by Greg Barth
“What’s your plan?” I asked. “You don’t want to do this thing for long.”
“I want to get on one of those reality shows. The ones where you can win a million dollars.”
“Seriously?”
Her face fell just a little, then she caught herself and smiled. “No, I’m just pulling your leg, sort of. I mean, I want to be on a reality show, but that’s more of a long-term dream.”
I offered a thoughtful nod. “What about short term?”
“I’m saving up,” she said. “I’m planning to go up north to my older sister’s place. She’s recently divorced and has a couple of kids. I figure I can help her out, and maybe she’ll give me a place to crash for a while.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you doing this instead of something else? I would imagine there are jobs around here you could get if you wanted.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m a pro or anything. I just do enough to get by. I mean, I like sex and all okay. But I’ve got a possession charge that haunts me. All employers these days want to do a background check. Plus, you know how it is, I’ve got that whole fucked up childhood thing going on that I have to keep...”—she made air quotes with her fingers and deepened her voice as she took on the exaggerated tone of someone more mature—“…re-living the abuse in order to make sense of it.”
“I think I’ve heard that one before too.”
“But you wanna know the truth?”
“Hit me with it,” I said.
“I kinda like the attention.”
I nodded. I thought about her situation. I knew I was running on borrowed time before I went down for the murders I had just committed. It occurred to me that I could give Emily some of the money I had taken. She could use it to get her to her sister’s place.
Her dryer stopped. “Looks like my clothes are done,” she said. “It was nice meeting you, Marie.”
“Let me help,” I said.
We worked together to get her clothes folded and placed in her basket.
“I can be your friend, you know. While you stay here. But before I agree to it, I have to ask you a question.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“If you and I are ever teamed up together as partners on a reality show, and one of us has to eat a bug, then you’ll eat the bug.”
“As long as you do the skydiving part,” I said.
“Deal.”
Her clothes were folded and in the basket.
“Maybe we can get together later for a drink or something,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
We exchanged room numbers and agreed to hook up later.
I turned back to my novel and just like magic, within three printed lines I had slipped back into the world of romance.
FOUR
By the time I got back to my room, the maid had already picked up, changed out the towels, and made my bed. She had brought me a couple more paperbacks from the bookshelf in the lobby and placed them on the table. I was impressed with her thoughtfulness.
I sat in the high-backed chair by the bed and poured some bourbon into a Styrofoam cup. As I drank the whiskey, I thought about Emily and her situation. She had mentioned her fucked up childhood, and I began to think of mine.
After my mother’s death, it was just my father and I when I was growing up. He was a weak man in many ways. After her death, he only cared about drinking and getting high. I think it was his medicine to cope with the grief.
Runs in the family, I guess.
But drinking was a problem for him. He didn’t know his limits. Either that or he did know them and didn’t care about them.
I was drinking and smoking pot with him by the time I was eleven years old. Like I said, fucked up.
He would have his brother and some friends over on weekends. They would pull all-nighters, and once they got good and lit, part of the fun was getting me tipsy and watching what I’d do and say. You could say that I’ve been in the entertainment business most of my life.
Emily mentioned that she liked the attention.
I drained the bourbon from my cup and poured more. You think drinking alone is a bad habit? Try mixing it with self-loathing. That’s a hobby you don’t want to take up.
Bringing up those old memories was like finding a lump on your breast. Made me sick to my stomach.
One night four, maybe five years after my mother died is when things took a downward turn, more like a dive all the way to hell. It was during one of their weekend parties, I was especially tipsy, and the men were liquored up.
We were in the living room of our small mobile home in east Kentucky. On that remote piece of land in the hollow of the wooded hills it got so dark at night you could see the stars shining by the thousands. They were like a scatter of diamonds against a jeweler’s velvet.
The mobile home was cramped but cozy. It was all I knew.
As was our norm, we were sitting around on the couch and love seat, drinking and laughing at some bawdy story from one of the guys.
My Uncle Judd was one of them, and their friends Ricky and Jim.
These guys were all coal miners, mechanics, or a little bit of both. They all got off on bass fishing, hunting, and pussy. They talked about women, cars, and coon hounds. But all of their vices started with one thing—bourbon whiskey, first and foremost.
They wore dirty jeans, denim jackets, camo ball caps, and went without shaving. I remember their thick-fingered hands were black-veined where coal dust and grease clung to the grooves and crevices of their skin and would not wash away.
They referred to Uncle Judd as a “gash-hound.” I had no idea what that meant at that age, but I always felt uncomfortable when they called him that.
They liked to gather at our place on weekends, because Dad’s mobile home was the place that was free from the friction brought by mothers, wives, sisters, girlfriends, or any other judgmental women. Here, there was only me, and they didn’t seem to hate me. It was like I was one of them. Unlike the other women in their lives, I wasn’t trying to control them. I only wanted their attention, to be one of them.
They had been giving me strong drink for some time, but things had never really gotten out of hand. It never felt like too much to me. There had been times that I had caught the bus to middle school hungover or had to consciously widen my eyes and act sober after being stoned on pot during first period, but for the most part I’d been okay.
Until that night.
One of the local union mines was on strike. None of these guys worked in a union coal mine, but they participated in “wild cat” strikes to show unity. They had been drinking and talking for hours. This was important stuff to them, so they paid little mind to me.
I had a few drinks myself, and I was especially feeling it that evening.
“You guys want to see something neat?” I asked them.
The mining talk had grown stale, so they said they did.
“Be right back,” I said.
I went into my room and looked for a special outfit. I couldn’t find anything that looked like a cheerleader, so I put on a long No Doubt t-shirt and bikini bottoms. I grabbed my hula hoop.
I went back into the living room with my hula hoop. I climbed up on the coffee table and whirled my hula hoop around my slender hips. I worked my hips side to side and kept the hoop spinning.
The men backed away from the spinning hoop, but they applauded. I did this for a while, smiling and giggling the whole time. I had to stop when I grew too tired and tipsy. They kept giving me more to drink and asking for more shows. One of the guys threw dollar bills at me. It got harder and harder to stand on the table and keep my balance. I was so dizzy. I laughed so hard and they applauded my efforts every time.
“Don’t fall and break your neck, girl,” Ricky said. “She’s gonna fall and break her damn neck. You watch her and see if she don’t.”
It kept on for some time, them coaxing me into it and me spinning the hoop for as long as I could keep it up.
/>
Late in the night, my dad passed out cold on the love seat. He had been hitting the bottle hard, and his body was still metabolizing it. He might roll over long enough to puke on the carpet, but otherwise he would be out for the rest of the night.
My uncle broke out a small bottle wrapped in brown paper. “Here, Little Bit. Try some of this,” he said. “This is the good stuff. It’s special.”
I sniffed at the bottle. It smelled okay. I tasted it and liked it. I took a big drink. It hit me hard. I didn’t feel nauseous, but the drink went straight to my head.
“You feelin’ it, Little Bit?” Uncle Judd said. His eyes were red and squinted. “Special, ain’t it?”
I nodded. The room spun. I could see two of him.
“Now, give us another show,” he said.
I got up on the table. The room whirled around me, and I fell forward. My uncle caught me in his arms and lay me on the couch across the laps of two other men that sat there. I felt everything going black, my body completely relaxing. It was like I was falling down, down, down and spinning all the while.
As I was falling, I was aware of hands on my bare thighs. A thumb pressed against me where it shouldn’t.
Everything changed for me after that night. It went on like that for a while, maybe a year. You don’t want to hear that, because it’s ugly and wrong, but it did. They had another friend named Magnus who began coming over some nights, and things got worse than ever. It kept going until one night I fled for my life.
I told myself I did nothing wrong—that I wasn’t ashamed—as I poured the cup full of bourbon.
Odds are, nobody will ever hurt you worse than your own family. Take it to the bank.
I finished the drink, and I crushed the Styrofoam cup in my hand. I picked up the bottle and drank straight from it.
So why the self-loathing, you ask? Simple. My brain could see itself, understood the psychology, and did what it did anyway. I was a willing participant in my own damnation.
Helping Emily was something I could do. I had the means to get her to her sister’s place. Hell, I had more than enough for that, and plenty left over to get me farther down the road to boot. It would be good, and it would be right.
I made my decision. I got up, capped the bourbon bottle and walked a swaggered trek over to the closet where I had stowed my duffel bag on the top shelf. I stood on tiptoes, reached up over my head and pulled the bag down.
It felt too light. I had put the money—almost all fifty thousand dollars of it—and my shotgun in there. The damned bag felt empty. Something was wrong.
Sick to my stomach with worry, I took the bag over to the bed and set it down. I unzipped and opened it. No shotgun, no money. Empty except for a folded piece of paper at the bottom.
My face fell.
I picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was a handwritten note.
I know who you are. I will be in touch, the note said.
I crumpled it in my hand.
“Fuck,” I said.
I sat on the floor and finished off the bottle of bourbon.
FIVE
A knock at the door.
I opened my eyes. By the light coming in around the edges of the thick drapes I could tell it was early evening.
I sat up. This is it. I’m caught. I got up and went to the door. I looked through the peep hole.
My bated breath turned into a sigh of relief. It was Emily.
I opened the door.
She was smiling, showing her white teeth. She was dressed in cutoff shorts and a black cotton pullover shirt. Pretty.
“Remember our drink?” she said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled and stepped out of the way so she could come inside. I rubbed my eyes with my fingers, trying to get them to focus.
She stepped inside, and I closed the door. “Looks like you’ve already had a drink,” she said.
“I’m still good for ours,” I said. “You mind if I get a shower first?”
“Go ahead.” She gestured to the pack of cigarettes near the empty bourbon bottle on the table. “You mind?”
“Help yourself.”
I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and swallowed a couple of aspirin. I got dressed.
I went back into the main room, and Emily was sitting in the chair smoking.
“About that drink,” I said. “We may have to have water. I’ve had something taken from my room today, and I’m not going to be able to afford a night out.”
“Somebody robbed you?”
“Yes.”
“That fucker,” she said.
“Who?”
“Fucking Harvey. It has to be him.”
“You think he stole from me?”
She nodded.
“Then I’m going to talk to him. Now.” I started for the door.
“No,” she said. “No. Just wait. You don’t want to start trouble with him. Trust me. Wait for him to come to you. He will.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“Wow, that’s some tattoo.” She pointed to my left inner forearm at the black swastika .
I usually keep it covered, but I had slipped. I wasn’t sober enough yet to be hungover.
“I don’t want to explain, but please don’t mention this tattoo,” I said. “I don’t want anyone knowing about it.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“And, no, I don’t like Hitler.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“I know, but I want you to know anyway.” I sat at the table with her. “So, I’m kinda fucked, Emily. The things he stole from me, it’s not good.”
“It’s going to be okay,” she said. “And I’ll show you how we can still get a drink. I think you’ve had enough, but I need it. Do you mind if I go get something real quick from my room?”
“Go ahead.”
She stepped out and went back to her room. It was all I could do not to storm into the motel office and confront Harvey.
Emily was back in a minute.
“What did you get?” I asked.
“This,” she said and pointed to the mini-skirt she was wearing.
“That’s going to get us a drink?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s power in the skirt. I just need to leave a couple of things here.”
“Okay.”
She slipped her hands up into her shirt, fumbled around, and came out with her bra. She tossed it on the bed. She then slipped her hands up her skirt and came down with her panties and tossed them on the bed too.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“Just a second. I want to cover this tattoo.” I pulled off my t-shirt.
“Wow, you’re so thin,” she said.
It occurred to me that, while she was maybe two inches shorter than me and outweighed me by twenty pounds, she had a much better body. Without my clothes, I was all collarbones, ribs, nipples, elbows, hip bones, and knees. I was pointy in all the places that she was round and soft.
“Yeah,” I said. “I need to put on a few pounds, I guess.”
“No, you look great. You just look like you could use a good meal, that’s all.” She smiled at me, and I felt less self-conscious.
I put on a long-sleeved shirt and pulled the sleeve down enough to keep the swastika from being exposed.
We went out the door and walked down the sidewalk to the liquor store down the street. The early evening air felt great. The shower and the fresh air made me feel more sober.
She told me her plan on the way.
We stepped inside the liquor store. It was a small store and the narrow aisles wound between tall shelves fully stocked with glass liquor bottles. I’d been in the store before but had never paid attention to the details. The building was old, and I didn’t see any evidence of video surveillance cameras.
The clerk by the checkout counter was a young guy in his early twenties. He had short hair and a chubby build.
Emily went over to a display in front of the counter. She turned her back to him and bent over, looking at a bottle of
wine at the bottom of the display, some cheap Cab they were trying to get rid of. As her skirt rode up the back of her upper thighs, his eyes zeroed in on her ass like a magnetic compass pointing true north. If she kept it up, that’s not the only thing he’d have pointing true north either.
I went back to the bourbon section in back, grabbed a cheap bottle off the bottom shelf. We would pay for that. I then grabbed a couple of top-shelf bottles and slipped them into my purse. I didn’t even look back at the counter. I knew where his eyes were. Same place yours would be.
I walked up to the front.
“Got it,” I said.
Emily stood and we approached the counter.
I put the bottle of cheap bourbon on the counter, and Emily took a few bills out of her purse to pay.
“Just need to see your ID,” the clerk said.
I looked at him. “Do I seriously look underage to you?”
“No, but it looks like she’s paying.” He gestured toward Emily.
“Well that’s a problem,” I said. “Because she’s only nineteen.”
Emily looked up at him with doe eyes. “I already showed you my ID, sweetie,” she said. “Didn’t you see it when I was bent over there a minute ago?”
The clerk blushed.
“I could be a repeat customer,” she said. “You liked seeing my ID, right?” I couldn’t blame him. Her pretty blue eyes were death.
He took her money and made change. “Just don’t get in any trouble with that stuff, okay?”
“We’ll drink responsibly,” I said, and we left.
***
We went back to my room.
“What’d you get?” she asked.
“You like Kentucky bourbon?” I took the two bottles of Maker’s Mark out of my purse.
“Damn, girl. You did good.”
I grabbed two Styrofoam cups and unwrapped them. “Breaking out the good crystal for this stuff.”
“You get used to drinking out of Styrofoam, you don’t want anything else against your lips.”
