible.
“Thank you,” he says to the clerk.
He leaves the store and heads for home.