American Adonis: Tales of Block E, #2

By William E Burleson

Dwayne has plans. He’s working his way through college, and he has no doubt that he’s going to be an architect one day. But until that day, Dwayne is stuck working at the box office of a miserable little porno theater. Boring job, usually, and today especially so. His co-worker, Chulo, seems bent on distracting Dwayne from his homework.  Mister straight and narrow, maybe Dwayne needs a distraction. Chulo pulls out a joint, and Dwayne decides: what the heck. What could go wrong?

It’s 1979 on Block E, a woebegone Times Square-type district filled with characters of all stripes—hookers and the homeless, addicts and drug dealers. But the streets also belong to the hopeful—the many people wanting so much more. These are the Tales of Block E, three intersecting stories of people in a place and a time long gone but not forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flexible Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386309734

Book preview

ONE

PHYSICS IS HARD ENOUGH without Chulo chasing a rat around the lobby with a broom.

Thwack!

"Got you, you little singao!" he said, business end of the broom pressed to the floor.

I looked up from my textbook. No, you didn’t.

The ridiculously casual fat rodent scurried off behind him, down the hall. Chulo looked right, then left, spotted him, and gave chase, broom held high above his head like a battle ax. I tried to find my place again, but by the time I did, Chulo was back and standing in front of my box office window.

"I’m going to kill that rata and put his corpse on a pole as a warning to other rata," Chulo said, panting from the minor exertion.

I think the other rats would just eat it.

The front door opened to daylight and the roar of traffic. A middle-aged white guy wearing a suit with no tie entered. The door closed, restoring the dark and quiet, except for the distant sound of a woman moaning. Chulo drifted off, leaned the broom in the corner, and picked up his mop. He pretended not to pay attention as the captain-of-industry type walked the few steps across the lobby to my bulletproof glass–windowed box office.

Looks like it’s going to rain, I said for no reason.

One please, the beefeater replied, obviously not wanting to make small talk with me.

Which one?

What do you mean?

The American or Adonis? I said, pointing at the sign behind me.

What’s the difference?

Which do you want, straight or gay?

Straight, of course. He looked all indignant.

I punched up a ticket, tore it the long way, and slid it to him in exchange for a five. Upstairs. There are two shows. Take your pick. He double-timed his wedding-ring-and-business-suit-wearing ass up the stairs.

Chulo quit pretending to mop and leaned on the wood handle. Hey, Dwayne, why is it that when you ask them what theater they want, the straight guys don’t know what you are talking about, but the gay guys always do?

What are you talking about, Chulo? I said.

Well, take that guy. Chulo walked back up to my window, dragging the mop behind him in a wavy, wet trail. If he wanted the gay theater, he would have said it straight up, or at least have known which one he wanted when you asked. Instead, he’s like, ‘Gay? How dare you?’

That whole job was a study in psychology. Or sociology. Or something. God knows what, but something. Yeah, well, brother, you know how people are.

"What ‘people,’ hombre? Men. Just men, no women. When have you ever sold a ticket to a señorita?"

One time this white chick came in with her boyfriend.

Okay, one time. Was she a pro?

Probably, but that doesn’t make her not a woman. Man, it was only about 1 p.m., and I had to work to 8:30. Already it was shaping up to be a long, long day.

Chulo went back to swabbing away. The place used to be a fish market until just a couple years before—I think it closed in about ’75—and whenever Chulo mopped the old hardwood, it released a perfume of Pine-Sol