Charity by Donald Vogel
Rob’s wife conveniently discovered irreconcilable differences after they won the lottery. Then this was what he learned: 20 years of “yours, mine and ours” were really hers. What he got from the windfall bought solitude without solace.
Books and the occasional hooker helped to assuage body and mind. Rob even tried bonsai and tai chi to decelerate his demise. But still an urge for community kept rearing its ugly head.
On the advice of his lawyer, Rob had attempted to shelter his share of the winnings in a foundation. It provided tax relief but forced him out among people. He was now on his way to visit the natural history museum to present a grant check for a program he supported.
He flinched at the light when his train emerged from the tunnel into Penn Station. The museum was uptown about thirty blocks, requiring a crowded local subway ride. Since the sun had begun to break from the clouds, and he was an hour early for his visit, he decided to walk.
"g-string and stockings" photo by Flickr user ricky.slide
“Hell,” he thought, “there might even be time for a lap dance.”
G-String, an all nude, alcohol-free place, was just a few blocks removed from the Disneyfied streets. Rob headed for the refuge of 8th Avenue, grateful that the true black heart of the city remained.
He staggered when he first entered the dark club and listened for what should have been the sweet sound of a woman collecting cover charges. Instead, he was greeted by a hulking bouncer who materialized before him.
“$10 cover, $8 minimum,” he growled, reaching with a Lego limb.
Rob paid and bought an $8 fruit juice.
He entered a long dance room with one naked figure on stage gyrating indifferently. She was sentinel to three other girls of different shapes and colors grinding feckless patrons into submission on cushioned benches around the perimeter. One girl winked as he lurched toward the stage-bound sovereign who came down to tempt him with carnal delights: $30 lap dance, $60 manager’s special, or $195 for 20 minutes in the back room. She had shit-stain eyes, medium tits, and an ass that would enter a room five minutes after she did.
Rob selected the most expensive sin when she finished her stage dance.
“I’ll be back in few, hon,” she said, taking his money. On her way to the ladies room, she stopped by the DJ booth, exchanged a few words, split the money with the bar manager, and disappeared. Rob figured her intermission meant squirts and snorts to freshen up.
When she returned she grabbed Rob by the hand and walked him to a set of saloon style doors in the back.
“What’s your name?”
“John.”
“I’m Desiree. Nice to meet ya.”
He started to get hard watching her ample ass, which wasn’t good. Rob used to rely on alcohol places to prevent early emission. He was relieved to be wearing an extra long t-shirt to cover any mistakes sobriety might infringe below.
The back room was a cubicle about five feet wide and seven feet deep where the swinging saloon doors, about half the height of the doorway, kept things comfortable but legal. Mirrors served narcissist and voyeur alike.
Desiree sat Rob down and got to work. As her hips began to pivot to the blaring techno-pop, she exclaimed, “Don’t you smile?”
“I do, on the inside,” he responded.
Rob wondered if she was going to gyrate on him until he came, because flaccid meant placid. She mostly slithered along his body.
After a few minutes of enticements, Desiree dropped to her knees and began rubbing his member between her tits which weren’t big enough. As she looked at him and smiled, he thought she looked like a cousin of his, one of his first teen experiments. Rob remembered smoking a lot of dope, fumbling in the cold dark of her Maverick and erupting before insertion. The memory still gave him a chubby.
A slow song came on and Desiree turned around to work him with her ass. In addition to the pleasure of her cheeks, she bent over and reached under in a way that the bar manager would not see with the security camera. Rob flexed everything to keep his swimmers at bay.
He was able to maintain until the song ended and Desiree stood long enough for him to recuperate. She then mounted him and kissed his forehead gently.
“Now for the grand finale.”
As she pressed, his fly got caught between them, nearly flaying his dick. She mistook his attempts to shift positions as reciprocation and began to press harder. This battle between good and evil went on for several seconds.
“Mmmphf!”
“Uh-huh!”
“Rrrrrrrgh!”
“Ooooh, yeah.”
“Nnnnnnooooo!”
Then the red light flashed, the bouncer knocked, and Joe-Joe squirt.
Rob grimaced at the spot on his jeans. He stood quickly, pulled his shirt over the mark of discontent, and stormed out.
He flagged a cab from out in the glare and told the driver to hurry. The ride would take 15 minutes in traffic and he would have to navigate the labyrinthine halls of the museum when he got there.
Postings for the presentation at the museum lead him to the hall of chemistry and biology. The event was comprised of ten tables manned by geek spawn and their parents overseeing projects of various contraptions and displays. One involved the environment; another was called “chemical dynamics.” A sign at the front of the hall said scholarships would be given to the best.
The donors group had already begun its tour, stopping to ask questions, interacting with the youngsters, and playing with hands-on activities. They formed a sea of blue hair.
"nanobamas" photo by Flickr user oceandesetoiles
Rob stopped at the back of the group and listened to them fawn over a black kid’s butterfly project. He couldn’t see what the fuss was about and walked across the room to a lone girl in dirty sneakers and worn jeans. Her presentation consisted of only a few graphs and charts entitled “Nanocomposites as viscosity modifiers of polymer thin films.”
Rob made like he understood the squiggly lines.
“This is interesting,” he blurted.
The girl seemed surprised, “It has to do with coatings and processes used in nanotechnology.”
“Nano-what?”
“The field of super-small devices. My project explores coatings for use on tiny robots.”
“And why would we need tiny robots?”
She sighed. “They can be injected into the body to attack diseases like cancer. We need coatings to shield nano-devices from the body’s immune system.”
“How’s that work?”
“Unfortunately it can only be duplicated in a lab environment, but you can see my results are quite conclusive.” She glanced across the room at the visitors still at the black kid’s table.
“Do you know him?”
She nodded.
“I wonder what’s so interesting about butterflies.”
“They’re colorful,” she uttered.
Rob looked at the sycophantic geriatrics and then back at her. As he did, he noticed the semen induced Cyclops had begun to open his dark eye through his shirt. He skirted back over to the group.
“That’s a Eurytides Marcellus,” he heard the kid say to one old woman who held the corpse of something with black stripes on wings with long tails.
“Oooh, how pretty it is.”
“Yes. It-breeds-in-moist-woodlands-or-near-swamps-and-rivers.” The kid read from his hand while some heads nodded approval. His suited parents stood smiling on either side of him.
“Um, excuse me,” Rob said raising his hand. Eyes went up and down in the faces that looked his way. He wanted to flash them Popeye down below.
The project director intervened, “Sir, do you have a question for our young presenter?”
“Uh, yes, yes I do.”
“And may I ask who you are?” the director queried, looking for his name tag.
“I’m Rob Taylor with the I. Kant Foundation. You know, the one with the categorical imperative.” Blank stares all around.
He should have said cunt instead.
“You should know my name from the grant checks I sign.”
The director softened his tone. “But is your question project related?”
“Yeah, it’s simple actually… what does this mean?”
“Um, in what sense?” the director countered. Rob thought he caught a wide-eyed, downward stare within the group.
“I mean, why should I care? They’re just butterflies.”
The black kid’s parents shifted closer to their son. The mother of this invention put her arm around him and looked at the director.
“Well, can’t you see? Jimmy has meticulously collected, preserved and researched a variety of species, listing their habitats and life cycles just like an entomologist. It took a tremendous amount of research.”
“Actually, I could have sworn I swatted one of those things in my backyard this morning. If that’s what you call collection. And the rest of that stuff sounds like something from an encyclopedia.”
“Sir, that’s not particularly in line with the spirit of this project or presentation.”
“Okay. So what’s the ‘spirit’ of this event then?”
The group began to mumble.
“It’s to encourage youngsters to engage in scientific inquiry and present their findings as real scientists would.”
“Right. So what’s been done here, besides naming the known?”
“These youngsters have done some impressive work and they need our support. Please take your sarcasm elsewhere.” The director looked over at a guy in a suit by the doors to the hall who stirred but didn’t move.
“Fine.” Rob looked at the crowd. He pulled out his grant check, held it up for everyone to see, and tore it to bits. He then proceeded over to Miss Nanotech.
“Hey, what’s the top prize for winning this thing?” he asked.
“Uh, a $10,000 scholarship. Why?” the girl asked, taking a slight step back.
The usher began making his way over when Rob reached into his pocket.
“I can do better,” he said, extracting his checkbook from the pocket near his spot of displeasure. He wrote quickly, tore out the check, and tossed it on the table just before the usher grabbed his arm.
“Be good,” he said as he was removed from the exhibit hall.
The usher escorted him to the nearest subway, which took them through the museum’s hall of the universe. Around and above were models of stars and planets among videos of the Big Bang. Rob smiled to himself before his descent.
–
Donald Vogel received his undergraduate degree in creative writing and literature from Houghton College in 1989, his MA in English from Stony Brook University in 2005, and attended the 2008 Southampton Writer’s Conference, where he took a class in short story writing with Amy Hempel. He is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Adelphi University where he also works in fundraising and alumni relations. He has been published by Wising Up Press and Lanthorn and will have an article appear in a magazine called Classical Fighting Arts. For the past 20 yearst, he has been practicing several different Asian martial arts. He is also currently working on his first novel.
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