by Greg Barth
“You did good,” he said. He was smiling and came forward with his arms open as if to hug me.
“Daddy,” I said. “I swear to god if you so much as touch me with even one finger, I’ll blow your guts out with this shotgun.”
He stopped. “Just a hug, Selena. That’s all. Can’t a father hug his daughter?”
“I will fucking kill you,” I said.
“Gun’s not loaded, Selena,” he said.
I opened the breech and ejected the spent shells.
TEN
For the next week I worked with the two custom-length Savage-Stevens double-barrel shotguns daily.
I tried various shells and worked my way up to buckshot. I think the local gun dealer made enough on 12 gauge shells to put his kids through college that week. I pulled up every day, hobbled in with my cane and picked up more boxes.
“What’ll it be today, Selena,” he’d say. And I would tell him the loads I wanted. I fired every brand from Federal to Remington to Winchester XX.
I almost bought three-inch magnums once. “I really don’t recommend it,” the gun dealer said. “It’s too much of a load for a girl your size. Firing a 12 gauge is bad enough. Don’t overdo it.”
I took his advice.
If Daddy hadn’t lived in such a remote area, people would have thought a war had broken out from all the gunshot noise. I practiced all day every day. Shooting became a way of life. I fired from both my right shoulder and my left and both stayed bruised. My ears rang constantly. I smelled like gunpowder all the time.
I fired at milk jugs, liquor bottles, paper targets, beer cans, you name it. I even fired while walking. Once I got used to the recoil, I learned to control it. The trick was not to resist. Just get it good and snug, squeeze the trigger, and let the stock kick the hell out of you.
One day I got brave and fired one of the shotguns with one hand. It didn’t kill me. The barrel didn’t fly over my head, and it didn’t knock me down. In fact I discovered that I was able to recover quickly and regain my aim. I fired the second barrel. It was just a matter of directing the recoil straight into my shoulder.
Nothing was the same after that. I practiced holding one shotgun in each hand and firing one with my right and one with my left, one-handed, one stock against my left shoulder, one against my right, all four barrels, one at a time, alternating between the two guns with each shot, aiming with either eye. They kicked like hell, but I held them steady enough to re-aim and fire the other barrels. They were heavy to shoot one-handed, so I couldn’t do it much. But I could do it, and I got good at it.
“I ain’t never seen no shit like that,” my dad said. “I woulda thought shooting a 12 gauge like that would knock a little woman like you flat on your ass.”
Funniest thing is, I never missed. Not a single time. From the first shot that week to the last, not once did I miss my target.
When it was too dark to shoot, I would clean both shotguns with care.
***
I wouldn’t be staying much longer. I needed to get back. Summer was turning to autumn. There was a chill in the air and the days grew dark earlier.
My body had healed. I could get around good even without the cane. The shooting had strengthened my arms. They were still lean, but wiry with corded muscles. My spirit, however, had not healed. It needed something it couldn’t get here.
J.P. had proposed to Jennifer. We still hung out as a trio, but it became clear to me that I was the third wheel of the outfit and that our close friendship was short-lived.
I gave voice to these feelings one afternoon as we were at the river.
J.P. and Jennifer were sitting under the big oak tree on the river bank making out while I sat on the hood of the car getting shitfaced as fast as I could on a bottle of Evan Williams black label. They were probably not going to stop until they fucked. That was fine. A few months back I would have wanted to join in. I no longer had any interest in such things.
I sat watching them as my buzz took firm hold of my faculties. Two people very much in love. It looked nice, like something out of a romance novel. I tried to remember if I had ever felt that. I could not come up with anything. I wondered if I ever would.
I was just the odd one out.
They didn’t seem to mind me watching. They didn’t even seem to notice that I was there. J.P. was so strong. Jennifer would never have anything to fear with him around.
What’s it like to kill somebody? J.P. had done it. He had done it in Iraq. He would do it today if anything threatened Jennifer.
What could it be like? I drank the bourbon and it spread its warm fingers through my stomach. My breath grew thick and heavy with it. My face began to flush. I kept drinking. I hadn’t eaten anything that day, so the booze hit me fast.
I imagined that killing would have been easy for him during the war. He killed to stay alive and to keep his friends alive. And I would bet it would come easy to pull the trigger on the people that killed his friend in the security business.
But combat was one thing. What about after the heat of the moment had passed? What about doing something that would look a lot like premeditated, cold-blooded murder to most folks. How would that feel?
I slid off the hood of the car and staggered forward a few steps. I was drunk and unsteady on my feet.
“Hey,” I said, raising my voice. There was an obvious, drunk-redneck-girl slur to my words. “Can’t you just hurry up and cum already before I drink this whole bottle myself?” My words were thick with drunkenness.
J.P. was so big, Jennifer had been reduced to a face looking over his bare shoulder, two red-nailed hands on his back, and a pair of legs on either side of his white ass.
“Come on. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said, taunting them. I clapped my hands with each fuck. “Give it to her.”
I wasn’t jealous of them and their love for each other.
I wasn’t.
As the bourbon brought my feelings to the surface, what I felt toward them could best be described as hatred.
ELEVEN
“I’m leaving, Dad. Going back to the city.”
“I figured you would be,” he said.
“I’m taking the shotguns.”
“I figured as much. Are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Not for a while, no. I think I won’t be.”
“I hope you find peace, Selena. Don’t go doing nothing that gets you killed or makes you wind up in prison.”
I didn’t respond.
“Let’s get those guns,” he said.
“Dad,” I said. “This time with you, I just want you to know, it’s been nice. I’d like to come back some time, you know, if I can.”
“I’d like that too.”
He put his arm out.
“Do not fucking touch me,” I said.
“Hey,” he said. “For the record. The hula hoop shows? All that shit? Way back then? Those were your fucking ideas, okay?”
“I was thirteen years old, Dad. Girls want to cheerlead and hula-hoop for people at that age. Ballet and shit. That’s considered normal in most worlds.”
“Not the way you did it, honey. Men like pretty girls.”
“No, Dad. Men like pretty women. Boys like girls. Men like women.” I made it sound so simple.
“It got outta control,” he said.
“That it did.”
On the way out to the car, he gave me a pack of Winstons and a six pack of beer. “Drink them slow,” he said. “Gotta keep that car running with the Breathalyzer.”
I got in the car and cranked down the window. I put a cigarette in my mouth and pushed in the lighter on the console. Dad reached his hand inside and lit the cigarette for me with his Bic lighter.
“You know, you still got at least one good thing going for you,” he said.
I looked him in the eye through the open car window. I took a deep draw on the cigarette. “You mean my good attitude, don’t you?”
“No. I mean you’re still a good
looking woman, Selena.”
“I know, right? And you’re still going in the cheap nursing home when the time comes.”
TWELVE
The first thing I’m going to do when I get back to the city is get my nails done and get everything below the waist waxed. I was looking a lot like the missing link these days. Who knew women could be such hairy beasts? Hell, I wasn’t even sure that I was still a woman under all that mess.
I connected with Lenny when I got back to town. “Can you put me up for a little while? I need some time to get my feet back under me financially. I’ll earn and help you out. Fifty-fifty.”
“Sure thing, girl.”
It was great to see Lenny again. His business was booming. His brother moved more and more product his way from the west. Hydro was in. Times were good for Lenny.
I dealt for him for the first couple of weeks, mostly selling to the college crowds in the clubs, one deal at a time. Risky, and not the best work, but something I could do, and you gotta start somewhere.
I also did some out-call work in the bars at the hotels where the business men stayed. I had an in with a couple of bar managers and desk clerks. I gave them a cut and all they asked in return was that I kept it classy.
I did the best I could with the clothes I could get from the Goodwill. I was nowhere near as pretty as I had been before the attack, but I had a slim, petite figure and pretty hair. Department store makeup would have to do the rest.
I saved my earnings, didn’t drink away my cash, didn’t spend it on drugs. That’s not to say that I didn’t have certain addictions that screamed out to be fed. I did. And I was the farthest thing from a teetotaler. But I had another hunger stronger than all the others.
I gave Lenny a cut to help out with expenses around the apartment. I also gave him the occasional freebie, and he let me sample some product now and then. Symbiotic. It worked.
Lenny was a good lover when I gave him a freebie. Afterward he would lay against me and move my hair away from my back. He would kiss me sweetly on the back of my neck with his arm around me. Snuggling with Lenny was the best.
After a couple of weeks, I had enough saved to activate a pay-as-you-go smartphone. I could afford nicer clothes, shoes, perfume, and make-up. I got my hair done and my nails. I took to wearing stockings to cover the surgery scars on my legs. I did some tanning too and kept everything waxed smooth.
I wasn’t what I used to be, but it was working. My earnings started to increase. As soon as I could afford some designer lingerie, I had Lenny snap some photos with my phone. He loaded them on his laptop and set up some online ads. I received hits straight to my phone.
Before I knew it, my business was booming. I had all the traffic I could handle and then some. I could pick and choose. Turned away the freaks and worked the business travelers. I had to keep up with my evening appointments with an electronic calendar app on my phone. Some of my dates were double customers. They wanted various forms of narcotics to go along with the erotic experience.
You wouldn’t believe how fucked up the male business class in this country is. They are stressed out. They wear a mask of confidence, but underneath they quiver with self-doubt. They want to get high and fuck. High and fuck. The thing is, it’s not that they lack satisfaction. No. They lack hunger. They’re over-satisfied and long for the hunger. How fucked up is that? A well-fed man longing to feel an empty belly again. It’s this bent toward degradation that destroys societies, I think.
And I was just doing my part.
Aside from the work itself, I took better care of myself. Most days I ate. I didn’t get high as often or go to old extremes.
I took efforts to change my appearance as much as I could from the woman I was before. I had my dark hair lightened to blonde. I also had it straightened and wore it shorter. I wore a brighter shade of lipstick. I had always been small, but I lost weight in the hospital and hadn’t regained it. My face looked different due to the nose reconstruction and the scarring. I picked up a pair of cosmetic glasses like the hipsters use and wore them every evening. I looked as though I had aged ten years in just a matter of months. I dressed as classy as I could afford, wearing dresses and evening gowns often. I took to wearing long sleeves to keep my tattoo covered. I wore the highest heels that I could find to make me look taller.
How much had my appearance changed? One evening one of my customers, a businessman that I would judge to be in his late thirties, looked up at me from his hotel room bed as I grinded against him, his tiny cock embedded in me, and said, “You are one hot little cougar MILF.”
Cougar MILF. I was 29 years old. Talk about faking an orgasm. Fuck him.
There have been many times in my life that I hated myself, that I couldn’t stand the things I had done. This wasn’t one of those times. For once, my life had purpose beyond getting high.
I had been back in town for three months before I started looking for the guys that attacked me.
I began driving by the apartment complex where the guy whose CD I had stolen lived. I did this every few days. After a few drive-bys I saw him carrying bags of groceries inside his door. In my conscious memory, I had only ever seen the back of his head, but I knew this was him. He was still there.
Sometimes I parked in the lot next door and watched his comings and goings. I learned which car was his, when he came in, when he went out. Sometimes he would have women over, but rarely the same one twice. Still a player.
One Friday night I got brave and followed him as he went out. I wasn’t very good at following. I stayed right on his tail the whole way. He pulled into a bar just a couple of miles from his apartment.
Bingo.
THIRTEEN
Lenny and I sat in his dining room measuring out marijuana leaves and buds and placing the right amount in plastic sandwich bags.
I was thinking about the guy I had followed from his apartment to his favorite hangout.
“Awful quiet tonight, Selena,” Lenny said. “Something on your mind?”
I looked up at him. “Can you get me some Rohypnol?” I asked Lenny.
“What? You thinking about date-raping somebody?”
I rolled my eyes. “Lenny. Can you get it?”
“I can, but you don’t want that. Rohypnol ain’t what it used to be. All the bad press it got and all. For one thing, it’s not colorless or tasteless anymore. They put something in it now. You slip that in somebody’s drink, they’re going to know it. Assuming you would be sneaking it on someone.”
“Good to know,” I said. “I feel so much safer.”
“I can get you something better.”
“What about something that will leave the…um…person conscious enough to talk but make them uninhibited to the point they talk about things they ordinarily wouldn’t want to?”
“God, girl, I do not want to know what you have up your sleeves. You’re asking for a stiff sentence with that. But, yes. I know just the thing, and I can get it for you.”
We kept measuring out the pot. Lenny picked some pieces from a bud, loaded a pipe with it and fired it up. He took a deep hit and held it. He passed the pipe to me. I also took a hit from it. We passed it back and forth, relighting the bowl as needed. After a few hits it started to creep up on us.
The West Coast kush was damned good shit.
“How are you going to administer this Rohypnol?”
“Slip it in a drink,” I said. My voice seemed disembodied. I turned to Lenny. He looked like a funny elf with mutton chop sideburns. I was pretty high.
He nodded. “Two days. I’ll have you something.”
***
I started taking a random night off each week to hang out at the bar that I followed my guy to. Mostly I stayed at the bar and sipped drinks and watched for him. I turned down anything more than casual conversation with the men there and didn’t try to deal. I wanted to keep it clean for when he appeared.
My fourth time there, I saw him come in. He was in a black button-up, collared shirt and
jeans. He was tall and lean in his cowboy boots, a real cool drink of water. His dark hair was slick and looked like he just got out of the shower. I was glad to see that I had such good taste in men even when severely impaired. No doubt he was a scumbag prick, but I would also rate him as totally fuckable. He fist bumped a couple of longhaired guys at the pool tables and came up to the bar. He took the stool three down from me.
“Your usual, Tommy?” the bartender asked him. She was short, looked to be early twenties, had short brown hair and wore glasses.
“You got it, Gina,” he said.
I lit a cigarette. He looked over at me. We made eye contact. I took him in from head to toe and then back up. He did the same with me.
“You look kinda familiar,” he said.
“Maybe you saw me here,” I said.
“I don’t think so. You look kinda like that rocker chick, Joan Jett, only your hair is light. I mean, you look like how she looked when she was, you know, younger.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, seriously. You’re hot.”
“Gina,” I said. “Make his a double. On me.” To him I said, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He smiled and came down to the stool next to me. He extended his hand. “Tommy,” he said.
“Yeah, I got that,” I said and shook his hand. “Joan.”
He grinned a handsome one. “Bullshit.”
“So where you been all my life, Tommy?”
“Well, Joan, where to begin? I resolved that crisis in the Middle East, solved world hunger, saved the whales, invented video games, banana splits, and wine. Now I’m here on a break.”
“Chardonnay? You’re responsible for that?”
“Maybe.”
“Sounds like you had a busy day,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“And like you’re full of shit.” We both laughed at this.
“Not impressed?” he said. That grin again.
“Tommy,” I said and rolled my eyes. I gave him the faux uninterested look that overconfident guys love so much—a challenge. “What about that whole global warming thing?”
