Curled in the Bed of Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

customer, an intrusion. Of course I’ll oblige if the customer initiates the conversation.Some of the people I get, they talk my ear off. Maybe because the passengers don’t have to look at my face—with my eyes on the road, I’m as anonymous as a priest behind the screen in the confessional—they pour out their hearts to me, or they want me to pour out mine. That’s how I got together with Linnie. Right away, I liked her. She actually looked at me when she got in the limo. She asked me about the stack of books on the dashboard. I had James Joyce’s
Dubliners
with me that day, and she’d read it too, and we laughed about how right he was about the Irish, all the mealymouthed
pleases
and
thank yous
and
I’m sorrys
slapped on over the grudges like a thin coat of paint. We talked about what part of Ireland our parents came from and the obvious things you have in common if you’re Irish—a mother who’s forever lighting a candle for you, wanting what you want but also always disappointed you haven’t got it yet, and a father who hoards words like money but is plenty free with his fists. That’s real Irish, all right. We sat parked in front of her apartment with the engine running, talked so long I ran out of gas.
    As we head for Fisherman’s Wharf, I give the Lessers a quick rundown of what they should do when they get there. Eat Dungeness crab from that stand on the sidewalk, watch for the seals on the west side of the wharf, stroll up to Ghirardelli Square to shop. I’m full of advice on where to find the best bargains.
    I guess you get big ideas about yourself when you wear a uniform. I feel like a representative of something when I’m dressed for work: crisp white shirt pressed perfectly by the cleaners, the navy blue jacket and pants, shoes shined so you can see your reflection in them, and the cap, like a cop’s cap, with gold braid above the rim. And I pay attention to personal hygiene, get a haircut every six weeks, trim my nails and buff them, keep an electric razor in the glove compartment so that when I work a long day I can still look fresh. A chauffeur’s day starts at 6 A.M. when all the executives need a ride to the airport, and then you often geta slack time in the middle of the day. Business picks up again in the evening, and if you’re driving a wedding party or even just a bunch of people who want to drink without worrying, you never know what time you’ll make it home. Most nights I take the car home so I can clean it and be on time for the first charter the next morning.
    My schedule has helped me out some with Linnie. I can tell her I just have a few hours free between customers or break off necking with her and claim I have to be up at five, and she understands. The problem is, those excuses can carry you only for so long. And I can’t face trying again. I was twenty-one before I got close enough with a woman to have sex. Everything seemed to be working fine, but then when I entered her, I went soft. That poor girl—she worked on me, using her mouth, closing her hand over my penis and pumping it like a piston, till she was slick with sweat. The second time we were together, I managed to pull it off, but the third and fourth time she had to work so hard, and the more she had to work, the less aroused I got. So then you figure it’s the woman. Till you’ve tried with five or six women, and it goes the same way with every one of them.
    Worrying about why—if it was because I grew up Catholic, with Dad acting the tyrant and Mom playing the devout little handmaid, or if maybe I really preferred men—didn’t matter much next to the fact that I couldn’t deliver in bed. Failure piled up in the shape of a big brick wall. You have to wait for something bigger than you to come along and smash a thing like that. A miracle. So I’m killing time. For a couple of years now, during the midday slack