A Man of Innocence

Jack would knock on the door every evening, as I was shutting down my computer and packing up my things to leave. He was the maintenance guy who came around from office to office, through the night, when everyone else had gone home. His job was to remove the piles of rubbish and paper that my colleagues and I produced in the operation of the companies business, sweep, dust and vacuum. It was a very simple job, for a very simple fellow. I felt incredibly sorry for Jack, his supervisor explained his story to me this way: he had been born to a crack-head mom, and had been removed by caesarean when the miserable woman overdosed and died. He had been deprived of oxygen for much too long, born addicted and two months premature. All of this had caused permanent and irrevocable damage to his brain. 

He had bounced from foster home to foster home until he was about twelve, when finally an elderly couple in Larchmont decided to give him a more permanent home. These had been the happiest years of Jack’s wretched life. They both passed away several years ago, and Jack has been despondent and lonely ever since. 

The maintenance service had hired him through an outreach placement agency for mentally challenged adults. He worked long and hard, doing an excellent job for very little salary. His needs were few, as he lived in a group home with several other challenged adults. His job was all he had. Jack took great pride in his performance and ached for praise. A simple “thank you” or “great job” would make his eyes light up and his lips curl into a toothy captivating smile. He was a seven-year-old boy in a fully-grown, twenty-two year old body. And oh! What a perfectly formed body.

He had a sweet boyish face, rosy cheeks and full bow-shaped lips under a tousled blonde mop of hair that fell in wavy curls on his forehead. His handsome face rested on a thick, powerful neck and broad shoulders. His heavily muscled chest and arms were completely hairless; his flawless skin the color of a peach. Except for the soft, vacant look in his gentle brown eyes, you would never guess his capacity was diminished. He was physically impressive and had a very sexual aura about him. I fantasized of holding him next to me many evenings as I drove from the city, headed home.

It was raining that night that changed everything. I was working late, the Seattle Project was due on the plane in the morning. Three a.m., and I finally closed the books and turned off the monitor. Jack had been into my office a couple hours ago, working very quietly so he wouldn’t disturb my work. I looked up from the desk a couple times to watch him move around the room. So attractive, so well built and athletic. He had spent much of his spare time, all his life, in developing his physique. He had little else to do few friends and no social life to speak of. I saw his big biceps flex as he pushed the sweeper around the carpet. His broad shoulders rippled as he stretched to dust the tops of the cabinets. 

The rain beat against the large plate-glass windows, occasional bursts of lightening streaking across the sky, followed shortly with a mighty crack of thunder. Jack was fascinated, and sat on the window ledge watching the storm. He would look to me at every flash, to see how I was reacting. I said nothing, but allowed him to keep me company for an hour or so. Flash, BANG! I smiled at Jack and his face lit up as bright as the lightening behind him. My heart went out to the gentle man-child. 

Much later I put on my coat, and noticed that Jack was nowhere to be seen. His lunchbox was gone, so I locked up the office and left. The BMW’s wipers swung rhythmically as I pulled out of the parking deck and turned onto 28th street. As I approached Lexington, I saw him. Jack, sitting on the curb, waiting for his bus. His golden hair was matted, clinging in wet rings to his head. The rain ran down his face like tears, millions of tears drenching him. He hugged his legs and seemed to be shivering as he huddled there, his yellow plastic lunchbox on the pavement beside him.

The Beamer slid to a stop in front of him. I got out of the car and went around to Jack. He looked startled, perhaps he thought he had done something wrong, something I was going to yell at him for. 

“Jack! You’re soaking wet! Don’t you have a raincoat? Get in the car where it’s dry!” I said to him, shouting over the sounds of the traffic and the driving rain. He jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to get in; he didn’t want to get the car wet. I opened the door and guided him into the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Riso, I...I missed my bus. Victor says if I miss my bus I gotta walk. But it’s so cold, and the rain...” He whispered in his child-like voice. Victor, I assumed, was his house supervisor. I asked him if he had Victor’s phone number. “Oh, yes... Victor says I have to know my name and address, and the telephone number in case I’m hit by a truck or somethin’” I asked him to call me Evan, my father is Mr. Riso. Jack looked at me blankly, the joke was over his head. He clutched tightly at his lunchbox a we sped through the midtown tunnel.

Victor was very brusque when I called the number Jack gave me. I had apparently woken him up, and didn’t seem all that interested in Jack’s whereabouts. I told Victor that I was going to get him some dry clothes and take him out for breakfast. “Whatever!” He said, and disconnected. Jack heard what I said, and his angelic face showed his delight.

We stopped at my house and I gave Jack the only thing I owned that would fit his very muscular frame: an old gray Addidas sweat suit that fit me like a sack. On him it was form fitting, and very sexy. I told him he should keep it, it certainly looked better on him than on me! The Sea View Diner was empty that late at night, and we sat alone in a corner booth, listening to the rain drum against the window. I had coffee; Jack had chocolate milk, bacon and pancakes. I never heard so much chatter from Jack! He always seemed so quiet, so introverted. That night he couldn’t tell me enough, about his collection of car models or how many pounds he could bench-press. I marveled at the charismatic man. He was simple, child-like but utterly charming. He had a very distinct personality, despite the limited intellect. I gave him a $20 bill, and let him pay for our meal at the front desk. This seemed to give him a kick, and he puffed up with pride as the woman said “Thank You, sir!”. I think she was attracted. Jack’s sexual magnetism apparently worked on women, too.

We got back to the house, and I let him into the foyer. He stepped aside, brushing against me as I pulled the door closed. I thought that I would change, then take Jack back into Queens, to his group home. Jack was looking around the apartment at the furnishings, and the pictures hung on the walls. He stopped in front of each grouping of shots, souvenir photos of weekends on Fire Island, Aruba with David last year, and the Leather Ball. Bare-chested men smiling and having a good time. I went into the bedroom to put on some jeans.

Jack followed me into the bedroom. “I like all of your pictures, you have lots of friends, Mr. Ri..., I mean, Evan.” He said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I used to have a friend when I lived in my house on Kendall Street”. I thought that must be the house he shared with the elderly couple. “My friend’s name was Curtis. He liked when I came over to his house. He said he loved me very much.” An alarm went off in my head. Where was this going?