PART-1, PETER PARTY

This story's theme is freewill.  Regardless of how we got the gift of choice, not enough people appreciate it and far too many take it for granted.
     My life experiences in Las Vegas taught me many lessons. One lesson, starting in September 1979, may have been a hard sell but slowly, over time, I have evolved and righted my flawed thinking.  
     I'm far from perfect but I am more enlightened to the lifestyles of others.  In the end, all they (we) want to do is live. 
     Due to the complexity of the central issue, this blog will be separated into three weekly parts.  It will begin with the general ignorance of most people, continue with the struggles of the main character and hopefully will end with a better understanding and appreciation that your freewill is only good and pure, if you respect that others have the same privilege.



                                *



Halfway up the rickety, exterior stairway, heavyset Hal Spear (34) was winded. To rest and mask his shortness of breath, he stopped to call my attention to the concrete public area.  I scanned his tired, two-tiered horseshoe complex, (the modest pool stood out to me as the only positive). Hal’s luxurious description of the Fiesta Apartments and his Utopian Las Vegas lifestyle there had been greatly exaggerated.

“Both those palm trees are real,” he gasped as he flicked his Old Gold cigarette butt over the rail.  “P.S.,” he added, “and they use the grills for parties.”

A man crossed our path at the landing. I thought it was odd that neither he nor Hal acknowledged each other. Hal remained mute as we went the length of the long creaking walkway.  
When he heard the door of that man’s ground floor unit close he whispered, “Goddamned faggot.”

Hal’s was the last apartment.  The door’s faded orange enamel was cracked and rusty, bare metal was exposed where minute paint chips had flaked off.  Three diamond-shaped, gold appliqués emblazoned with the black numerals identified his apartment number:  1-0-1. 

Inside, the one-minute tour of the amenities included: a narrow rectangular living room and a kitchenette with a hidden breakfast nook, in a far right alcove. The left corner featured a full bath and midway down that unadorned wall was the bedroom door. 

     Hal led me to the only piece of furniture in the room, a cheap MacDonald plaid convertible sofa.

     “This is where you’ll sleep,” he announced as he lit up another cigarette.  While demonstrating the “simplicity” of opening it into a bed, his second tug resulted in nipping his finger on a sharp edge.  He sucked the blood from his wound until diverting my attention to a portable TV, on a chintzy, rolling stand.  
     “This baby is a Quasar.” He elbowed my ribs and bragged, “Seventeen inches.” 

     The picture was slow to come up. 

“We get great reception,” Hal bragged as the black and white image finally appeared. He showed me some tacky flower-print aluminum snack tables and explained, “You can eat while watching your favorite program.”  
While Hal suffered through a prolonged coughing spell, I noticed a thick snowy band creep up the TV screen.  Hal noticed too and switched it off. 

Hal took a handkerchief from his pocket and trumpeted his nose without turning away from me.  
When he composed himself, he made a gesture suggesting a vastness to his empire and said, “And it’s all yours for fifty-flat a month, plus your long distance.” 

I had just started dealing craps at Hotel Fremont (September 1979) and needed a temporary place to stay.  So I accepted. 

We were shaking on the deal as the door opened.  Hal’s bespectacled wife strode past us with two large grocery sacks.  In silence, she advanced directly to the kitchen. Hal followed her, opened a box of generic saltines and took several out. 

He extended a cracker toward me, “Want?”  
I shook my head.  Awkwardly the three of us looked at each other without introductions. 

I said, “Are there more bags in the car?”

Hal laughed, “She’s legally blind...she can’t drive.  Besides it’s only a six-block walk to the shopping center.”

Angrily she said, “Three more bagsh.” 
She left. I instinctively followed.  
We walked the length of the complex to the stairs before she asked, “Are you going to shtay with ush?”

     “Yes.”

     On our way down she said, “You’ll be very happy here.”

She left the supermarket cart behind as we carried up the rest of the packages.

An unseen shrill voice from the ground floor called out, “Don’t leave that damned wagon here.”

She peeked over the railing and meekly answered, “Yesh Mishter Hanrahan.  Right away shur.”

Hanrahan came into view and snapped, “And be quick about it.”  I recognized him as the same neighbor Hal just identified as a homosexual.
I chirped, “Everyone’s so friendly here.”

Mortified, she gulped and stammered, “Y-yesh, v-very.”

“He didn’t seem gay to me.”

She looked at me queerly and said, “Why would you think that? He ishn’t gay.”

In the apartment, we found Hal with cracker crumbs on his lap, sitting on “my” bed watching, “The Price Is Right.”  The slug just sat there examining the register tape without even offering to help his wife store anything. 

In the kitchen, I got a better look at Mrs. Spear. She had short-cropped, stale, straw-like blond hair.  Her mousy face featured a continuous Stepford-esque half-smile and she spoke so softly that I could barely hear her speech impediment.  Her frail arms were disproportionately short for her small body and I soon learned that Hal took joy in referring to them as “twigs.”  However her oddest physical attribute was her anemic skin tone that resembled the color of frozen chicken.

She finished with the groceries and was about to leave when Hal blurted out, “Suzie, why didn’t you get the General Mills variety pack?  Post don’t make Cherrios.”

That was the first time I heard her name.

     Suzie responded, “Had a coupon.”

     Hal said, “Oh.”

     At the door she said, “Gotta bring the cart back to Shafeway.”  She wasn’t out of the apartment ten seconds when the suddenly spry Hal ran to the window to witness her disappear.  From the closet, he produced a rusty left-handed pitching wedge and began whacking Whiffle golf balls. I was hoping the club’s head would fly off and break the TV screen. He “teed-off” again and the ball ricocheted off the blank wall, the front door and hit my leg.  
     Hal boasted, "I'm getting better every day.  And by the way, did I tell you, the El Cortez (Casino), promoted me to boxman." 

     I didn’t let on that I thought a boxman was an old man job but I was impressed that he had accumulated over $12K in his profit sharing account. Even though I wasn’t exactly certain what profit sharing meant, I was certain who was sleeping on whose couch for fifty dollars a month. 

Later, Hal and I spoke of our previous day’s chance meeting at the Boulevard Mall. We reminisced about attending the New York School of Gambling.  However, I soon realized, we shared few mutual memories.

When Suzie returned, she immediately chastised Hal for “playing ball” in the house.

“Why must you embarrass me in front of our new roommate?” Hal whined.  He then whispered to me loud enough for her to hear, “And this, coming from someone who pees so loud at four in the morning that it wakes up the whole house.” Perturbed, she looked away as Hal winked at me, “Now that we have a paying guest, you can show some common courtesy and aim for the porcelain.”

Suzie ignored him and invited me to sit down with her.  Hal clumsily squeezed between us and engrossed himself in a rerun of “Gilligan’s Island.” 

     Forced to speak through Hal, I asked a series of marriage related questions, starting with; “Where did you meet?”  
     Despite her detailed answers, her monotone voice and never-changing plastic smile made her responses seem phony.

     Later, I hit a sour note with my last question, “Are you planning a family?”

     Hal’s eyes never left the screen as he carelessly flicked off an ash and said, “Suzie can’t make babies.  She don’t get no periods.”  
Humiliated, her body went limp.  She stared at the floor.     

     I thought it prudent to excuse myself and said, “I’m gonna take off now. I’ll move in after work tomorrow.” 
Hal puffed smoke rings and remained seated as Suzie stood up.

He extended his left hand without looking away from the TV and hissed, “How about that fifty?”                                      I gave him twenty and promised to pay the balance at the end of the week. 

At the door Suzie said, “You’re welcome to shtay for dinner.”

“Thanks.  I'm meeting a friend.”

     “Oh.”

     Out of curiosity I asked, “What am I missing?”

     Hal chimed in, “Its Tuesday, it’s variety pack cereal night.  Except we got no Cherrios...do we Suzie.”

                              *

The next morning I sat alone in the Fremont’s help’s hall. I was waiting to be served when a tall, sloppy fat blackjack dealer sat next to me. 

“Hi. I’m Stu Frobel. Teddy Rideout told me you’re looking for a place.”

“Sorry, I put a deposit down yesterday,” I said. “I’m moving in tonight.” 

Stu, from Flushing, Queens was friendly and easy-going in describing his place.  I patiently listened as I recalled Hal’s outrageous depiction of the Fiesta Apartments. Therefore, I was unmoved by Frobel’s continuing list of assets.

     In an affected manner the waiter glided to my table.  He set down my breakfast and snatched-up my meal ticket.

     Stu whispered, “Next time front a buck and he won’t take your ticket.  When I eat here, I make a profit.”

     Rather than commenting on Stu’s girth, I wrinkled my nose, made a limp wrist motion and said, “Your ‘friend’ is a little light in his loafers.”

     Stu unconsciously slid the plastic pepper shaker across the table from one hand to another and said, “Don’t say that. Lee’s good people...even if he didn't let me eat for free. Hell, nobody expects you to admire gays, but you gotta admit; they do lead tough lives.”

I conceded, “Okay.”

Stu got up and scribbled out his phone number and address before saying, “Besides, who cares who’s doing who.  It's none of my business.  Folks is just...folks.”  I was considering the merit of his unsolicited philosophy as he added, “Listen, one of my neighbors hit a big slot jackpot and is throwing a party tomorrow night. Come on over, you’ll have a blast. While you’re there, you can see my apartment.” 

     He read my indifference, pointed to a flyer advertising his place on the employee information bulletin board and said, “I’m not worried about it. I’ll rent that room with or without you.” 
     I read his sign after he left.  Stu had mistakenly harped on tennis courts, pools and saunas.  What he failed to mention was: a private bedroom and bath, and king-sized bed.

                               *

I returned to the Spear’s apartment after work and found them sitting on the sofa eating thickly sliced salami sandwiches and potato chips.  We exchanged hellos as I noticed residue from Hal’s over-flowing tartan beanbag ashtray was strewn all over the snack table and onto his paper plate.

     Suzie with her typical forced smile peered over her TV Guide and said, “How wasch your day?” 

I told her of a funny circumstance that ended with, “But a guy on my crew got fired.”

     She said, “I’m glad you like your new job.” 
Obviously, she wasn’t listening.

     But she snapped to attention when Hal roared, “Suzie napkin.” Rather than joining them on “my” bed, I brought a bar stool from the breakfast nook as Hal scraped a dollop of store-brand yellow mustard off his shirt with his pinkie. 

     “Goody,” said Suzie. “The ‘Shound of Music’ is coming on next.”

     “Forget about it,” bellowed Hal as he sucked his finger. “We ain’t watching faggot crap...right Steve.” 
Suzie nagged him to let her watch it.  She droned on and I realized that my attitude towards the Fremont waiter made me as bad as Hal and Hal was an asshole.

     Hal snarled, “Goddamned girlie crap every friggin’ night,” before begrudgingly giving in to her.

Five minutes later, the opening credits came up and Hal ordered, “Suzie, make me toast.”  
She glanced over her shoulder and scurried to the kitchen.  When the bread popped up, she smeared oleo on and hustled back.

     Hal took one bite and groaned as if stabbed in the stomach, “You call this enough butter. Get me more butter.”

Like Edith Bunker, she pitifully ran to obey him.

     I whispered, “I thought you didn’t want to watch this?”

     Hal smiled, “Shush, I’m watching the movie.”  
I had seen enough, I left for the night to visit my friend Ciro the Hero, (before he became Ciro the Zero).



                                 *

At Ciro's, I told him of my situation and added, “Hal’s a prick...and she’s killing me with kindness.”

“It’s obvious what you should do,” Ciro said. “Tomorrow, go see that other apartment. I’ll come with you.”                          I was still indecisive about the whole thing when I got “home” after 1:00AM.

                              *

I tiptoed into the Spears’ apartment and in the dark, discovered my bed was turned-down and made. On the pillow, Suzie had left a note that read: I’m so glad you’re staying with us.

     In seconds after lying down, I was pissed off.  Between the thin mattress and the creaking of the springs, there was no way I was going to get comfortable. After thirty minutes of twisting and turning, I desperately stood up and reconfigured it back to a couch.  In so doing, I too nipped my finger.

     I finally dozed off when Hal’s thunderous snoring started.  A few minutes into my second hour awake, I decided to see Stu’s apartment.  
     At 3:30AM, while staring at the ceiling, I entertained myself by imagining how bad the noise would be when they made love.  It then occurred to me that Hal wasn’t going to be “spearing” anyone!  I guess that notion soothed me enough...I fell asleep.

                               *

The concert started promptly at 7:00AM.  Hal opened his performance with a prolonged overture of sneezing, wheezing and guttural phlegm spitting.  I wrapped the pillow around my head and cursed his existence.  The virtuoso came out of the bedroom for a cameo appearance before continuing into the bathroom.  His recital, aided by the fine acoustics of a more intimate venue, continued with a chorus of honking nose blows, an intense coughing spell and concluded with a crescendo of flatulence.  Somehow when the shower was turned on, I was able to nod-off for a few more minutes.

Hal was still in the bathroom when he woke me again by shouting, “Suzie, did you find my green clip-on?”

She said, “Remember the tomato soup?  It’s in the hamper.”

I closed my eyes and curled into a fetal position. At that moment, if I had a gun, Suzie would have been a widow.

A tap on my back startled me as she whispered, “You awake?”

I emphasized my sarcasm, “Are you serious?” 

Suzie tore open the curtains and returned to annoy me.

My light sensitive eyes barely saw her painted on grin as she said, “C’mon shleepyhead, it’s twenty of eight.”

I looked directly into her frozen chicken colored face and said, “I’m buying a gun.”

Suzie ignored me, advanced to the refrigerator and began butchering the lyrics to, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”

I muttered, “Oh boy, show tunes,” as she began rattling pots.

Her Wendy’s uniform came into focus as she called out, “Will you be joining ush for oatmeal?” 

I snapped, “I don’t eat breakfast.”

“Don’t be bashful. There’s plenty and look, I’m shlicing up a banana.”

I was nauseated.  My senses were being bombarded by everything I hated, I held my nose and sang out low, “These are a few of my least favorite things.”

I drifted back to sleep until Suzie, set down a cup of Postum and chirped, “Have a great day.”

Hal was already dressed for work in a business suit even though his shift wouldn’t start for three hours.  However, instead of his sports coat, he was wearing a silk smoking jacket with an obvious burn hole in the lapel.  
When I focused on the hole he said, “Ah, I knew you’d like it.” Hal did an awkward pirouette and added “Good-Will.  Not bad for four bucks?”

He advanced to the window’s edge and watched Suzie leave the complex.

When he was certain she had started her twelve-block walk to work he asked me, “Wanna come to Foxy’s (Firehouse Casino) and take a shot?”                                                      Graciously I thanked him, not for the offer to gamble, but for leaving early.

                               *



Next week, Part-2 of "PETER PARTY," introduces the audience to flamboyant Peter, his minions and the surprising amount of people leading similar obstacles.