I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles
And when I come to her that's where I belong
Yet I'm running to her like a river's song[1]

Rita’s Pool

Rita and I had spoken on the phone earlier that day, and she told me to bring my bathing suit, and we'd go for a swim in her pool. It was still unclear to me about Harley's remark, from days earlier, about Phil Paderas telling him "the pool was off limits." But I was curious, and Harley would never know.  Don't get me wrong, despite my years in the porn business (and the dead Miss Thebolt) I'd like to believe I'm an honorable person, or at the least, I was an honorable boy. At the time I believed in love at first sight, marriage was forever, and you don't screw around with someone else's girlfriend—especially if he was older, bigger, and could kick your ass.  But, she asked me to come by.  All I did was call to say hello, and she said, "Why don't you come over and go swimming?" 

Now a kid, that was born in Texas and moved around most of his young life, had never really experienced a pool—at least a private one.  Hell, I had only seen the ocean for the first time a few months earlier and now I had the opportunity to go to a pool, in the backyard of an elegant house, in an affluent neighborhood with a sweet, beautiful, sexy, gorgeous fifteen year old girl who had held my leg in a three-wheeled Westcoaster just two days earlier.  I would have had to been crazy to turn down this opportunity.  Her boyfriend Phil was out of town, Harley would never hear a word out of my mouth, and it was just a swim in the pool, I thought as I walked towards her home.

I arrived at the entrance to Rita's street about one in the afternoon. And as I turned the corner of Federal Avenue and Palm Court, I looked down the road realizing I had never seen the street; having only driven it previously in the enclosed confines of the cab of Harley's mail-cart two days earlier, when we picked Rita up to go to the beach. Rita's house sat at the end of Palm Court; a street some people might call a cul-de-sac, but at that age we called a dead-end.

I looked towards the end of the street, which was encased by over-hanging branches that grew from massive Banyan trees lining the road. Light filtered down through tree limbs that had woven together over the black tar pavement creating a ceiling of light blue-green foliage and forming a living tunnel surrounding the street. The day was hot, but here in the shade, it was cool and damp. At the end, I could see a glowing circle of light surrounded by the entangled branches and vines.

As I began to walk I heard the sound of crunching and cracking coming from underneath my shoes. A bittersweet fragrance arose from the road and I looked down to see hundreds of small, yellowish-green, and blackened rotting berries that had fallen from overhead.

Around me, the Banyan trees were large. Their limbs long like giant withering gray snakes and hanging below them black entangled hair-like roots stretched to the ground. The base of the trees had spread throughout the pavement where the banyan's roots had lifted up small sections of the road and sidewalk to rip huge cracks in the black asphalt. I felt apprehension, walking through this humid cavernous like tunnel while passing through beams of sunlight flaring down from the canopy of green and browning leaves above my head. Should I being doing this? I asked myself. Will I get caught? Will Harley kick my ass, and then Phil Paderas do the same when he returns? My mind continued to question as I passed the many Banyan's serpent-like roots that had strangled other trees into a deadened state.

Crunch.  Crunch.  Each step, closer to Rita's, I crushed more of the Banyan tree's fruit beneath my feet; and as I walked along crunching my way down Palm Court, I couldn't help but also noticing the houses were getting bigger and the cars more expensive.  It started with Chevy's and then there was a Saab or a Volvo; and a BMW and then a Mercedes or two.  A Porsche.  Crunch!  Crunch!  And then silence.  I had finally made it through the damp blue-green shadows of the massive Banyans and its floor of rotting berries, and there was Rita's home appearing bigger and more grandiose than my first visit just two days earlier.

I stood at Rita's door: hesitant, nervous, uncertain. This was a big house for me.  I had lived in and out of many houses and apartments growing up, but never a house like this.  Had it just been painted, I thought.  There are no handprints on the door.  It had a doormat, bordered in blue and green with a large printed WELCOME sitting under two pink flamingoes and a palm tree.  I wiped the berries from my shoes. 

A blue Monte Carlo sat along a hedge at the far end of the driveway.  I stood for a moment wondering who was its driver.  I turned back to the house.  I grabbed my crotch.  Just checking.  No boner.  Bathing suit on underneath my jeans. Good. Does the doorbell work? I questioned for a moment. Most of the places I had lived in the doorbell never worked.  Wow, I thought, no fingerprints here either.  Does anyone come to visit?  Maybe I'm supposed to knock.  Hmm, should I knock or ring the bell, I questioned.  Ah, hell, my posture straightened, my confidence heightened—I was invited here.  Either way, I am a guest. I pushed the doorbell. 

Now it didn't make one of those long steady ringing sounds I had been used to hearing.  Dinggg, donnggg, dongggg, dingggg, it chimed.  That was cool, I thought.  I immediately pushed it again. Dinggg, donnggg, dongggg, dingggg.  I heard a gate open from the direction of the Monte Carlo.  From the corner of the house came Lance Penderman.  I didn't know him, but I knew of him.  He didn't notice me at the door until he was at the Monte Carlo.  I pushed the doorbell again—twice—while Lance was getting into his car. Dinggg, donnggg dongggg dinnggg, dinggg, donggg, donngggg, dingggg . . . I went to push it again and the door flew open.  A black woman wearing a white maid's uniform, holding a white clothe in one hand, and a bottle of glass cleaner in the other, stood there looking at me.

"Are you retarded?" she spat.

My hand hung frozen above the doorbell.

"I'll break it," she said, "I swear to baby Jesus I'll break your fuckin' hand you touch it one more time."

Holy shit, I thought. I’d never heard a woman curse like that before.

"Uh, is Rita here?" I asked nervously.

We both turned to hear Lance's Monte Carlo backing from the driveway. I turned back to the maid.  She was staring at me.

"Um, Rita Tobinskey. I think she lives here." I stuttered.

She looked down at my feet.  The ficus berries' juices spread between the W and the C on the WELCOME and the branches of the coconut tree.

"That way." She pointed at the same gate Lance had exited.

"Thank you, mam." I said. 

No reply, just a stare.

As I headed toward the corner of the house I heard, "Damn!" from the maid. I looked back to see her cleaning the doorbell and could hear it chiming through the Rita's home. 

As I was entering a white gate at the side of the house, the smell of nine flags cologne hit me—probably Lance's, I considered.  I recognized it immediately. It was my father's favorite.  He had bottles of it from Christmas gifts over the years, and over the last year I had begun using it on special occasions.  Lance must have showered in it that day to have it still be lingering as I passed through the gate. My hyperosmia has always prompted an interest in smells, or aromas if you wish.  I'll stop in a store just to smell crayons and play-dough, it always reminds me of first grade.  The smell of chalk often reminds me, of Mr. Martin, a caring teacher I once had, and the musty smell of mothballs always reminds of a grandfather I once met, as well as a joke Harley once told me. I even made an experimental film in Smell-O-Rama. It wasn't a hit, but damn sure initiated some unexpected body functions.

While walking along the side of Rita's house, I was also overwhelmed by the smell of jasmine.  An eight-foot wooden fence, paralleling the side of Rita's home, was blanketed in the small star-shaped flower and its green leafy vine. There is probably no better fragrance than the scent of jasmine. Later in life I would discover some countries worship its flower or use it in wedding ceremonies, as well cosmetics and perfume for its sedative properties. There are also some who believe it is an aphrodisiac.

But right now, the overwhelming aroma, of the plant, was intoxicating my thoughts. The smell sent my mind into an unsettling stir of questions: Why was Lance Penderman walking this same path just five minutes earlier? Am I just one of the many Rita has called to her pool of—perhaps—ecstasy?  Am I a pawn in a game being used to make the absent Phil Paderas jealous? Maybe there were more victims behind this great white house. Should I just turn around and leave? I felt anxious. My stomach tightened.  Was the intoxicating smell of jasmine making me ill?  Was I allergic? My mind raced.  I came to a pool pump, sitting at the end of the path as its motor was kicking in.  It clanked and then a buzz. And as I approach it I began to smell chlorine.  Chlorine is also a beautiful smell. It was settling. It now reminds me of traveling and swank hotels, and luxurious pools . . . and of course Rita.  Its smell snapped me back to reality.

I came around the corner to find a gigantic rectangular pool sunken deep into a turquoise chasm of water. It was surrounded by a pink coral-stoned patio decorated with furniture strapped in yellow and white vinyl that meticulously matched the house's outside trim and walls. 

To my left areca palms encased the home up to a set of large glass sliding doors. Purple Bougainvillea surrounded the glass doors then took a sharp right turn along the center of the house where it jetted out towards the backyard.  The bougainvillea, a thorny flowering vine, stood 15 feet high and continued beyond the wall of the house extending out to the Intracoastal like a blossoming castle wall. An opening had been shaped through the towering plant's flower and thorns through a trellis to create a passage to the other side of the yard. To my right—towards the back of this side of the yard—sat a white cabana, with a large canvas canopy of blue and green stripes that hung above a grouping of tables and chairs. Wow! I thought. The cabana was larger than any of the small houses my family had lived in. 

The jasmine fence—to my right—continued down the side of the yard to the far corner of the cabana. Between the cabana and the bougainvillea, was a sea wall where palms and hibiscus had been skillfully planted. Rita was lying at the far side of the pool, face down, sunning.  I walked in her direction. 

The surreal tropical paradise of a yard faded as my focus went to Rita as I approached her.  I noticed her bikini top was untied.  God she's beautiful, I thought:  Her small feet; her legs, thighs and back oily and glistening from suntan lotion, the slight arch in her back her shapely rear. Her eyes were closed and she had that wonderful smile on her face. Maybe she was dreaming. Of me, I thought . . . I hoped. 

I walked towards her and while my attention was on her, my foot slammed into a lounge chair kicking it a few feet.

"Ah, shoot." I stumbled.

Rita quickly turned while catching her top as she spun around.  One of her breast had missed its destination for a moment. 

Oh, man, I thought, I just got a glimpse of her tit.  It was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen—in real life—in my entire short life.  I turned away for a moment, not to embarrass her. But it was perhaps me who was embarrassed the most.

She smiled.  "Hey, I'm glad you came."

I stood silent for a moment considering what she had said.

"Yeah, the maid sent me around back."

"That's, Nora," she said.

"Oh." I replied

I searched for something cool to say.  What would James Bond do at this moment? He'd have some sweet one liner about her breast not making it home on time.  I was silent.

"Would you like a coke?" she asked.

Shaken not stirred, I thought.

"Yes." I replied.

As she was getting up, she questioned, "Did you bring your bathing suit?"

"Under my jeans." I said.

"Then why don't you take off your pants?" she smiled, and then giggled.

"Uh, yeah, right." I replied

She walked to the mini house at the back of the yard.

I removed my shirt and jeans, checking again to see if I was bulging in any way, and sat down.  I noticed four twenty-dollar bills sitting under some Coppertone tanning lotion on a small table near where Rita had been laying. I looked up to the sliding glass doors at the back of the house, maybe expecting the maid Nora to be peering out, but all the vertical shades were closed.  I glanced through the opening of the bougainvillea wall and could see finely cut green grass where a putting green sat just beyond the trellis opening.

I heard music and noticed it was coming from the nearby rocks at the edge of the patio in a small garden.  The deep, bass voice of black man sang:

I've heard people say that Too much of anything is not good for you, baby...Oh no

But I don't know about that There's many times that we've loved,

We've shared love and made love It doesn't seem to me like it's enough,

There's just not enough of it,

There's just not enough

Oh oh, babe

Rita returned.  She handed me a Pepsi, and a towel.

She swayed slowly to the sultry rhythm of the music.

"I love Barry White." She continued to sway. "He really turns me on." She said, and then for a split moment that seemed like eternity, she gave me "the look."

I've come to recognize that look.  It's a hungry look. It's also an inviting look. It says you're okay and I want you.  I want you to take care of my hunger. But at thirteen years old I was still trying to figure out that look, and I wasn't exactly sure how to feed the hunger. If I read it wrong and moved to fast, she may think I'm a rapist, although I wasn't even sure what that move might be.  This beautiful girl swaying in the sunlight was perhaps only one and a half, to two years older than me, but she might as well have been ten years older. And I may have looked perhaps her age and my birth certificate said I was thirteen, but as for my experience with women, it was only that of Olivia de Havilland, Deborah Kerr, Ursula Andress or any other beautiful actress I had seen while watching movies. And at this moment in time those women seemed completely distant and unreal. Rita did say the music turned her on. This may be magnified by the absence of Phil, her so-called boyfriend in Europe. I noticed Phil's I.D. bracelet was absent from her wrist as well. She began to sing and I thought quite well, but I wasn't in the right frame of mind to recognize good resonance. 

Do whatch you got to do

Darling, I, can't get enough of your love babe,

Girl, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why

I can't get enough of your love babe

Oh no, babe

I knew I had to do something; something cool; something that might set me off from the rest.  But, what?  Dance?  My dancing experience was limited to the twist and that only at home with the help of a towel wrapped around my hips.  Not cool, I thought. Sing?  I didn't know the words, I didn't know how to sing, and would probably look like an idiot.  I chugged my Pepsi quickly in one gulp, stood up, and walked to the edge of the pool and jumped in.  In retrospect I should have done something cool like a jack knife, or something I may have seen while watching the Olympics—if possible in slow motion—but instead I did the old standby: a cannonball.

Silence came quickly as I sank to the bottom.  I looked around and there was a turtle and a dolphin tiled into the walls of the pool.  I wondered if I had splashed Rita in my exit.  The dolphin stared at me as I sank; the turtle ignored me looking towards the surface.  What will Rita think when I come up?  Will she think I'm a coward for not making a move?  Will she think me un-cool? I felt a ball of gas enter my chest spawned by the inhaled Pepsi. I released a large silent burp and a massive bubble of air escaped from my mouth.  I watched it quickly rise to the top of the water.  The turtle appeared to be eyeing it, and I thought, how cool was that. 

I pumped my gut for another.  Burrrraaaauuurp.  I sent a bigger bubble with other smaller bubbles clinging to its side.  The dolphin appeared to express displeasure at my little game.  I was running low on air, maybe one more before I surfaced, I again summoned my gut for another.  I thought I heard something: a splash perhaps, I turned and there was Rita swimming towards me.  The bundle of gas I had coaxed from my stomach was now stuck in my lower intestines and it felt as if it was going to make a rear exit.  Oh, Christ! I thought, here comes the most beautiful creature in the world swimming towards me and the downed Pepsi was about to blow out of my ass and propel me out of this pool like a Poseidon missile from a nuclear submarine.  She swam up . . . smiled . . . kissed my cheek . . . and swam away.

I released the gas.  It was calming.  As I swam upwards, the turtle appeared to be smiling.  I looked over at the dolphin, just before I surfaced, and I thought he gave me a wink.

---

[1]  written byVan Morrison performed by Van Morrison