The Garmento

By Stewart Martin

Long Summary ‘The Garmento’

Brilliant, patient, willing to learn, believes what people say. But don’t cross him, you may pay with your life. If you mistreat anyone he cares about, watch out, this could be the last thing you do. Don’t cheat him, don’t take advantage, don’t get in his way, the unexpected might happen.

Years of learning the ins and outs of the women’s apparel field, eventually pay off. He and his best friend become a dynamically successful combination, outdoing the giants in the women’s apparel field. Unconventional, but rational business moves others had overlooked became the norm.....Using underestimated real estate holdings and obtaining a long term contact to use a licensing name no one else had considered, turn out to be way beyond anyone’s wildest imagination.

Growing up in Brooklyn, New York, moving to Hong Kong and finally returning to New York City, Michael Rivers heads toward his dream.

Enjoy,
Stewart Martin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stewart Martin
• Release date: Jun 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370069088

Stewart Martin

I am a university graduate with a major in political science (BBA). I was brought up in New York and Florida and have been living in Orient for the last 25 years. I have three children from a previous marriage, a daughter and two sons. I have a son now attending university here in the orient. I have been writing since I was 15 and learning something new and exciting each and every day. I have five fiction stories that I have written between 2009 and 2017. I believe my stories are interesting and keeping my fingers crossed that others will find them to their liking. Any comments or suggestions are always appreciated. My thanks to SmashWords and to all readers.

Book preview

THE GARMENTO

BY: STEWART MARTIN

Copyright © 2017 Stewart Martin

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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CONTENTS

Part I: New York

Part II: Hong Kong

Part III : New York, New York

Part IV: Island Paradise

Acknowledgements

PART I

NEW YORK

Leon pushed me off my tricycle, immediately jumped on and sped off as fast as his chunky legs would allow, disappearing down the block. He was simply doing what he always did, taking things from me, hitting me and daring me to do something about it. He frightened me beyond words. Leon was a fat, oversized ten-year old. He was at least a head taller and four years older than I was. He lived up his reputation as the local bully, carefully choosing his younger, smaller victims and doing his utmost to torment them the moment their parents weren’t watching.

I automatically turned on the tears and for extra effect through in a few loud, piercing screams finally getting the attention of my mother who was yakking away with several other mothers who lived in the same apartment building on Kings Highway and Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. My mother rushed over asking me, ‘what’s the matter now Michael? Don’t tell me it’s Leon again! Stop your crying now!’ I didn’t get much sympathy. World War 11 had recently ended, but the women probably had been discussing something more important, such as, the cost of nylon stockings. From the sneering look on my mother’s face, she hadn’t appreciated being interrupted.

My bike was recovered about an hour later, conveniently parked about a city block away, in front of a small, neighborhood, delicatessen, owned and run by Leon’s parents. I almost always got my things back within a day or two, usually from Leon’s parents.

The toys he randomly pirated away included my baseball, my baseball glove and bat, a rubber ball I loved to bounce against the exterior brick wall at the front of our building, and of course my bike.

Mother always told my father what Leon had done to me during the day and he would shake his head and stare at me, as if he was ashamed of his skinny, little, puny son.

However, this one evening he announced during our dinner, that he had a solution to my problem with Leon. Pop said, ‘when I was your age I had a bully who pushed me around until I took some drastic action. I hit him with a brick and he never bothered me again.’

Mother interrupted him saying, ‘honey, he can’t do that! He might seriously injure or kill Leon’….

Pop continued with, ‘that’s the right idea, whack the little shit really hard so he knows you won’t stand still if he ever bothers you again, he will get the same treatment! I don’t care if you hit him with a brick, a large rock or even your baseball bat. Use whatever is handy at that time and don’t hold back. Whack him really good and don’t worry about it, I’ll be behind you one hundred and ten percent. Do you understand me? Do as I say and he won’t bother you in the future.’

‘Okay, Pop’, I nervously replied.

For the next few days, Leon failed to appear and I tried not to think about him, but he was never very far from my thoughts. My body nervously shook for a few seconds and I broke out in a cold sweat on my forehead, worried about what I might or might not do. On the fourth day Leon returned.

I was playing baseball with two other kids, when Leon walked over to me and pulled my baseball mitt right off my hand. I yelled at him, but he just laughed at me. I picked up my baseball bat from the ground and without a moment’s hesitation or warning, took a full swing at Leon’s head and connected. Wham! Leon went down on the sidewalk while blood oozed out of a giant lump that had appeared on his head.

I was terrified, what if I killed him? What would they do to me? At first, fear hit me between the eyes, but soon gave way to a warm inward feeling of satisfaction and pride. After all, I did the right thing, right? Guilty feelings melted away as other kids cheered and applauded. I screamed for my mother, who quickly ran over to see what had happened.

An ambulance was called and within minutes, Leon was taken to Madison Park Hospital where he remained for almost two weeks with a severe concussion.

Leon’s parents threatened to have me arrested and to sue, but never took any action, possible realizing their son had caused the problem and had gotten just what he deserved.

Strangely, Pop was proud of me, constantly messing up my hair or patting me on the back, his way of acknowledging I had done the right thing. It was as if I had hit a homerun for the Dodgers. My own consciousness rejected any guilt. I was an instant hero. I stood up straighter and began to assert myself amongst my other playmates, for after all, I was a dangerous guy and unpredictable. I felt proud of myself, becoming unconcerned about what might happen to me. I was someone who took chances and didn’t care about the rest of the world. I was the important one, not the person I had injured. He got what he deserved, my father was correct.

About a month later, Leon returned to the scene of the crime and actually asked me if he could ride my bike. He never bullied me or any of my friends again. He followed me around like a big puppy dog and we managed to almost become friends.

Obviously, my father had given me sound advice. Sometimes, drastic action was the only solution.

My father, Nathan Rivers, was brought up that way, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth kind of character, who would rather take what he wanted, rather than work for it. He wasn’t stupid by any means, just not formally educated. Although I am not positive as to his precise family name in Europe or its exact spelling, it had been shortened from a difficult to pronounce mouthful, something sounding like Ribvidenski, during the immigration process in New York upon his arrival from Eastern Europe. He became and was a tough union organizer who often used his fists before using his brains. He wasn’t a big man, but his temper more than made up for his size. I could never remember a time when anyone dared to challenge him or for that matter even bothered to question his authority.

My father died when I was fifteen years old and my mother became a sad sack, a weak individual, who felt sorry for herself. She managed to spend whatever little money we had on sleeping pills and other prescription drugs to remain semiconscious when not working as a saleslady in some small local women’s clothing shop. When she was lucid she could sell you the anything while appearing to be a very sincere and caring individual. She did possess a great sense of style and knew what would sell to the public. On the other hand, when she only had me for an audience, she would bust my chops with the most ridiculous arguments about nothing. She had the talent to make something out of nothing or to put it another way, she could make molehills into mountains.

Living with her was not ideal at anytime, but yet she was still my mother. She was at best a needy, selfish unintelligent person and would never change. On the other hand, I would rather find a way to support her in a separate apartment or in a separate state or perhaps in a separate country. Right at that point in time, my legal address was in New York with her and I didn’t possess the knowledge or skills to make a change.

My father had been a big man with the unions many years ago. He helped organize the trucking industry and even had the forethought for several inventions involving trucks. One was the electric lift at the rear of most trucks worldwide, but he never took the time, effort and money to patent his creation and subsequently never received a dime for his labor saving device..

When he died he left behind a few thousand dollars that was soon spent by my mother for unnecessary pills and doctors. My father did leave one legacy behind, a lot of bills that took several years of small payments and hard work to pay off.

A few weeks after he passed away, someone was knocking on our apartment door. My mother was at work, so I went to see who it was. It turned out to be a union guy who informed me in a very unpleasant way that my dearly departed father had taken fifty thousand dollars from the union’s accounts. He had personally helped him get the money and he wanted his half of the pie. He told me to let my mother know he would contact with her within the next few days and that the money had to be paid. He implied that if the funds were not paid within a few days, the consequences might be life threatening.

I thought it over very quickly realizing the danger to my mother and to myself and replied, ‘yes sir I believe I know what you are referring to and that my father had hidden away special package with instructions and I was to take care of the debt. We don’t want any trouble and I would be happy to get this over with.’ I asked him to meet me in about one hour near the walkway crossing over the George Washington Bridge only a few blocks away. He readily agreed.

Our meeting lasted about two minutes. The weather had turned cloudy and dark threatening to rain before long. Five p.m. seemed to be more like midnight. We moved onto the walkway, perhaps about twenty feet or so. It was quite deserted and perhaps even a bit spooky, but any doubts in my mind disappeared as I opened my school backpack and presented a brown wrapping paper bundle of tightly stuffed with old newspapers. He smiled broadly and as he greedily began to tear open the package I reached into my backpack again and pulled out a short, solid wooden fish bat I had purchased earlier in the day. Before he could react or even realized what was going on, I hit him on his skull, harder than I had ever hit anything in my life. He fell to the ground and I hit him once again, just to make certain he wouldn’t be coming around again. I managed to get his body draped over the railing and then flipped his feet over his head, watching him sail downward into the water. My father may be dead, but I did follow his advice once again by taking sudden unexpected drastic action. I was a ‘chip of the old block’! I retrieved the bundle of newspapers, later watching them go up in flames in my building’s incinerator furnace. I carefully washed off any blood or scalp tissue from my fish bat, even carved it down slightly. Then I took the nearby subway train in Brooklyn to my uncle’s apartment. I let myself in with a key he had given me and hid the bat away mixed together with other fishing gear, in a dark storage closet he hadn’t opened in years. I was a man of action, taking things into my own hands and doing whatever needed to be done. Fear never entered into what I had done and secretly I felt very important and satisfied.

Whether or not the money existed is still a mystery till this day, as my mother and I had never received or found anything beyond a few extra hundred dollars in a shoebox in my father’s closet. No one has ever come forth to question or connect me with the badly decomposed body found floating near the Jersey shoreline several weeks after my drastic action. Pop was right. I didn’t feel guilty. In fact, my ego was inflated. I was proud of myself realizing that one shouldn’t ignore a problem. I felt true justice was served. Perhaps I was meant to be a one man judge, jury and executioner.

Mother managed to find a boyfriend or two and even remarried and then divorced them even faster. I never got around to knowing much about her second and third husbands.

She had remarried for the fourth time to a creepy little weasel of a man who later turned out to be a con man wanted by the authorities in several states and a bigamist still married to two or three other women. When it came to men, she really knew how to pick the rotten apples out of the barrel.

Somehow my mother had foolishly agreed to be a joint signature on several credit cards for her new husband and he went on a wild spending spree with no intention of ever paying a single cent to the banks, sticking her with the debt obligation.

Mother arranged to meet with him to see if something could be worked out, but alas, he remained elusive and in an effort to continue his con game, explained that the expenditures were necessary to obtain a contract that would greatly reward them within a few months. He pleaded with her to be patient and that he would get the banks to cooperate. It was just a temporary problem. I was in another room, quietly listening to their conversation and slipped out of the apartment, before their discussion ended. I impatiently waited about a half block away from our building, near the subway entrance. The exit from our building was still visible and I had no difficulty recognizing him as he came through the doorway.

I managed to follow him for several hours and discovered him living at a different residence in midtown Manhattan with another woman, who was probably another wife. This woman and my new step father emerged from the building about thirty minutes after he had first entered, holding hands as if they were very lovey-dovey and walked to the local grocery store for a bit of shopping. They seemed to be very happy. They returned to their building about forty-five minutes later after getting whatever they needed.

I had my backpack slung over my shoulder. The backpack contained two or three books and my fish bat. I had anchored myself in a bar across the street from the apartment building he had entered and waited for him to reappear while I sipped an already stale tasting beer. I knew the fidgety little creep never stood still for too long and would most likely not spend the rest of the afternoon or the night without at least going out once again.

Two hours later he suddenly waltzed through the exit without a care in the world. I watched him walk around in mid-town casually window shopping, and then turn down a side street where I was waiting in an alley. No one was close to him and as he passed by I reached out and grabbed him from behind. I had him around the neck with my arm encircling his mouth and had a sharp key pressed into his side which I am sure he believed to be a knife. I pulled him about a quarter of the way down the alley, only whispering in a gruff voice, be quiet. I got him next to three large trash bins and produced my fish bat striking him again and again until I was positive he was no longer among the living. I removed his wallet from his jacket pocket, filled with credit cards and other identification. His pant pocket contained a nice fat wad of hundred dollar bills which helped me calm down and added a special glow to my unpleasant task. I left him in one of the trash bins.

About an hour later, I destroyed his identity and credit cards, carefully wiped down each and every one, disposing all bits and pieces of them into the city sewerage system and several miles away from there, got rid of his empty wallet. Once again I cleaned off my fish bat and hid it away in my uncle’s apartment. My entire being felt alive, the action was worthwhile, the little creep was gone in seconds. No doubt in my mind, I did the right thing. I was man of the moment, more alive than I ever had been. I thoroughly enjoyed killing the little devious creep and would do it again if it were possible.

Several days later the police showed up at my mother’s apartment, asked her a few brief questions and informed her about his death. She identified the body that afternoon and that was that. We never heard anything further about it. A week later, I gave my mother a large chunk of hundred dollar bills, claiming to have won them at the track. She promptly paid off most of the credit card bills. Drastic action had saved the day once again. Thanks Pop! It was quite amazing how simple it was to dispose of one’s problems. I felt powerful, as if my chest and entire muscle structure had instantly expanded. My conscious applauded my actions. I didn’t know what I would grow up to be, but was certain no one would get in my way.

My mother even attempted to apply for his Social Security Benefits, but discovered, much to her displeasure, that three other currently listed wives had beaten her to the punch.

Due to my father’s early demise, I was forced to quit school at the tender age of fifteen and go to work to help support my mother and myself. I initially lied about my age, as I looked older than my years and had little trouble finding work in the retail field.

I was with W.T. Grant and Company for a year, then worked for Saks Fifth Avenue for about four years and was elected by my fellow employees to the Employees Board of Directors as their representative to top management. If my memory serves me right, I believe I represented approximately two hundred and fifty or more employees out of several thousand in the store.

This elected board met once a month in the cafeteria on the eighth floor of the store and had a cocktail, usually a Manhattan, then dinner and then discussed employee problems and questions with senior management located on a raised dais.

A microphone was placed on the table centered near every four employee representatives who then raised their hands to be recognized from the dais which consisted of various direct descendants of the Gimble family, who were the founders of Gimble’s Department Stores. Then, in 1934, they built Saks Fifth Avenue’s first store still located between 49th and 50th streets on 5th Avenue in New York City, in partnership and with the financial assistance of Horace Saks, who died just before the store was scheduled to open. The dais had one or two Gimbles, a Johnson and other prominent members of the executive staff related to each other one way or the other. Most questions were about very serious problems such as; when can we get the missing toilet paper rollers replaced on the third floor in the employee bathroom or an award for doing something that should have been done during the normal course of business.

Things became more exciting when they called on me as I nearly always raised a topic for discussion that the dais inhabitants didn’t want to air, such as; we have been approached by a retail union and would like to know management’s position. That one caused a deadly silence for about two minutes and I tapped the microphone to make certain it was on.

A halfhearted reply followed with something along the lines of; ‘Ah, we will have a meeting regarding your question and let you know our findings at next month’s dinner’. For some unknown reason I was not always called on when I raised my hand. Several times they were ‘saved by the bell’, as time ran out and the meeting was over. I wasn’t very effective since they really avoided me as much as possible. And when an answer was due to my question from the month before, I’m glad I didn’t hold my breath. I was a rebel, without a cause. They managed to ignore me and I briefly thought about killing all of them, but that was simply too dangerous, too outrageous. If I took any drastic action, the finger of suspicion would surely point in my direction. Their non-action affected other employees and I didn’t intend to remain there much longer.

To further augment my income, I sold mutual funds and became a registered representative of the National Association of Security Dealers, while still being under the minimum allowable legal age of twenty-one. To gain this registration, I had been given a book about securities containing six hundred questions with answers that were either true or false. I had to study this to prepare for the NASD test, which I had to pass before becoming a registered representative.

I made short work of this, not by really studying, but by first counting the questions and discovering how many were true and how many were false. I used a black marking pen to black out all of the true questions, never reading any of them. It turned out that 60% of the questions were true and 40% were false, therefore I only read and reread the false questions and upon taking the test finished in record time by marking all of the questions I did not recognize as true and of course the balance were false. I managed to score a 96 or 97 and became a member of the National Association of Security Dealers.

I actually sold some clients as I understood the theory of dollar cost averaging, which worked when investors continued making contributions every month over a period of many years, they would indeed accumulate more stock than someone who purchased stock every now then and in the end, make them money. No one ever became super rich from small purchases of these securities, but it did beat bank interest rates by a mile.

My mother must have felt a little guilty about my lack of education, for she continually pushed me to try to get some sort of high school diploma. She eventually arranged an appointment with a high school home study course representative, without my knowledge or consent. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about enrolling in the course, but realized it was for my own benefit. Once I got started doing the course I was like a racehorse let out of the barn. I finished the four-year course in a year and a half with a very high average. Just for kicks I took the SAT’s (Scholastic Aptitude Tests) a requirement for admittance to any college or university. I surprised myself when I passed the test with flying colors. I applied to a few universities and was completely surprised when they accepted me as a full time student.

Now came the most difficult part. I was already twenty, living in Manhattan with a little money in my pockets. I had been dating a number of good looking co-workers and had managed to bed a few of them. Once a week I played in a very exciting poker game in Greenwich Village hosted by my female barber and her female lover. I regularly went to Aqueduct and Belmont racetracks and managed to handicap well enough to usually come out on the plus side. I went to museums and art galleries and had an unlimited supply of reasonably priced restaurants to choose from, listened to live jazz at many of the clubs on 52nd street and usually associated with adults who were from thirty to sixty years of age. Most of the women I dated paid their own way, which was referred to as ‘going dutch’. I not only had to give up all of that, but had to borrow money from the New York State Assistance to Higher Education Fund, and work part-time while carrying a full time student curriculum.

Furthermore, my mother and I had been sharing the expenses for the apartment and I wasn’t certain she could carry the load by herself, even though she swore she could handle it. I would have to study long hours, as the high school home study course did not and could not prepare you for college math and science requirements. In the end I choose to plunge into unknown waters and was off to attempt my hand at getting an education and being on my own.

It didn’t take me long to discover that freshman college students really were not even close to being adults and that many of them were still connected to their mother’s umbilical cords. The real difficulty was communication with any students, as nine hundred and ninety-nine of them out of a thousand never had any real life experience, never worked for a living, never had any real pressures and never tasted life’s pleasures.

I was on my summer holiday from the University of Georgia, managing to successfully pass all of my third year Business School subjects by the skin of my teeth, then returning to my mother’s small, crowded, depressing, uptown Washington Heights apartment in good old New York City. I did my best to keep out of her way, as my mother was forever nagging and complaining about everything and anything. I cannot remember when she was ever carefree and happy with something good to say about anyone. At least I had a place to lay my head after working at whatever summer job I found. Work was essential to help pay for my senior year at college and I felt quite certain I would be able to land a job at one of the many fashion oriented department stores, as I had worked in several retail stores before.

My inner thoughts were simply looking forward to New York City’s unsurpassable array of vices of available wine, women, horse racing, beaches, and parties, mostly not possible within my limited means. As for expectations, New York City is truly a bachelor’s paradise. In reality this paradise is primarily concocted from one’s fantasies and dreams, but quite elusive without adequate spending money.

Three days after returning to New York from Georgia I had landed a position selling shoes at Best & Company, one of the cities older and better department stores. The pay wasn’t too bad and I probably would be able to save somewhere between fifty to one hundred dollars a week if I forced myself to save each week and stuck to it. I have never been frugal and liked to spend money freely usually not worrying about tomorrow and was very much aware of the prospect of not being able to save anything.

Although living with my mother and not having enough cash to spend wasn’t ideal, I was still optimistic something positive would happen. Well, this is what I wanted, to be on equal footing when opportunities came my way, not to be overlooked because of a lack of education.

I began my summer job selling shoes in the somewhat archaic, Best & Company, on a gloomy Monday morning witnessed by an audience of pouring rain mixed with flashes of lightning and sounds of loud clapping thunder which kept the shoppers away and turned the staff into clock watching prisoners. As the thunderstorm continued, the clock moved ever so slowly toward quitting time at five-thirty. The store reminded me of a museum, with old decorations and in many cases very old sales help. It was not the most exciting place to work, but a job was a job and as I mentioned before, I needed the money.

Upon leaving work I attempted to open my umbrella, but found it to be a waste of time, as the wind blew sheets of rain in every direction. I made a mad dash for the subway station two short blocks away, arriving at the entrance soaking wet. The train was hot, muggy and sticky, while everyone’s clothing, umbrellas, shoes, briefcases and packages all dripped water adding to the discomforting ride.

At the spur of the moment, I decided not to go home yet and exited the train at west 81st street. As I dashed up the last steps from the subway into the continuing storm, abruptly turning the corner, I crashed into someone, almost knocking them off their feet.

I reached out to help this hat and rain-coated person and discovered a pleasant and smiling young female who promptly apologized for not looking where she was going.

‘But it was my fault, I suddenly changed directions and wasn’t sure of where I was going.’

We stood under a building awning still getting pelted by the downpour and before either one of us continued our way into the stormy evening, I suggested having some coffee or a stronger drink at a nearby tavern a few doors further down the street.

She studied my face for a few seconds and then put her arm in mine and said, I hope you have a boat with oars, we may need it.

Her name turned out to be Julie Peterson and she lived across town on the East-side. She had just finished working and was headed home by subway. We had one or two drinks, mixed with some mundane chatter, exchanged phone numbers and she suggested I come to an informal party on Sunday afternoon at some friend’s apartment. Before we left the pub I had written down the address on a cocktail napkin next to her phone number and said I’d try to make it. As we departed, she said to show up anytime after 4pm on Sunday. The rain had almost stopped and I walked her to the subway station.

I really can’t recall what I did that evening, eventually returning to my mother’s flat to dry off and rest.

The balance of the week was like any other workweek, although the sun finally reappeared on Wednesday and the week seemed to move a bit faster, but work continued to be boring. My work schedule required me to work on Saturday, with a day off in the middle of the week and of course on Sunday when the store was closed.

Saturday was payday and at lunchtime I deposited fifty dollars in my savings account, keeping one hundred for my pocket. I still had a few dollars saved up from previous summer vacation jobs, so there was still enough money to contribute about fifty a week to my mother toward the household expenses.

Sunday was bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky. I took a long walk in the park, sat in the grass for awhile watching parents walking along with their pets and children. I made up my mind to go to the party, not because I had any great desire to see Julie, but in truth had very few friends and even fewer acquaintances in the city. I went home, showered, shaved, then put on one my only lightweight suit along with a comfortable sport shirt and headed downtown to the address on the cocktail napkin.

On the way to the party I stopped by a liquor store, bought a bottle of inexpensive French red table wine, as I wasn’t accustomed to going to anyone’s flat empty-handed. The party was on 86th Street in a section of New York known as Yorkville, where many German descendants lived among beer-halls and pastry shops.

The building turned out to be an old brownstone in need of some repairs, but still in a great location. I buzzed apartment 4B and was admitted to the building in seconds. An old but solid looking brass trimmed elevator climbed slowly to the 4th floor and before the door slid open one automatically knew from the sound of the music and noise, a party was already in full swing. The door was open and several hands waved me in. When Julie saw me entering she came over to introduce me to the young doctor who was hosting the party and to a few other people all of them turned out to be doctors, interns or nurses. Some of them might have been on call, as they were wearing part of their white hospital uniforms.

Clearly, most of these people were connected professionally in one way or another as their conversations totally focused around surgical procedures at a hospital located a few blocks away. Not exactly a topic I could readily contribute to or even to pretend any interest whatsoever. Julie floated away returning to a small group she had been talking to when I had arrived.

The apartment was crowded, smoky and very noisy. No seats to be had and booze being consumed in paper cups. I managed to find my way to the liquor, mixed a scotch and soda for myself even though I’m not a fan of drinking scotch from a paper cup as my taste membranes seemed to be certain the paper was disintegrating into the scotch. Not exactly what one might call fancy in any way, and I was quickly losing interest in the party, but not yet ready to depart, as many good-looking women were present.

About thirty or so people mingled about chatting with each other, while a few were laughing, others drinking and listening to a Latin beat coming from another room. I had almost decided to leave when an interesting female caught my eye. I continued walking casually around the apartment and out of the corner of my eye took a closer look at this rather tall, lean, but elegant looking woman standing by one of the walls on the opposite side of the room. She didn’t seem to be with anyone, so I made my way over to her and introduced myself.

Up close, she was quite good looking and appeared to welcome my attempt at conversation. She spoke clearly, quietly and in a soft voice told me her name was Susanne. Her voice made me feel comfortable, though her vocabulary indicated she was well educated. She told me she was at the party with her sister and had decided to come along at the last moment, as other plans for the day had been cancelled.

She was wearing an up-to-date simple red dress almost molded to her body, along with matching low-heeled red shoes that highlighted a few curves in a subdued lady-like manner.

It turned out her sister was working as a secretary for one of two young doctors who shared the apartment. The celebration was for a book one of the doctors had recently finished writing and had promptly found a willing publisher who was ready to print. I was a little bored and wanted to do something else, suggested we leave, perhaps take in a movie or if she would prefer, a coffee or an early dinner.

She called her sister over and introduced me. Her sister wasn’t as attractive, clearly a few years older then Susanne. She also wanted to leave as she had a lot of work to do the next morning. It was quickly agreed to leave and to share a taxicab. I briefly thanked one of our hosts and the gal who had invited me. The three of us left together and caught a taxi to their apartment where I dropped off the sisters, but not before I had gotten her telephone numbers at home and work.

They resided on the eastside in the low seventies in an apparently ritzy cooperative apartment building manned by a force of doormen, elevator-men and security guards, where only the well to do could possibly afford. Obviously, her family had money, but no matter what, she had charm and I liked the way she presented herself. An intelligent, unattached female might turn a rather so-so summer into a much better one.

On Monday, during my afternoon coffee break I called Susanne at her work number, which turned out to be an apparel import and export company. We made a date for Tuesday evening. Monday evening and Tuesday’s workday, moved at a snail’s pace.

We had arranged to meet in front of her office building, which was close to Fifth Avenue, where I was working. She was on right on time and we decided to have a drink at a nearby pub where we managed to spend almost three hours telling each other about ourselves. A few doors away, a local hamburger joint provided an enjoyable dinner and then we continued walking and talking, slowly heading uptown toward her apartment house. Somehow the time flew by, as it was almost midnight when I left her in front of her apartment house.

We agreed to get together on Friday as she was taking a few evening graduate courses the next two nights, toward completing her Master’s Degree in Romantic Languages.

Susanne was meeting me at 6:30pm on Friday at Rockefeller Center, at the 5th Avenue entrance, facing Saks Fifth Avenue, which is only two blocks away from my work place. Although the store was quiet with only a few customers drifting in and out, I was in a sort of carefree frame of mind thinking about my date later that evening. Finally the working day came to an end and I decided to kill an hour walking around window-shopping among the throngs of people. The streets were crowded with people milling about in every direction. I assumed most of them were on their way home after work. I had always found New York to be exciting and believed the crowds are a big part of it. I have been a people watcher for as long as I could remember and liked to guess what type of work they did and where they lived.

Tourists in New York are very easy to identify by the clothes on their backs, maps and cameras some of them carried or simply looking as if they didn’t fit into the local puzzle. Surrounding me were handsomely suited executives carrying expensive leather attaché cases, women who appeared to be secretaries or a few with too much makeup wearing very short skirts with tight tops accenting their breasts and legs, who most certainly were hookers out trolling the streets for customers. Of course, there were many other people simply out for a night on the town, all of them made me feel as if I belonged here. Tonight was a little strange as if I saw New York for the first time.

Whatever the reason, I arrived at the Center just as the clock hit six-thirty and found Susanne waiting for me. Her high-cheek bones, big eyes and long model’s neck along with her long brown hair combined into an overall exotic look and many a man would check her out as we passed by. She seemed to be unaware of her attraction and paid no attention to anyone else. Once again, she was wearing a conservative dress, very much in style, but perhaps not quite young enough for her age. However, it was quite obvious she had a lean, firm figure with great legs that clearly singled her out as an attractive woman to any lucky guy. Her voice continued to intrigue me with its soft mellow little girl tone. Most interesting of all was her unpretentious down to earth personality.

I discovered her linguistic skills to be extraordinary, as in addition to English, Susanne could speak, read and write French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, a little Russian and was in the process of finishing her master’s degree in French, while I had difficulty with proper English.

I can’t remember what we did or where we went on this date, but whatever we did we enjoyed eachothers company.

Our dating continued throughout the summer and as time inevitably moved closer for me to return to college I was surely going to miss the fun and affection she had graced me with. We were, in short, tuned into each other’s thoughts.

Susanne usually contributed toward the evening’s expenses, as she was aware of my need for funds for my upcoming senior year. My summer holiday was disappearing quickly.

Our evenings would almost always end at her apartment where she lived with her parents and sister who was on vacation traveling in Europe. Her parents would usually take refuge in another part of their apartment after some pleasant small talk, leaving us alone to make out on the couch in the living room. We petted, kissed until our lips were sore, touched each other intimately but had never gone all the way. I was very turned on by her, but didn’t push too hard to get laid as I didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable and besides her parents were usually at home. I knew she was someone special, like a rare flower that in time would bloom, opening up to me when ready, desiring me as much as I desired her.

One evening upon returning to her apartment, she told me she loved me very much and wanted me all the time. She confessed having made love to one other person, a married Italian who taught one of the graduate language classes the year before. She had been quite taken by his romantic approach, the soft way he spoke Italian, and the fact he promised to leave his wife one day (which she later found out included three kids with another one on the way and would probably never happen). He claimed his undying love for her that began to evaporate soon after conquering her sexually. She must have had some reservations about making love to him for she insisted he wear protection. Not just one rubber, but two! We both howled with laughter. It couldn’t have been too terrific for either of them. I told her I appreciated her honesty, but that it really didn’t matter. Whatever had happened in the past was in the past where it belonged.

Susanne then informed me her parents were away for the weekend and that she was very happy to finally be alone with me. I expressed deep feelings of love and desire for her. Without any further words she led me into the bedroom, shut the lights, and began to unbutton my shirt. A soft dim light reflecting from other nearby buildings filtered into the room through the half closed window blinds allowing us to see each other as our clothes melted away. To say I was excited would not even begin to describe how I felt.

I was in heaven, feeling wanted, sharing with someone so completely as if we were meant for each other, a perfect combination, a meeting of souls and well worth waiting for. I was a very lucky guy to have a woman who was a lady to the outside world, but when making love, she was natural, curious, sensual and willing to try anything to please her man.

Our lovemaking continued for the next few weeks until only a few days remained before I had to get on with my education.

We were relaxing in bed just talking to each other, when Susanne mentioned that her former Italian lover had called her two days before, desperately wanting to see her.

Yesterday, she met him for lunch and he swore his eternal love for her and vowed to divorce his wife if she would agree to become his wife. He didn’t want to live without unless it was with her, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. She turned down his proposal, informing him she had met someone else and was very much in love.

He didn’t take no for an answer and had called her at home and work, at least a dozen times since then. He told her he would speak to her father if she wouldn’t listen to reason. Susanne was quite concerned and didn’t want her parents involved in any way. She especially didn’t want them to find out she had an affair with a married man. I told her not to worry and that things had a way of working out. He had no claims on her. I tried not to appear angry or jealous, but it bothered me deeply.

The next morning I called New York University and claimed I was interested in French and Italian lessons and had heard that one particular professor was exceptional and upon mentioning his name, was told which classes he taught and at what times in the evening. The university could arrange for me to sit in one of his classes if I was interested. I thanked the informative lady for her information and told her I would get back to her to arrange a time. I visited my uncle’s apartment and picked up my ever faithful fish bat. I was prepared. I might be able to put it to good use once again.

That evening I wandered about New York University’s campus just across from Washington Square in Greenwich Village, the hippy part of lower New York. I was unobstructed from poking my head into classrooms and not bothered by any old uniformed guards, who were clearly past retirement age and just went through the motions. Besides, I looked like a student who belonged there and was in fact at the very least, a genuine student. I was able to find unattended stairwell exits from the upper floors, one or two of them being fire emergency exits. These were never locked and always were usable from inside the building. I hung around and watched the students file into their evening classes and was easily able to identify the Italian stud. He was wearing light grey cotton trousers with an open collar button down shirt, and a cotton glen plaid blazer, befitting an actor playing the part of a professor. He probably had a pipe in his jacket to round out the picture.

During the class break, about thirty five minutes into the seventy five minute class period, I noticed the Italian playing up to an attractive young woman, turning on his seductive charm. She was a prospective bedroom partner or perhaps already one. This guy preyed on his students. Now I had no doubt of my intention. He didn’t deserve to live, he was just another half human animal.

I hung around in the hallway waiting for the class to end. A bell