Free The Natural Order of Things by Kevin P. Keating Page B

voices.
    But things never work out this way, certainly not in suburbia where all eroticism is crushed to a fine powder and scattered in the wind like ashes from a funeral pyre, the burnt offerings of impetuous youth, and any lingering impetuosity in a man de Vere’s age is regarded as perversion, plain and simple. Unusual delights, if they are to be found at all, must come from these midnight hunts through the streets of a post-industrial wasteland. This haunt of sweet sin does not discriminate: here every man is welcome, and sex remains a constant fount of miracles. Although he is somewhat familiar with the terrain and can still recall the forsaken avenues and narrow brick lanes from his days at the Jesuit high school, he is keenly aware of the dangers all around.
III
    After circling a particularly dismal block for the third time—three, that charming number—de Vere glimpses a pack of stray dogs trotting through the tempered light, wretched curs bred in brutal haste in slimy culverts and under the skeleton tracks of a rotting train trestle. In their tireless quest for food, they topple a trashcan outside an apartment building, the vaguely familiar Zanzibar Towers & Gardens, and fight over a hunk of putrid meat, a sheet of greasy wax paper smeared with red juices, a container of cookies, a headless doll. Snarling their disapproval, the brindled mongrels watch the cab roll by. De Vere feels a close connection to these animals, admires the purity of their instincts. Nature has conferred upon them some special power for reading the minds of men. He wonders if they can sniff out the stench of desperation that drips from his pores and clings to his shirt, his cashmere sweater, his indispensable silk boxers.
    “Mongrels …” the driver mutters, swerving to avoid the beer cans that clatter into the street.
    Something catches de Vere’s eye. With a tantalizing mixture of eagerness and dread, he sits up, adjusts his collar and sleeves, glides a practiced finger across his professionally whitened teeth. “Stop the cab,” he orders.
    “But, sir, there are troublemakers about.”
    “I said stop the cab!”
    “Very well.”
    De Vere rolls down the window, clears his throat, and boldly addresses the woman who has just emerged from the apartment building. “Excuse me, miss!”
    Through the partition, the driver whispers, “Sir, she is chattel, a loathsome thing. Vile.”
    “Miss, a moment of your time.”
    “I beg of you, sir, I cannot possibly …”
    With an almost regal bearing, the woman struts across the street in a pair of incredible red boots. A pickup swerves to avoid her. In the bed of the truck several young men shout with malice. “
Puta! Mujerzuela! Almeja!
” Spellbound, de Vere watches her and wonders what has gone wrong in her life, why she doesn’t work in an office building like the rest of the women he knows; it takes next to nothing to sit in a cubicle and pretend to be busy for most of the day. In the business world, one’s appearance means everything, and she can’t very well show up to an important meeting dressed in a purple miniskirt, her cheeks smeared with rouge, her eyes ringed with mascara like warm, wet ash.
    “Hey, sweet thing,” she says, leaning against the cab. “You lookin’ for some company?”
    “As a matter of fact …” Feeling almost amorous, he offers the woman his flask.
    “Oh, that’s some good shit, baby,” she rasps after taking a sip.
    “Remarkable,” says de Vere, stroking the woman’s hand. “A woman who appreciates the green-eyed monster. I think I’m in love.”
    She suppresses a belch. “Green-eyed, one-eyed, it’s all the same to me.”
    “Marvelous! What’s your name, darling?”
    “Name’s Tamar, baby.”
    “How unusual. You’re not busy this evening, are you, Tamar?”
    “Just finished working a big soiree. Right up there.” She points to a window crowded with silhouettes at the Zanzibar Towers & Gardens. “But I’m free now. Well, maybe