by L. L. Soares
I waited for my number to be called. Unlike my home, this place was airless and hot and I knew my warm face was bright red.
"Eight-O-Eight. Number Eight-O-Eight." The robotic female voice said over the loudspeaker.
I stood and saw Lee coming down the speckled hall, smiling. She was pretty but had large teeth. I was smiling too, thinking of the punches I had landed on her breast and stomach. That's the kind of thing that could keep me going for another year at least.
"I'm glad you're in a better mood, Isabel," she said.
"I'm starting to understand our clients better."
She pursed her lips but I could tell she was amused.
"Good. Maybe it'll help you enjoy your work more."
More? What is more of nothing? If I had more of anything, it was more hating, more anger, more sadness.
The linoleum was bubbled in spots and I watched for those raised bits so that I could step on them. My foot sunk down on a bubble, the ferment of time and crushed dreams; it felt good. I was crushing every dreary corridor bubble I could find and Lee walked on a little bit ahead.
I inhaled the antiseptic in the air and my mind went: "So so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so..."
Lee stopped in front of a green door that had the number "8" on it.
"This is it." She turned around and smiled at me.
"Anything I should know?" I asked.
"No, you should be all set, kid. Good luck."
I didn't say anything, just pulled down the handle and walked in.
A guy in his mid-thirties sat at a long white table, chewing gum. He had a beer gut and angry brown eyes that glistened in the fluorescent light. He looked at me, frowning. "You're late, idiot."
I stopped and stood in the center of the room.
"God, you are such a stupid fucking cunt. Come closer."
I walked to where he was sitting. I heard a faint exhalation sound and then something landed in my hair. His gum, apparently.
The guard sat on a stool in the corner. It was the first I'd noticed him. He looked bored.
The guy got up, picked up the paddle and started hitting me. The guard watched intently. Sometimes, I wish they'd let them use their fists. I think it might hurt less and there was something to be said for the human contact. These paddles were so damn antiseptic and cold.
"Fuck you!" he shouted. "Fuck you!"
It couldn't have lasted anymore than ten minutes. His arms got tired and I could see he was emotionally spent.
"Have a good day, sir," I said as I walked out.
* * *
Lee was waiting outside. Her chipper, ambitious face was annoying. Still, the intensity of her interaction with me was kind of funny considering how much less a crap I could give.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Okay."
"Did he seem satisfied?" she asked anxiously.
"What, is that guy some kind of king or something?"
"Of course not." She sounded irritated. Then she smiled and said, "All of our customers are kings." That was too abysmally corny to reply to.
She grabbed my hand. Her skin was very warm and soft. "I am so psyched to be in charge of you, Isabel. I'm going to turn you into a dynamo."
"Isn't a dynamo a machine?" I asked.
"I can see you have potential, Isabel. You can be great at what you do."
I felt sick and dehydrated. The heat of the place was too much for me.
"Can I get a glass of water?" I asked.
She looked at her watch.
"It isn't time yet for your break, Isabel, but all right."
"Thanks." I said it sincerely because I felt like a sick child.
She put her hand on my forehead. "You might have a fever."
* * *
I drank my water in the lounge. Lee sat next to me writing notes on her clipboard.
"Isabel, I think you're going to be just fine."
I held the cool glass to my cheek and closed my eyes.
"Which is good because your next appointment is in five minutes."
"Is he going to paddle me?" I asked.
"I don't know. Why do you assume it's a man?"
"Isn't it?"
"No, it's not."
I was unsure whether that was good or bad, but I stretched out my legs, holding the glass to my face, enjoying the last couple of minutes of peace and rest and refreshment.
It's the little moments that get a person through the day.
* * *
"You're ugly," she told me.
I wasn't supposed to let it get to me, but it did and it must have showed.
She smoothed her hand over her black greasy hair and smiled. She was truly hideous-looking and I think she may have been retarded as well. Her plaid skirt hung sideways, half falling off her hips and her white shirt was wrinkled and stained.
"Do you know you ain't pretty?" she said.
"Yeah, I know."
I don't know why, but what she said made me feel like crying. I turned away from her and held in my breath.
She came up from behind me. She bent her head and put it close to mine.
"I don't mean to insult you or anything," she said.
"That's okay."
"Not everyone can be pretty," she said.
"No, they can't. I guess ugly girls like me, we have to develop a personality."
She smiled and nodded.
* * *
"Isabel, you're really doing good today."
"Great."
"Cheer up. That means more work for you."
"More work? I'm already frigging exhausted."
"Well, just one more for today. Then you can go home and rest till tomorrow."
The sun formed a pattern on the linoleum of the dusty Venetian blinds that hung crookedly from the two back windows. I always told myself I'd clean them on my break, but I never did. Nobody else cared enough to either, I guessed.
* * *
He was lying across the couch when I walked in. I stared at his long gray hair and beard, and then moved along to his broad shoulders, large chest and stomach. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt with hand-painted dancing skeletons. His feet were bare. There was a pair of beat-up Birkenstocks beside the couch. A stinking old hippie.
This is the face of death, I thought.
His eyes opened. I jumped back.
He smiled and sat up.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
"No, it's all right," I said.
"You don't look all right."
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"Can I help you?" I asked.
He laughed. "You really think you can help me?"
"I wouldn't know, sir."
"Sir! We're very formal."
"I don't know what else to call you. I was being polite."
"To hell with polite. Polite is the root of all evil. Just call me Pete."
"What can I do for you, Pete?"
Pete patted the cushion next to him.
"You can sit down."
I hesitated, wondering if I could sit on the third cushion without offending him, but figured I'd better take the one next to him to keep him happy. I was becoming Lee's dynamo in spite of myself.
"You're a pretty young lady."
I laughed.
"Is that funny?" he asked.
"A private joke."
"A private joke. You're not much for sharing, I see."
"Just something someone said earlier today..."
"Why are you being so cryptic?"
His blue eyes looked at me coldly. I looked around for the guard but he wasn't in the room.
"Someone told me earlier today that I wasn't pretty."
"Who told you that?"
"She was just a woman."
He laughed.
"Another woman, of course. Women are very catty to each other, especially about beauty."
"She was okay. I think she liked me."
"Of course she liked you. You w
ere submissive, as you are now. You had the advantage and then you removed your stinger."
The cracked red vinyl of the cushion squeaked as I shifted my leg. I looked around anxiously for a paddle but I didn't see one anywhere in the room.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"They didn't leave a paddle for you." I stood up. "I'll get you one."
Pete put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down on the couch.
"Relax, honey. I don't want any of your stinking paddles."
The air in the room was warm and heavy, too thick to inhale. It was like once the air went into my nostrils, it became solid and white, like cold fat in a frying pan. I opened my mouth and the air went slowly and thickly down my throat.
"You'll like this," he said.
He got up from the couch and went over to the table. The hippie was going through a ratty purple backpack. His laugh sounded showy and fake as he pulled out the gun. He brought it over to me and held it up to my face.
"You like?" he asked.
"Those aren't allowed," I said hoarsely.
"Are you the best employee?" he asked
I put my hand over the gun. "No."
He smiled. "Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you."
"You just want to scare me," I said, and the air became light and breathable again.
"You are the best employee."
A drop of sweat ran down my cheek. In this heat, the wetness was a relief. "Why do you keep saying that?"
"I asked for the best and they sent me you. And I see you're up to the task."
"I'm not the best. Ask Lee, my supervisor."
"Lee's an awfully pretty girl. Prettier than you. Lee's the one that recommended you."
He put the gun in my hands. It was wonderfully cold. I gripped it tightly and then held the butt to my forehead.
"Whoa, careful with that!" Pete gently moved the gun away from my head. "Do you know how to fire this?"
I shook my head. He put his hands over mine and demonstrated. Then he reached into his pocket and took out six shiny bullets and loaded the gun.
"There's more in the backpack," he told me. "You might want to take them with you."
"I don't know what you mean," I said.
"I want you to shoot every asshole in this place who plops down money to abuse and exploit you."
Pete handed the gun to me.
I held it out in front of me. "Like this?"
"That's good," he said.
I pointed the gun at his face. The trigger was stiffer and harder to pull than I thought. It went off very sudden and loud, like a tire blowing out.
I stared at the hole in Pete's face and watched the blood drip down onto his hand-painted shirt and blend with the red vinyl of the couch. It looked like a dissatisfied diner threw tomato sauce and macaroni and a tentacle or two of calamari onto the wall behind us.
It seemed like a very long time before Lee came in to get me.
Part Two: L. L. Soares
Little Black Dress
"You're not going to wear that, are you?"
"Why not?" Julie asked, looking down at the box on the table. It was faded white with the words Naughty Witch printed on the top. A cellophane window gave a peek at the contents inside. Mostly fish netting. Part of a rather skimpy Halloween costume put out by some generic costume company.
"I don't know," Amy said, looking over her shoulder. "It looks like something a stripper would wear."
Ever since she'd been a teenager, Julie had seen this costume, or one of many variations of it, in the seasonal Halloween aisle of pharmacies or in the occasional costume store. It was always in the "adult" costume section. Sometimes it would be in a cardboard box, like this one. Other times it would be in a plastic bag with a photograph showing some model dressed in the "naughty" costume.
In almost all cases, it consisted of fishnet stockings, a mini-dress, a cape, and a black, pointed hat.
Ever since she'd been a teenager, Julie had wanted to wear the costume. When she was sixteen, she finally got the nerve to buy it. She even tried it on in her room. But she never wore it in public. She put it in the back of her closet, but was so afraid that her mother would find it that she ended up discarding it in the dumpster behind the convenience store near her home, wrapped in a paper bag.
"So what?" Julie said. It had taken a lot of nerve to buy it again, especially since this time she was determined to finally go through with it. To wear it to the party. "It is Halloween, after all. What's the harm in it?"
"I guess it just doesn't seem like the kind of thing you'd wear," Amy said. "You know, you're pretty straight-laced."
And she was. Where some girls wouldn't have thought twice about wearing something so provocative, Julie agonized over it. But the costume signified so much to her. It symbolized the bad girl she'd always wanted to be but never had the courage to attempt.
She had spent her whole life doing the right things, trying to please everyone.
But her life was passing her by. She was a studious twenty-year-old, striving for good grades. Still afraid of boys. Awkward in just about any relationship. More some girl who belonged in the 1950's than the year 2001.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Fear was part of it. She knew what her mother would say if she saw her in such an outfit. "You are asking to get raped, wearing something like that." It was her mother's voice that made her want to throw the box away again. But it was also that voice that made her want to put it on, in defiance. To go out into the world as someone else, someone braver and freer and, maybe, someone even a little dangerous.
"I'm going to try it on." Julie took the box in the direction of her room.
Amy took a sip from her beer and watched her go.
Inside her room, Julie slowly removed her clothes. When she was naked, she stood by the bed staring down at the box. It looked old. It had probably been in the back room of the drugstore for years. Each year it had been trotted out and put on the shelf. Each year it had been left behind, unbought. Collecting dust. Waiting for her to come in and buy it.
She slipped the stockings on first. She'd never worn fishnets before, and they felt more comfortable than she thought they would. She had imagined they would feel like bondage clothes. She took her time pulling them on, then putting on the garter belt to attach them. She'd never worn one of those either. It seemed ancient to her, archaic. But also kind of liberating. Sexy.
The dress felt like vinyl when she took it out of the box. At first, it seemed too tight and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to get it on, but she kept trying, and, eventually, squirmed into it. The dress was short, ending at her upper thighs, barely covering her crotch. Once she had it on, though, it seemed to expand with her body. It felt almost comfortable.
The cape was black and sheer. She draped it around her shoulders and could barely feel it at all.
She added some high-heeled black shoes that she seldom wore. They complimented the costume perfectly.
The hat was last. A flat circle of more black vinyl. She shook it and the pointed top popped up. She put it on her head and looked in the mirror.
It made her laugh to see herself like that. A naughty witch, after all these years of secret yearning.
She'd even dyed her mousy brown hair black a few days before, in preparation. She thought it suited her much better.
Looking in the mirror, she realized that, despite her penchant for dressing rather conservatively, she had a cute figure. She'd spent her entire life hiding it. She'd always thought she was a little chubby and was never happy with herself. But now, something about the way she looked in the costume made her feel better.
There was a knock at the door. "Julie, how's it going in there?"
She continued to look at herself in the mirror. To pose.
"Okay," she said.
"Come on out so I can see it."
"Okay," Julie said again and went to the door.
She opened it and stepped into the
living room. Her roommate and best friend stood there, looking her over.
"Not bad," Amy said. "Not as cheesy as I thought it would be. In fact, it's pretty sexy."
"I know," Julie said.
* * *
While they were walking to the party-it was only three blocks away from the house they rented off-campus-a man pulled up beside them in his car and asked if they needed a ride.
"No, thanks," Amy told him. "We're okay."
"Are you sure?" the guy asked. Julie could hear the desperation in his voice and it scared her. She could hear her mother's warning again, and it made her feel self-conscious about what she wore. Maybe it did attract the wrong kind of attention.
But it was Halloween. Wasn't she allowed to indulge even then? Wasn't the world safe enough to give her that little freedom?
She could feel the guy's eyes on her but didn't look in his direction. She simply pretended he wasn't there.
Amy, however, looked sternly at the guy. "We're sure. Leave us alone, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," the guy said, clearly annoyed at their disinterest but not enough to take it any further. He stepped on the gas pedal and drove away.
Maybe there wasn't anything to be afraid of, Julie thought. Amy was with her, after all.
"There it is," Amy said as they turned the corner. She pointed across the street to a brightly lit house. It looked like the party was already in full swing. The front lawn was full of people, in and out of costume.
* * *
She'd brought a broom with her. It wasn't much of a broom: an anorexic-looking thing they used around the house. They'd gotten it cheap at the supermarket. That was the operative word for most of the things they got for the house-cheap.
Amy was dressed as a cross between a Goth and a biker chick: black leather jacket; exaggerated make-up. It wasn't all that much different from what she'd wear to any other party. She wasn't in a creative mood, Julie guessed.
