The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (47 page)

I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but it’s all nice so I don’t know what to do. And where’s Mary? Why’re these girls going ape? Where am I supposed to go with this guy? Most of all, why me? Who do they think I am to be giving me such a treatment?

This friend of mine, Dave Pell, was walking down the street one day when a guy came up and asked for his autograph. Dave’s quick and went along with it, but signed his own name and handed it back. The guy looked at it and got angry. “Come on, write your real name.” Dave says that
is.
The guy says no it isn’t, you’re Elton John. Dave looks a little like Elton, but only in the dark at three in the morning, but that’s not what this
shadrul
thinks. By the end of the thing, the two of them are screaming at each other and Dave’s an inch away from giving the guy big pain.

I’m thinking this is the same thing, mistaken identity, so as the chauffeur is pushing me towards his car and the girls are all yelling Stay with us! I yell at them “Who do you think I am?”

“Rickie!”

“Rickie, we love you!”

“I wanna have your baby!” Nine said this. Number nine’s screaming she wants to have my baby on 14th Street in the middle of the day.

“Rickie Prousek!”

I was almost into the car when one of them shouted that. I stopped. That’s me—Rickie Prousek. If they knew my name, they hadn’t made any mistake. They wanted to kiss
me
. Why?

Before I could ask, the chauffeur’s pushing me into the back of this fuckin’ limo the size of a 747 and since I don’t have my balance, I just go forward. But soon as I’m seated in there, the girls are pressing up against my window, kissing it all over the place and leaving these big red smudges. Now get this—one of the girls yanks up her halter top and shoves her chee-chees against the window. Beautiful! I’m going nuts. Get me some of
that,
but it’s too late—the driver jams away from the curb and I’m looking through the back window at the nicest set I’ve seen since last month’s
Penthouse.

“Did you see that?” I caught the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror and he smiled.

“I did, sir.”

“I don’t know what the hell is going on here.”

He just gave a little laugh and looked back at the road.

“I walk out of that store and suddenly all this comes down.” I don’t know whether I’m talking to him or me. The truth is, I’m kind of nuts at the moment. “And by the way, where’re we going?”

“To the book signing, sir. It’ll be quite a scene there too. I’ve heard they’ve been lining up all morning.”

“What book signing?”

He just kept chucking like wasn’t I the funny one but didn’t say anything more. But it isn’t every day you get to ride in a limo and I thought what the hell, go with the flow and see what happens.

Anyway, there were things to look at in the car. There’s this mini fridge and a telephone and a TV with a built-in video. Everything’s this kind of dark blue and reminds me of all the times I’ve watched limos pass by and tried to look inside through the tinted windows at who’s in there.

“So this is a limo, eh?” I open the fridge and there’s everything you’d ever want to drink riding around New York with your head up your ass, not knowin’ what’s going on. I reach in and take out a bottle of beer. Dos Equis, no less. I open it up and sit back.

The guy takes a left on Park Ave and floors it. The city’s passing by and I’m drinking my beer and why not? I’m thinking I wish about a hundred people I know could see me now. Hey, Mr. Osborne, remember in ninth grade when you told me I wouldn’t amount to nothing? Well, check out old Rickie now, gliding uptown in his black limo, you little faggot. Or Tanya and her snooty fucking attitude. Wanna ride in my limo, Tanya? How about a glass of Chivas to smooth you out? Hah!

Then it hits me—Mary! Mary set this whole thing up. Like a surprise or something. “Hey, excuse me?” The driver looks in the rearview again. I say “Did Mary do this? I mean, did Mary DeFazio arrange for you and all?”

He shrugs and goes on smiling. I wish he’d do a little less of that and more explaining. But that’s
got
to be it. It’s not my birthday, but as I said, that woman can pull off a joke better than anybody so maybe this is one of her crazy brainstorms. But why isn’t she here to enjoy it with me? And what about the girls back there? She didn’t arrange for that flash job, that’s for sure. I don’t call her Queen Jealousy for nothing.

We tool along in silence for a while and then he takes a few lefts and rights and pulls up in front of a store. There’s a few hundred people standing out in front of it and there are so many that they’ve got cops out there keeping order.

Soon as the crowd sees our car stop, they come forward. I don’t know what’s going on but figure I’d just better sit tight till someone gives me the word on what to do.

The driver gets out and comes around to open my door. He smiles in and offers me a hand but I don’t need no hand to get out of a car, so I do it myself.

Nuts. The whole world out there goes nuts. Rickie! Rickie! All of them are screaming and yelling and rushing forward and even with everything that’s been going on in the last hour, it takes me a few seconds to realize they’re screaming at me—Rickie, not some other one. They’re here for
me
.

Before I get a chance to react, two cops come up on my sides and grab hold of my arms. They start pushing me towards the door of this bookstore, but it’s not easy because the mob is all around us.

“Rickie! We love you!”

“I’m your greatest fan!”

“Rickie, sign my book. It’s for my mother. She’s dying!”

“Sign my head, Rickie. I got my hair cut like this just so you could sign my head!”

“Rickie, this is for you!” This big fat chick like a lineman for the Jets is pushing forward and she’s holding this huge purple cake. It’s as big as a toilet seat and across the top of it it says “Rickie Prousek Fan Club” in yellow squiggly letters.

“Get back!” One cop yells and stiff arms the fat chick so hard that her cake goes flying. But I don’t see where because they’re jamming me into that store and there’s nothing I can do but keep moving.

Once inside, the crowd is even bigger but the cops get me through to this little table where there’s this stack of books about a mile high. The manager of the store is a smoky-looking blond and she’s looking at me like I could scratch every itch she has.

“Mr. Prousek, it’s such an honor.” She shakes my hand and hers is so soft and warm I want to curl up inside it and take a nap. But there’s no time. Everybody’s churning around and howling to get started. So I do what they tell me and sit down at the table with all the books on it. Before I’m crushed to death by the mob, I just get a second to take a look at the cover. On it is this big color picture of me smiling, under the title “
Immortal Me
by Rickie Prousek.”

To tell you the truth, I don’t like to read and the idea of me writing a book is about as far away as fuckin’ Antarctica, but what was I supposed to do, tell them you got the wrong Rick? Don’t think so.

They give me this fat black magic marker and the crush starts.

“Could you sign it to Leo Specht, sir? In German, ‘specht’ means woodpecker. Did you know that?”

I look up at this guy. “Izzat right?” I write “Hiya Leo. Love Rickie” on the cover of his book and hand it back. The owner says “Ooo, you signed the
cover,
what a novel idea.”

“Please sign ‘I love Diana.’ ”

“Sign ‘To my dear friend, Ed. I’ll always remember the cinnamon toast,’ please.”

“What? Why would I sign that? What toast? I don’t know you!” As soon as I say that, the guy looks like he’s going to cry. Then he
apologizes.
Do you believe it?

It goes on like that till my hand is shaking. People come up with ten books but two’s the limit. The good looking blond stands right next to me and watches over everything like a hawk. She keeps asking if I’d like anything to drink or eat. What I really want is a cigarette, but you can tell this is definitely a smoke-free zone, so I don’t say anything.

Just when I’m starting to get really tired, the fat woman with the purple cake comes up, looking like she just crawled out of a Stephen King swamp. I mean she’s fat anyway, right? But now I see where that cake went when the cop sent it flying—all over her front. I mean, she’s smeared with purple frosting and chocolate cake, her hair looks like she stuck her head in a clothes dryer, and to top it off, she’s got a look in her eye that scares the shit out of me. She’s holding one of my books, but even that’s smeared with purple.

“I’ve been waiting for three days. You have to sign my book!”

“Sure. Waddya want me to say in it?”

But she squeezes it up to her chest like I was trying to steal it away. “No, you don’t understand! You have to sign it to me!”

“Okay, I—”

“TO ME!” She screams out and the whole fucking place stops dead. Then before I know what’s going on, she’s shoving the table aside and coming at me. The cops try to get between us but it’s no good. Too late. She’s here already and grabbing hold of me by the front of my shirt. “You have to sign it to me, to Violet! You have to sign it—”

The cops jump her and wrestle her down, but she’s no small thing, plus she’s still got hold of my shirt and she’s so big there’s nothing I can do.

Well, that’s not true. For a while there’s nothing I can do, but when she pulls me in and I’m sure she’s going to kiss me, I gave her a quick left hook that rang her fuckin’ bell, believe me. Then the blond from the store hit her over the head with a big mother stapler and down goes the purple whale.

“That’s it! I’m outta here! Game over.” I push for the door and even though the crowd’s still thick as ten hands in one pocket, they let me through. But they’re still screaming and yelling and grabbing at me. Rickeeeeeeee!

Luckily the car’s right out front, motor running and the door’s open, thank God. Soon’s I’m in, the door slams and we’re off again. I look through the back window and everybody’s wavin’, for Christ’s sake!

“What the hell was
that
?”

The driver’s shaking his head. “Terrible. Terrible. They
promised
they would have good security. That shouldn’t have happened.”

I was about to say something, but at that moment I looked at the floor and saw my two dollar hat lying there. That started me thinking and I said to the guy “Who am I?”

“You’re Mr. Prousek.”

“Yeah, that’s right. But who am I? I mean, why am I so famous?”

“Why?”

“That’s right,
why
? Let me tell you something. This morning I walk into a store to buy a hat and when I come out, my girlfriend’s gone, but I got a limo waiting and girls goin’ ape for me. Then you take me here and a purple nutcase tries to rape me with a book. So that’s what I’m saying—why am I suddenly so famous? What’d I do?”

He smiles again but it’s not so big this time and I can tell he’s confused. Maybe he thinks I’m pulling his leg or testing him about something. But I can tell from the look in his eye my question makes him real nervous.

“I’m serious. What’d I do? I sure didn’t write that book. So what else am I famous for?”

“I don’t think I understand the question, sir. Everyone knows why you’re famous. You—”

BAM! He plows right into this big yellow Ryder rental truck stopped at the light in front of us. Two soul brothers jump out, combined total weight ten thousand pounds of mean-looking black-flesh. And that’s not all—they got on various T-shirts that advertise the fact they hate every white person on the planet. The bigger one is in a Louis Farrakhan “Million Man March” shirt and is holding a silver baseball bat in his hand which itself is the size of a grapefruit.

My driver gets out and I can see the whole thing going south. The brothers check out this Oreo in his chauffeur’s suit and they think “What you drivin’ Whitey around for, Fool?”

And that’s exactly what it looks like for a while. They’re lookin’ mighty pissed off at my chauffeur for hitting them and now everyone’s gesturing around with their arms, trying to make their points. The guy with the bat’s not saying much, but he’s tapping the damned thing against his leg like he’s ready to start whompin’ any minute now. After a while the other one—who’s wearing a “It’s a Black Thing” shirt and got on nasty-looking camouflage pants—goes back to the truck and is back a minute later with what looks very much to me like a piece, thank you very much.

Now I know what’s up because the chauffeur comes over to the car and knocks on the window for me to open up. He’s gone over, the traitor! He’s turning me loose to his brothers so they don’t kick his ass too in the bargain.

So I’m thinking Fuck
you,
Bro! Let ’em try and get in here!

He shakes his head like I don’t understand, but I understand just fine. Then the guy with the piece comes over and leaning down on my side, smiles and shows me it’s not a gun. It’s a camera!

He yells out at me “Can we take a picture?”

Next thing I know, I’m standing in the middle of 1st Avenue with “Black Thing” on one side and Baseball Bat on the other and we’re all smiling at my driver holding the camera.

Which draws another crowd. Seems like the whole city of New York has been waiting for me all day. Every time I show my face now I’m flooded with people.

“It’s Rickie Prousek! Holy Christ!”

“Rickie! Oh God!”

“No way!”

“Way!”

I’d had enough of that for one day, so I jump back in the car and tell the driver to get going.

We peel out but two blocks later, even before I got a chance to get an answer from him about who the hell I was, he pulls up in front of a restaurant called “Secrets.”

“What’s this?”

He looks at his watch and breathes a sigh of relief. “We’re just in time for your luncheon date. I didn’t think we’d make it.”

“In here? I know this place. I saw it on ‘Entertainment Tonight.’ This is like the hoity-toitiest restaurant in town.”

“You’d better hurry, sir. You’ll be late.”

Now you gotta remember I went out that morning planning on a movie and maybe a bite to eat somewhere after. Now here I am supposed to be going into Mel Gibson’s favorite place. I look down at my clothes, not like I forgot what I was wearing or anything, but just checking. I mean, after everything else that happened today, maybe my fairy godmother changed me from a pumpkin into a princess or something when I wasn’t looking. But no such luck. I’m still in my jeans and sweatshirt.