t’s Valentine’s Day on Mars,” whispered
doorman Philip Kellington to the glowing landscape scattered
with red-orange stones. He was alone in the small, ornate lobby
of the Upper East Side apartment building, his eyes fixated on
the image stretching across pages twenty-two and twenty-three.
How he loved that photo. He propped up the oversized book on
his mahogany desk and suspended his right palm three inches from
the photo. The back of his hand, spattered with freckles over
his fifty-two years, seemed to blend with the speckled terrain
behind it. “Yup,” he mumbled, “V-Day on the
Red Planet.” Then, in a swift, theatrical motion, he curled
his pinky and ring finger under his thumb and spread open his
index and middle fingers.
And there he sat, as the red digits on the desk clock switched
from 1:20 to 1:21 a.m., as the sleeve of his recently pressed
beige uniform crept up his arm, as the faint tapping sound coming
from the front window became an erratic thumping. There he sat,
motionless, fixated on his bony hand. His two erect pink fingers
were screaming “V” to the book. V for Valentine.
V for Victory. V for Vagina. He shifted his arm ever so slightly
to the left, so as to balance a particularly appropriate Martian
rock in the background over the webbing of flesh adjoining his
two fingers. He smiled at the makeshift clit.
It had been two years to the day since his fingers had touched
a real clit. Two years since the Missus had lifted herself
from the bed only to stumble and collapse on the floor, halfway
to the bathroom door. Two years since the red flashing lights
had poured through the windows of their small Queens apartment
and a cluster of athletic looking paramedics, none older than
thirty, had placed their latexed hands on her flabby flesh.
Two years since she had sprawled there, on her back, naked,
before those strange men, her legs spread like the “V” Philip’s
fingers were now aiming at the book. Two years since one of
the men had attached metal plates to the top of her sagging
breasts, breasts whose large flat nipples had always insisted
on pointing down to the center of the earth and which, at that
moment, had routed themselves around the sides of her torso…struggling,
with each jolt of electricity, to reach the floor. Two years
since that Jamaican Paramedic had held the empty bottle of
$7.99 Freixenet Champagne in his left hand and her half-emptied
bottle of medication in his right and asked, “Mon, did
she know dat she shouldn’t have drunk if she took deez
pills?” (to which Philip had answered no with a bewildered
nod). Two years since the men had marched out the front door
with their thick canvas uniforms flapping, their equipment
clanging and the lifeless, naked body of the Missus stretched
on their gurney. Her body had been covered with a white sheet
tucked tightly around the sides, Philip guessed, to prevent
her limbs from flailing wildly (as they had tended to do when
she was alive).
The front door of the building swung open and Philip’s
trance was shattered. He dropped his hand and looked up at
the sizable figure marching towards him.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?” Mrs. Jergensen’s
voice boomed. She was stuffing her gloves and key into her handbag
with such vigor it seemed the triangulated Prada adorning its
side would tear off. “Philip, if it weren’t Valentine’s
Day, I’d chew your head off. What’s the point of
having a doorman, if I have to stand in the cold, fumbling for
my key? Lucky for you I found it before my fingers froze off!”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I…”
“And what in God’s name were you doing just now?” Mrs.
Jergensen was suddenly next to Philip, hovering over him, before
the front door had even clanked shut. She appeared larger than
ever to Philip, perhaps six feet tall in those pointy black heels.
Philip began to lift himself out of his chair but she was occupying
the space above him. She pushed down on his shoulders.
There was something tropical or fruity in her odor, Philip thought…either
the vodka on her breath had at some point been mixed with juice,
or the subfreezing February temperatures had preserved the fragrance
of a perfume applied to the tanned skin on her neck, skin that
seemed far too taut for a woman in her late fifties.
“So sorry ma’am. I was just lookin’ at this
picture of Mars, see?”
“Ah, so… and you were making a peace sign to the
Martians with your hand, were you, Philip?” Mrs. Jergensen’s
words made her giggle, though it seemed to Philip she was merely
continuing a giggle she had started several hours and several
drinks earlier.
“Yeah, that’s it ma’am, heh,” Philip
said, echoing her shift in tone. “Just in case they can
see me, they should know I mean no harm. Peace, Martians! Heh,
heh.” Philip raised the “V” again, this time
framing Mrs. Jergensen’s upper lip above the webbing between
his two fingers. That beautiful red fleshy lip, he thought. V
for Voluptuous.
Mrs. Jergensen smiled at Philip’s gesture, her upper
lip stretching without losing any of its fullness and casting
a fine shadow on the thin lip beneath it. That delicately painted
upper lip floated on her face like a glistening crimson seagull,
with two perfectly arched wings mimicking the curvature of
her penciled eyebrows. The wings met in the shadow of a ski-sloped
nose (chiseled, Philip guessed, by the finest plastic surgeon
on Park Avenue), forming a small “V” that traced
the angle of Philip’s peace sign.
Philip had read about collagen injections in a Seventeen Magazine
that Mrs. Gerdeen’s daughter had once left in the lobby
by mistake. Buried among the photos of half naked, smiling pre-legals
was an article on cosmetic enhancement entitled “Tweaking
for Teens.” Mrs. Jergensen’s mouth reminded him of
the pictures in that article. But only her upper lip. Why
would she only collagen one lip? Philip wondered.
The seagull fluttered.
“Peace, Martians? Oh Philip, you are a joker.”
Philip imagined those lips wrapping around his extended index
finger, smoothly and slowly gliding down its shaft. V for
Velvety,
thought Philip. He lowered his hand.
“Well Philip, I thought for sure that you were sitting
here ogling pictures of naked women, the way you were just staring
at that book, ignoring me at the door! I figured you had slipped
a Playboy magazine in there.”
Philip thought by the way her mouth curled up at its ends that
she was joking, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Oh no, Mrs. Jergensen. I wouldn’t do that. Anyways,
I don’t got to look at no pictures of pretty ladies when
there’s ladies like yourself in the building, ma’am.”
The words had just tumbled out of him. Philip’s slender
cheeks filled with blood. He could feel the perspiration forming
on the top of his head, under the palmful of American Sport hair
gel that glued down his fine wisps of red and gray.
He studied her mouth for a reaction. Had he really just compared
Mrs. Jergensen of Apartment 16B to girls in pornos? The Jergensens
had lived in the building for twenty-three years. Mr. Jergensen
was head of the co-op board. Philip would surely be fired come
Monday morning.
“What I mean, ma’am, is…”
“Oh, you flatter me, Philip,” Mrs. Jergensen said. “And
let me tell you,” she raised her voice as if to hurl her
words beyond the lobby walls: “I can use some flattery
now and again!” She removed her mink and draped it over
the back of Philip’s chair. He again attempted to get up
for her but she again pushed down on his shoulders, her long
fingers digging deep into his thin trapezoids.
“No, you just sit right there, Philip. Now…let me
look at this intriguing picture of Mars.” As she leaned
over him, her wavy, brown hair, which was cascading down from
under her hat, swung past his nose and dangled over his shoulder.
He found himself floating in the chamomile scent of her shampoo
and felt as if he was suddenly sharing the intimacy of her shower.
He recoiled for fear that she would sense this violation of her
privacy. But Mrs. Jergensen remained focused on the propped up
book, apparently oblivious that Philip’s diminutive frame
had collapsed deeper into the chair.
“Oh Philip, look how red and mystical that planet is.
So beautiful. So inviting.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How I’d like to be there at this very moment.” Her
eyes narrowed. She seemed to be talking to the book. Philip wasn’t
sure whether he was supposed to be listening. He wondered how
much alcohol was pulsing through her veins. “Away from
all the people and buildings and cars in this damn city. Especially
on a miserable night like tonight. Valentine’s Day in New
York. A miserable time in a miserable place.”
She shook her head and seemed to be waiting for a response.
“Uh…yes ma’am. Mars is a fine lookin’ planet.”
Mrs. Jergensen turned the page and an even pinker Martian landscape
met their eyes, a small sun setting in the background.
“What a romantic world,” she said.
“Well, you would think so, ma’am. It’s all
pink and red, like love and Valentines and that kind of stuff.”
Philip felt Mrs. Jergensen’s eyes lift from the page and
focus on his face. She threw her hands on his shoulders to support
herself as she continued to lean over him. He wished he had used
the electric shaver that morning.
“You know why Mars is red, ma’am? It’s cuz
of all the iron in it. When iron mixes with oxygen, it turns
red. Says so right here, see? It’s just like blood, which
is red cuz the iron in our hemoglob’ or whatever…is
mixin’ with oxygen. Ain’t that somethin’ Mrs.
Jergensen, that Mars is made of the same stuff that makes our
hearts red?”
“Fascinating, Philip,” she said. “Mars must
be the ‘Planet of Love.’”
“Well that’s the thing, whatcha might call the…what’s
that word?…irony… huh…that’s funny, irony’s
got ‘iron’ in it. Anyways, the irony is that Mars
is the warrior planet, not the love planet.”
“Ah…yes, yes…the warrior planet,” Mrs.
Jergensen replied. “I’ve read that in horoscope books.
Mars is the planet of force and fire.”
“Yeah, Mars is no love planet, I’ll tell ya that.
Nothin’ can survive on Mars, ‘specially not love.
It’s a lonely planet, ma’am.” Philip flipped
the page. “Just rocks there, see, and look how alone they
are. None of ‘em are touchin’ each other.” Philip
flipped the page again and pointed. “Mars got two moons,
see? One’s Deimos, the god of fear, and the other is Phobos,
the god of panic—that’s Mars’ neighborhood
for ya. And those moons got nothin’ to do with each other,
either—they just float around separately.”
He looked up and studied Mrs. Jergensen’s glossy brown
eyes for signs of comprehension. “Even those two robots
we sent up there. Know what I’m talking about, ma’am?
They call ‘em rovers: one’s named Spirit and one’s
named Opportunity. You probably seen ‘em on the news. But
Spirit and Opportunity are roverin’ on different parts
of Mars. They ain’t never gonna meet. They’re gonna
die alone, each one...”
Mrs. Jergensen grabbed the book and flipped back a couple of
pages. “Look, Philip, it says here sunsets last two hours – can
you imagine? You could sit with your lover and a bottle of merlot
under that magnificent red sky for two dreamy hours. I’m
sorry Philip, but I say Mars is a romantic world.”
“You know who’s at fault, ma’am? It’s
Jupiter. Says here when the planets was created, Mars coulda
been like Earth, but Jupiter screwed it all up. Jupiter’s
huge, see? Overpowerin’. Mars was too close to it. And
all that gravity Jupiter’s got…well, it sucked away
Mars’ atmosphere, shrunk the planet down to nothin’,
zapped it of its magnetic field, and so forth, so it couldn’t
shield itself from solar storms—catch what I’m sayin’,
Mrs. Jergensen?”
Mrs. Jergensen stared quietly at the scarlet sky.
“Ma’am?”
“When I was young, my husband used to take me all over
the world. ‘Chasing sunsets’ he would say…”
“Did ya catch what I was saying about Jupiter, ma’am?” Philip
said, desperate to shift back the conversation.
“Yes, Philip,” Mrs. Jergensen snapped. "Jupiter.
Jupiter robbed Mars of its chance for life, and love.” Deep
creases appeared on her brow and her jaw muscles began to bulge. “Well
Philip, I have a Jupiter of my own…Mr. Jergensen. That
sonovabitch is gone now on yet another trip, leaving me here
all alone once again. This is the fourth damn year in a row I’ve
spent Valentine’s Day dinner on my own with two other couples.
They invite me out of pity. Meanwhile, he’s out there on
the Cote d’Azur, no doubt fucking some twenty-one year
old bimbo with a perfect ass.”
Philip knew Mrs. Jergensen was telling him too much. She’d
surely remember her words in the morning and find a way to get
him fired by Monday. She would not let him stay in the building
with that information.
“Well, I guess I had a Jupiter too, ma’am. My old
lady. But she died two years ago today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You poor dear. It’s the two-year
anniversary of her death?”
“Or about a year in Martian time. Their years are almost
twice as long as ours, you know.”
Mrs. Jergensen put her hand on Philip’s arm, applying
far more pressure than Philip thought necessary.
“I’m sorry Philip.”
“Yup, we was together twenty-two years. But she was a
big lady. A real Jupiter…about 295 pounds.” Philip
removed a faded photo from his wallet. “This is from her
thinner days.”
As Mrs. Jergensen studied the picture, Philip’s mind raced
back to the night it was snapped, fourteen years earlier, on
a trip to Miami, before her miscarriage, before her diabetes,
before her weight gain. That was the last night she had let him
touch her body for years…until that Valentine’s Day.
“She was an attractive woman, Philip.”
“She was a monster. Everything always had to be her way.” His
words had just slipped out, once again.
Mrs. Jergensen stood upright, grabbed a chair from near the
elevator a few feet away, and dragged it next to Philip behind
the desk. She removed a silver flask from her purse, took a swig
and handed it to him.
“Drink?”
“I shouldn’t, ma’am.”
“I promise not to tell, Philip.”
Philip never trusted rich people’s promises. He took the
flask and poured the fluid into his mouth. He raised his two
fingers again.
“V for Vodka!”
The seagull briefly spread its wings across Mrs. Jergensen’s
rouged cheeks. Then the mouth of the flask disappeared beneath
it. As she tipped her head back, Philip watched the liquid slowly
ripple along her stretched throat.
And there they sat, sides touching, for almost half an hour,
Philip listening more than talking, and retreating further into
his chair…each time she leaned over to flip a page, each
time she rested her hand on his leg, each time she put the flask
to his lips.
“You are from Mars, you know, Philip,” Mrs. Jergensen
announced as she slipped the empty metal container back into
its Prada cave.
“What?”
“And I’m from Venus. You know that book? Men
are from Mars, Women are from Venus.”
She raised her two fingers.
“Veeeee” she sang, “for Veeeenus”. Her
lips finished the word in a suspended pucker aimed at his.
Philip had never heard of the book. Though he knew he was from
Mars. And he knew Mrs. Jergensen would surely have him fired
when the vodka wore off.
“Maybe you should go upstairs now, Mrs. Jergensen.”
“Maybe we should go upstairs now, Philip.”
“Oh I’d love to ma’am, but I shouldn’t
leave my post.”
“Philip, who’s going to know? I think you should
come up with me, right now.” It didn’t sound like
a thought to Philip…it sounded like an order. “We
all have building keys and nobody is going to need a doorman
to open the damn door in the middle of the friggin’ night.
It’s Valentines Day, Philip, for chrissake. There’s
a reason nobody has come through this lobby since I arrived.
At this moment, everyone in Manhattan is indoors, in bed, with
someone else. Everyone, that is, except you and me. Come on Philip…I
won’t tell.”
He knew she wouldn’t tell. And he knew she’d find
a way to fire him come Monday. But he knew he wanted to explore
her buoyant lips and the smooth, elastic surface of her skin
and the folds of her…
He held up his two spread fingers again.
“V… for ‘Verrry Drunk’, Mrs. Jergensen.”
“Philip, do you know what it is I like most about this ‘V’ sign
you keep making with your hand,” she said, lightly stroking
downward along the shaft of his fingers with two polished red
fingernails. “I like right here… where your two fingers
meet. They’re so different up there at the fingertips…see,
this one extends longer and that one has a chipped nail. And
they are so far apart. But down here, at the hand, right here,
they are connected. They are one.”
Mrs. Jergensen leaned over and the red seagull landed on Philip’s
upper lip. He froze as it settled there, nesting. Then her tongue
pushed through his partially parted lips and connected with his.
He pulled away.
“Someone will see us, Mrs. Jergensen.”
“Come upstairs.”
“You promise not to tell?”
“Of course, Philip.”
His mind raced.
“Well, ma’am, I guess we could say to people you
called me up to fix somethin’ in your apartment…in
case they ask where I was.” Philip took in a deep breath
and felt his blood charge. He had no choice. “Ok, Mrs.
Jergensen, you go up separately. I’ll close up the station
and join you. Yeah, we’ll pretend like you called me upstairs.”
“Yes. 16B Philip.”
“I know where you live, Mrs. Jergensen.”
“Come right away, Philip.” She grabbed her fur as
he pushed the elevator button for her. She stepped in and called
out to him as she waited for the slow, creaky door to close, “Philip,
at least here on Earth, Spirit and Opportunity can meet.”
Philip nodded as the door shut. He scrambled to his station,
closed the Mars book and placed it in the top drawer of the desk.
In the bottom drawer, he found a hammer. He slid its handle into
his pant pocket, locked the drawers, put out the “BE BACK
SOON” placard and pressed the elevator button.
When the door opened, he stepped inside, hit floor sixteen and,
as he waited for the lingering old door to close, he stared at
his image in the mirrored wall across from him. He lifted his
right hand once again and blocked the reflection of his eyeballs
with his two spread fingertips.
Exactly two years since those fingers had touched the flesh
of a woman. Two years since those fingers had dissolved four
teaspoons of sugar (and a few sleeping pills just to make sure)
in the extra dry champagne that he had handed to the Missus.
Two years since those fingers had removed the nightgown from
her collapsed body and explored her soft, inexplicably wet, privates
for the first time since Miami. Two years since he had lay himself
on top of her, there on the bedroom floor, and engulfed himself
in her submissive mountain of flesh, sliding back and forth inside
of her. Two years since that unforgettable moment of euphoria…of
release…of conquest, when his seed had rocketed deep into
the once overpowering Jupiter, now sprawled out so wonderfully
helpless.
Philip lowered his hand and rested his two fingers on the hammerhead
sticking out of his trouser pocket. He stared ahead at the reflection
of his eyes, reddened and shiny. It’s Valentine’s
Day on Mars.
The elevator door closed. He lifted off.
[END]
© 2005 James Dubey - Contributor's
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