The Old Virgin

by Travis Mills

     Rick sat in the tub with his head back on a wet towel while Margie rubbed his shoulders with her wrinkled hands. She was Chinese. He called her Margie because it was easy and it sounded more American and she sometimes liked to think of herself that way.
     She cupped her hands and filled them with warm water. She poured it down his back and then on top of his head so that it trickled down past his eyes.
     She scooted her little stool around to the side of the tub. Her fingers—with chipped purple nails—traveled down his chest to the space between his legs and wrapped around his dick. She held it still and firm, her gut flapping over the side as she leaned over.
     Rick smiled without showing his teeth. He knew it was what she wanted. She moved her tired arms. She broke into a sweat when the bell rang. Her hands stopped. The little waves in the tub splashed against him.
     "See who it is," he said.
     She struggled to her feet and held him until she couldn’t anymore and then disappeared through the doorway with no door.
     He scratched his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. There’d been a time in Illinois when he’d gone to the barbershop every Friday. He worked in the steel plant and with five days of work up, he wanted to do everything he could to get that place off him until Monday when it took him back again.
     Margie came back in.
     "Who is it," he asked.
     "Gat."
     "Did you let him in?"
     "No."
     "Go let him in."
     Rick began to stand up. She rushed over to him and latched on. "But you not finish with bath."
     He stood up. Her hands wrapped tight around his waist. He looked down on her—she reached just above his elbow, the bush of black hair on her head going gray. She had once dyed it. That was until he took the second room in the apartment.
     "Go let him in. If he’s here, I need to talk to him."
     "Let him wait. He wait and you finish the bath."
     He stepped out of the water. Margie lugged her old body out of the room. Rick heard the front door open as he wrapped a bathrobe around his body. It had once been new—lifted from a hotel in New Orleans before he caught a boat across the Gulf. Now it was stained with whisky and cum.
     Heavy footsteps led Gat into view. He filled the doorway, black and bald.
     "Hello, Gat."
     Margie huddled behind him.
     "You want to talk some," Rick blurted out.
     "I wouldn’t be here otherwise," Gat said. The words were sharp, an odd accent that covered the forests of Kentucky and the New York jungle.
     "Good," Rick said, "well, what is it?"
     "Put some clothes on and find me a decent place to sit down," the hulk of a man growled.
     Rick told Margie to take him to the porch.
     Rick dripped to the adjoining bedroom and slipped on the only pair of clean slacks he owned. They were wrinkled. He tried to flatten them with his hand but it did no good.
     He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Margie had bought it from a French woman on her way out and placed it against the wall facing the bed so they could watch each other at night. Along its edges were ornate rusted gargoyles and fat babies with bows. He didn’t like what he saw. The edges of his hair were long and gray; he hid them behind his ears. His once broad chest was limp and sagging. He covered himself with a shirt and went out.

     Gat sat on the porch in the lone chair. Rick leaned against the rail that hung twenty feet over a street full of mangy dogs. He tucked his gray hairs behind his ears again and waited for Gat to open his mouth. The man was big. His body fell off every side of the chair.
     "Well," Rick finally grunted.
     "I suppose we should get on with it," Gat muttered.
     "I don’t know why you’re here."
     "Why else would I be here?"
     "I don’t know."
     "I sure as hell wouldn’t be here because nobody sent me."
     "He sent you?"
     "I wouldn’t be here of my own accord."