again.
So when the appointed day came, he paid a bellboy to bring her inside through the back entrance and upstairs by way of the freight elevator. She tapped on the door, and he let her in. She stood primly before him, her hands clutching her purse. After a few nervous moments, she let him lift the veil that was attached to the brim of her hat and shielded her identity from prying eyes, revealing a plump and pretty face. Her startling blue eyes blinked and skittered, as if she was unsure about what she was doing there.
Joe wasted no time reminding her. Within a few short minutes, he had her out of her clothes and in the bed, the comedy accompanied by her chorus of
here now!
s and
you stop that!
s. Meanwhile, she didnât raise a finger to slow his advances.
Once he got her going, she was like a freight train rolling downhill. Liberated from any worries of her husband bursting in, she gave herself up to a rollicking good time, throwing herself about like a circus performer, contorting this way and that. The shrieks and moans that erupted from her throat were so ungodly loud that Joe had to push a pillow to her mouth before they got complaints. The sheets were soon soaked with sweat and various other fluids. It was a rodeo ride, for sure, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks that he wasnât called upon to satisfy her every day.
Or, he decided, ever again. Once the heat of the battle had subsided, he realized that May Ida was crazy, though in a happily delirious way. Her blue-eyed gaze was a step shy of deranged, and he figured it was only a matter of time before she crossed the line and did something so outrageous that the Captain would finally get wise. Then there would be the worst kind
of hell to pay, and God help the poor fellow who had the bad luck to be the one caught between those dumpling thighs. It wasnât going to be Joe Rose. From that day on, he avoided her. When her maid came around with another invitation, he gave the girl some money to say he couldnât be found. Just to be sure, he made a point of moving from the Dixie Hotel to the Hampton.
Since that incident, he had nurtured a fantasy of meeting the Captain one day and saying, âOh, by the way, half the criminals in Atlanta have fucked your wife, and we all agree that sheâs a peach.â Then he thought about whether heâd like to be buried in Oakland Cemetery or some other resting place.
This made him all the more nervous being in the caustic Captainâs eye. And yet there he was, and there he would remain, until the man got what he wanted. He shook his head over ending up so innocently in this corner, and walked off the bridge as the trains huffed in and out beneath his feet.
Â
It was a bright day, the temperature already in the high thirties, certainly not cold enough to keep the likes of Willie McTell indoors. Not to mention that feeling the warm sun on his face would dispel some of the gloom that he had carried away from Little Jesseâs rooms.
Street by street, Willie heard pockets of noise, caught their echoes, and sensed the way the air moved around in different places. Once he had settled in Atlanta the previous spring, it had taken him no time at all to map the city by way of sound. It was something no sighted person could ever understand. His blindness had so heightened his other faculties that people marveled at the tricks he could perform. Telling a one-dollar bill from a five simply by touching it, or picking out conversations across a street full of rattling automobiles. He could identify people by their smells and the way their clothes rustled on their bodies. It was this other sense, really a combination of his hearing, smell,
and touch, that guided him through the city as if he was on a private rail. He didnât need any help at all, though he sometimes lost his talent when a nice-sounding woman offered to guide him.
He was coming up on Houston Street, on his way to catch the lunch
So when the appointed day came, he paid a bellboy to bring her inside through the back entrance and upstairs by way of the freight elevator. She tapped on the door, and he let her in. She stood primly before him, her hands clutching her purse. After a few nervous moments, she let him lift the veil that was attached to the brim of her hat and shielded her identity from prying eyes, revealing a plump and pretty face. Her startling blue eyes blinked and skittered, as if she was unsure about what she was doing there.
Joe wasted no time reminding her. Within a few short minutes, he had her out of her clothes and in the bed, the comedy accompanied by her chorus of
here now!
s and
you stop that!
s. Meanwhile, she didnât raise a finger to slow his advances.
Once he got her going, she was like a freight train rolling downhill. Liberated from any worries of her husband bursting in, she gave herself up to a rollicking good time, throwing herself about like a circus performer, contorting this way and that. The shrieks and moans that erupted from her throat were so ungodly loud that Joe had to push a pillow to her mouth before they got complaints. The sheets were soon soaked with sweat and various other fluids. It was a rodeo ride, for sure, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks that he wasnât called upon to satisfy her every day.
Or, he decided, ever again. Once the heat of the battle had subsided, he realized that May Ida was crazy, though in a happily delirious way. Her blue-eyed gaze was a step shy of deranged, and he figured it was only a matter of time before she crossed the line and did something so outrageous that the Captain would finally get wise. Then there would be the worst kind
of hell to pay, and God help the poor fellow who had the bad luck to be the one caught between those dumpling thighs. It wasnât going to be Joe Rose. From that day on, he avoided her. When her maid came around with another invitation, he gave the girl some money to say he couldnât be found. Just to be sure, he made a point of moving from the Dixie Hotel to the Hampton.
Since that incident, he had nurtured a fantasy of meeting the Captain one day and saying, âOh, by the way, half the criminals in Atlanta have fucked your wife, and we all agree that sheâs a peach.â Then he thought about whether heâd like to be buried in Oakland Cemetery or some other resting place.
This made him all the more nervous being in the caustic Captainâs eye. And yet there he was, and there he would remain, until the man got what he wanted. He shook his head over ending up so innocently in this corner, and walked off the bridge as the trains huffed in and out beneath his feet.
Â
It was a bright day, the temperature already in the high thirties, certainly not cold enough to keep the likes of Willie McTell indoors. Not to mention that feeling the warm sun on his face would dispel some of the gloom that he had carried away from Little Jesseâs rooms.
Street by street, Willie heard pockets of noise, caught their echoes, and sensed the way the air moved around in different places. Once he had settled in Atlanta the previous spring, it had taken him no time at all to map the city by way of sound. It was something no sighted person could ever understand. His blindness had so heightened his other faculties that people marveled at the tricks he could perform. Telling a one-dollar bill from a five simply by touching it, or picking out conversations across a street full of rattling automobiles. He could identify people by their smells and the way their clothes rustled on their bodies. It was this other sense, really a combination of his hearing, smell,
and touch, that guided him through the city as if he was on a private rail. He didnât need any help at all, though he sometimes lost his talent when a nice-sounding woman offered to guide him.
He was coming up on Houston Street, on his way to catch the lunch
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