[Note: This Story Contains Adult Themes]
Men don’t know what they want, but they want what they know. He’ll sooner lie to his married lover to lie with a paid lover then will a man search for a solution to his dying marriage. Men refrain from confessing workplace sins, expressing self-doubt, or revealing ridiculous ambitions to their wives all to safeguard a sense of self-reliance for which they seldom acknowledge. An isolation between the spouses ensues.
She will pretend not to notice, but will begin putting extra effort into his lunches and present her Sunday best every 5pm, but after six months or so of his consistent distance and somehow worse indifference, she’ll learn to hate herself for a fault not her own. The purgatorial marriage will condition her to feel for her husband something worse than disdain–despair. One day she’ll wake up no longer longing for her husband’s loving glance, but accepts the reluctant smiles, the cold kisses, the quiet dinners, and will get through each day with domestic obligations.
He will get through each day with professional obligations, but will begin to thirst for the intimacy which his instinct won’t let him ignore. But for whatever reason, nature wouldn’t allow most men the patience to multitask, so instead they compartmentalize. He will acquire a second bed for relief and designate the first exclusively for rest. His latest distraction will keep the husband from paying enough attention to realize his wife has grown more of a stranger than the stranger he now pays to keep. But such flaws only too common to men I could never attribute to Mr. Jonathan Hill.
The first August afternoon he came, he was no less content then he was the last day I saw him. Bell, Leah, and Delilah all worked Wednesdays as well, none of whom were above 25. Bell, a curvy Puerto Rican, lived in Bushwick. Leah, a blonde from Borough Park, had an average height, but the vertical lines commonly across her outfits and her thin frame gave the illusion of a taller height. Delilah, a Sicilian from Coney Island, either attracted or frightened clients with her loose temper, incessant cigarette breath, and soprano pitch. No one felt indifference for her. Well, no one except perhaps Mr. Hill.
Sarah hadn’t booked any clients for that afternoon, so we played Texas hold em’ while on standby.
“Maybe I have so much time to read because I don’t need to take care of a dog.” retorted Leah. She threw in a nickel.
“Maybe if you got a dawg like me and Bell,” said Delilah, matching Leah’s raise, “you wouldn’t be so damn uppity about everything from meals to poker minimums.” Delilah flicked half a centimeter of white crust from her Marlboro into the ashtray. “Why we only gotta cough up just 50¢ for a hand of poker is beyond me Leah. I know you got enough regulars to not be so damn stingy with your money.”
Bell tossed in a nickel.
Leah responded “I have enough to worry about these muggy afternoons when we waste time smoking and gambling when we all know how Sarah feels about doing either.” She paused to take a swig of her gin and tonic. “I don’t need to stress over losing more than what’s worth a lunch.” A fourth nickel was thrown. The first three cards were placed down facing up. Leah checked, and continued, “And frankly Del, I’d be more worried over my pocket change if I had as many customer complaints as you do.”
“Up yours Leah! And up Sarah’s!” Del snapped, throwing in a dime, “For Christ’s sake, it’s not my fault all these Wall Street rats forget they’re not damn royalty when I tell em’ I’m not bending over backwards whenever or however they say!”
Bel matched Delilah’s dime and inserted with a vexed smile “You’re Sarah’s favorite Leah.” She lit her second Marlboro. “Why you worry?”
The third dime was thrown in.
“I don’t worry. I stress.” She simultaneously flicked a dime to emphasizing that last syllable. “The more I stress, the less my clients tip. There’s a direct correlation”. She swallowed the rest of her drink.
After the fourth dime was thrown in, the fourth card was laid next to the first three.
“Check” said Leah.
“Boys don’t keep their tips in their pants because you’re having a bad day,” Delilah took her last drag and smothered the butt in the ashtray. “They keep em’ in their pants because they’re greedy bastards.” She threw in another nickel. “Men tip, boys don’t. And there’s nothing you can do behind that door that’ll make a man outta a boy.” She looked quite pleased with herself, so she lit another Marlboro.
“I fold.” Said Bel.
Before the third nickel could be thrown in, the buzzer went off. Leah rose to answer.
“I hope it’s an old broker” , wished Delilah, “Why do the married ones always tip better? I swear if I get one more penny-pinching CUNY rat from Flatbush, Imma start enforcing a damn age limit! I’m not taking anymore kids!”
Just before Delilah finished, Leah walked in with a man no taller than 5’9 with an average build. He wore round spectacles, a dark suit, held a dark gray fedora and looked about the waiting room with eyes half curious and half settled.
“Ladies this is Mr Hill.” Leah began. Mr Hill wasn’t exactly looking at anyone in particular, but sort of stared into the space which his company surrounded.
“This is Delilah,”
“Pleasure’s all mine Mr. Hill.” Delilah smiled as she shook his hand from the couch. His suit did not impress her enough to stand but his sufficient age had comforted her enough to replace her cigarette with gum. He looked 30.
“And here we have our exotic Bel,” Like Delilah, Bel only smiled and rose just enough to shake his hand over the card table and ashtray. “Lovely to meet you.” She said, almost exaggerating her accent.
As soon as his and Bel’s hands released each other, he seemed to automatically but without any rush turn toward the gray chair right of the couch, hoping to find someone else to settle for. When his inquisitive eyes landed on the pair belonging to the fourth card player on the gray chair, he asked,
“And what is your name?”
“Ninette.” I answered.
“Ninette, lead the way.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked.
Do you have any milk?” he inquired. No client had ever asked me that in the waiting room before.
“No, we do not.” He looked equally surprised as disappointed. After a moment or two looking around the waiting room, he asked, “Well uh, water will be just fine.” I poured him a glass of cold tap water. “This way” I said.
Mr. Hill brought the daily Wall Street Journal from the waiting room. Most clients preferred liquor, but he carried literature. His first sober motion upon entering the first room was to take a seat, open the newspaper, and read. His eyebrows exhibited a mood disgruntled but resolute. But he looked too complacent to desire any attention. Perhaps, as is not uncommon for new customers, he was shy.
To get regulars, you need to establish a consistent banter, sell whatever lie he wants to hear. Leah was born with the gregarious nature to make profitable conversation out of anything. Delilah never acquired the shame to keep herself from talking whenever the opportunity presented itself, which at least a third of her clients loved. Bel carried conversation in her second language easier than I did in my first. So I deliberated to begin small talk.
After fifteen minutes, I asked “What are you reading, Mr. Hill?”
“Jonathan.” He replied. His voice conveyed no anger, but the tone revealed that he found no joy in responding. Frankly, I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed, nor what to make of his answer.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, refraining from any form of hostility or offence in my volume.
“Call me Jonathan.” He asserted. His serious tone kept such a declaration from being a friendly gesture. But was he demanding that I receive it as one?
“What are you reading, Jonathan?” I inquired. Perhaps he was enjoying himself, though his grave face gave no such indication.
“The Wall Street Journal.” He replied sardonically. He was enjoying himself. His voice was too stern to suggest that he was shy and his calm demeanor dissuaded any suggestion that he was nervous. His eyes stuck to the newspaper not out of fear of meeting mine, but out of no desire to do so. On the cover of his magazine, I read, “Social Workers Unionize: Commissioner Mitchell Renegotiates Raises”. One of Bel’s regular clients–a social worker–spoke of his interest in an impending strike for weeks. The Department of Social Services must have laid him off; he stopped seeing her just after the riots began. But Mr. Hill didn’t care about Bel, her former client, or the union. What did he care about?
“Well yes, I gathered that from the cover facing me. But on what news is the article which you’ve chosen to read, Jonathan?”
Mr. Hill’s eyes rose to meet mine. Even if not an iota conveyed it, one way or another, he was enjoying this–or he was a pompous idiot. “Welfare Workers’ Strike. Those damn social workers are starting some union or another.”
“Do you sympathize?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. His face said, “Dear child, grownups have no reason to fight for labor rights or increased pay. Activism is for the youth with excessive energy or the jobless with excessive time. But how could you know? The world is such an opaque, unclear labyrinth for such a pretty thing like you. If you’re unlucky enough, you might understand when you’re older.” But whether he lacked the energy or the patience to speak his mind out loud, I still couldn’t tell. All I fished out of him was,“Any man ought to continue searching for a job if he doesn’t like the pay. Otherwise, he should take the pay he agreed to work for.”
His eyes had returned to the newspaper before he spoke. So, to learn whether or not he really did just want to read for the remainder of his time slot, I injected,
“I can’t say I agree.”
Mr. Hill gave no verbal answer, or any response for that matter, as if he were ignoring me to keep me from opening my mouth again. I couldn’t tell if I was more embarrassed, amused, or curious. I surrendered to reading an edition of “Better Homes & Gardens” that I found in the bathroom. I deduced that he wanted nothing more than to read, so I made no attempt to stop him. Neither of us raised our eyes again from our magazines for the remainder of the hour.
I didn’t spend very much time the following week thinking about Jonathan Hill. Behind the closed door, clients have conducted far stranger behavior than reading silently. Sure, I remembered and considered him a rather odd man once or twice those seven succeeding days, but odd men are not infrequent in this line of work. He did not stand out, not really.
On the warm Wednesday afternoon of the following week, Leah sat, reading Vogue, and Delilah read Brown’s “Sex and the Single Girl” in the waiting room. Bel was working in the first room.
Delilah raised her head from her book. “Why do men care so much about what we do and don’t do anyway? We don’t bother em’ over where they spend their nights or what they wear. Why they gotta worry so damn much about us and mind their own business?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re bored of their business.” Leah responded. Her eyes hadn’t ceased running over her magazine when she spoke.
Without giving Leah’s response any regard, Delilah quickly continued, “How can they prance around telling us to dress like nuns and drink like moormans when these same men smoke, drink, and tramp about with their own secretaries behind their wives’ backs. It’s ridiculous. I was just telling Sam the other night after I caught him at Giuseppe’s. I was saying ‘Sam, we been together for two years strong because we have trust. I can’t trust you around that bar with all those dishonest broads left and right.’ I said, ‘Sam, how can you expect me to stay loyal with you if you won’t with me. That’s not a double standard I can live with Sam. I have a lot of rich regulars I could call up at the drop of a pin. Remember that.’ I know I have a dirty mouth, but I ain’t no cheater.”
The buzzer rang. Leah shot a quick look in my direction to show her gratitude for an excuse to disrupt Delilah’s sermon. When she answered the door, I heard her greeted with that voice I hadn’t given too much thought to. Although I recognized the voice without effort, I hadn’t heard it conveyed in that tone before. I wouldn’t call the tone energetic, but it ran through the air with energy. A car works as an imperfect analogy. I wouldn’t call an automobile “electric”, but it needs electricity to run. There was an absence of energy in Mr. Hill’s voice before. Now there was, at least, a presence of energy.
“Ninnette,” Leah returned with an affable but possibly envious smile, “You remember Mr. Hill don’t you?”
I rose without haste as my eyes met his. “Of course. It’s good to see you, Mr. Hill.”
“Please, call me Jonathan.” He smiled with his hand extended.
I didn’t like his smile. It was too newly introduced to me to show off its teeth with an air too calm or too confident for my liking. I didn’t know his smile. It was a stranger to me but flashed its teeth like a new husband flashes his wife. But his smile had no right.
“Would you like a glass of milk Jonathan?” I shook his hand.
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Soy or whole Jonathan?”
“Uh, do you have 2%?”
I turned from the fridge to look at him with an indifferent expression. I probably stared for two seconds.
“No.”
He stared back with an incredulous smile for his own two seconds.
“Whole milk will be just fine.” His smile politely widened, introducing me to his canines. I poured him the glass, handed it to him, and walked to the second room. Neither of us spoke until we both sat in our chairs.
“Do you have any coasters?” He asked like he was in my parents’ house, preparing to meet them.
“Yes” I reached in the coffee table’s drawer, pulled a silver coaster out, and handed it to him. He placed his milk and coaster on the coffee table. He hadn’t brought literature.
He put his hands together with his fingers interlocked. His legs were spread and his feet were at the feet of his chair. He was leaning forward with his forearms on his legs, and looked about the room with a curiosity that he hadn’t brought last week, a curiosity that wielded little suspicion and bore a puerile, effortless hope. He looked around the room with a polite smile, and nodded his head almost restlessly.
“How has your week been?” He asked.
“Ordinary.”
I have never considered myself socially inept, or rather, socially awkward. But Mr Hill’s incessant dependence on conversation and my necessary curiosity of him for our dialogue’s continuation almost planted a social insecurity that I hadn’t known.
“How has your week been Jonathan?” I complied.
“Not half bad. My department only filed half the average number of claims and we signed triple as many plans as last week.” His smile beamed with pride, dying for me to ask about any of the jargon that he had just used.
“What is wrong with claims?” I asked.
“Well there’s nothing wrong with claims in and of themselves. You see, we need claims. Or at least, our policyholders need to be able to make claims. Otherwise no one would purchase our plans.” His tone wasn’t patronizing, but he was certainly happy with himself.
“If you need claims, Jonathan, why do you want as little as possible?”
He gave a half chuckle, removed his glasses, folded them, and proceeded to wave them like a wand.
“Well, when claims are proven, we need to pay the policyholders. And I’m not paid to hand out checks. I’m paid to sign new policyholders. But they’ll only sign if I promise we’ll write off a check when the disaster hits.”
I gave up and took the bait, “What do you do for work Jonathan?”
His smile had exhausted its powers. It was now his eyebrows which took point in showing how happy he was with my question. He raised both as high as he could and answered,
“I’m the manager for State Farm’s homeowners insurance policy in the New York City branch.”
“What do your policyholders file claims for?”
“Well, whenever someone’s house suffers damage, whether it’s, for example, storm damage or a fire, they file a claim so that we pay for the repair.”
“Does the revenue of State Farm paying for the repair of a loyal customer’s home upset you Jonathan?”
He squinted his eyes, but his smile remained as large as when he had finished talking. He breathed something that sounded like a half chuckle and a half scoff.
“I just don’t like to hear that a policyholder’s house has been damaged. It’s only salt in the wound that it hurts my quarterly reports.”
“It’s odd that we’re sometimes paid to keep our clients from being satisfied.” I pointed out.
He took a sip. “Yes,” he replied, his eyes then glaring but his white smile as wide as ever. He licked the milk from his lips. “It is odd.”
I had a salad for lunch and read in the waiting room. When the buzzer went off, I looked at the clock above the couch. “1:00 sharp” I thought. I hadn’t looked at the time two weeks ago when Mr. Hill paid his first visit, but I ran our session from 1:15-2:15pm. Last week, I looked at the clock as soon as I heard his voice greet Leah’s, at which moment it wasn’t 40 seconds past 1:00. In spite of his oddities, the obsessive punctuality might have stood out the most to me among all of his characteristics. I rose and opened the door, without any surprise to find an unscheduled Mr. Hill waiting on the other side of the door.
“Hello Ninette!” His smile introduced me to the newest member of its orchestra; the dark space in between his top and bottom teeth. “It’s lovely to see you! May I come in?”
“Of course.” I led him to the kitchenette.
“You look quite lovely today.”He said.
“Thank you.” I opened the fridge, took a quart of 2% milk and pulled a glass out of the cabinet.
“Where are the rest of the girls?”
“Working.” I poured him a glass.
“You’re a gem, Ninette! I don’t deserve you.”
“Sarah’s general ledger says otherwise.”
I led him to the fourth room. I picked up my novel from the card table on our way. After we entered, I offered him the Lawson chair opposite to the bed and I pulled the cuckchair from the far corner until it was within two feet of him. He sat once I did.
“Not half bad weather we’re having.” He exclaimed with a smile as large as ever.
“Well, it’s a bit hot. But I suppose we can’t expect any less from an August afternoon without any overhead.”
“I’m used to worse.” He playfully bragged.
“Are you not from Brooklyn, Jonathan?”
“Not originally, no. I’m from Pasadena, a town outside Baltimore. I came up here to study business at Columbia, got an internship with State Farm my junior year, and haven’t looked back.”
“Do you ever miss Maryland?”
“Not often. The view from my office alone is better than any you’ll find in Baltimore. And my flat in Carroll Gardens beats any suburb I’ve ever seen on the Chesapeake. You should come by sometime.”
He spoke with such joy and pride that you would’ve thought he inherited George Calvert’s charter and bartered a ship of blankets for New Amsterdam.
“Do you like baseball?” He asked with innocence.
“I’ve never watched a full game.”
“An absurd tragedy! I’m not sure if there’s any pleasure quite as rewarding as participating in an Orioles’ victory.”
“When did you last watch a baseball game Jonathan?”
“Last night!” He nearly jumped out of his chair, “We played the Yankees. I took the subway up to The Bronx. The weather was perfect!” He was growing dramatic and began incorporating his hands in his storytelling.
“We were down 4-6 at the top of the fifth inning, you see, with only one strike out left. Thad Tillotson was pitching. Curt Blefary was on third base and Roznovsky was on second. Dave May walks up to bat.” He knelt in his chair and pivoted his torso toward me, sort of crouching over.
“Dave hits a single. Blefary runs home!” His eyes began flaring.
“Dooley Womack replaces Tillotson. Russ Synder walks up to the plate. It’s a wild pitch. Roznovsky slides for the home plate!” He propelled his right hand six inches past my face like he was pretending it was an airplane.
“Paul Blair steps up and hits a double! Dave May scores a run!” Almost to my shame, I have never seen a man look so happy in that room before or since.
“Frank Robinson swaggers up to the plate.” There was something mischievous in his eyes, without losing any of the bliss.
“Str-uuuu-ike One!” He began announcing in a hoarse voice, imitating the umpire.
“Str-uuuuuuuu-ike TWO!” Although he was still kneeling on the Lawson, he had erected as tall as he could, like an unpredictable cobra.
“Womack wants to get Robinson out. He’s one pitch away from the bottom of the fifth inning. He gets fancy, tries to throw a low ball, but Bob Tillman can’t catch it! It’s a wild pitch! Snyder and Blair run home! We’re up 9-6! We’ve sealed our victory!” Even if he only lifted himself an inch, Mr. Hill jumped in his chair. Without any rush, he sat back down as if he remembered that he was in a civilized part of the world. I think he had a drop or two of sweat on his forehead.
“They made a comeback, but they never took the lead again. We won 11-10.” He took out a handkerchief, wiped his glasses and gave a satisfied sigh.
“What a fantastic exhibit. It’s a real shame you don’t watch baseball.”
Brooklyn was cool the following Wednesday. I can hardly recall a cooler day in August with sunshine. Leah spoke of the price of eggs while she ate her salad. I had made sure to finish my lunch by then. Just as expected, he rang the buzzer at 1:00 sharp. With his milk I met him behind Leah in the waiting room. He held the daily Wall Street Journal in one hand, took the glass with the other without looking at me and stared at the wall.
“This way.” I said.
I brought him to the third room. He sat on the left side of the loveseat. He had begun reading by the time I sat on the end of the bed.
“How has work been this week Jonathan?”
“Probably no worse than yours.” He didn’t stop reading.
“Oh no. Did a policyholder ask that you repair a roof to shelter his family?”
He paused, then raised his eyes and shot me a look as resentful as surprised.
“I don’t pay Sarah for your questions, I pay her for your company. The details of my honest work are of no concern of yours.”
“I would hardly call it ‘my company’ Jonathan. Half the time you’re paying for a stranger to sit three feet away from you while you read a newspaper.”
“And that’s queer to you isn’t it?” He rose and began speaking with a tone of authority along with resentment.
“I know you prefer the predictable man, the man who speaks to you with the familiarity and comfort that he had on his honeymoon. And why wouldn’t you? It makes for an easy customer. You’re like a cigarette dispenser watching your addicted clientele pay, get a temporary fix, and come back waving their bills higher and wanting your product even more than before. You pray on the starving, the desolate, the weak.”
“You’re not weak Jonathan?”
“I’m resolute. I don’t come here every week out of desperation but for a simple pleasure, a pleasure no less natural than enjoying a ribeye on a holiday or a drink at the end of the week. To survive, our species rewards itself with enormous delight for the most simple but most important chores to continue the human race; eat, drink, and reproduce. And as long as we keep such activity within moderation, we have the formula to live pleasant lives.
“But like mules that won’t stop eating, men in every corner of this world follow these simple pleasures to no end. They eat themselves to obesity, drink away any rationality they have left, or grovel into the most shameless establishments and contract diseases looking for a love they have neither the patience nor the self-control to obtain honestly. But I’m thankful. They remind me that, without moderation, man is an animal. What separates man from his neighbors of the animal kingdom is this choice–No, the difference is making the right choice. Any man who follows his passions like an animal is worse than an animal; he threw away his birthright for base pleasures out of fear of something greater. Beasts can only be brutes, but a brutish man is also a coward.”
He stood by the window by then, looking down on the brutes scrambling across Washington Avenue.
“Would you not call this a shameless establishment Jonathan?”
He continued looking out the window. “I won’t be contracting any diseases here. You see, I have the antidote. I found it a few years ago in Prospect Park.
“As a young man, I counted down the days until I graduated high school. I longed for the pleasures that I had not had access to in Pasadena. As soon as I made my way up to Columbia, I tried it all: women, whisky, weed. But I grew tired, tired of the repetition, and tired of losing the drive. What I really loved was the drive. But do you think I have any drive for another drink when I’m facedown in a toilet? Do you think I have any drive to speak to a woman lying in bed after I’ve spent her? In that intolerable and long aftermath of such a short glimpse of satisfaction, I would rather be anywhere else than in bed with a stranger.
“One night, I was entertaining a blonde I had met in a bar on Union Street. We started for her apartment in Windsor Terrace and cut through the park. She stumbled onto a bench. Before I could ask her if she needed a minute, I smelled a puddle of vomit at my feet. In that moment, I looked at that poor, pathetic creature barely able to sit up straight, let alone string a sentence together. I could have brought her back to mine and had my way, but an overpowering sensation silenced my lust. This feeling dwarfed any brief pleasures I had begged for up until that point. I named this new antidote Self-Respect. I paid for the degenerate’s cab and sent her back to her apartment. I walked home more satisfied than any woman had ever made me.
“Men don’t want sex Ninette, they want the ability to have sex. They waste money, energy, and pride chasing women merely to insure themselves that they can. That’s why we leave as soon as we finish. Once we’ve surpassed all of your defenses and you show us the most vulnerable part of yourselves, we have nothing left to prove to ourselves.”
That’s it. That’s why he would never meet me in public, let alone watch a baseball game with me. Even though the decency of our conduct always remained within the limit of the public’s toleration, he would never enjoy such conduct without the constant opportunity to engage indecently. He got off to the potential, not the activity.
“That night, that dame made herself as available to me as I could have wanted. But I’m not brute, I’m a man who chose moderation. That night, I marched triumphantly back to my apartment, enjoying my conquest over that beautiful girl longer than any brute could with a Self-Respect no beast could taste. Knowing the inevitable dissatisfaction of any based pleasure paired with restraint will transcend any man beyond the beast he was born as.
“That’s not to say sex is a disease. It has its purposes. I’ll gladly hold a door open for a beautiful young lady, but that’s only thanks to my reproductive instincts. Such instincts are quite lovely when they’re held in their place. Or for another example, I quite enjoy our little sessions Ninette. You’re like a…dry salad that a healthy man enjoys every day. Or, a glass of milk.” He took three long gulps.
I might have been able to keep my mouth shut, as I normally have no problem doing. But just before his lips had touched the glass, that audacious smile showed itself again, and I snapped.
“You’re not Special Mr. Hill. You’re actually quite regular.”
His smile disappeared. His face returned to what it was when he looked at me from his newspaper, but with a hint of shock.
“As difficult as it may be for a man as sad and alone as yourself to fathom, not all people use sex as a tool for pleasure. There’s more to sex than strangers. There are families. There is love.”
“What do you know about love? You think I come here because I love you? I love you as much as I love a brand of lettuce. You are nothing to me! You are nothing! Nothing you do, nothing you are is of any value to me! Your value is your availability. You are flour at the bottom of a grain reserve that will spoil before any John Deer will ever make a dough out of.” He stomped through the third room’s door and let himself out. Better men have made me feel worse.
Peter Shanley graduated from Thomas More College in 2025 with a Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts. He works as a bartender near his childhood hometown along the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia.