G.O. Spelvin sat in a nameless cafe, smoked constantly through a long filter and waited on Tesley B. Jones. This name to him was nothing more than what it was; a name, written on a pawn ticket, in an unsure hand. "A nigger's name," he thought to himself, too old to think otherwise for now. Every ring of the bell brought his heavy, withered eyes to the door. A fat woman with a ridiculous collar, holding a small dog; the butcher's lad, making deliveries; an artist, holding a flat box and wearing a panama hat. Where was this name of his?

The answer lie three blocks down, leaning against a used book store. Smelling all that mildewed literature, mulled over countless times by people he would never meet, had driven him out in a choke of nausea. The hit of cold, autumn air and the sight of the barren American streets revived him; now, he thought, on to my appointment. He took one confident step in the right direction and stumbled down the sidewalk.

It was now time for the bell to ring for Tesley and ring it did. Spelvin saw immediately that the young man was searching the room for someone; his eyes were bright, his mouth was open and his brain was useless.
"Jones?" he croaked, not bothering to clear his throat.
"Spelvin."
"Sit down." That was certainly something he was quick to do. Spelvin's contact had described this Tesley B. Jones as homely, and now he saw why. He was not necessarily ugly, but had the sort of face you felt sorry for. A face that had been sketched without his knowledge by many a perplexed art student, always making him more attractive to be easier on themselves. His thin, pale lips sprang into movement.
"I'm not sure we've ever come across each other before."
Spelvin blew out a long stream of smoke. "No, I don't think we have." He rubbed at his chin with one stiff hand, reliving a motion from his youth.
Jones seemed to be remembering something. "You remind me of my father; I never came across him either. I have a picture of him on my wall, though, from his college days. He's smoking opium while his roommate plays the accordion." He smiled brightly at Spelvin's studying eyes and studied him back. The old man did not seem to have a definite shape to him. He looked to be nothing but a cloud of dust, able to be slain with the sweep of a hand. This gave Jones courage.
"So what this all about, old man?" he asked and was the only one to hear it.
Spelvin found something awfully familiar about this Jones character. The old man had been around so long, dragging his feet through so many lives; he had to have some connection to him. "You related to Norman Jones?"
"No, no. That Tesley B. Jones, that's not my birth name or anything." The old man's look seemed to demand further explanation. "I'm a refugee. A Jew. Poland. I had to change my name to something."
"Why Tesley B. Jones?"  
"I don't know, old man; why is it important? Would you rather call me Matthias Altmann? C'mon, what are we doing?" He took a long drink of water. Just looking at Spelvin made him feel dry.
"Are you a homosexual?"
Jones swallowed thoughtfully. "Do I look interesting enough to be one?"
"Interesting is not the word I'd choose."
"No, no, I'm not." He seemed sad about it. "No, in fact, I just ended a love affair with a rather young woman." He could tell Spelvin was uninterested, so he continued. "Young. Quite young. Dangerous. A little monster. Always pretended I was drunker than I actually was."
"You a lush?"
"'Prone to drunkenness' is what I called it."
"What you called it. Good for you."
"Oh, that little monster!" he cried, disregarding the old man, "When I first kissed her, she made sounds like a wounded animal, she was so happy! I dreamt of strangling her and fucked her anyway. Every time we did it, she always asked me to keep it inside her afterwards. Keep it inside her...the nerve! What made her think I wanted to feel [i]that[/i] longer than I had to?"
"She live with her parents?"
"No, not that young. Nineteen. Still strongly attached to them though." He laughed and hoped to be asked why. When no questions came, he continued. "She told me that if her father learned of our affair, he would murder me." He raised his eyebrows, thin and lively as himself. "She was prone to dramatics, but I'd be a lair if i said that didn't excite me."
The old man sipped his tea.
"Perhaps...yes, perhaps that's what kept me with her. The possibility of her father discovering us. In the act! Imagine!" He waved his arms as if to set a stage. "He takes up the letter opener in his hands! (I was always sure to place in on the bedside table, in the event he should show himself during our lovemaking.) Falling upon the passionate tangle on the bed, he finds my guilty throat and draws it across! Curses! It's too dull! The culprit still lives, bleeding now, but still struggling, grappling him to the floor!" He could not be stopped. The old man could only look on as he happily continued. "In his paternal rage, APE-LIKE, he draws it again, once, twice, a third time! And then STABBING, in the center of my neck, to the side, in one side and out the other! His daughter screaming at the destruction of what she takes for her love, the precious thing! Why, the possibility of such an interruption excited me more than the sex act itself!"
The old man plunked down the cup heavily. That was it. He was the epitome of youth, he thought, tall, perhaps too thin, but has outstanding teeth and complexion. How could these horrible thoughts, which most people could not keep in their mind for but a minute, how could they fill him with a feeling rivaling that of rapturous contact? His mind must indeed be diseased! He shook his head, as he imagined his father once had, but was not seen.
"Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end." Jones' eyes fell as flat as youthfully possible. "Last time we engaged in intercourse, when it was over, when I was still inside her, when she was nuzzling me as a mother cat would to her runt, I realized I was going to be sick. Next thing I recall, I was in the bathroom and she stood as much in the doorway as her mind allowed. The sight was too much for her. I have not had nor needed release since she left." He shivered, as now if out of a trance and spoke slyly. "Why am I telling you all this old man? I've never spoken to anyone about such matters as this."
"I guess I just have that face."
Jones failed to catch the mockery in the old man's voice. "Yes, but what is it about your face? Your eyes or your ears perhaps? It’s them that do the listening. An old man such as you...haven't you heard it before? Are you recalling it now? From back in the great mind of yours? Surely I can't be the first..."
"No" was all Spelvin said.
The young man sighed.
"I guess I've been rewired. What does modern man need reproduction for anyway? He is unhappy enough. Why bring a child into it?"
"Well, there is pleasure to be had." Spelvin could not tell if it was his words or the fact he spoke any at all that struck Jones, but the young man recovered quickly.
"That's pleasure? If that's pleasure, give me death, old man and give it fast and hard." The young man finally took off his hat. He was going grey. "I," he stated, rubbing his chin laboriously, "yes, I have found the pleasure in loneliness."
"Bullocks!" The old man was horrified.
"I do not turn away new acquaintances. I am constantly sampling people, finding them rancid and running away. I'm tried to running. I'm tried of finding clean and pretty things to dirty by pumping that member which I conceal into it!"
"That's an awful mechanical way to put it."
"That's the only way to talk about it. It's fucking, pure and biological."
"Well, don't you just know everything!"
Jones was calm. "If one didn't pretend to know everything, there would be no strong conversation."
"Yeah, but look at you. Mr. Millionaire Playboy with your glass in the air, like you're queen of the whole damn show!"
The young man looked skyward at the offending beverage. "Mm-hum", he said, "mm-hum, I'd like to think so. This is your drink, by the way."
"Get out. I cannot stand you, just as I could not stand your brothers before you. Your father left and you, pig, should do the same! Leave me!"
"Well, I must be going," Jones said, replacing his hat. Spelvin had spoken so low, he wondered if the young man had heard him. Without another word, he slipped out the door and darted down the street, leaving Spelvin to forget what he had even needed him for.