Joe slid through the crowd on the street, not in a hurry, just enjoying it, like it was some kind of game, call it Body Avoidance, a challenge of finding the gaps just large enough to pass through untouched while the bodies continued moving in somewhat predictable ways, though the unpredictable could always happen, adding to the challenge and the fun, that quick burst bypassing the unexpected shift. He loved this game ever since moving to New York, at first when he worked at a copy place in Grand Central Station (nearby where he happened to be sliding through at the moment), especially busy streets around there, especially at rush hours and lunch, and further challenged when he carried heavy packages of copies destined for publishing houses, often pocketing the cab money given to him to walk even farther through more busy streets carrying those burdens. And then when he became busboy and then waiter at the restaurant at Max's Kansas City, a punk club with the music upstairs and the restaurant where he worked downstairs, sliding through crowds of kids his age on weekend nights. It felt like a kind of dance, especially at the club, even with his own special tempo.
This time though, for the first time ever as far as he could recall, he collided with someone who seemed to appear out of nowhere, his height of six and a half feet always helping his vision and his traversing perhaps missing her much smaller frame, at least a foot shorter, probably closer to a foot and a half, but more it seemed like she stepped into the narrow passage he'd found as if on purpose, finding the perfect moment for collision. But of course that would have been impossible, her knowing when to get in his way, when he'd happen to be sliding through at that very moment, unless fate could be considered purposeful.
"Asshole," the young woman growled from the concrete in which his impact sent her, landing on her ass and a hand that prevented something worse like concussion and scraping it for the trouble. With him stopped standing over her, the crowd flowed around the sudden impediment like cattle somehow avoiding stampeding, though less animal and more human since the flow went both ways.
He looked down at a blonde waif, skinny and frail, her t shirt and jeans too big for her and looking well past new, the t shirt white with a band logo he was unfamiliar with showing every stain, and there were many, the jeans showing a small right kneecap where the cloth had frayed. The navy peacoat, too warm for the balmy, almost summerlike weather unusual this early in the year, splayed open.
"I'm so sorry," Joe exclaimed, and when his stretched out hand was avoided by her, he insisted, "Let me help you up." She finally allowed his large hand to take hold of her small slim one aiding her to standing. "I didn't see you," he added.
"Obviously," she smirked, adjusting her stuffed and scuffed red backpack on her shoulders.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"I could eat," she half smiled.
He guided her across the street and to the end of the block where one of the last of the Horn and Hardarts automats existed and put coins into the slots for her tuna sandwich and chips and for his egg salad. He bought her a Coke and he got coffee. She used the toilet there to clean her scrape amongst other things since she took a while, which worried him, thinking she might have run off, but of course she didn't, having food waiting for her.
"I'm Joe," he told her.
"Jenny," she replied before filling her mouth with a bite of sandwich.
They said nothing for a while since she devoured her food, obviously needing it.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"Maybe a pie? The lemon meringue looked tempting."
"Okay if we share?" he asked.
"That's fine."
"Uhm, are you going to stay?" He looked at her, saw her eyes pooling and she sniffled. "Please?"
Her smile nearly broke his heart when she replied, "Nowhere better to be."
"Good. After we eat, let's get that scrape taken care of."
"Okay."
They stayed, talking over the small empty plate.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"The Twin Cities. Minneapolis."
"No shit! Me too!"
"No shit!"
"No shit. Where?"
"Robbinsdale."
"Golden Valley."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
The two suburbs were neighbors, Robbinsdale more middle class than Golden Valley, which tended to be more upper middle class, a lot of professionals, doctors, lawyers and professors, his dad being of the latter type.
Fate.
"You work around here?" she asked, since Joe had dressed up in a jacket and tie, the tie loose around his neck.
"I used to," he told her. "I'm actually applying for jobs presently."
"Presently," she giggled.
"Sorry. I tend to talk like I have a stick up my butt."
"No, it's cute."
"Glad you think so," he chuckled.
"How's the job search going?" she asked.
"Not great unfortunately. My uncle's an executive at the William Morris Agency, and I hoped that might help, but I guess he's against nepotism. It's possible I'll get a job in their mail room. I applied at other offices, but I'm making a career change, or hoping to, and have got little experience."
"From what?" she asked.
"I used to be a waiter at Max's Kansas City."
"No shit!"
"No shit."
"Why not stay there?"
"I needed a change," he murmured, unconsciously stroking his arm.
Jenny sensing Joe's discomfort regarding the subject wisely ended that line of inquiry. "What's the William Morris Agency?" she asked instead.
"It's one of the largest talent agencies in America," he told her.
"Cool."
"Yeah. It's had its perks. Getting turned on to Bowie early because my uncle wrote the contract that signed him. Meeting cool stars at a party at his house upstate. Going to openings like the movie Hair and Apocalypse Now, the last a brand new print and sitting close."
"Is that cool?" she asked.
"Pretty cool," he chuckled.
When they left the automat, he told her, "Let's get you some anti-bacteria for your scrape and Band-Aids. I know a drugstore nearby."
"You don't have anything at home?" she asked, surprising him.
"Uhm...you sure?"
"I'm sure," she smiled, and he could see those pretty blue eyes pool again.
"I can get something on the way," he decided.
"Great!"
Since the drugstore was close by, he went there anyway, and while getting the first aid stuff, she waited for him near the counter. "Need any of these?" she blushed, pointing to the rack of condoms.
His cock stiffened in his pants while he grabbed a sixpack of lubricated Trojans. She stayed his hand and grabbed a twelve pack instead. "Holy shit," he thought.
Both were blushing while he made the purchase.
They walked over to Grand Central and took the subway south to Fourteenth Street close to where he lived. They entered a door between a couple non-descript store fronts and climbed the stairs three floors, Joe unlocking a door on the left at the top. Fortunately none of his roommates were around in the shared area, probably sleeping since they tended to keep vampire hours, and Joe guided Jenny down a hallway, taking a sharp right and, pushing aside a beaded curtain, gestured her through. He had by far the largest bedroom in the three bedroom apartment, a couple large windows unfortunately facing the wall of another building. Unfortunate not for the view, but for the easy access from the roof to the room, the probable path taken when someone broke in and stole his record collection and his typewriter not long before. Or they could have just walked in, because he knew the probable culprit, since he'd seen the junkie just off St. Marks selling his records, a regular at Max's.
"Sorry for the mess," he apologized, and Joe was a definite slob.
"No problem," she responded. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"Jenny?"
"Mind if I take a shower?" she sniffled.
"Not at all. Just a second." He knelt in front of a small cabinet and grabbed a towel for her. "The red door on the right," he told her.
For some reason they'd painted the bathroom a deep red, including the door, the rest of the apartment with white walls.
He cleaned up his place while she showered, neatening the books and papers on the coffee table, the table on which he used to type before losing his typewriter, and tossing clothes into a gunny sack he used to tote down to go to the nearest laundromat a block or so away.
She returned carrying her clothes and her bag, wearing the towel with it tucked between her cleavage, more of it than he expected, and when she unceremoniously dropped the towel, she sported perky b cup breasts, all the more substantial looking on her petite frame. She was skinny but fortunately not completely starved, no bones jutting out, her belly youthfully firm with just a hint of convexity, and her full bush, being blonde, seemed less substantial than if it were dark. Her waist curved subtly, neither what some would call child bearing hips, but not boyish either. This was definitely a woman.
"Like what you see?" she smiled, turning, and showing him a perfect firm round ass. He also noticed muscled thighs and her arms even had some definition.
"Wow," he said. "You're definitely in shape."
"Dreams of being a prima ballerina," she sniffled.
He sat on the bed and patted his lap. "Come here."
"You have way too many clothes on," she sniffled and giggled.
