She hears the Siren’s song.
It’s the top of the hour, so it’s time we listen to another tale of romance. Same rules as always: the first caller who can answer our question will have the floor.
She listens, for the opportunity it brings, as she glances from the radio to her phone.
Here’s the question. A famous singer turned actor, known as the Chairman of the Board, won an Academy Award in the Best Supporting Actor category for his role in this movie.
Her hands move to the phone and she listens as it dials, and dials, and—
Hello! You are our lucky caller—do you know the answer?
—and a voice answers, and it’s the Siren, and she didn’t think she’d be in this position.
Are you there?
“From Here to Eternity.”
That’s correct!
Frank Sinatra, also known as The Chairman of the Board, Ol’ Blue Eyes, or simply as The Voice, won an Academy Award for his role in From Here to Eternity. Now it’s time to give you from here to eternity to tell us about your escapades. Where are you calling from?
“Hoboken.”
Well alright, Hoboken. The floor is yours.
So Hoboken takes the floor. She tells how she met him. On the Upper West Side, Hoboken leans against a counter. There are men singing across the bar. And now, the end is near…She sets down her glass, leaving a shallow ring of water on the wood…When there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out…The bartender wipes away the ring. “Could I get you another one?”
“No, that’s alright.” Hoboken hands over the glass. “But do you think you could tell them to shut up?” She gestures to the Rat Pack at the end of the bar.
The record shows I took the blows... ...and did it my way.
He takes her empty glass. “It’s Friday night. Let ‘em have fun.”
“Let them have fun,” Hoboken mocks.
The Bartender turns back. “Let me get you another.”
“I’m fine, really—don’t worry about it.”
He plants his palms on the bar. “Something happen’ this week?”
“Nothing happened—what, life isn’t enough reason to be pissy?” Hoboken sighs. “Could I get a pickleback?"
“I’m sorry.” He says. “My pickle-guy has been screwing me lately, but I’ll make anything else for you."
Hoboken shakes her head. “I don’t want anything else, I want—”
“I could make you one.”
Hoboken turns and sees a crooner from earlier.
One of the Rats offered to make you a drink?
“Mhmm.”
Huh. That’s a new one. No one has ever offered to make me a drink. Or to buy me one, but that’s a different story.
“It was a first for me too.”
You gotta respect the effort, I guess.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I thought it was kinda endearing.”
What’d he look like?
“Tall. Dark. You know how the rest of it goes.”
Hoboken looks the man up and down. He’s handsome. “What did you say?” she asks.
The rat extends a paw, “I’m Syd.”
“I didn’t ask for your name,” she says.
“I said I could make you one,” Syd smiles. “A pickleback."
Hoboken glances around the bar. “Like, right now?”
“Well, no—I mean, back at my place,” he says.
She scoffs. “Okay, yeah, I get it. I see the play.”
“It’s honestly not like that,” he says. “I make my own pickles. Like a hobby, I guess.”
Hoboken raises an eyebrow. “It’s not like that?”
“Okay,” Syd says. “It is like that, but I really do make my own pickles.”
It is like that, but I really do make my own pickles.
“I know, I know.”
He really said that?
“He really did.”
And you’re about to tell me that it worked. A man said those words to you, and you honestly considered it.
“Okay, but—and be honest—you’re telling me you wouldn’t?" “Not even a little?”
Hoboken considers the offer. She imagines saying yes, and she imagines where it might lead. She imagines the pickles. Being pickled. Being alive. She imagines being. In the West Village, Syd leads Hoboken up to his apartment. “Sorry about the mess,” he says. But it isn’t a mess. “What do you do to afford a place like this?” Hoboken asks. Syd laughs, “Friends in high places.”
Syd pours shots of whiskey and brine. He holds the jar of pickles. “Do you want a pickle with your shot?”
“Don’t ask stupid fucking questions,” she says.
The whiskey goes down smooth, ushered along by the brine, and Hoboken crunches the pickle between her teeth. “I’ll put on some music,” Syd says.
“How did you say you afford this place?” She asks.
“I know the landlord,” he says, looking through his records. “He cut me a good deal.”
“A good deal,” Hoboken scoffs, “Do you think he’d cut me a similar kind—”
“How about this one?” Syd lifts up Songs for Young Lovers. “This was his first album with Capital Records.”
“Sure,” Hoboken says. “I don’t really care–”
Syd puts on the record. “A producer once described writing for Sinatra as ‘trying to avoid rain.’” He sits beside Hoboken, “I’ve never understood what he meant, but I guess—”
“Stop talking,” Hoboken grabs Syd’s face.
So you went to bed?
“Yeah.”
And how was it?
“Good,” Hoboken pauses. “But he had some strange requests.”
Like what?
“Put these on.” Syd is holding out a pair of vintage pleated pants and matching blazer. “And this, too” He grabs a fedora and extends it to Hoboken. So, she slips into the pleats, buttons the blazer, and he tells her to “Tilt the hat slightly,” as he grabs the fedora’s rim and sets it askew. “Just like that.” Hoboken pushes against Syd, dragging the blazer against his chest. She reaches down and feels his pulse. “I thought you were joking,” she says. “But, you’re, like, actually into this.”
Syd unzips her trousers. “I don’t joke about this kind of thing.” Hoboken laughs. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She tries to compose herself but she’s giggling and giggling, so Syd pushes his index into her mouth. Then his third. And they go in deep, until she starts gagging and gagging and he withdraws. He pulls ropes of saliva from Hoboken’s mouth. “You want to know why they call me the Man with the Golden Arm?” Syd’s arm moves down her body before she can answer. Oh, God. She moans into his locks of golden brown as she feels her moisture guide him in and and and
Did you come?
“I came so hard you guys,” Hoboken confesses to the Siren. “Like, so hard.”
Finally, we have a success story!
“Well…” Hoboken starts.
Well?”
“He didn’t finish.”
What—why not?
“It just takes a lot to get me there,” Syd sits on the edge of his bed.
Hoboken sits beside him, “A lot—like what?”
“It’s a bit weird,” Syd says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Weirder than this?” She flicks the brim of her fedora.
Syd turns to Hoboken takes her palms in his and asks her to chew.
Bubble gum? He wanted you to chew bubble gum?
“And blow bubbles, yeah,” Hoboken says. “Lemon flavor.”
Did you?
POP!
Hoboken’s lips are covered with the gloss of her chewing gum. Syd moans beneath as her tongue pulls the yellow back into her mouth. She chews and chews and chews before blowing another bubble. And this time, he blows with her. “You really like that, huh?” Hoboken lies beside Syd. He doesn’t answer, but his heavy breathing confirms their new routine. She unwraps another stick and puts it on his tongue. And she watches him chew until he says to open her mouth. And she does. And he pulls her lips against his and he blows and he fills her maw with yellow lemon flavor until it explodes against the back of her molars.
Okay, okay—I think I’ve heard enough. When’s the wedding?
Hoboken sighs.
What?
“He ghosted me.”
He ghosted…you?
“Hard to believe, I know,” she says. “I tried going to his place. Never found him. But last time I tried, a man outside approached me.”
“Can I help you, miss?” Hoboken turns and sees a well-dressed man. Pleated pants, dark brown loafers. God, is he one of the Rats? “Oh, no, that’s alright,” Hoboken says. “I’m just meeting a friend.”
“Okay, no worries,” the man says, chewing. “It’s just—I own the building, so I like to know why people are loitering.” He laughs “Not that you’re loitering—”
Hoboken watches the man’s jaw work. “You’re the landlord?” she asks.
“Sure am,” he says. “So if your friend ever complains about me, now you can put a face to the story.”
Hoboken laughs. “No, he says you’re great. That you gave him a really good deal.”
“Tell you what,” the man says. “You seem like a nice gal. I’ll let you up since I’m heading in.” He stops chewing and starts blowing a bubble. Hoboken’s eyes expand as it grows and grows bright yellow until it pops.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I quit smoking, but I still have the oral fixation. You want me to let you up?”
“Oh—that’s…” Hoboken stumbles away from the door. “Yeah, no, I think that’s alright.”
You’re putting me on.
“I’m not. Swear to God.”
I mean, with his landlord?
“I don’t know,” Hoboken says. “I tried not to think about it but—”
But is there any other explanation? How many grown men are going around blowing bubbles?
“You want to know the truth?” “I don’t care—I just want him to unblock me.”
Why are you so hung up on this guy?
“Honestly,” she sighs. “I haven’t finished since I last saw him.”
Jesus Christ.
“This is really just my last attempt to reach him.”
The floor is yours, Hoboken.
Hoboken breathes in. “Syd, if you’re listening,” she starts. “I just got a new pack of gum, and the bubbles really pop—here, listen.” Hoboken holds the phone close as the bubble balloons out from her lips, growing inflating expanding until
The end.