Jane.

by Riya Anne Polcastro

  After that there was a bank, then a diner. Funny coincidence, neither of those places thinks it’s very funny when you pretend to hold them up. Good thing I had an amazing public defender in Multnomah County when the bank pressed charges. Then, ten years or so later, I gave it another try and got a job in fast food. But the voices in my head interfered with the voices over the drive-thru speaker. Orders for double cheeseburgers with a side of severed fingers sent me to the walk-in freezer where I’d rock back and forth like one of those fetal alcohol kids.

  This time’ll be different. I can feel it.

  And see it! The woman in the mirror’s confident and sure of herself. She smiles without fear. If only she'll stick around so that I can get to know her a little better. I’m pretty sure she can help me.

  Some people say there’s no such thing as an ugly woman. Any girl can be pretty with enough effort. But the opposite’s true too. Any girl can dress down to the point of disaster. Crisis can impose its own mal-effects. Everyday life can become too much for a change of clothes. I have seen disaster, mirrored it on my face, splattered it across my jeans, and spilled it down my front in a crusty rage. But this is no longer that. Not anymore. The woman in the mirror’s presentable. Her hair is combed. The clothes she borrowed from Jane’s closet aren’t wrinkled. It isn't a daytime TV makeover or anything, but it’s a start, and I can’t help staring at her. She may be over the hill, with more gray than black left, but her figure’s still intact from younger days. She’s still thin as the whole world bulges. And even through the trudge of middle age, her hair’s still lustrous; her skin’s as healthy and supple as the day she was born. Her rosy cheeks and estrogen-rich lips depict still more youth. Vibrant gray eyes, witness to innumerable demons, shine with a twisted, tempted innocence. Obviously there’s just something about crazy that agrees with her.

  Out the door to take a bite out of my new life, I head southeast towards Mission Street where a glut of strip malls, car lots, and fast food joints flourish. The Hyundai dealership’s up first. A man in a silk suit meets me halfway through the lot. "Hey there, did your car break down? Coming in on foot, eh? Well you are in luck! We just happen to be having a great sale today."

  Holy shit, this guy talks a lot. "Um no, I just wanted to see if you’re hiring or not."

  "Follow me." He turns back the way he came and walks as quick as he talks, his shiny pantsuit swishing back and forth. "So what kind of job are you looking for?"

  "Oh, you know, whatever. I’m not too picky."

  "Receptionist? Lot attendant? Mechanic?" I agree to each in turn, without experience, but I’m a new woman. I can learn. "Sales?"

  "Oh yeah, that would be fun. I could totally talk fast like you do!" So I show him and spit this all out with a terrible quickness.

  He laughs and leads me into the showroom. "Sit right there. I’ll get you an app." He points at a black couch covered in dead cowskin and perched next to a cherry-red Tiburon and swish swish swishes away. He returns with a clipboard and a generic application. "The manager will be out in a few minutes to talk to you."

  The application’s easy enough. Name: Rose Doe. Phone: 503.555.4545. Sex: Please. Position: Reverse Cowgirl. Aaah crap, that’s probably not what they meant. I cross it out and try again.

  The manager’s trying to be young and cool, like Joe Camel before he got lung cancer. He’s trying way too hard. "Hey there, so I hear you’d like to apply with us."

  "Yes, sir." I smile big and stick out my hand. "I’m Rose."

  His brow ruffles and he pauses a second before he introduces himself as the sales manager, Paul. "So what kind of job are you looking for?"

  "Whatever you’ve got!"

  "Well, how about I take a look at your application and see if we have anything that would suit your experience." My face droops while he looks over my blank work history. "So you’ve never worked before?"

  "That’s right." A voice in my head panics. Don’t tell him you’re crazy!

  He waits for me to say more but I don’t. Finally, he asks, "So what have you been doing all of these years?"

  "I’ve been on disability." It comes out too quick, before my brain can slam my mouth shut. Crap. Don’t tell him that you’re fucking crazy, goddamn it! His forehead wrinkles, and his eyebrows hit the ceiling. Shit! "I . . . I had a heart condition," I stammer. "But I finally got a transplant, and I am all better now!"

  What a pathetic lie. He doesn't believe me.

  "I see," he says, and it’s his turn to fib. "Well, to be perfectly honest, we aren’t actually doing any hiring right now. But I will definitely keep this on file, and I promise to give you a call if anything comes up." He offers a toothy smile and a wave instead of a handshake.

  I mutter "Asshole" as I turn to leave.

  But I will not let that piece of fecal matter get me down! How does that saying go? If at first you do not succeed, try, try, try again? So I trot on down to the next car lot, and this time I fill my employment history to the hilt. Five years selling Hondas in Washington State, six selling Caddies in Arizona, ten years in private real estate, and a BS in marketing from Cal Tech. They have to hire me with this resume!

  "Wow, this is impressive." This manager’s much older. His slicked back hair’s the color of shoe polish. He wears a tweed suit. "I tell you what, how about you start tomorrow, say nine a.m.?"

  "Thank you! Thank you, sir!" I give him a great big gorilla hug and skip the whole way home.

  Tomorrow comes full of butterflies and wicked anticipation. Jane still hasn't come home yet, so I borrow more of her clothes.

  It’s a beautiful day: the sky’s clear, the sun’s warm, pep races through my bloodstream. Life’s just too great to waste at a snail’s pace. I skip all the way into my new boss’s office. "Hello there," I chirp. Like a bird. Or a Mouseketeer.

  He jumps a little in surprise. Well, except he’s old and fat, so it’s more like he twitches. "Oh. You’re early."

  "Well, yes," I agree. "Better early than late I always say."

  "Aha, I see," he mumbles.

  "Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee?"

  He thinks about it for a minute before he answers. One of his big caterpillar brows is raised. "Sure?" he says. But he doesn't look so sure. He looks like he's suspicious.

  "Cream? Sugar?"

  My first day’s not very exciting at all. Instead of letting me jump in and test my sea—errr—car legs, he ushers me back to the break room to watch five hours of training videos. First, there’s the company introduction. It goes on and on about what it means to be an employee at Dick’s Used Cars. "Guest" service and all that jazz. It’s a home video, on eight-millimeter tape, with Dick himself as the host. It’s probably his wife or an employee holding the camera. Next, there’s a video on sexual harassment. It’s typical 1980s. All of the victims have big hair and shoulder pads, and all of the perps have mullets or flat tops. Then—oh, lucky me—come the sales videos and the self-help gurus. I learn all about the upsell and body language and projecting confidence and being all that you can be. I think they stole that last one from a recruitment center.

  And that was it. All of it. YessireeBob, that was all he wrote, the whole darn shebang. My boss’s name’s Bob, by the way. "Tomorrow, we’ll start you on the phones."

  Yippee! I try to smile. It hurts.

  I don’t skip home.

  Jane isn't here. A voice sneaks in through the window and whispers bad words like "gone" and "abandoned." Outside, it starts to rain. Inside, disappointment starts under my fingernails. Misery loves company. A soaked body for a sinking soul. I traipse outside and sit on the bottom step and get wet. The eve doesn't reach quite this far. The rain pelts down on my hair, my skin, Jane’s clothes. So wet I feel the sorrow in my bones.

  I don’t have a clue how long I sit there like that. At some point, the pink sky chases the rain away, and Jane still hasn’t come home yet. I’m hungry. She’s supposed to cook for me. Keep me fed. Nutrition and all of that jazz. That
was part of the deal. She’s supposed to make sure I get my meds, eat a healthy diet, and take me to the crisis center when I freak out. Is that really too much to ask?

  Guilt smacks me across the face with its sweaty palm. I’m a grown woman. How’s it that I need a keeper? To think, Janie used to be in my care! I can only pray she does a better job than I did.

  14

  (Cindi) I've got Danny Long wrapped around my little pinky finger. See? Right there, that shiny pink fold, that’s his little bald head. And that big fold over there, that’s his gut. Danny is a sad, lonely guy, but I don’t mind being his girlfriend for a month or so every once in awhile. Long enough to keep his hope alive and his freezer full of Jägermeister when I need a place to crash. Not so long that I start to feel like I owe him or anything. Danny’s got a decent place too, and if I drink enough to pass out, I won’t feel like I have to have sex with him. To be completely honest though, it really is in an overpriced apartment. And he pays way, way too much for his car. Who ever heard of a five-hundred-dollar payment on a Honda? But when we talk about money, the thing he complains about the most is taxes.

  Unfortunately, Danny isn't an idiot. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to buy me anything but liquor. And it’s totally impossible to get anything that isn't actually for him. He would never buy me a dress or a handbag. Dildos and lingerie are pretty much it. And I have to promise to keep them at his place. Whatever that's supposed to mean. . . Of course, I always find a way to sneak stuff out!

  Danny makes a terrible real boyfriend, so I figure, in a way, I am doing him a favor by being his part-time girlfriend. That way, at least he isn’t totally alone. And anyway, I’m sure he gets laid plenty while I am passed out.

  I used to have a girl wrapped around my other pinky. Her name was Angela, and she was totally in love with me. I can’t play the flute for shit, but I sure as hell could play that girl. And unlike Danny, she didn’t mind taking me shopping as long as she got to lick my pussy afterwards. But her tongue didn’t really do any more for me than Daniel’s limp penetration. Sex is just an obligation anyway. I just pretend to like it.

  Of course, it makes perfect sense that I brought Dan and Angela together. He’d been hinting around, wanting to bring another chick in. But he kept pointing out all these strippers, all these ridiculous young blondes. C’mon now, give me a little credit! Shit, I’m smarter than that! Set myself up to be compared to some perfect plastic pinup, yeah right.

  So I beat him to the punch. Picked out my own girl. Angela.

  It was easy enough. We had a few drinks. Bullshitted about the usual meaningless crap for a while. Angela and I stood next to each other in his kitchen, leaning on the counter behind us. On the other side of the kitchen, Dan sat on the counter, his head tucked neatly in the corner made by the plain white paneled pressboard cupboards. The same cupboards I have in my apartment at the north end of town where I pay half as much in rent. The conversation hit a lull, so I took advantage of the moment and grabbed Angela’s face, pressed my lips to her dry, chapped mouth, and tried like hell to act like there was some goddamn passion between us. Of course, we’re all so sexually fucked up anyways that none of us could tell real excitement from fake, porn star stuff anyways.

  Danny clapped in approval. "Now that is what I am fucking talking about!" he shouted. "Now Angela, you put your hands on her breasts."

  And that’s how it all began. Six months of threesomes between an asexual slut, a lesbian, and a porn addict who has a hard time keeping his dick up. Those were interesting times for sure. Even now, I still wonder if there were ever any real orgasms. Angela was probably the only one who actually had fun. She dug her face deep into my pussy, as if she could lap up every inch of me. But she was a giver. And the one time Danny convinced us to switch places, well, I think that did a lot less for her than eating me out. She tried to moan, but it was even faker than mine.

  Because, let's be honest, sex really isn’t that great. That might sound weird to anyone who knows me since I will have sex with just about anyone—male, female, androgynous—and I will scream with delight the whole entire time. But I won’t actually enjoy it. It’s just an act. Sex is a stage where I perform. Nothing more. Having a penis inside of me doesn’t feel good. Actually, it’s kind of gross. It makes me feel cold and numb, vulnerable and abused. But onstage, I buck with lust and scream out in pleasure. The tongue on my clit could be a dead fish for all I care, but I roll my hips and squirm with delight for the audience’s amusement anyway. And after so much practice, I can fake a mean orgasm.

  It all ended suddenly a few months ago or so. My playacting got to be a little much for my psyche. I stopped inviting Angela over and started passing out before Daniel Long could wiggle his short little worm into my pants.

  15

  (Daniel Long) Cindi is like some crazy sex drug. She is so hot and limber, like my personal fuck goddess. Sometimes, I think it might be a little pathetic how I jump at her every beck and call like she owns me or something. But hey, I’m thirty-eight, divorced over a decade; it’s time to be realistic. She is as good as I’m ever going to get. She may treat me like shit, but that’s a fair price to pay for someone with the tits and ass of an angel.

  "Oh, I forgot to tell you," she says, looking up at me with her big brown doe eyes like when she’s sucking my dick. "We need to go to the liquor store."

  "Yeah?" I look over at the bottles on the counter: Captain Morgan, some cheap vodka, and half a bottle of Jäger she left sitting out at room temperature. It’s as warm and sweaty as her pussy by now. I grab the bottle and put it back in the freezer, making sure to wipe the damp spot off the counter. "You don’t think we have enough for tonight?"

  "No." She shakes her head, and her long brown hair swooshes across her face. "We don’t have anywhere near enough."

  I raise my eyebrows and swirl the ice in my glass. "How much are you planning on drinking tonight?" If she’s hoping to take her alcoholism to a whole new level, I’d appreciate a warning. That way I can stay sober enough to drive her to the emergency room to get her stomach pumped.

  She laughs again. Her silky locks fall across her cheeks and into the perfect cute little mess. "It isn’t all for me, silly." I look around the apartment. There isn't anyone else here, so I look back at Cindi. She shakes her head. "Did I forget to tell you?"

  Now I shake my head. "Tell me what?"

  "Angela is coming over." There’s a fake innocence twinkling in her eyes, just like the saucy minx she is.

  "Oh, really?" This is good news. I can't remember the last time we had a threesome.

  "And she’s bringing a friend too."

  "A friend?"

  "Yes, so we need lots of alcohol." She goes to the door and slides into her shoes.

  "What kind of a friend?" I pause, hanging behind in the kitchen. A little more information would be nice.

  "Some chick named Jane. Her new girlfriend I guess. And she wants Grey Goose, so you better come on, we’ve got to get there before they close."

  "Grey Goose," I scoff. Right.

  The liquor store is short and squat like the hens at work. The ceilings are low, and the lights are bright. We scan the aisles and pick up another bottle of Jäger and another bottle of Captain Morgan’s. I pretend to reach up to the top shelf of the vodka aisle. But instead of grabbing the frosted bottle with a bird on it, I make a flamboyant show of bending down to the bottom shelf for a bottle of cheap, raspberry-flavored vodka. Yum, yum. That presumptuous bitch should love this shit.

  Like everything in life, I end up regretting that decision. Behind the baggy jeans and backwards baseball hat that is Angela is a damn good reason to drop thirty dollars on a bottle of liquor. Perky tan cleavage that peeks out of a skin-tight pink tank top, luscious pouty lips, eyes full of fire, and then the clincher: low-rise jeans that accentuate each of her cheeks with the perfect denim frame. I want to drive back to the store right now, buy that bottle, and pour it all over her naked body. I’m baffled and jealou
s. If Angela can score a grade-A, stripper-quality chick like this, why can’t I?

  Her straight black hair hangs down her back, secured by a pink bandana wrapped around the crown of her head. It gives her an interesting look. Something like a cross between a hippie and a bubblegum gangster. I want to rip those clothes off of her and take her shopping for a little black dress and some lingerie instead.

  "Dan? Dan?" Someone slaps me on the shoulder. "Wake up, Dan!"

  "Huh?" I shake my head and look around at the three girls in my living room. "What?"

  Cindi laughs and smacks me on the shoulder again. "You were out for a while there, buddy. Doing OK?"

  "Huh? Me? Yeah, I am fine; why wouldn’t I be? Would you ladies like anything to drink?"

  But before they can answer, Cindi grabs our new friend and whisks her into the kitchen. "We got something for you." They both giggle when she pulls the seven-dollar bottle from the freezer. They laugh at me for being a cheap-ass. Even this early, Cindi’s strange interest in Angela’s new girl is pretty obvious. Not that they wouldn’t make a hot pair! Believe me, Little Daniel is bulging at the fantasy in my head of their tangled naked flesh. But the tension between them doesn’t look sexual at all. Could it be . . . jealousy? Angela was so in love with her. And so heartbroken when Cindi told her she wasn’t going to see her anymore "like that." She almost made me look normal. But now she’s moved on, got a hottie in Cindi’s place, and Cindi has that look on her face like she just realized she isn't actually all that special. She is just another pussy, just another set of tits, replaceable just like every other chick.