Going Home Ch. 03

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*

Ginny takes Jerry home to Boston

Suddenly lost in thinking about Boston in the way that Jerry was obviously lost in living in Detroit, Ginny's mind was filled with tall buildings, historic sights, and meeting lots of new people.

"Maybe there's more opportunity in Boston for a woman like me, a real hard worker, than there is in Detroit," she said to Jerry.

He smiled at her while reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

"You're going to love Boston," he said.

She paused with thinking about what she was going to say. Not wanting to make her statement seem like an invitation to have a relationship that was more than a platonic friendship, she worded her words carefully. Not wanting to give him the wrong idea, she had no intention of making their friendship a sexual relationship.

"Maybe, if you're agreeable to it, we can find a place together and live together, so long as you behave and don't get fresh," she said with a little laugh. "I'd live with you as long as we had boundaries and we respected one another's privacy."

She imagined them living together as a couple and in the way that a father would live with his daughter. Only, the image of him trying to get a peek of her tits, crept in her mind. On those days she was horny, perhaps giving him a down nightgown view, she imagined teasing him and flashing her naked breasts. Being that he was her friend, possibly her friend with occasional benefits, she'd allow him to see her breasts and feel her breasts. She'd even give him a blowjob if she was horny enough and drunk enough but that's as far as she'd go.

Only she'd never lay with him in bed. She'd never sleep with him. She'd never have sexual intercourse with him. Much too old for her, if only he was younger and more her age, she'd have more sexual thoughts for him. With him nothing more than her best friend, she'd never ruin their friendship with sex.

With him not a very attractive men and old enough to be her father, he so much older than her. She wasn't into old men but he was her friend. He was nice to her, something that no man has ever been to her before and his kindness made her want to be nice to him too. With her thinking that all she had to give him were her tits, she'd give him those if only he'd ask. She'd even allow him to feel her breasts while she sucked his cock, if she was in the mood. Only, if she found someone to love in Boston, she'd be embarrassed for him to know that she not only allowed Jerry to see her breasts but also feel her breasts while she sucked his cock.

* * * * *

Two years passed with Ginny checking in on Jerry whenever he wasn't able to take the bus downtown to the diner. With her not having a family, a mother, a father, brothers, or sisters, a husband, or children, not even a boyfriend, it wasn't difficult or inconvenient for her to spend time with her friend. She just had herself to look out for with no one looking out for her, except maybe for just Jerry. Only with him more desperate than she was for money, there was nothing that he could do for her that she couldn't do for herself.

Friends were few and not lasting with everyone fleeing Detroit because of the bad economy and the crime getting worse. Being that she was a plain woman that no one would look at twice and/or call pretty but for Jerry, as if she was made up by a Hollywood makeup artist, he sometimes drew her face prettier than she looked in the mirror. Most times, he drew her face raw and exposed as if his paint brush was a Paparazzi camera that had captured her in a bad and unguarded moment. Her angry or mad expressions better translated to paper than her looks of happiness.

With a picture worth a thousand words, he made her face look so much more expressively interesting and emotionally appealing than what she thought her face looked. Obviously he was seeing something in her that she wasn't seeing in herself. Seemingly he knew her better than she knew herself. Interesting enough, as if looking at herself through the lens of a camera that was always focused on her, his pictures of her gave her snapshot insights into herself.

She brought him food and gave him a few dollars to buy what he needed. Nothing more than ten or twenty dollars at a time, when her tips were good, was all that she could spare at a time with her working part-time without benefits as a lowly waitress earning more on tips than she did on wages. Then, one day, Jerry wasn't there when she went to his house. He was gone and she wanted to vomit in the street.

The downstairs front door was locked and had a sign from the city that officially declared the building condemned. Not knowing where he went and if he was dead or alive, worrying about him, she called all the hospitals but not even knowing his last name, her search from him was fruitless. It wasn't until she received a letter in the mail from Jerry's lawyer a few weeks later that requested her to come to their office that she heard anything about Jerry. She felt more relieved that whether he as alive or dead, his lawyer would hopefully give her some closure.

Strangely enough, she didn't know he had a lawyer. How could he even afford a lawyer? Only rich people have lawyers. Maybe Jerry was rich. Maybe he was a reclusive hermit living in a loft in a dilapidated building in Detroit that was infested with rats and roaches but for his loft. Who lives like that but crazy, eccentric people, people who don't want anything to do with the rest of humanity?

That was Jerry, the reclusive portrait painter looking at life from afar while drawing people he'd never talk to and never meet. He'd draw quick portraits of people he saw waiting for the bus or riding the bus. He'd draw quick portraits of people dining at the diner and sitting at the counter while he sat hidden in a corner booth. Just as he enjoyed drawing portraits of people who didn't know they were being drawn, he'd liked drawing portraits of homeless people.

"Homeless people have a roadmap of character on their faces. The face of a homeless person to me if like gazing in the Grand Canyon to someone else. I can see so much in a face that has survived such pain, agony, and trauma," he said.

Except for her friendship, his only friends were the collection of portrait pictures of faces that he drew and that hung from every inch of wall space in his loft or were leaned against the walls in vertical piles of dead heads. Then as if his portraits were sleeping, they all came to life when dug out of their piles and exposed to the light of day. Capturing more in sixty seconds than others can remember in a lifetime, a talented artist, he was a voyeur with paper and pencil.

A dangerous man with a pencil and paper, no look escaped him. When he was drawing someone, there wasn't a look that they could hide quickly enough for him to not only see it but also sketch. Later if so motivated, he'd paint those sketches he liked the best. Seemingly with all of the painting he had collecting dust in his loft, he like all of his sketches. If anyone was as talented of a portrait artist of the day, he was a modern day Rembrandt.

* * * * *

Maybe Jerry died she wondered. Maybe indeed he was rich. In the way that Howard Hughes hid out on the top floor of his Desert Inn penthouse in the Las Vegas, maybe Jerry is hiding out in a Detroit burnt out and partially demolished ghetto while looking for the last remnants of his lost love. Indeed, with Howard Hughes' life filled with money, alcohol, sex, and drugs while spinning out of control in the way of a never ending carousel ride, there were many parallels and some common threads between the two men.

In thinking that Jerry may be wealthy, she took heart in believing such a romantic story while knowing that none of it was true and that Jerry was just an old man and a recovering alcoholic and ex-drug addict. Perhaps in the way she was imagining a better life in Boston, he was imagining something that never was with his lost love. Nonetheless what was or what wasn't, she more believed in reality filled with drama and trauma, than she believed in fiction with happy endings. Bursting all of her balloons of hope when her mother disappeared for days and returned drunk and smelling of shit, vomit, and sex, she had already resigned to herself that they'd be no happy endings for her, just misery, heartache, and sadness.

In the way that Richard Gere pulled up in a limo to rescue Julia Roberts from her life as a prostitute in Pretty Woman, sadly there was no Prince Charming coming to rescue her from herself. Whether working in Detroit or in Boston, she was destined to be a waitress for the rest of her life. With her having no formal education beyond high school, waitressing is all she knew and all that she could do. If she could depend on anything, she could depend on her big tits earning her extra tips.

Yet, needing to have a dream that was filled with hope in the way that Jerry had a dream of a lost love, maybe he is rich and left her money in his will for her to start a new life in Boston. Maybe in the way she watched out for him in life, he'll watch out for her in death. Only in the slovenly way he dressed and with him barely having any furniture in his loft other than a bed, two chairs, and a table, he looked as if he had nothing. He didn't even have a car.

If he was a rich man, he was a rich man in goodness, kindness, and in heart and in spirit. If he was a rich man, he was rich with artistic talent. With him being her friend, she was already rich in having had known him. Having lived her life without having any man in her life, she didn't need to depend on any man to earn a living.

Bringing closure to the mystery of the sudden disappearance of her friend, she went to his lawyer's office to find out what happened to Jerry. Preparing herself for the worst, she hoped for the best. Hoping he's not dead but alive and well and living in Boston, she imagined him bestowing enough money on her that she didn't have to work as a waitress ever again.

* * * * *

"Jerry wanted me to give you this," said his lawyer handing her a box that weighed about five pounds. She was hoping the box was a box filled with money, jewels, and a safety deposit box key. "It's his ashes," he said obviously responding to the expectant look on her face that couldn't conceal her excitement. "He said that you promised to take him home to Boston. There's the address with directions where he wanted his ashes scattered."

Immediately her look changed from excitement to sadness. If Jerry was here now, he would have drawn her. If Jerry was here with her face so quickly going from excitement to sadness, he would have sketched her six times, and after discarding five of them, he would have painted the sixth one that he drew. If Jerry was here with her now, she wouldn't feel so lost and so alone without having the comfort and fatherly wisdom of her friend.

Now what? What the Hell is she doing in Boston alone? She doesn't belong here. Where is she going to go? Where will she live? Even if she had a job, she can't afford to live here. It's way too expensive. After selling all of her possessions and giving up her apartment in Detroit, there was no way she was returning there.

With all of him stuffed in a little plastic bag inside of a box, as soon as she accepted ownership of his ashes she started to cry. For such a great man, a man who made her feel good about herself, he was the first man who made her feel pretty instead of plain. As it turns out, she loved him not as a sexual lover but as her best friend. She truly loved him and if he had asked to see her tits, she would have gladly shown him her big breasts. If only he had asked her to give him a hand job or a blowjob with her not having a man in her life, she probably would have gladly done that too.

In the way that Prince Charming awakened Sleeping Beauty with a kiss, she'd have sexual intercourse with Jerry if that's what was needed to bring him back to life from the dead. Only, with him already gone, he was there in powder form in that box she held in her hand. With her unable to hold him before because he was too heavy, and with him weighing much less than a tray of dirty dishes that she routinely carried to the kitchen at work, she was easily able to hold him now. Entrusted with the responsibility of getting him home, the very least that she could do in good conscience after all that he's given her with his friendship, she took it upon herself to lay him to rest.

"I did promise him that and I will take him home to wherever he wants to go in Boston," said Ginny accepting the ashes and the bus ticket that was inside an envelope along with a business card.

She looked at the business card with curiosity that just had a name and a phone number. She quit her job, sold whatever she could sell, and gave away, threw out, and left behind what she couldn't carry. She packed her depressing life into one small carry-on bag and took what little money and possessions she had with her to go to Boston. Alone and sad, she left downtown Detroit as if she was a Pilgrim embarking on a new life in the New World.

"Anywhere but here has to be better than this," she said in the way that Dorothy Gale said 'There's no place like home,' in the Wizard of Oz when tapping her red, ruby slippers together and thinking of going home to Kansas.

Anywhere but here is where she wanted to go and being that she always dreamt of going to Boston, Jerry gave her the reason to go there and she thanked him for that. Otherwise, she'd be stuck in Detroit for the rest of her sad life while serving eggs, sausages, hash browns, coffee, and apple pie. In the way she's already wasted thirty years of her life languishing in Detroit, she couldn't imagine wasting another thirty years there too. If nothing else, with this trip her first real adventure, no longer can she say that she hasn't been anywhere but Detroit.

Along with the box of his ashes was instructions where to dump his ashes. He wanted to be laid to rest in the historic Copp's Hill Cemetery across from here he grew up in the North End of Boston. In the shadow of the Old North Church from his childhood bedroom window and in sight of the U. S. S. Constitution out his kitchen window, he loved this part of Boston. A burial ground that dates back to the early 17th century, 1659 to be exact, no one has been interred there in more than 100 years. Being that it was illegal to dump his ashes there, she'd have to climb the fence and scatter them at night.

Along with the ashes and his last resting place instructions was the business card of Joyce Saunders. There was a message on the back of the card for her to call as soon as she made it to Boston. Ginny wondered who she was and what she wanted. Maybe she was a friend of Jerry's and he had arranged a job for her.

Wouldn't that be a nice surprise if he gave her a leg up the ladder in Boston? Sometimes it's not what you know but who you know. Perhaps Jerry had friends in high places. Perhaps his old friends are now her new friends.

Not having very much money, she needed to find a job as soon as possible. Not worried about finding a job, unlike Detroit, Boston was bustling with restaurants and coffee shops on every corner. With restaurants and coffee shops always looking for good help, surely, she'd find a job in no time. Surely, she'll do much better with tips here in Boston than she did in Detroit. With Boston the most education oriented city in America, surely, she'd have a better chance of finding a man, a better man, a man perhaps with a college education. Hopefully she'd find a man who was more interested in her and who she was than he was interested in just her tits.

Only the rent and cost of living was so very much higher in Boston than it was in Detroit. She'll need a roommate or two, someone to split the rent and cost of living expenses. For the time being, until she was more familiar with Boston, for $54 a night, she got a room at the local YWCA on Clarendon Street. She called the number on the business card from a payphone outside. Not able to afford one before, maybe it's time she got a cell phone.

* * * * *

"Hi. Joyce? Jerry's lawyer gave me your number to call," said Ginny suspiciously while wondering if it was all just a gag.

Not even having a chance to identify herself, Joyce already knew who she was.

"You must be Ginny," said Joyce. "I've been expecting your call. Do you have a pen and paper?"

Ginny rifled through her purse.

"I do."

Joyce gave her the address.

"I'll be here all week until 11 pm. We're having an opening and if you can, I'd like for you to come at 8 pm," she said.

Acting as if she knew what an opening was, she didn't. If Jerry was with her, she'd ask him and he'd know what an opening was but he wasn't here with her. He was dead and in the way she was alone in Detroit, but for his box of ashes that she hasn't yet delivered and scattered, she was alone now in Boston. Only, in the way she knew her way around Detroit, she didn't have a clue where she was in Boston. Much smaller than Detroit, nearly half the size, just from her first impression of the historic city, Boston seemed more invitingly quaint and charming.

"Okay, but I'll need directions," said Ginny.

Ginny supported her pocketbook as an impromptu table by the phone with her pen and paper ready to write the address.

"Where are you staying?"

Being that the rom she had at the YWCA was clean and better than what she had in Detroit, she wasn't embarrassed to tell Joyce where she was staying.

"I'm at the YWCA on Clarendon Street."

Unfazed, Joyce seemed okay with her living arrangements too.

"Perfect," said Joyce. "You're within walking distance of me, less than a mile, about a five minute, brisk walk."

She wondered if Joyce had a job for her. She wondered what Joyce did for a living. She wondered what she was to Jerry, a co-worker, girlfriend, or an ex-lover.

"Good because I don't have a car," said Ginny.

Maybe if she does well enough in Boston, she can buy an inexpensive used car.

"I can send a car to pick you up," she said.

She imagined a shiny black, stretch limousine pulling up in front of the YWCA before she imagined one of the many Yellow Cabs she's already seen zooming around Boston.

"No, I'm good," said Ginny. "My first time in Boston, I don't mind the walk."

Actually, she couldn't wait for tomorrow when she could walk about Boston and do some exploring.

"Walk straight down Clarendon Street and take a right onto Newbury Street. I'm at 38 Newbury Street. Brooks Brothers is on the Corner, Cartier Jewelers is next to Brooks brothers and I'm next to Cartier on the same side of the street. I'm about a half dozen blocks away from you," said Joyce.

With so many tall buildings in Boston, she imagined Joyce being in a high rise building.

"What floor?"

She was disappointed somewhat that Joyce was on the first floor. She was hoping she'd be on the fortieth floor so that she could see a nighttime view of Boston.

"The first floor. Trust me," she said with a laugh. "You can't miss it."

To be continued...

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