FRIDAY’S GIRL

“On the television, they say they have cameras up there.” Joyce Martin gently gripped my head around the ears and removed my face from her breasts. Her fingers were cold, by comparison, and the crisp air stung my nose and made my eyes water. Fall was around the corner. “What do you think they’d say if they could really see us?”

She giggled and threw her head back, increasing the distance between her canyons and me. She fit the setting perfectly; an emerald green dress giving way to soft, pale skin; the top of her head ablaze with curly, red locks. She was autumn incarnate, and tonight, she was Friday’s girl.

Joyce reclined, staring at the stars, nothing separating us and them with the roof of my slate gray Desoto tucked somewhere behind the backseat. Moonlight fought through the foliage to dance on her skin. I noticed how piercing her eyes were, and looking back, I should have paid better attention to them. “I think they’d say, ‘it’s a beautiful night for a movie.’”

“You are a hoot, Anfield Friday!” she said, sitting forward, struggling to pull the emerald fabric back in place over her bosom. Maybe the thought of the Soviets watching was too much for my once-timid date from Suffolk County. “They must think I’m Jane Russell, then.” She pointed her chin down and stared at me with a pout. I’d have thought it was endearing, if it wasn’t for her left hand battling her right breast into submission. Back and forth, up and down, the war waged on. And she caught me staring.

“Shirley MacLaine, Red,” I said digging for my hat in the backseat. It wouldn’t be in the way, any longer.

“Oh, Anfield, you look far too much like Warren Beatty for that to be reasonable!” Her voice squeaked on cue with reasonable, and Joyce finally popped her breast back into place. Her battle was won, mine was lost, and she leaned back against the leather passenger seat, fully-clothed.

“Well good thing they think they’re watching a movie, then. You’re Shirley MacLaine, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. The movies are all pretend, anyway.”

“Well, there’s been nothing pretend about tonight, Mr. Beatty. You give me butterflies.”

– — –

Shirley MacClaine and Warren Beaty were siblings, but I met Joyce two weekends prior when I was invited to a party in Hiawatown on the Island’s south shore. I joined Harry Cole, the Big Apple’s youngest good-ole-boy, and his lady-friend at her cousin’s “Summer’s End Smash”. Harry lived for the weekends and had a different adventure every time Friday rolled around. “You’re too young to be an old maid,” he’d tell me, a half-chewed cigar clenched between his horse-teeth, his feet propped up next to the lamp on his desk. “It’s a term reserved for the ladies, and there’s been talk of making a special exception for you, Anfield. The boys in the office, here, have been a’talkin’.”

Being honest, the only reason I went was so I did’t have to listen to Harry when he returned to the office on the Tuesday following the long weekend. He’d sit in the center of the group, the top of his cap barely visible among the boys, recounting how a young blonde firecracker was asking about me, but an act of God wouldn’t have coaxed me out of Queens. “It was a real Gatsby-affair,” he’d tell them. “Champagne, girls, a band, and Anfield turned it all down for a night at home with his mother.”

My mother lived in Iowa, but I went anyway. “Fantastic, muffin!” Harry yelled, throwing a fat paw at the center at my chest. “We’ll have a night, and I’ll make sure the boys to take it easy on you from here on out. ”

While it was an hour later than he had promised, Harry pulled up in front of my apartment in Queens, that night, and laid on the horn, hollering about how I’d spent enough time on my face and I was going to make us late. Well, actually, Harry was in the passenger seat and his weekly flame was behind the wheel. After a few pleasantries and “nice to meet yous,” Harry insisted that I ride in the front alongside his girl. “There’s more room back here for me and the Four Roses.”

– — –

I slid the pack of Old Golds from my breast pocket and gave the bottom three quick taps. There were only two left, so I made note to stop at a GasMart on my way back to Queens. “Can I interest you in another, Shirley?”

“Surely!” she chuckled, bouncing around on the seat to face me. “I should have enough perfume for one more.” I gawked, hoping there would be another dust up between foes, but, unfortunately, she settled back into place. A time of peace.

“Pop would murder me if he knew I was smoking.” She reached for the cigarette, and blushed as her manicured fingers faux-clumsily grasped at mine. Joyce put the filter between her pouty reds and pulled her almost-equally-red hair behind her ears as she leaned toward the Zippo. I took advantage of the opportunity and lunged forward, planting a soft kiss square in the middle of her forehead. The way she batted her long lashes made my stomach jump. The wind picked up, and my own Gold teetered in my mouth as I blocked the breeze from the lighter’s flame.

“Well, it’s a shame that your sister isn’t feeling well,” she said. A turn of my wrist sparked the engine of the Adventurer to life. “We could have continued the evening with a nightcap. I would have loved to see your house in the Hamptons. It is too bad that she traveled so far, and can’t even enjoy her time here.” The Adventurer rumbled off the dirt path, emerged from the small group of trees, and we were on our way.

“You know,” she continued, “The newscasters say it’s all of that recycled air in those plane cabins. If there’s someone with a bug, you’re good as dead! Anywhere in the plane, even. You don’t have to be close to them!”

The people on the Island must turn in early, I thought, because there were no other cars on the road. We were back in Joyce’s neighborhood in what seemed like no time. “Drive past the house, and stop at the corner, if you don’t mind. Pop might still be up.” She rustled around in her giant purse, one Pop undoubtedly paid for, and pulled out a small crystal bottle filled with her smell. After two quick spritzes on her neck, she playfully sprayed my shoulder. “I can’t have you forgetting about me with your long drive back east,” she laughed and returned the glass bottle to her bag.

“Well, wouldn’t that be awfully difficult to do? You’re stuck up here,” I said, tapping my temple. “Doesn’t your father know you had a date tonight? Can I at least walk you to the top of the driveway?”

“Not necessary,” she said, planting a kiss on my cheek. “I know it’s rough and tumble in that Hamptons mansion neighborhood you live in, but here, I’m perfectly capable walking half of a block on my own. Besides, Pop’s old-fashioned, is all.” She unbuckled the safety belt and turned to face me. “It wasn’t long ago I was his Baby Girl, and I haven’t quite worked out what he’d think of you yet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not, so I left it alone. “Well, maybe next time, then.”

“Next time? Are you implying that you think you deserve a second date?” This time, her teasing was obvious.

“I’m pushing my luck, I suppose.” I turned to feign ignorance, but Joyce got my attention back with another smack of her lips on my check. She opened the door and climbed out of the Adventurer, smoothing her dress to make sure all the right parts were in the right places. “Next time, we go to the Hamptons,” I said.

“Please!” she said, high-pitched, jumping up and down like a child, and showing her age for the first time. “Well it’s late enough. You shouldn’t hit any traffic heading back east. So long, Mr. Beatty.”

“Until next time, Ms. MacLaine.” I playfully tipped my cap and watched her hips sway back in forth in my rear view mirror, her heels clicking on the pavement with each hurried step she took. Next time, I thought.

I reignited the engine, started toward the Southern State Parkway, and took a hard left toward New York City — home. The parkway wound and turned, cutting a sharp path through Long Island. Only a few dull, sparsely-placed street lamps lit the road. Few cars were heading west so I spent the time daydreaming about Joyce. She was a sweet girl, and seemingly quite adventurous. I’d heard the opposite about Suffolk County from someone, somewhere.

It was about an hour after I dropped Joyce off that I settled into my apartment, kicked off my shoes, and climbed onto the old sofa bed. It was the end of Labor Day weekend, 1958. Summer came to a close with good date swinging her hips in my rearview mirror. Although I lied at some point, I wasn’t lying when I told her I intended to see her again.

The next morning, I went about my routine; making my commute to my small, musty office in Midtown with a quick stop for a cup of coffee, a bagel, and the Post along the way. It was there that I learned Joyce Martin was dead. The article reported that she was found overnight in the same woods we enjoyed, a cigarette stained with red lipstick by her fingertips. Authorities suspected murder; in fact, they were nearly certain given the state in which she was found.

The article closed with a quote from her father, saying she had a date that night and never returned home. Anyone with information should contact Suffolk County Police.