I stopped in Arkansas after leaving New York City and my married life of 22 years. Little did I know the course my life was about to take… Meet Pepper: She likes poetry, Eric Clapton, Furry handcuffs and Hot Candle Wax. Novella #1 here.
My waitress wore an oval name tag on her uniform dress on which the name “Pepper” was stamped in black letters. She appeared to be around 28 years old and bore no ring on her left hand. Her hair was long, fine, brownish and was held back in a loose pony tail by a scrunchy. This gave her an innocent, yet devious look as she smiled and lowered her eyes shortly after mine met hers. As I’d said I have been practiced holding my gaze on the hardened population of New York City women for years. It’s a powerful thing to hold a gaze with a woman until she looks away. It is especially powerful when coupled with a slight smile and if she decides to break contact in a downward motion. A sign of submission; I like that.
Her uniform was traditional white with red fringe, a one piece waitress dress stamped out in some Chinese sweat shop. It appeared to be about half a size small on her and was stretched tightly around her waist and chest forcing her perfectly formed smallish breasts upward to the point of conservative teasing at the neck V which was held in place by a single large and straining white ornamental button. The thick polyester material molded around her just tightly enough to give me an idea of her true frame which was hidden beneath, which was surly firm and spectacular. I felt the unfamiliar sensation of testosterone as it began surging through my body. Before I had signed the divorce papers I had always managed to keep it in check. Now the willpower to do so was no longer needed and I squashed it immediately and with a definite finality.
I began to let nature take its course unchecked. There was no need for restraint anymore. No feeling of guilt. I had removed the governor from my mind’s carburetor. My body was no longer a U-haul van loping down the highway at a prescribed speed limit, it was an iRoc Z and I felt the need to drop the hammer.
Sometimes you have to say: “What the fuck?” “What the fuck” gives you freedom…”
Oh God, it’s that little turd from Risky Business, Booger. No wait, that was Revenge of the Nerds. In Risky Business his name was Miles.
It had been years since Miles had made an appearance. Parts of my brain, and body were awakening from a long winter’s hibernation. A sudden surge of adrenaline flooded my body as I turned to face Pepper at the booth.
You better go easy on that…
Shut up, Oprah.
Time had come to repeat the experiment once more, only this time all the safety equipment was to be removed, no goggles, no gloves, and no thick white lab coat. I was in new territory and I felt a little nervous, unsure of the outcome in a new set of theoretical steps I was to be taking. Reading about all of this for years was one thing, but applying these theories in a practical setting to their intended conclusion was another. But hey, if Theodor Kaluza could teach himself to swim by reading about it this should be a snap for me.
When she reached out to hand me the menu I took it from her intentionally brushing my index finger ever so slightly against inside of her wrist, where the skin was thin with a high concentration of nerve endings. Striking like a stealthy Ninja, she shuttered, then blushed. It was the sign I was looking for.
You see there’s a myth to these Italian and Spanish model types that had invaded Manhattan. They were revered as being some sort of mystical Adonis types, thought have some sort of magic because of their accents, dark hair, and complexions. Rubbish. They have no mysterious magical powers, no greater kung fu. The simple fact is that their culture allows touching in public and ours does not. Basically, they just don’t know any better and call it swank; or is that swag?. I get the two confused. I mean seriously, most of them aren’t even smart enough to figure out what it is that they have.
Touching is exotic, exciting and a sort of cultural taboo that really works to one’s favor here in America, England too so I am told – if executed properly. The key is light feathery contact – less than 2 seconds on the first go. Now for the follow up, make eye contact… speak directly to her left eye, bypass the logical side of her mind on the right, use the pipeline directly to her emotions.
“Wow Pepper, you have really pretty eyes.”
Now I should note: In order for any of this to work you have to be sincere. You simply can’t say one thing and mean another. There’s nothing mystical or magical about it. When you truly believe something and verbalize it the message comes across in your body language that, as I’ve said, women are innately tuned in to. Eighty percent of human communication is done through body language and thus directly to the subconscious, bypassing reason. Pepper truly did have amazingly beautiful light blue eyes, and I projected the shit out of this to her very core, by momentary making them the center of my universe.
She blushed once more and half closed those beautiful blue eyes, smiled and I held eye contact until she looked shyly down at the table, and smiled.
She responded with a quiet and shy: “Thank you.”
Dude, You nailed it!
I can now sit down in the booth.
“Can… can I get you something to drink?”
“I’d like some coffee please.”
Though it was after nine local time it was often a habit of mine to drink one cup of coffee before bed. For some odd reason it seemed to help me sleep better.
Pepper awkwardly spun around and hurried off to the waitress station with a giddy schoolgirl smile on her lips. I enjoyed watching her leave. The waitress uniform really did this view justice. She was tall and thin, well not so much thin as she was athletic. She had a spring in her step that caused her loosely tied long brown hair to flounce about her shoulders in a very attractive way. I’m guessing that she had been a cheerleader. I imagined her shoulder blades naked. For me the sexiest part of a woman is the upper back and lower neck. I’d studied female shoulder blades, upper back, and nape of the neck at length in my reading. In my head I was quite familiar with the correct pressure points and erogenous zones.
I cleared my head by setting up my laptop. It was time I joined the real world by turning my cell phone back on. In my computer bag I also carried a copy of the latest Sage Johnstone novel, Wolf Pup that I placed on the table next to the glass of ice water that had been served by Pepper upon my arrival at this booth. The glass was now profusely sweating in the Arkansas humidity and a ring of clear purified water was pooling around its base. I took a sip and the water tasted oddly strange, different than Brooklyn water.
Turning on one’s phone in this day and age was a snap. All I had to do was log in and enter my new, single person’s credit card number and the 40 dollars for unlimited voice, data, and text would kick in almost immediately. Which would have been great had I remembered to charge the damn thing. I found it to be a friggin’, brick when I retrieved it from my pocket, deader than my sex life had been over the last 18 years.
No matter, I would charge it when I reached my hotel room.
Pepper returned with a tray on which he had balanced a large plastic coffee pot, a cup and saucer, a tiny pitcher of half and half, and a small square porcelain container with assorted packets of sugar and artificial sweeteners. She gingerly set each object down in front of me with great care and poured piping hot black coffee into the coffee cup.
“Have you made your choice?”
“I have…” I paused staring deeply into her sky blue left eye with a slight smile. Once more she blushed and looked down with a slight smile.
You’re really better at this than you think.
Not now, Miles!
“… I’ll have a chicken fried steak with white cream gravy, and french fries. It wouldn’t upset me if a little of gravy spilled over onto the fries.”
After a short delay Pepper began writing on her order pad. She kept eyeing the book.
“I read that book, Wolf Pup. It’s by Sage Johnstone, right?”
You and the other six people this month.
“Why, yes it is.”
I began sipping the coffee Pepper had poured for me.
“I downloaded it on Kindle after I saw it featured in the New York Times indie book review. They gave them four-and-a-half stars… I thought it deserved 5! Oh my God, it was so hot! She’s a genius!”
Immediately the hot coffee I had just sipped bypassed my larynx and dribbled straight into my lungs. I began choking.
OOOOOH! Did she just say the NEW YORK Fuckin’ TIMES!