---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v081) (the April 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

Order this writing in the book (bound) Down in the Dirt prose edition		order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 8.5" x 11" ISBN# book

The 19-Year-Old Cuban Guitar Player

William Locke Hauser

    I am telling you the truth, Sergeant. It was absolutely self-defense. He was going to shoot me, so I shot him.
    You’re a lieutenant? I beg your pardon.
    Of course I loved the man! He was my husband. Now I’m not going to say another word till I see my lawyer.
    Yes, I have her number, on a card in my purse. Here it is — Marilyn Tutwiler. When you call her, say that Sara Benning is being held on suspicion — mind you say suspicion — of murder, and she’ll be here within minutes.
    A glass of water? Thank you, young man. Are you a lieutenant too? No? Well, patrolman is a very respectable rank. I’m sure your mother is proud of you.

* * *

    Here you are, Marilyn — my, that was fast! Can we be alone a little while, Lieutenant?
    Do you suppose they have listening devices in here, Marilyn? I’m sure they’re not supposed to, but you never can tell nowadays. But what the hell — I’m innocent, so no harm in their hearing my side of the story.
    Let’s start from the beginning. You remember we had that old Italian-American gardener, but he retired and we needed someone, because Jeffrey would never get his precious CPA hands soiled with God’s dirt. I doubt he could bend over enough to handle a trowel — he’s grown so fat it’s been years since he’s seen his own feet.
    You never knew him when he was young, of course. Back when you were just a little girl, he wooed and won me with smooth talk and that gorgeous body he had back then. Did I ever tell you how we met?
    Well, I was at a fifth reunion, at a resort in Barbados over the holidays, with my Kappa classmates from Wellesley, all accompanied by a spouse or fiancé. All but I, that is. “Spinster Sara,” they called me.
    After three days of being the only single in the crowd, I was really getting frustrated. To top it off, the couple in the next room had a loose headboard on their bed, which bumped the wall during their lovemaking. Our party was booked for a week, but I was ready by the fourth day — and after a third night! — to fly back to the States.
    That evening changed everything. Following dinner, there was dancing, but I declined one of the husbands (he of the bumping headboard, wouldn’t you know) and stepped onto the terrace for a breath of air. It was a lovely night — surf splashing on the rocks, moonlight on the ocean, air thick with the scent of tropical flowers.
    Some movement caught my eye, and there, at the far end, stood a man I’d been watching. Before breakfast each morning, he’d been coming to a pool just under my balcony, where he swam laps for half an hour. With every stroke, you could see the rippling of his back muscles.
    Earlier that evening, I’d spotted him across the room, wearing a white suit that set off his deep tan. And now, on the terrace, I chanced . . . No, that’s not quite the truth, Marilyn. I’d watched him go out and I’d followed.
    In a moment, he was at my side. “I’m Jeffrey Benning,” he said. “Are you with anyone?”
    “With friends, college classmates. And I’m called Sara.”
    “There are men with some of the women, Sara, but I see no one with you.”
    “My fiancé was unable to come,” I lied. “John’s very busy . . . with his business.”
    “Will you have one dance with me, if I promise not to pester you for another?”
    We were together the rest of the evening. Chatting with my sorority sisters, he had the grace not to react when I reminded them that “my fiancé Thomas” had been unable to come.
    The band had finished playing and we were saying goodnight, when something went click in my brain. “Join me for a nightcap — in my room?” I smiled, but my lips were quivering.
    “You don’t really intend me to come with you,” he said.
    “But I do. What a man can want, a woman can equally desire.”
    “What about John Thomas? Or was it Thomas John?”
    “You know better.”
    You’re asking what this has to do with here and now, Marilyn? Be patient. I’ll get there.
    On a table in my room there was a candelabrum, three tapers within a glass chimney. Jeffrey opened the curtains, lit the candles, and turned off the light.
    “That’s good,” I said, dialing the phone.
    “Who are you calling?”
    “Room service. One does not relinquish one’s virginity without something to drink.”
    His jaw dropped, and it was my turn to laugh. “You heard correctly. As of this night of December 29, I am what the Victorians called a ‘maiden lady.’ I’m determined not to see the New Year in as one. Mumm’s Cordon Rouge, or do you prefer something stronger?”
    For the first time — and the last in our eighteen years together — the man looked fearful. Then he grinned. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re tired of being a virgin, and I’ve been picked to do the dirty deed.”
    “I’ve bred dogs and horses,” I said, “and see nothing dirty about it. So is Champagne to your taste?”
    He shrugged and sat down in a wicker armchair. When the bubbly arrived, he barely reacted when I requested two house breakfasts, to be brought at “. . . what time, Jeffrey?”
    “I’ll want my swim first.”
    “So you will,” I said, and to the waitress, “eight o’clock.”
    “Now I have to leave, to get my swimsuit,” he said when the door had closed behind the woman’s back.
    When ten minutes had passed, I was close to tears. I’d wanted to create an air of sophistication, but the man had taken me for the sex-starved spinster I was, or worse, a predator who’d cry rape the moment he had his clothes off. So I’d resigned myself to another night of that awful headboard, when a knock came at the door and he entered, wearing a sportshirt and slacks.
    “Welcome back,” I quipped. “You’ve changed.”
    “And you haven’t,” he said. “It’s the lady’s prerogative to use the facilities first, and then be in bed when the gentleman emerges.”
    “Very well.” I rose and walked into the bathroom.
    I brushed my teeth, washed my hands, and dabbed perfume on earlobes and wrists. Should I shower? No, I didn’t want to keep my prospective lover waiting. I walked out the door. “Get going,” I said. “It’s not nice to make a lady wait.” I’ll admit, Marilyn — I was trembling!
    He went into the bathroom, and I took off all but my bra and panties and got under the sheet. The toilet flushed, there was a rush of water in the basin, and the door opened. He stood for a moment silhouetted against the light, then turned it off and stepped into the bedroom.
    The candles had guttered out, so I found myself, for the first time in my life and in the dimmest of light, gazing at the body of a naked man. Of course I’d seen classical statues and paintings, and we’d watched unrated European films at the sorority house, but nothing had prepared me for this living, three-dimensional sight.
    Above those beautiful high-arched feet and sinewy legs, and below a flat stomach, his penis curved outward like a separate living creature. It was uncircumsized, and its shape reminded me — I couldn’t help giggling — of the state of Florida. He slipped in beside me, and I felt the warmth radiating from his body. What a delicious sensation!
    He reached one hand across and stroked my body, from the hollow of my throat down my breastbone to my belly. “This won’t do,” he said.
    “Shall I . . .”
    “That would be better,” he said. “It’s supposedly more passionate for the man to do it, but a whole lot clumsier.”
    I rolled to my edge of the bed, slid my panties off and onto the floor, and sitting partway up, unfastened the bra and sent it also over the edge.
    He reached again across to me. “I’m not much for foreplay,” he said, “but I promise not to rush things.” He rolled on top of me, supporting his weight with his hands. The hair of his chest brushed my chin. The mingled smells of his body—soap, perspiration, and aftershave—filled my nostrils. I giggled again. “What’s funny?” he asked.
    “Isn’t sex supposed to be fun?”
    “Yes, but not funny. There’s a difference.”
    Then he said, “This may hurt a bit.”
    There was absolutely no pain, Marilyn, just a wonderful sense of fullness. He held still, but I could sense his penis stirring inside me. The thought crossed my mind that it was indeed a separate creature.
    He began to move, and I discovered myself emitting little squeaks of pleasure. Self-stimulation had never produced anything comparable.
    We kept to ourselves the next three days, except for a picture session, where he stood behind the photographer and mugged to make us all laugh, and the final party, where he and I left early to welcome the New Year privately. The sisters were delighted at my changed status — and dying to hear about our lovemaking, which I shared only by a contented smile.
    We changed our tickets and flew back together, separately from the groups we’d come with. Within the year, we got married, moved into a beautiful new home on Cedar Ridge, and were happy for years and years.
    But then, you know, Jeffrey grew that huge gut, and even his feet, those once beautiful high-arched feet, got pudgy and flat, and that was the end of our sex life. I thought it was the end of mine also, until . . .
    Well, I advertised for a gardener, not in the paper but on that little bulletin board at our tennis club, and this young man showed up on my doorstep. His name was José, he said, and I supposed he was illegal, but one doesn’t ask, does one?
    He wasn’t big and muscular like Jeffrey had once been, but trimly put together, with square shoulders and a tiny butt — a toreador’s physique. Skin the color of almonds, or maybe magnolia blossoms. And such a romantic history — he and his parents had fled Castro’s Cuba in a rubber boat.
    No, I’m not about to tell you what it was like making love with him. . . . Let’s just say I’d forgotten how it felt to be absolutely satiated with sex. But that’s no one else’s business, if anyone’s listening.
    No, Marilyn, I said no. Maybe I did tell you all that about Jeffrey and me — I got carried away by memories! But my relationship with José was . . . is . . . in the present.
    Well, Jeffrey had flown to London for a conference on international standardization of accounting — bo-ring! He was supposed to get back Tuesday evening, so I asked José to come do the garden on Monday. I didn’t usually allow him to sleep over — oh, all right, I did when I thought it safe, and this was certainly one of those times, because I’d read Jeffrey’s ticket which he’d put on top of his dresser the day before he left. But maybe the conference wound up early and he decided on an early return, though it certainly wasn’t characteristic of him, what with having to pay a fee for rescheduling. You know what a cheapskate he is . . . was.
    We’d fallen asleep — it was past midnight — when Jeffrey let himself in the house. I guess he suspected something, because José as usual had left his workshoes in the front hall. The first thing I knew was when he walked into the bedroom, switched on the light, and shouted “Gotcha!”
     I’m a light sleeper, but you can hardly rouse José once his head hits the pillow.
    Jeffrey walked over to the bedside — that’s when I noticed the revolver in his hand — and pressed the muzzle hard against José’s forehead. Then my sweet 19-year-old woke up, and you’ve never seen anyone so terrified.
    “Get up, you little spic bastard,” Jeffrey said, and José crawled slowly out from under the covers. He reached for his shorts and t-shirt, which he’d dropped on the floor.
    “Oh, no you don’t,” Jeffrey said. “I was planning to shoot a burglar, but I think naked rapist would be more plausible. Are you ready to join your ancestors, amigo?”
    Then I reached into my bedside table, and took out that little silver pistol that Jeffrey had made me take lessons with on an indoor range. I pointed it at him and said, “You’re not shooting anybody. This is my house as well as yours, and it’s not going to be a murder scene. We’d have to move, and we just refinanced, so you’d get docked for early payoff on the mortgage.” I was sure that would get to him, the pennypincher!
    “What’s this we stuff, paleface,” he laughed. “You’re next. In fact, Sara,” he said, swinging the revolver in my direction, “you’re going to be first.”
     So I shot him, Marilyn. You can imagine the surprised look on his face, but he didn’t fall down, and he was still pointing the revolver at me. So I shot him again—in fact twice more, the policeman said, though I certainly don’t remember. I don’t recall anything from that point on, until I found myself here and asked them to send for you.
    Yes, young man, what do you want? The lieutenant wishes to see us? We’re coming.
    You mean we’re free to go, Lieutenant? There won’t be any charges . . . none at all? Yes, I’ll come back to the station, or testify to the coroner, whatever, whenever you let me know.
    Let’s get out of here, Marilyn. And give me a ride home, please. This calls for a stiff drink, and I make it a point never to drink alone.

* * *

    You know my street, left at the next light. And now that we’re alone, really alone, I can tell you that Jeffrey never pointed that gun at me. But I wasn’t about to let him shoot my beautiful, beautiful José.
    Did I mention that he also plays the guitar?

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...