Bad Jobs and Poor Decisions

by J. R. Helton

  “Her?” the old woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  The woman gestured to a rate chart on the wall and explained the charges in broken English. I picked the forty-dollar, one-girl, thirty-minute rate and paid her. The small prostitute then led me down a hall and through a door with hanging beads on the other side. She sat me down in a chair and said, “I’ll be right back. Get ready, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I watched her walk back through the beads, staring at her ass. I looked around the room. It was dominated by a large water bed. There were two full-length mirrors on either side of the bed and small tables with dim lamps on them, their shades dark red. Several candles burned on the tables. A heavy blue curtain covered the large windows. There was a battered dresser next to the recliner I sat in.

  After a few minutes, the girl came into the room. She was wearing a white towel around her body and acted surprised. “How come you not ready?”

  “What?”

  “How come you not take your clothes off?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m a little drunk.”

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “I’ve got allergies.”

  “My name’s Kim.”

  She knelt down in front of me and started untying my dirty work boots. She reached up to my crotch, slowly rubbed, and I got an erection.

  “You like me?” she asked.

  “Yes I do.”

  “You come see me anytime. I like you.”

  “Great.”

  She was having trouble untying my boots. Her towel kept slipping off, and her fingers fumbled with the paint-caked laces.

  “Where are you from, Kim?”

  “Korea.”

  “How long have you been in America?”

  “One year.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  She looked up at me from the floor. Her black eyes locked on mine. It was a stupid question.

  “It’s okay. Sometimes good, sometimes bad.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay,” she said loudly and smiled. She had my shoes untied. I slipped them off, stood up, and took off my pants and shirt. I pulled Kim up and said, “Let’s get in the bed.”

  I lay on the water bed, and Kim sat next to me. She picked up a bottle of some mint-scented oil and rubbed it over my chest, and I began to relax. When she reached my erection, she soaked it with lotion and stroked slowly. She started to suck me off, and I watched her in both of the mirrors. From one side I could see her little ass, while the other mirror reflected her head bobbing up and down. I must have moaned because she stopped and said, “Don’t come.”

  “Okay.”

  “You need rubber?”

  “No, no.”

  “Yes, you need a rubber.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you come to see me, say you want one. Always tell me, and I get one for you. Always tell me.”

  She opened a drawer in one of the nightstands and took out a condom. She opened it and put it on me. I lay there. Kim looked at me, confused, and opened her arms. She smiled sweetly and said, “Here I am.”

  “Come get on top of me.”

  “You want to fuck me?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  She lowered herself on my cock slowly, and I watched in the mirrors. “It’s good,” she said. “You can fuck me.”

  Her ass was so small I could cup it in my hands. It felt strange but good. Kim began to hump on me very hard. I watched her ass move up and down in the mirrors. She kept kissing me all over the face and neck. I hesitated at first and then started kissing her back. We moved our tongues into each other’s mouths, and I started sucking on her nipples and kissed her face and neck, tasting fresh mint. I came inside her, and the orgasm lasted a long time. She kept on fucking me, moving faster. I lay back, pressed her ass down, and moved her whole small body along mine. Her mouth was next to my ear, and I heard her moaning very quietly and intensely for several seconds. When she was through, we held each other and kissed a little more. After a little while she asked me quietly, “Are you through?”

  “Yeah, that was great.”

  She stared at me. “I like you a lot,” she said.

  “I like you too, Kim.”

  “You come see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anytime you come see me, I’m here. If you need a rubber, ask me and I get it for you.”

  “Okay.”

  She climbed off me, opened a drawer, and started putting on another black leotard. She wouldn’t stop looking at me and smiling. I got up and put on my clothes, and she ran over and hugged me. It was a very tight hug, and she wouldn’t let go.

  “I like you,” she said. “I like you.”

  I hugged her lightly and tried to move away. She hung on and smiled at me. “I like you. You come see me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be back.”

  “Anytime. Please. . . .”

  It was the way she looked up at me. She was so small, like a little kid.

  “I gotta go, Kim.”

  She let go of me, and I followed her through the beads and back down the hall. The other girls were still lying on the couch staring at the TV. A big old fat guy was standing by the rate board with a fat woman with greasy brown hair and acne. The old woman was explaining the rates to him.

  “I want my wife to watch,” the man said. “But I shouldn’t be charged for her. . . .”

  Kim opened the front door and hugged me again. “You come see me.”

  “I will. Good-bye.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  I walked to the LTD and got in. I sat and stared at the cracking dashboard. I heard cars driving down Lamar, saw the soft dim light coming from Body Works. I started up the car and drove home.

  * * *

  It seemed all we could ever rouse ourselves to do anymore was get stoned and go see a movie. Sometimes we saw four a week, just about everything that came out in the multiscreen places, it didn’t matter what it was, just two hours of something. One night though, our old friend Pat came into town, and we decided to go out to a bar. Pat had a gram of good coke with her, and we did some at the apartment before we left. She told us that her and her boyfriend’s relationship was strained.

  “Corky’s fucking this other girl right now,” Pat said.

  “How rude,” Susan said.

  “It is. It wouldn’t be bad if she was halfway decent, but she’s an ugly pig. I don’t know what he sees in her. He’s being a real asshole.”

  “Did he finish law school yet?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really give a shit. You know he didn’t even come to my abortion?”

  “Where was he?” Susan asked.

  “He was off with her. I mean, he paid for it, but the least he could have done was take me down there and help me. Instead he went to see a Crosby, Stills & Nash concert.”

  “Crosby, Stills & Nash?”

  “I know—he goes and sees a shitty concert with her. What an insult. I left him a terrible letter. I really gave him hell. I said, while you were playing grab-ass with that airhead bitch in Austin I was getting your baby sucked out of me in San Antonio.”

  “That oughtta get him.”

  “What a prick,” Susan said.

  “No shit, and there were all these protestors down there, these stupid Christian assholes, and this lady was begging me not to go in. I felt like slapping her. I’m really pissed at him.”

  We did some more coke and got in Pat’s car and left. None of us had any money for drinks so we drove to a nearby bar on the UT campus called the Cowboy Café. We parked, went inside, and since it was so late they just let us in. B.W. Stevenson was up on stage singing old songs. The place was packed with earnest people listening to the music. Susan found a table in a corner of the room with one guy sitting by himself. He was an old South Austin hippy with long hair in a ponytail and a big drooping mustache. Susan asked very sweetly if we could share his table, and he said sure and pulled out a chair. Sus
an sat next to him, and Pat and I sat together. BW sang, and Pat and Susan talked with the hippy guy and somehow mentioned that we didn’t have any money but would all love a drink. The guy brightened to the idea.

  “Hey, I’ll buy you guys a drink. What do you want?”

  “What are you having?” Susan asked.

  “Uh, a Long Island Tea. That okay?”

  “Are they strong?” Susan asked innocently.

  “Oh yeah,” the guy said and smiled. “Let’s go.”

  He and Susan went to the bar. Pat and I listened to BW and clapped. Susan and the hippy came back with our drinks. We finished them off quickly, and he offered to buy us more. Sure, thank you.

  After an hour and three more drinks, Pat and I were leaning together. Susan and the hippy were talking and listening to the music. Maybe I’d had enough to drink now, but I began to get irritated with the way the hippy was getting closer and closer to Susan. I leaned back in my chair, glanced under the table, and saw he was running his hand up and down her thigh. I looked up at her face and our eyes met. She smiled sweetly and moved closer to the guy.

  “Hey,” the hippy said, “you guys’re great. Let’s go somewhere else and party.”

  I moved my chair over, leaned around Susan, and saw that hand down there, creeping up between her legs. I reached around her, grabbed the guy’s ponytail, and gave his head a sharp jerk.

  “Hey, man, what’s your problem? What’s wrong?”

  I saw he was surprised rather than angry, and I suddenly felt guilty for fucking with him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “Is this your old lady? No problem man, no problem. My mistake. Listen, you guys want another drink? I got some liquor at my house. We can go party or something, burn one down.”

  “Why don’t you get us another drink?” Susan said.

  The man stood up. “Sure, you got it. I’ll be right back.” He walked through the crowd to the bar.

  “I’m really drunk,” Pat said. “Those drinks are strong.”

  “Let’s go,” Susan said. “Now.”

  She and Pat stood up and walked to the exit. I was really drunk also and for some reason I picked up the heavy wooden chair I was sitting in and carried it out over my head, but no one said anything. Susan and Pat were in the lobby, laughing and drunk. The walls were lined with paintings from a faculty art show, some sort of boring, derivative, abstract expressionism.

  “These paintings suck,” Pat said.

  “I like these two,” Susan said, pointing out two lone impressionistic paintings.

  I put down the chair and tried to take the two paintings off the wall. They were tied up with wire on clips. I had to really pull to get them off. I got them down, but I fucked them all up, someone’s hard work. “Let’s go,” Susan said. “You’re going to get in trouble.”

  We stumbled out to Pat’s car. I tried to get the chair in the trunk but couldn’t, so I threw it over into a big UT fountain along with the paintings. We all piled into the front seat, and I drove home. Halfway to El Madrid, Pat started throwing up. Susan held the back of her shirt while she puked out the window. By the time we reached the apartments, Pat felt better. She jumped out of the car and ran to the pool. Susan and I followed her to the pool’s edge.

  “Let’s go swimming,” Pat said.

  “I’m gonna pass out,” Susan said.

  Pat started to take her clothes off.

  Susan looked at me. “I’m going upstairs. Give me the keys.”

  Pat took off her underwear and jumped in the pool. “Come on in!” she yelled.

  Susan walked up the three flights of stairs and didn’t look back. It was cold, and the pool wasn’t heated. I didn’t feel like getting wet.

  “Come on, Pat. You’re gonna drown.”

  “No I’m not. Get in, you pussy!”

  “C’mon, it’s freezing. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Oh shit,” Pat said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just ruined my watch. Help me out.”

  I pulled her out of the pool, and she put her arms around me, pressing her big wet breasts to my jacket.

  “God, I’m cold. My dad’s gonna kill me. He just bought me this watch for my birthday.”

  I helped her pick up her clothes. She tried to put on her underwear but couldn’t. I glanced up at the balcony and saw that several guys had come out to watch. Pat went up the stairs naked, holding her clothes in front of her. I followed close behind, watching her ass move. I thought: If Susan’s passed out, I’m gonna fuck Pat on the couch.

  Susan hadn’t passed out, though. Pat and I walked through the door laughing and hanging on to each other. Susan handed Pat a towel and pajamas.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick again,” Pat said. She promptly ran into the bathroom and was.

  “I’m gonna leave these pj’s by the door, Pat. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can sleep on the couch. There’s some sheets and a blanket.”

  “Okay.”

  Susan and I walked into the bedroom and lay on our mattress and box springs.

  “That sure was nice of you to take care of Pat,” Susan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I could just see your kindness. The way you stared at her all night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that guy was touching your leg?”

  “That guy was completely harmless.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “You were guzzling those drinks.”

  “So were you.”

  “It was no big deal. I was handling it.”

  “Yeah, you were handling it.”

  “Maybe you want to go sleep with your cute little girlfriend Pat.”

  “I think I will.”

  I got up and went into the living room. I saw Pat leaning off the couch, throwing up into a pan, her wet hair hanging down around her face, and I went back to bed.

  * * *

  The buildings kept going up downtown, and Austin Paint and Spray kept painting them. I wanted to quit, but I needed money. Big Jim stayed on in 301 Congress, and Jesse and Tyler and I were moved to One American Center, the OAC, a big three-tiered building that looked like a tall ship, directly off South Congress, only a few blocks down from the giant Texas Capitol. The OAC was yet another building of so many going up that they were now starting to obscure and block the view of the State Capitol dome itself. Steve Hall was the foreman at OAC. Steve was a good guy to work for since he never wanted to work himself. He started whining at nine-thirty in the morning: “God, I don’t wanna work today,” or “I just feel like going home and going to sleep,” or “They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

  Around eleven o’clock he’d want to go to lunch. “Come on, let’s go to the Red Bean.”

  We went to the Red Bean then, ate some burgers, and got drunk. It soon became a routine. We were only supposed to take thirty minutes, but we took an hour and a half, sometimes two, and had many drinks, all on Steve. I came back so drunk some days I could barely hold a brush. Steve became very talkative and would follow me around the rest of the afternoon telling me about his five Yorkshire terriers or his sick mother, whom he was very close to.

  “My dogs got into the garden again. My mother’s in the hospital today. She’s very ill. She’s a very intelligent person, very funny.”

  He was a very depressed person. He always moped around wearing an old, blue Chicago Cubs cap and dark Ray-Bans whether he was inside or outside the building. He got smashed at lunch and went to the topless bars in the afternoon, spent all his money, and fell asleep by nine in front of his TV. He told me, “All I ever want to do is sleep.” He’d practically beg me to go with him to the strip bars.

  “Come on, man. Let’s go to the Crazy Lady.”

  “I can’t afford those watered-down drinks, Steve.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll pay for them.”

  “I don’t know. You already bought everybody lunch.”


  “No problem, I got some money. I’ll pay for everything.”

  “Okay.”

  So we went to the Crazy Lady after work. The bouncer at the door gave me a dirty long-sleeve shirt to wear over my T-shirt as this was a dignified establishment: No shirts without collars. We sat at a table, and sure enough, Steve started ordering drinks. Plain, unenthused girls danced on the stage to the horrible, generic rock, MTV crap that littered the eighties, Loverboy’s “Working for the Weekend,” the Outfield, or the latest pablum from Pat Benatar. We watched them jump around, and we drank. The prettiest one was a short blonde teenager with silver glitter on her tiny nipples. After she finished her dance, she came over to our table, sat next to me, and put her hand on my leg. She was very perky.

  “Hi!” she yelled.

  “Hi. You want a drink?”

  “Sure, I’ll have a vodka tonic.”

  “Steve?”

  “Vodka tonic, coming up.” He went to the bar and bought some more drinks.

  “I liked your dance,” I said.

  “Thank you. I hope my mom and dad liked it.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re sitting right over there. Hang on, I’m gonna ask ’em.”

  She hopped up and ran over to another table. An old couple sat there with beers in front of them. The woman had white hair piled up on her head, and the man had a crew cut. The girl talked with them for a minute and then came back over. I stared at her silver nipples.

  “They loved it,” she said. “Mom wants to know how much money I collect each dance. She said, ‘Is that like a tip?’ Where were you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why didn’t you come up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want a lap dance?”

  I looked over at her parents. “That’s okay.”

  “Well, I have to dance again up there, then. Are you guys gonna come up and give me a tip?”

  “Sure, we’ll come up there.”

  “You better,” she said and patted my leg and laughed. Steve brought the drinks, and the dancer picked hers up and walked backstage.

  “Isn’t this great?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah, it’s great.” I gulped my drink down and watched the next listless dancer. Steve started talking about some crappy TV show he loved called Airwolf, which starred a super helicopter and Jan Michael Vincent, in that order. Or he went on about a new show called The A-Team, starring George Peppard and a former bouncer turned bodyguard turned borderline actor with an afro Mohawk, named Mr. T. If it wasn’t bad TV, again it was Steve’s poor mother. “So now she’s trying to get me to take care of her dogs, too, since she’s so sick. She’s the one who introduced me to Yorkshire terriers, actually. I said, No way, Mom, then I’ll have nine Yorkshire terriers! Can you imagine that?” he asked me. “Nine Yorkshire terriers? Ready to breed?” He even started talking to the strippers of his dying mother and his Yorkshire terriers, and they pretended to care, shaking their asses and breasts up into his face, tapping their G-strings for dollar bills, which Steve continually filled, not for the titillation or a promise of future sex, but just to have someone to listen to him.