Gigolo Girl

by Layce Gardner

  “Would you care to dance?” Ponytail asked Mildred.

  Mildred had seen her sitting with another woman at a booth near the dance floor. “Is that your girlfriend over there?” she asked.

  “Used to be,” Pony Tail said. “My name’s Toni.”

  Toni was the perfect androgynous name. They wouldn’t even have to change it.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Toni asked.

  “Sure,” Mildred said. “I’d love a martini with two olives.” Never mix, never worry. She’d heard Greta say that a million times even though she was usually talking about Dr. Pepper and rum.

  Toni ordered herself a Manhattan and Mildred a martini. “So what are your plans for the evening?” she asked.

  Before Mildred had a chance to answer, Toni’s not-girlfriend walked right up to them and slapped Toni across the face. “You’re a fucking shit head. It’s over.” Evidently when Toni said “used to be” she had forgotten to tell her girlfriend.

  “Whatever. You suck in bed anyway,” Toni called out after her. She looked back at Mildred and smiled sheepishly, saying, “Women. Can’t live with them and can’t shoot them. Sorry about that.”

  “Toni, how many women have slapped your face in the past six months?” Mildred inquired.

  Toni looked cagey. Velvet Thrust stepped in. “You can tell the truth. It’s no big deal. We might have a business proposition for you.”

  “Who are you?” Toni asked.

  “I’m her friend,” Velvet Thrust said. “This is Milly and I’m Velvet Thrust.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Toni said, offering Velvet Thrust her hand.

  They shook. “So you get slapped a lot?” Velvet Thrust asked.

  “I’ve got ADD when it comes to women,” Toni said.

  “That’s perfect,” Mildred said, her tone enthusiastic.

  “What do you mean?” Toni asked.

  Velvet Thrust said, “Why don’t we get a booth and continue this conversation?”

  “Sure,” Toni said. “Let me fetch our drinks.” She moved to the bar.

  “Maybe we should get Fessa to join us, too,” Mildred said.

  “Good idea,” Velvet Thrust said. She turned and looked at a diesel dyke who’d been eavesdropping. “Hey, why don’t you come with us?”

  “Me?” Diesel said.

  “Yeah, you. You got a job?” Velvet Thrust said.

  “Yeah, a shit one.”

  “A girlfriend?” Velvet Thrust asked.

  “Yeah, a shit one.”

  “Perfect, come with us,” Velvet Thrust said.

  Diesel narrowed her eyes suspiciously and asked, “Why, what’re you selling?”

  “Pussy,” Velvet Thrust answered.

  Diesel’s face lit up. “Lead the way.”

  Velvet Thrust and Mildred cut across the dance floor toward the booths in the back. Mildred sighed and said, “There isn’t an empty one.”

  “Hold on,” Diesel said. She walked up to a booth that was filled with five young lesbians that looked like they were wet behind the ears. “Hey, you guys. Up. Out. This is our table.”

  The boldest girl spoke up. “Oh yeah? I don’t see your name on it.”

  Diesel grabbed the young lesbian by the back of head and slammed her face into the table saying, “Why don’t you take a closer look.”

  “Okay, okay, I see it now,” the young lesbian stammered. The rest of the girls scattered and Diesel tossed the mouthy young lesbian into the middle of the dance floor. Diesel smiled at Velvet Thrust and said, “Looky, a table just opened up.”

  Velvet Thrust said, “Thanks,” and scooted her bulk to the far side of the booth.

  Fessa and Tight and Tall came over. “This is Sonja,” Fessa said.

  Toni joined them at the table, handing Mildred her martini. Velvet Thrust introduced everybody.

  “So what’s up?” Toni said. She was playing footsie with Mildred. Mildred scooted closer to Velvet Thrust.

  “You all seem to enjoy playing the field,” Velvet Thrust said. “Am I correct?”

  There was some hemming and hawing but the women finally conceded.

  “Okay, now how about fucking women and getting paid for it?” Velvet Thrust said.

  Sonja looked taken aback. Diesel— whose real name turned out to be Glenda, or Glen for short—smiled. Toni cocked her head.

  “As in prostitution?” Sonja said.

  “We are providing a much-needed community service,” Fessa said. “We work for a company that satisfies the sexual needs of rich women who are too busy to have a real girlfriend but who want to have sex.”

  “Or women who want to stay with their partners but are suffering from LBD,” Mildred added.

  “And women who want some spice in their sexual lives,” Velvet Thrust said, staring at Glen who seemed to be warming to the idea.

  “Rock on,” Toni said. “I like sex but I hate the complications and the inevitable U-Haul moments. Why not get paid for it? Hell yes, I’m in.”

  “You also get health care and a 401 K plan,” Fessa added.

  “I’m in. I hate my fucking job,” Glen said.

  “What do you do?” Sonja asked her.

  “I work in pest control. If I do it much longer I’m sure to get cancer despite company safeguards—fucking right,” Glen said. “I’d much rather fuck women than kill roaches.”

  “Good point,” Mildred said. She turned to Sonja. “You can make a lot of money.” She knew that Sonja had a fondness for money. Those True Religion jeans were at least three hundred bucks a pop.

  “You’re playing the field anyway,” Fessa said. “Why not give this a try? It’s not much different than what you’re doing right now.”

  “You don’t have to sign a contract. You don’t like it, you can quit anytime,” Velvet Thrust said.

  “Besides, our boss vets all the clients. Picking up women here is a lot riskier,” Fessa said.

  Sonja pursed her lips, appeared to give it a good think and finally said, “I’m game.”

  “Perfect,” Velvet Thrust said. “Show up at this address tomorrow afternoon,” she said, handing them business cards. “Dress in comfortable clothes. You’ll be spending the next three days in gigolo boot camp.”

  Mildred felt her heart leap. One hurdle down. She could leave with a clean conscience and not worry that she was leaving Honey Belle in a lurch. Now, all she had to do was find Desiree.

  Downsizing

  “Selling the car, huh?” Cindy Lee said, popping her gum and leaning on the hood of the red Jaguar.

  Desiree snapped her rag at Cindy Lee, making her jump away from the car. Desiree had spent two hours that morning washing and waxing her beloved car. In fact, she had placed the For Sale sign in the rear window only two minutes before Cindy Lee put her greasy paw prints on the hood.

  “Yes,” Desiree said. “That’s usually what ‘for sale’ means.”

  “Having trouble making ends meet?” Cindy Lee asked. This time she placed her ass on the car’s hood and sat.

  “Would you kindly remove your ass from my car?” Desiree said. “I’ll have to buff your butt prints off there.”

  Cindy Lee didn’t budge. “You finding it hard to make ends meet on Co-op wages?”

  Desiree shook her head. “I have more than enough money, thank you very much.”

  That wasn’t a lie. Ten years of selling her body and a really good financial advisor who worked on the barter system, sex for investment profit, had paid off in spades. Desiree wouldn’t have to work the rest of her life if she didn’t want to.

  Cindy Lee put her feet on the bumper, adding her footprints to her butt-prints. “If you’re so rich, why’re you selling your car and working at the Co-op?”

  “I’m downsizing. I don’t see why I need a fancy car when I only drive it four miles a day. I’m getting a bicycle. Better for the environment and my health.”

  “Wow, you really are coming down in the world,” Cindy Lee said.

  “Not that it’s any of
your business. Now get your ass off my car.”

  “I might want to buy it. My truck,” she jabbed a finger in the direction of the primer-colored rust bucket she called a truck, “Has never been the same since someone puked a rainbow on the windshield.”

  Desiree looked over at Cindy Lee’s truck. You’d think a rainbow on the windshield would brighten things up some. Nope. It only made the truck look like a deranged leprechaun owned it.

  “Hunh. I wonder how that happened?” Desiree said.

  “I think I have a pretty good idea and I don’t think it’s funny either. Now about the Jag. How much?”

  “Look, I don’t think you can really afford this car,” Desiree said. “It’s more than you make in two years.”

  “My grandmother died and left me money,” Cindy Lee said. “I can afford it. Name your price.”

  “So you wanna blow your inheritance on a car?” Desiree said.

  “Yeah,” Cindy said. She blew a big bubble and popped it. “And I wanna blow it on this car.” She stroked the hood lovingly.

  Desiree glared at the finger smudges. “I think a better plan would be to start an IRA.”

  “Nah. I don’t picture myself as a granny. I’m planning to YOLO my life away.” Cindy Lee puffed out her already enormous chest.

  “Well, you might YOLO it into your nineties—God forbid,” Desiree said.

  “How much you asking?” Cindy Lee said.

  “Forty large,” Desiree said. She figured it was way too rich for Cindy Lee’s meager inheritance. She really did want to get rid of the car. It had made her stick out like a sore thumb when all she really wanted to do was blend in. Maybe living in Terrence was good for her. She liked working at the Co-op. She liked simplifying her life.

  She hoped Floyd did figure out a way to buy the Co-op. He was a good manager and with his people skills he could make the place grow more profitable. She stared at the back door of the Co-op. All Floyd needed was a down payment and the bank would give him the loan.

  “Perfect. Granny’s money will just cover it,” Cindy Lee said. “Consider it sold.”

  And she was going to have forty thousand dollars very soon. Hmm…her conscience still held sway. If she took Granny’s money then would she feel responsible for Cindy Lee’s later-in-life poverty? “Were you planning on blowing this money anyway?”

  “Hell, yeah. Either you sell me the car or I’m gonna have one helluva weekend down at the casino,” Cindy Lee said. “IRA’s are for pussies.”

  Desiree sighed, she’d done her best to convince Cindy Lee to be fiscally responsible, so if she was living on pork and beans in her old age that was her own fault. “When do you want to meet at the bank?”

  “After work. I’ll get Floyd to let us off early.”

  “I’ll be there with the title.” Her conscience shrugged its shoulders. What could you do?

  K.I.S.S.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” Greta said as she set down Desiree’s pastrami-on-rye sandwich with chips.

  Desiree was having her usual lunch at The Mystic Grape and she had just told Greta about Cindy Lee buying her car.

  Greta refilled Desiree’s iced tea, saying, “I mean it’s such a nice car and Cindy Lee takes really bad care of her things. That girl could tear up an anvil.”

  Desiree swallowed a chip and said, “I’ve come to realize some things about my life. I have a new philosophy.”

  Greta raised an eyebrow, questioning.

  “I call it the K.I.S.S method.” Desiree sipped her iced tea. “K.I.S.S. stands for Keep It Simple, Stupid. And that’s me from now on. Keeping it simple.”

  Greta delivered a grilled cheese with a side of fries and a piece of peach cobbler to Elmer, the hardware hoarder. Elmer was another lunch regular. That was the thing about small towns that Desiree had observed—people were very routine-oriented.

  “Ketchup,” Elmer grunted. He was obviously a man of few words.

  “It’s coming, Elmer, I’ve only got three hands.” Greta slid the ketchup bottle down the counter like a bartender in the Old West. Elmer caught it before it slid on by and crashed to the floor.

  Greta returned to Desiree. “Sometimes I wish I could work at the Co-op. I read this magazine article about how waitressing was the most stressful job out there. The only thing worse was being a checker at Walmart. But at least they get to stand in one place on those rubber mats.”

  Desiree asked, “Why don’t you apply at the Co-op? I bet Floyd could get you on there.”

  “The owner, Ol’ Man Johnson, has this no wives hiring policy. He had to work forty years with his wife and when she finally keeled over he swore he’d never curse anybody else with that.

  “Was she mean or something?”

  “She used to throw merchandise, cuss like a sailor, and yell at the customers for even asking where something was. Remember Joan Crawford and the wire hangers? She was exactly like that except with feed bags,” Greta said.

  “What if Floyd bought the Co-op?” Desiree asked. She snapped off a chunk of her dill pickle and chewed it. “Couldn’t he set his own policies then?” Desiree tried to look casual as she asked this question. She didn’t want Greta to know she had an idea brewing.

  “Despite Floyd’s best intentions he doesn’t have the kind of money to put down on the place. It looks like Ol’ Man Johnson is going to kick the bucket and leave all his money and the Co-op to that mink sanctuary up the road.”

  “Mink sanctuary?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Johnson had about seven or eight mink coats. Old Man Johnson hated those coats ‘cause they cost him a small fortune. Every time they got in a big fight, she’d get a wild hair and go up to Mitchell’s Minkery and buy another coat. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of summer and sweltering hot outside. Ol’ Man Johnson finally went down there himself and told Mitchell he’d castrate him if he sold his wife another mink coat. He took his Bowie knife with him to make his point.”

  “I still don’t get it. If he doesn’t like minks then why donate to a mink sanctuary?” Desiree asked.

  “He likes minks okay. It’s mink coats he hates. If he puts all the minks in a no-kill rescue shelter no woman west of the Mississippi will ever get another mink coat.”

  Desiree laughed. “Is Floyd coming in for lunch?”

  “Speak of the devil, here’s my man now,” Greta said. Her face brightened as Floyd walked through the diner door. In fact, she lit up brighter than a Fourth of July fireworks show. All that happy in one face made Desiree smile. What she wouldn’t give to be that happy just because somebody walked through a door. Especially if that somebody was Mildred.

  *

  “You want to what?” Floyd asked.

  Greta had taken a break and the three of them scooched into a booth. Desiree wasted no time explaining her plan to Floyd.

  “Why not, Floyd? It’s perfect!” Greta explained. “We never know when Ol’ Man Johnson is going to die. He’s got a bad ticker. You’re running the place anyhow. And you’ve got all kinds of good ideas he never lets you do. If you owned the place…” she looked over at Desiree, “I mean, half-owned the place, you could be your own boss.”

  “I’d let you run the whole show. You just can’t fire me is all,” Desiree said with a good-natured wink.

  “You still want to work there?” Floyd said, dipping a fry into an enormous pool of ketchup.

  “I like working there,” Desiree said.

  “And you’re selling your car to Cindy Lee so you’ll have the cash?”

  “That’s right. We might have to fire Cindy Lee at some point, but as long as she stays entertaining we can keep her,” Desiree said.

  “So you’re staying in Terrence then?” Floyd said. He stared at her as if he could divine her thoughts just by looking at her.

  “Well, yeah, I like it here.”

  “Most people want out,” Floyd said.

  “Been there, done that. I was raised in Seward, Alaska. Now that’s small town and believe you me,
it’s hard to get out of Alaska. Then I did big city and now I want some country living.”

  “There are some people who leave and come back,” Greta said. “Look at Harry Pendleton, or Dave Lewis, and Martha Smight. We went to school with them. The big ol’ world out there isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Oh, and Sarah Jenks. She came back too.”

  “Yeah, and stole Mildred’s girlfriend. Although that was kind of a good riddance issue,” Desiree said.

  Floyd stretched out his hand, palm up, across the table toward Greta and did a gimme motion with his fingers.

  “What?” Greta asked.

  “Your phone, please,” Floyd said.

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s time we told her,” Floyd said.

  “Told me?” Desiree asked. “Told me what?”

  Greta sighed heavily but put her phone in Floyd’s hand. He began to scroll through Greta’s photos, saying, “If we’re going into business together we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other. You agree?”

  “Sure,” Desiree said, sounding not so sure.

  Floyd found the photo he was looking for and held up the phone for Desiree to see. “Does this look familiar?”

  Desiree gasped. “That’s me,” she admitted. She had forgotten all about that photo. It was the selfie she and Mildred had taken right before The Big Tent Ballyhoo. “How long have you known who I was?”

  “Ever since you walked in that door, sat at the counter, and ordered your first lunch,” Greta said. “I recognized you right away as Desiree.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Desiree said. “I wasn’t trying to lie to you all. I didn’t know we’d end up being friends. And my real name is Diane. That part wasn’t a lie.” She crumpled a napkin and finally forced herself to meet Greta’s eyes. “Did you tell Mildred I’m here?”

  “No,” Greta said. “I didn’t want to hurt her any worse than she already was.”

  Desiree nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Mildred’s in love with you,” Greta said simply.