Pushing Upward Read Free Page A

sun could peer through.
    Frank Wilson’s condo looked impressive from the outside. It was nicely landscaped. The wood-paneled exterior was newly stained, shutters freshly painted. I was feeling hopeful. But when Mr. Wilson opened the door, the interior was not as well maintained. His condo looked more like a Dumpster with windows. Dirty clothes were piled on chairs, on the floor, on the couch. Dried Italian takeout was stuck on dishes spread over coffee tables, and Frank himself was seedy-looking. He was gangly, had atrocious posture, and slumped before me, chewing on a half-smoked cigar.
    I should have turned around and walked out right then. But Frank ushered me into the kitchen and asked me to sit for a minute. Since I was dripping sweat and the air-conditioning cooled my face and lymphatic orifices, I sat and listened to Mr. Wilson confess that he’d just gotten divorced and lament how lost he was without a woman. How he wanted someone to talk to when he returned home from work. While Frank talked, I glanced at his gray hairs, noticing how unevenly they had mixed with the few remaining black strands of youth; then I spotted thirty or so transplanted dark strands poorly placed at the center of his scalp.
    The tall man with no spine unfolded from his seat and asked me if I’d like to see his new rare amethyst. The fact that I loved rare gems, coupled with my desire to demonstrate compassion (a virtue I’d been working on the last few weeks), convinced me to accept his offer.
    As I followed him down the corridor, I thought, How much compassion should I be displaying here?
    The hall smelled of mold, the linoleum floor gave under our weight, and the walls were conspicuously bare. There were no pictures, no wall hangings, no tokens of any present or memories of a past. He opened the last door on the right. It was his bedroom. What have I done? I tried to stay calm as he reached for the stone sitting on his dusty dresser top. Deep breath, Sandra. He brought it close to me and put it in my hand. Look interested . I raised the amethyst to the light, and was surprised to see how magnificently deep and rich the color was. What’s this guy doing with expensive crystals? He should be spending his money on housekeepers.
    As I stood searching for my voice, hunting for a cautious phrase to express my appreciation, Mr. Wilson grabbed my shoulders and pushed me onto his bed. Within seconds, he was on top of me, like a dog in heat, undoing his pants. I could hardly breathe. All I could see were his nostrils, flaring wide; his nose hairs lodged instantly in my memory. My body locked with fear. Terrified that he might pull out a knife or tie me up with some itchy rope, I flailed around mentally for a way out. How the next set of words stumbled out of my mouth, I’ll never know.
    â€œMr. Wilson, I could really get to like it here,” I whispered in his ear as I tried to squirm my way out from under his rancid flesh. “I’m just going to the bathroom for a minute … you know.” Like I was going to insert a diaphragm or a take a pill or something. “I’ll be right back,” I breathed into his ear. “I really like you.”
    One more squirm and I was off the bed. I smiled, coyly, with a wink.
    â€œHurry back!” he shouted.
    I left him fondling himself in anticipation, closed the bedroom door behind me, and then ran like hell down the hall to the front door. I tried to open it, but it had some weird lock I’d never seen before. How am I supposed to unbolt it? I kicked it quietly, then loudly. I looked around the cluttered living room for something, anything, that would help me force the door open. Could I grab one of the wooden chairs, swing it back with all my strength, smash the picture window, and jump out? I sure as hell can!
    I must have jiggled something loose on my last kick. The lock came undone, and I bounded like a cheetah to my car. The keys in my hand were shaking so