FICTION

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Anyway, I had also found a new gal, a spunky editor's assistant named Priscilla, and we had started going out from time to time. Priscilla liked to drink after work, so sometimes we'd end up in these strange Midtown bars getting sauced until one of us invited the other one home. She was straight out of a librarian fantasy, this Priscilla. She wore glasses and everything, but was really quite sexy when she cut loose. She had no breasts, just little nubs, but she loved to have those nubs played with, even in public. One time I had my hand down her shirt in this Midtown cocktail bar when I saw Mort staring at me from across the room. I yanked my hand out and, with nothing better to do, waved it sheepishly to him. He nodded and pursed his lips.

"Let's go," I said to Priscilla. "Let's get out of here."

"Okay," she said.

She got up to go to the bathroom first, and I gathered up my stuff. Suddenly, I felt a heavy paw of a hand slap down on my shoulder. I spun around and found Mort glaring at me, bleary-eyed and drunk.

"You little skunk," he said to me.

"We broke up," I said. "Wendy and I broke up. She likes someone else now."

Mort was weaving a little bit. I could smell his liquor breath wafting over me.

"You skunk," he said.

"She's going out with a director," I said, hoping that would somehow help.

"He's a prick," said Mort. "That kid's a bigger jackass than you even."

"You're right," I said. "Wendy deserves better."

"She does," said Mort. He placed his hand on my shoulder again, this time in a slightly friendly way.

"I want you to do me a favor," he said. "Get that prick away from her."

"I can't do that."

"I know," said Mort, shaking his head. "I know.

I found Wendy in bed.

Priscilla came back from the bathroom, and I introduced her to Mort. He held her hand for a long time after he shook it and smiled down at her. I thought he might try to kiss her.

Instead, he said, "You take care of this guy." And then he slapped me on the back and stumbled away.

"Who was that?" asked Priscilla.

"He won the Heisman Trophy," I said.

We went back to her place, and for some reason I kept drinking. I poured several stiff drinks into myself, which isn't my usual practice, and soon I was too drunk to perform any kind of sexual function. I kept passing out on top of Priscilla and then insisting I could go on. She was unimpressed and asked me to leave.

I stumbled outside and wandered downtown. At first I had no direction, but then I found myself heading toward Wendy's place. It was about twenty-five blocks south and I walked the whole way, weaving around the sidewalk like an ass. Wendy lived on a fourth-floor walk-up, and I waited on the stoop until someone came out of the building and opened the door for me. Then I charged up the stairs and pushed on her door. It was unlocked. Inside, I found Wendy in bed with that ascot-wearing director. They were lying there together, naked, with candles burning around them.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked me.

The director stood up with a sheet wrapped around him and got between us. It was a protective gesture, though I could tell he wasn't ready to fight.

I had only a vague plan at this point, and the director was messing it up, standing between us like that. I was going to get down on my knees and tell Wendy how great she was and how she could do better than those pretentious plays and even though Mort was kind of gruff I knew he loved her. I really knew that. But that director dipshit was there and in the way. So I stepped forward and poked his skinny chest with my finger.

"You," I said, "don't deserve her."

"Well," he said, letting out a pompous chuckle.

Sometimes it feels good to cut yourself and bleed a little.

"Get out of here," Wendy said to me. "Please."

"Okay," I said. "But I want you to know I came here at Mort's request."

"What?"

"I did this for Mort."

With that, I took a roundhouse swing at the director fellow, but he ducked, and I fell to the ground.

To his credit, he didn't kick me or hit me then. He could have done that and been justified. Instead, he just said, "I think you should leave now."

Which I did. I turned around and stormed out the door and proceeded to trip headfirst down the stairs so that I cut my forehead on the railing and had to yell back up to them, "It's okay! Don't worry! I'm fine! I'm okay."

My forehead was bleeding, but it wasn't so bad. Sometimes it feels good to cut yourself and bleed a little, so long as it isn't too serious. At least that's the way I felt about it just then. I got to the bottom of the stairs and yelled back up there before I left. I yelled over and over again, "I did it for Mort!" I kept yelling it louder and louder because I was afraid she couldn't hear me.  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Arthur Bradford's first book, Dogwalker, was published by Knopf in 2001, and in Vintage paperback in 2002. He is also the director of "How's Your News?", a documentary film series featuring news reporters with mental disabilities that has appeared on HBO, Cinemax, PBS and Trio (howsyournews.com).