The stranger there was, there, to conjugal with Eve. Eve was his favorite.
Something about the stranger was off.
No, that’s not right: everything about the stranger was off.
You didn’t have to cast about or figure out what it was. Strangeness was in your face. Eve hated to say it, because it was trite, but the stranger was strange. The strangeness was in your face which is particularly bad when, forced by your role in life, you’re giving head.
The stranger was off because he couldn’t get off. This was off putting.
Eve wished she could push the stranger off, but she couldn’t.
The stranger’s immunity from rejection and prosecution had to do with the stranger’s name, God given name, Smedley Wickersham.
The Wickershams were Louisiana old school old money old cool Establishment. Of the église officielle. Wickershams didn’t get pushed. Wickershams did the pushing. They were creme de la creme.
You come to a whorehouse to cream, but if you are of the creme de la creme, things get sticky.
It was the Wickershams who lived in the most beautiful “old south” antebellum mansions, not on the main land, where foundations were planted steadily on the stable arable land, but deep in the delta swamps, old cool money going way back, of plantation mansions where nothing was planted, whose mysterious elegant places parked on tiny islands surrounded by spanish moss, and big, big, bald Cypresses, which you could call bayou, or anything you wanted, if you were a Wickersham with beaucoup money.
The Wickershams had more than one way. They had two hands. Where two hands didn’t work, they had their two feet. When they had a mint julep, they harvested the mint, and when they wore crocodile shoes, they harvested crocodile skin, now and then a coon, a squirrel, a catfish, an oyster, fried up using dumpster greases.
The Wickersham Family got rich, dipping their finger into everything.
Sometimes dipping their finger meant drilling. Drilling down, down, down, past the fertile earth to tap, finger tap, great great wealth, lying beneath, the black gold which fertile feeds and fuels the awe-putting.
So Smedley wanted to dip his finger, too.
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