Bernard Boyce Bennington & The American Dream Read Online Free Page B

patronizing proprietors.”
    And so it was, Bernard Boyce Bennington explained, on a cloudy and cold October day, with the leaves in Central Park blowing across the street in crinkly brown flurries, that he hit upon the idea of checking the ‘want ads’.
    “I sounds a lot easier than it really is,” he tells them. “Most of what was available fell either into the outré style of the Village Voice, which failed to deliver any solutions, apart from providing lurid photographs of ‘college girls just minutes away’, ‘outcall Asian bodywork’ and ‘hot and horny local girls’—most of whose names seemed to be Cherri or Jade or even Strawberry, and all of whom ensured complete satisfaction and discreet billing…not to mention ‘All Major CC’s, ATM & Debit Cards Accepted’—in amidst the usual three- or four-line enigmas such as ‘Bottom in need of Top’ and ‘Romantic SBF Seeks Big Dipper’…or the traditional of New York magazine, whose ‘Strictly Personals’ section offered ‘matchmaking’ and ‘marriage’ in amongst advertisements placed, purportedly, by ‘professionals’, a select band with which I did not, in all honesty, believe I had much if anything in common.
    “In a moment of rare desperation, I even called up an ad which promised ‘A Hot Line To My Wildest Dreams’ only to find that the sultry voiced girl—who actually sounded as though she was expiring-”
    “Expiring?” says Jim. “You mean, like…sweating? How can you sound like you’re-”
    “That’s pers piring,” Edgar points out.
    Jim grunts something by way of an apology and visibly shrinks on his stool.
    “Anyway, this girl,” the man continues, “offered only Tarot readings, phrenology sessions, numerology classes, palm-reading and my future as prophesied by the stars…and, as I assumed Michael Keaton—my favorite actor, by the way, since Tim Burton’s Batman movies—didn’t know me from Adam or Zachary, that had to be something to do with astrology.”
    Bernard Boyce Bennington drained his glass and, with a quick salute to Jack, poured the new bottle.
    “Then came the big break, a small ad in the New York Press ’s ‘variations’ section.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a folded piece of newspaper, its print smudged in places and the folds starting to tear. He held it out to Jack. “Here, read it yourself.”
    Jack took the paper and unfolded it, holding it so Jim and Edgar and McCoy could lean over and read it at the same time. The paper read:

    Single White Succubus Seeks Soulmate
    Tired of the same old humdrum?
    Is one day just like the next and
    the one before it? Do you see less in front
    of you than what’s gone before? Take a break
    and enjoy a relationship you will never forget
    But be warned:
    once you’ve decided, there’s no turning back.

    The ad finishes with a cellphone number.
    “What’s a sucker-bus?” Jim Leafman asks.
    “A Greyhound headed for Las Vegas,” says Jack, who has never held with gambling.
    “A succubus is a female demon,” Bernard Boyce Bennington answers. “Legend has it that they have sex with sleeping men…and,” he adds, “they steal their souls.”
    Jim Leafman sits up from the bar, wondering if it’s his imagination or has it suddenly gotten cold in the last couple of minutes. “She the woman you’re looking for?”
    The man nods and takes a drink of beer.
    “Couldn’t you just call her?” McCoy says.
    The newcomer shakes his head. “I tried that, many times since. Just get a solid tone. But the first time, I got straight through,” he says, setting his glass back on the bar. “It was a little before 2 am on a particularly black night during which the wind buffeted my apartment windows and rattled the glass in the casements. A woman’s voice answers—in the background I could hear soft music, and glasses clinking and muted conversation—and, so help me, she says my name. ‘Good evening Mister Bennington,’ she