Miles from Nowhere

by Nami Mun

  Marilyn finished washing. I wondered if Miss Mosely made her say this to all the new girls.

  “But not everybody got the cash for something extra. Some of ’em just wanna sit there and blah-blah-blah.” She yanked on the cloth towel machine, two clicks, and dabbed her chest. “Why make five bucks hearing some guy complaining about the job thing or the wife thing, when you can charge twenty bucks for a five-minute massage, you know?”

  “I think so.”

  On the mirror in front of me, someone had drawn a picture of a bird flying over an ocean of curlicue waves, except that the bird looked more like a football with wings. And below that, a girl with a penis drilled through her mouth and out the back of her head.

  “How old are your kids?” I asked, suddenly exhausted. I leaned against the wall.

  “Seven and nine. You wanna see?”

  From her purse she pulled out a wallet and flipped it open to a studio photo.

  “The older one’s got pretty eyes,” I said.

  “She wants to be a lawyer when she grows up. I tell her, why you want that? Sit behind a desk all day. You could be an artist or a poetess, and write poetry. That’s what I would do. I like writing about lovebirds and shit like that. I got a poem published in the National Enquirer. It’s called ‘Love Birds.’ It’s about love. Don’t worry, Chinita, I read it for you sometime, okay?” She pulled her dress back up, made sure she was good, reached into her purse again and this time pulled out a little vial. She popped it open. “I gotta get back out there, but listen, I’m gonna give you some avice, okay? One.” She swallowed two pills—one white, one pink. “Take a lotta drugs. Nah, I’m just fucking with you. But not really.” She picked out a cigarette and lit up. “Okay. One.” She held her cigarette way above her head, keeping the smoke from reaching her. “This avice is very important, so listen careful. Don’t ever, I mean ever, steal any a my dates.” She looked in the mirror and tugged on a few strands of her wig. “And two. Sometimes you gotta sacrifice to get what you really want, okay? That’s the truth. And three . . .” She shouldered the strap of her purse. “When your date esplodes in your mouth, don’t pull out.”

  I turned on the faucet. I couldn’t look at her. “That’s some advice,” I said.

  “You gotta keep it there and take it all in. You do that and you got a date for life, Chinita. For life.”

  Marilyn opened the door to leave, and the sounds of the club swam in and out. I rinsed my face. The water felt good. I patted my face dry with a wad of toilet paper, and with each dab, I felt myself returning to normal. And the more normal I felt, the more I had to make sure Lana was all right. I felt I understood her. Her trying to make do with who she was now. I hoped Bic hadn’t thrown her out. I wondered where she was and if she knew that her feet were bare. Maybe he’d put her in one of the private rooms. Maybe even a brick like him understood that a person shouldn’t be on the streets without shoes.

  When I stepped out into the hallway, the blaring music crushed whatever exhaustion I felt. The clock above the entrance read 11:00. I still had time. So far I’d been clocked in for an hour, which meant nine bucks. I needed seventeen for the room and sheets, nineteen if I wanted to grab a cheese slice. The bench was almost empty and the dance floor was busy with bodies making promises. I didn’t think Lana would be out there but I looked for her in the crowd anyway, just in case.

  That’s when I saw Eugene, at our table, talking to Miss Mosely.

  “. . . then she just vanished,” he said as I ran up. “If I wanted bullshit, I would’ve stayed at home with my wife.”

  “Just calm down, Eugene.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he shot back. “I paid in advance.”

  “Yes, you’re a good customer, and if you let me finish, I guarantee you, you’re going to be very happy.”

  “I was planning to bring all my buddies here next week,” he said.

  “You don’t have any friends, remember?” I said, angry and hurt that he had told on me.

  Miss Mosely touched my shoulder. “We listen with our lips shut, okay?”

  “Do you see how rude she is? I want a refund.”

  “As I was saying . . . half an hour in the TV room, with any girl you want, on the house.”

  He clenched his jaws and considered this. “Nope. It’s too late. You’ve ruined it by talking about it.”

  “Now, we went over this before, Eugene. We can’t fix the problem if we can’t discuss it.”

  “But I don’t like discussing it. I come here so I don’t have to discuss it. I come here so that everything’s easy. Do you know how hard I work all day?”

  “Here we go,” I mumbled.

  “One more word”—Miss Mosely placed a hand on my face—“and I never see you again, you hear me?” Her hand then moved from my face to Eugene’s chest, smoothing down a crease on his shirt. “Now. Are we taking the room or not?”

  The red seemed to have drained from his cheeks. I wanted to slap it back in. “Two free drinks,” he said.

  “Done.”

  “And any girl I want.”

  “Completely up to you.”

  That was the best thing I’d heard all night. I even thought to recommend Marilyn to him, but he was busy now, scanning the entire club slowly, raising and dropping his brows at the thought of every girl—no, no, maybe, no, no—until he got to me.

  “This one,” he said, pointing me out with his chin.

  “What? Why?”

  “It is a strange choice, I have to admit,” Miss Mosely said.

  Eugene grabbed his coat by the back of its neck and tossed it over his arm. “I think there’s a lesson to be learned here,” he said, and tucked his gloves into his hat, pinching the brim shut.

  “Suit yourself.” Miss Mosely took my elbow and gave me a look that said everything.

  “I don’t want to,” I whispered to her.

  “Now, be a good hostess. You do this and I’ll give you a Friday night shift, okay?”

  “But I really don’t want—”

  “Mr. Otaki’s been a regular for years now, so take good care of him.” She hooked my arm around his and soon Eugene and I were walking arm-in-arm across the dance floor and down the long yellow hallway with Miss Mosely right behind us holding our elbows in place and reminding us in that deep preacher voice of hers how everything was going to be just fine.

  “Don’t forget my drinks,” he said, over his shoulder.

  “Not a chance,” she said, and unlocked the door.

  The TV room smelled like fish and Lysol. As soon as we went in, he bolted the door and flipped a switch that turned on a bulb overhead. It was a red light, the kind that made you think your eyes were on fire. On the end table, next to the couch, was a bag of white cotton balls and, next to that, two large plastic bottles. Both had masking tape on the front—one labeled OIL, the other ALCOHOL, in black marker. His face was more raisin in this light. Even my own hands looked old and wrinkled. He walked over to the TV, turned it on, and sat on the couch. The reception was sandy but clear enough for me to see Chuck Scarborough finish the news and wish me goodnight. Eugene had already unbuckled his pants. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling with his eyes shut tight, like he was praying for something specific.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, opening one eye.

  I wasn’t doing anything.

  “Grab that bottle and wash me off.” And just like that, he pulled it out from his pants. No game. No playacting. His penis hung from his zipper like a shriveled tongue. It had too much skin. Chicken skin. I didn’t want to be in the same room with it, let alone touch it.

  “Is this something I need to talk to your boss about?”

  I told him no and grabbed the alcohol bottle, the cotton, and got on the floor. The crusty carpet bit my knees as I held his penis with the tip of my index finger and swabbed it with cotton.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He knocked the cotton out of my hand. “Just stop acting like you don’t know
what to do. You know everything, right? You’re a smart-ass. Just because you’re a pretty girl you think you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You think you’re too good for this, right?”

  “No.”

  “You think you’re better than everybody, sitting there, reading your stupid book. You’re not. You’re gonna have to get dirty just like the rest us,” he said, and shoved my head down between his legs. The alcohol stung my eyes. I couldn’t breathe, and the smell of him choked me. He held me down by the neck and used his free hand to wedge his penis into my mouth. My eyes swelled, something warm slid from my nose, and no matter how much I pushed to get away, I couldn’t. The harder I hit him, the harder he pushed down, and not long after that, I gave in. It seemed logical. To get him off as fast as I could. To give whatever it was he wanted me to give. He let out a cry. He pinched my ear, twisted it, stuck a finger inside it and cried some more, and a couple of times he whispered his own name, until finally, he let out a long wail and slackened his grip. I turned my head and spit. I coughed and spat and coughed again but all I could taste was sourness. Bitter milk. Spoiled fungus rice.

  He fell asleep almost instantly. Asleep with his penis still out. I stood over him and watched him for a while—his chest rising and dipping, the hair sprouting from his ears, the cluster of acne under his chin. I hated him. I couldn’t believe that earlier I’d worried about him not liking me. That seemed like years ago. I held the bottle of oil in my hand but I didn’t know how it had gotten there. Or how I’d gotten there. I tried to retrace my steps, to think of all the things that had happened to put me in that red room, but the only thing that kept coming to mind was the taste of him. I bent down, pinched his nose, and jammed the bottle of oil into his mouth. I gave it a hard squeeze and ran.

  Down the hallway, through the dance floor. I felt a rush traveling through me—that nervous thrill you get when you fly in your dreams. I cut through couples, ran up to the bench, grabbed my book, and headed for the cashier. I pulled out my timecard and punched it in. I was all right. It was eleven-thirty.

  “I want to get paid for tonight,” I said to the cashier girl who was in the middle of blowing a strawberry bubble and watching The Odd Couple. I couldn’t stop shaking. I looked back at the hallway. Eugene was stumbling out of the room, one hand on the doorjamb, the other clutching his throat.

  “Hey!” I slammed the counter. “I want to cash out.”

  “Just wait your fucking turn,” the girl said.

  I looked behind me. “There’s no one else here.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She finally got off her chair and read my timecard. “What’s your number?”

  Eight, I told her, eight, and with that she clacked the keys on her calculator. I checked for Eugene again and found him standing in the middle of the dance floor, under the disco ball, looking right at me.

  “Shit, I did that wrong,” the girl said. “Okay. Fifteen cents a minute is nine dollars an hour, and you worked an hour and a half, so that makes . . . Wait, what is it?” she asked the calculator.

  “Thirteen-fifty, and plus . . .” I didn’t know how to say it. “I was in the room.”

  “That you get from the date,” she said. “We only rent you the space.”

  Eugene was now snaking through the dance floor, with Miss Mosely by his side.

  “O-kay.” The cashier girl counted the bills onto the counter, one dollar at a time, slower than anyone dead. “Take away what you owe for the room . . .” She studied the calculator again. That’s when I slid the money into my book and bolted.

  I ran so hard so fast. Cars and lights streaked by me. Gated storefronts. Pieces of cardboard covering bodies and dogs. The rain hadn’t let up. I turned around. Bic shot out the front door and I bumped head-on into a couple holding hands. I didn’t stop and I didn’t apologize. A bus sped by and I ran faster, across the street, turned a corner, and then another, and it wasn’t until I was a few blocks away that I could muster the courage to look back again. There was no one behind me, and my legs started to slow. Bic’s not there, I told myself over and over while trying to catch my breath. I kept walking. The streets were empty, except for a few strands of people far ahead. It was okay. No one was after me. At the first chance I could, I leaned over a trash can and stuck a finger down my throat.

  I got to the Plaza Motel before midnight. I was cold and wet but I walked slowly anyway and looked up at the rain, how it fell so pretty on the pink neon sign that read NO VACANCY. Hiding from the weather, people slept under the bus stop shelter that stood in front of the motel entrance. Some wore ponchos made of black garbage bags and others clutched their blankets of flattened boxes. FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE, one said, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to laugh or cry. There was only one bench, and a woman took up all of it, slept on it sideways with her long legs slightly bent. I guess I knew it was Lana before I went up to her. Her feet were bare, her lips were bruised, and she looked to have marbles jammed in her left cheek. I shook her awake.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, pushing me away.

  The motel lobby smelled sour. Jake sat in his cage, a glass booth surrounded by a grid of metal bars. He talked on the phone while shoveling sauerkraut from a jar straight into his mouth. I sat Lana down on a step near the elevator. She was still half asleep and kept drooping to one side. I let the wall catch her. I wasn’t sure if she even remembered who I was. My guess was that she would’ve gone along with anyone that night.

  “I’ll call you back,” Jake said as I stepped up to the window.

  “I made it.” I pulled out the thirteen-fifty from my book and pushed it through the cage’s small opening. I apologized for the money being a little soggy, and for being a buck-fifty short. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow,” I promised.

  He gave me a flat smile and glanced over at Lana. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing with his fork.

  “She’s my friend.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s too bad because I just kicked your friend out. She still owes me from last week.” His tiny jaws didn’t have enough room for all his teeth. They crawled on top of one another.

  “She’s staying with me, just for one night,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  Jake took another forkful of sauerkraut and talked while something clear leaked from the corners of his lips. “It’s another ten for a guest.”

  “But I don’t have another ten.”

  “That’s the rules.”

  “But it’s already midnight, and she’s just gonna sleep.”

  He picked his front teeth with his tongue and made a sucking sound.

  “Look,” I whispered into the window. “It’s been kind of a rough night.” I cleared my throat. I didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. “I’m really trying to make things okay. If you let me and my friend in, then all of it was worth it. Do you understand?”

  He pointed his fork skyward. “Rules are rules.”

  The motel policy sign above the cage had a lot of words on it, words that meant nothing. I wanted to climb up and tear the sign down. I wanted to punch my hand through the glass, let the jagged pieces slice into my arm as I grabbed Jake by the throat and made him understand. “Don’t you get it? Everything would be fine if you’d just stop being a fucking dick.”

  It wasn’t easy walking with Lana. She was still half asleep or high, I couldn’t tell, but we made it to a bus stop two blocks from the motel. We sat on the bench. I told her to lean against me but that didn’t work because she was too tall. So she lay on her side, with her head on my lap. I told her that everything was good. I figured we could ride around for a while, which would be warmer than sleeping outside. I asked her if she had any money. She didn’t answer. Jake had refused to give back my thirteen-fifty. He called it a nonrefundable deposit. I threatened to call the cops. He told me to go ahead, knowing I wouldn’t. He folded my cash and shoved it in his shirt pocket. I checked Lana’s pockets; all I could find were two pills. They looked so black in my palm, and then they
looked like food. I didn’t think too long. I swallowed them both and watched Lana breathe.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked. Her face seemed worse than it had at the club.

  “What?” she mumbled.

  “Who beat you up?”

  She tongued the blister on her bottom lip as if to confirm what I’d just said. “Nobody. Me. Everybody,” she said, without opening her eyes.

  Cars slushed by. The rain stopped, making the road look vinyl. Down a ways, a row of traffic lights blinked red and yellow, and even farther down, a street-cleaning truck turned the corner. The sidewalks were empty. There was no one—no one to bother us. Lana was out again. Her head felt heavy on my lap, and soon I couldn’t feel my legs. Maybe Marilyn was right. In order to get what I needed—shelter, food, money, friendship—parts of me, piece by piece, would have to be sacrificed. From my back pocket I pulled out the yearbook photo and held it to Lana’s face for comparison. As a boy she looked thin and breakable. I understood then what I had admired about her. Over her old self, she had grown a new crust, a new version that didn’t remind anyone, maybe not even her, of anything past.

  I looked down the street for any hints of a bus. The storefront windows were dark, and the sky, a beautiful empty. Everything was closed. Everything was black, except for the 99-cent store across the street. The light inside was so bright, you thought you were looking into the sun. All the aisles were bleach-white, the floors wet and sparkly, and the huge window, the size of two movie screens, was lined with orange, blue, pink, yellow, and red containers of soap. Bottles and boxes of all kinds of detergents—dishwasher, laundry, kitchen floor, you name it, they were all there, like an open box of crayons. Every aisle was clean and every shelf was crammed full with merchandise, and you knew nothing was ever kept in storage, absolutely nothing, no extra supply, no secret shipments hiding in the back. Everything the store had to offer was all right there, completely exposed, and I was happy to be seeing it all.