---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Asteroid” Down in the Dirt (v142) (the February 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Spitfire Red

Joan Brown

October 2009
Portland, Oregon, USA

    Stuck in traffic, trapped on the nine bus, Heather Floyd grits her teeth. She hates the bus. But, as of about an hour ago, it is her only transportation. If she’d done as Marcus had asked she’d be with him now, in his car. Abruptly, heedless of ripping the beads and sequins off her champagne-colored, drawstring purse she plunges her hand in and yanks out the envelope with her check. Hoping beyond hope, she looks again at the amount. It’s not nearly as much as she was promised it would be. It’s not nearly enough to pay off Marcus. There were all sorts of undisclosed fees and subtractions, in addition to the lien, but at least she is out from underneath the car payment and insurance bill. Shoving the check back into the purse, she curses and sinks down into the bus seat.
    Her right ankle feels tight, and bending over to admire her five-inch heels of red leather, she sees that it is a little swollen from having walked from the car dealership to the bus stop. Using a red acrylic fingernail she dramatically scoops blonde hair out of her face, and runs her eyes across her figure. Not too skinny is what Marcus used to say when they first met. Perfectly voluptuous is what she calls herself.
    She’s returning to Marcus’s after selling her dream car. She’d loved that car, a 2007, spitfire red, Mustang GT. Driving up and down the boulevard had been a rush — the power of the engine, the power she felt over others as they looked to see who was driving. Women she mostly ignored, unless she was in a bad mood then she would sneer. Men she looked back at, and if they were good looking she smiled. Some would honk and give her a thumb-up or an appreciative nod, and if their car impressed her she would smile, rev her engine and play cat and dog. If they were ugly or driving a junker she would show them her middle finger and speed away.
    She had bought her dream car two years ago when she’d been working at Berg’s Fine Fashions as a sales associate in the Uniquely-You Women’s Department, but two months ago she’d been fired for “flirting with a customer.” Her manager was a bitch. The “customer” had come-on to her first. It had been a slow afternoon and she was bored on the women’s floor so she went downstairs to the men’s department, and there he was, a well-dressed, tall man with light brown, silky hair in a ponytail, looking at blazers. She couldn’t help but stare at him, and notice he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
    When he turned and saw her his eyes had lit up, and he’d said, “Which do you like better, the camel or the navy?”
    Smiling, moving closer, she’d said, “Why don’t you try them both on, then we can see which one fits better?”
    Standing in front of the mirror he’d put on the navy blazer. “How does it look?”
    Coming up behind him she had smoothed the fabric, caressing her hands over his shoulders and down the small of his back.
    “Keep doing that and I’ll buy you anything in this store.”
    That’s when her manager from Uniquely-You suddenly appeared. “You’ve been warned about leaving the department for no reason.”
    “I’m helping a customer”.
    “I see what you’re doing with my husband.”
    Immediately Heather had gone back upstairs.
    Two days later she had been called into the human resource manager’s office, and when she arrived her department manager was also there. The human resource manager had said, “We’ve decided you’re not a good fit with the Berg’s Fine Fashions reputation,” and handed her an envelope, “Here’s your final paycheck. Security will escort you to collect your personal effects and walk you out.”

    During her two and a half years working at Berg’s Fine Fashions she’d taken home lots of beautiful things; clothing, shoes, jewelry and other accessories, makeup, purses, perfumes, lingerie. Some months the amounts she charged for these beautiful things were more than her paychecks.
    Berg’s Fine Fashions had been Heather’s first job. Before that she had been living with mommy, then mommy and her new husband Paul. When it was just she and mommy, especially after her younger sister had moved out, things were good. But dumb-fuck Paul had insisted she either went to work or school. Going to Portland Community College had been ok; she used to skip class to go smoke dope with a few of the other students. She can’t remember what she’d learned from the professors, but she remembers learning how to sign up and show up for classes until student loan money had been disbursed then cancelling the classes and having the money transferred to a credit/debit card the school endorsed.
    At the beginning of her second year in college she’d taken a miss-step, fallen off her high heels and twisted her right ankle. When she came limping into class her friend Shelley had asked what happened. After Heather told her, Shelley had given her the name of a doctor and told her what to say to get painkillers, and that she had a pair of crutches Heather could borrow.
    “I don’t need crutches,” Heather had said. “They’re so ugly.”
    “You don’t have to use them anywhere else, just at the doctor’s office.” Shelley had smiled, “If you don’t want the painkillers for yourself I’ll buy them from you.”
    At the doctor appointment she’d complained about how bad her ankle hurt, and received a prescription for sixty Vicodin. A month later, when she’d gone back for a follow-up visit she’d complained again, and the doctor renewed her prescription and scheduled her for another follow-up visit, then another. Three months later, waiting in the doctor’s reception for her fourth follow-up visit she’d met Marcus. Coming into the reception he’d looked around then taken a seat next to her. Well dressed, older men always attracted her, and she couldn’t help but glance at him. He had sandy hair, pale skin and green eyes with a gleam she’d taken to be loneliness and infatuation.
    “What are you here for?” he’d asked.
    “I hurt my ankle,” she’d said and stuck it out for him to see, although there wasn’t anything to see except her cute, black, high heel boots.
    Softly smiling, he’d asked, “Getting your Vicodin prescription filled?”
    Heather hadn’t known what to think about that.
    Still smiling softly, he’d said, “My name’s Marcus,” and handed her a business card.
    She’d read the card. “You’re an attorney?”
    “Yes, plaintiff’s personal injury.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “When people get hurt, like you, I help them sue insurance companies for a money award.”
    “Oh.”
    “How’d you hurt your ankle?”
    “I fell.”
    “At home?”
    “At school.”
    “Did you trip on something?”
    “Yes.” She said what Shelley had taught her. “I tripped on a big crack on the walkway.”
    “Let me take you to lunch and we’ll see if we can’t get you some insurance money.”

    There hadn’t been any insurance money, but there had been some serious partying; Marcus had turned her on to a whole new euphoria. He was eleven years older than her, and had an unending supply of alcohol, and something that had quickly become her new favorite — cocaine — especially when topped off with a couple Vicodin.
    Heather had lied to mommy and said she was going to school and studying late with a girl friend. When Heather would creep home in the early hours of the morning mommy and her new husband would be sleeping, and Heather didn’t get up until mid-day — long after they’d gone to work. When mommy found out Heather had dropped out of college and was spending her time with an older man, she’d flown into a rage, “I raised you to be a smart, decent young lady, but you’re nothing but a whore. There’s only one thing he wants from a pretty girl like you, sex.”
    “No,” Heather had said, “He loves me.”
    Mommy had snarl-laughed. “If he loved you he’d want to spend the entire night with you, but you always come crawling home.” Mommy had begun to yell, “If he loved you he’d come here and introduce himself to me and state his intent. If he loved you, you’d be wearing a diamond ring. But none of those things have happened, have they?”
    “The only reason you married Paul is because he’s got money. You certainly can’t be in love with anyone as gross as he is.”
    Mommy had slapped her hard, and screamed, “Don’t forget who’s paying the rent here.”
    “I know who it is,” Heather had screamed back, “Paul.”
    The following Sunday, after a particularly fun night with Marcus, Heather had come home when mommy and Paul were usually at church. Mommy wasn’t home, but Paul was. One look at her and he’d said, “You’re so damn high you could hunt ducks with a rake.”
    “You’re only here to pay the bills.”
    He’d gotten close into her face and hissed, “In three months I’m retiring and moving your mother to Florida, and you are not welcome.”
    The next week Berg’s Fine Fashions had hired her, and soon after she’d bought her precious car. Saving money to rent an apartment wasn’t important because she wanted to live with Marcus. He was not enthusiastic. She’d wheedled, “If you don’t let me move in with you I’ll have to live on the street.”
    “I doubt a sexy girl like you will have to live on the street. At least not for long. Not in this boom economy.”
    “I’ll pay rent and food, and half the electric bill.”
    “Two months,” he’d finally agreed, and made her pay him all the money she’d had, two hundred thirty eight dollars, in advance.
    Now, nearly two years later, she is still living there and he frequently reminds her she owes him. Never once has she denied him sex, so she doesn’t feel as if she should have to pay him anything. Besides, he’s not nearly as much fun as he used to be. He still gets drunk and high almost every day, but he’s gotten stingy and she has to beg him to share.
    Two weeks ago he’d asked, “Have you thought about selling that fancy car of yours before it gets repossessed?”
    “No, I love my car.”
    He’d laughed in her face. “Sell the car and you can pay me two thousand of the eleven thousand you owe me.”
    “I don’t owe you eleven thousand dollars!”
    “Twenty-two months you’ve been living here and haven’t contributed more than your original token amount. I think five hundred dollars a month is more than generous.”
    “I don’t owe you eleven thousand dollars.”
    “You’d better think of something before you’re carless and homeless.” Then he’d gone into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
    Since then Heather has been sleeping on the couch. All Marcus does anymore is glare and snap at her, and three days ago when he’d caught her licking cocaine off a mirror he’d grabbed it away from her and thrown it against the wall.
    #
    When she was working at Berg’s Fine Fashions she couldn’t afford all the beautiful things she liked to buy, and even though she knew she should stop she had been unable to force herself to do so. Just the Mustang payment and insurance had been over half of her monthly income. In the two months since being fired she has responded to a couple dozen help-wanted ads — even some that said to not bother applying without a college degree. She’s gotten back two responses, both stating her application was one of over a hundred.
    Last week she’d gone to Style Exchange and sold as many of her beautiful things as they would buy. Some things still had price tags on them, yet she only received a pittance of what she had charged for them. Marcus took all that money. What didn’t sell she’d left in old Berg’s Fine Fashions bags in the trunk of her car.
    Yesterday she’d called four used car dealers before she found one who was interested – but not without a long diatribe about how the housing bust had ruined the economy and how bad the car industry was suffering. Last evening she’d said to Marcus, “I’ve decided you’re right, I should sell my car.”
    He’d nodded and said, “I don’t have any appointments tomorrow afternoon, so when you get up call me at the office, and I’ll go with you to make sure you don’t get cheated.”
    Today when she got up she didn’t call Marcus. Whatever of her possessions that were in the Mustang she’d set against the side of the house before taking the last drive in her beloved car.
    Now, here she is on the nine bus with a check for $1,767.39. Marcus will take the money and bitch at her but he will be temporarily satisfied. But then what will she have? Maybe she should use part of the check to buy an old station wagon or van she can live in until she finds a job.
    When she gets off the bus and is walking the two blocks to Marcus’s it starts to rain. Once there she sees the Berg’s Fine Fashions bags ripped, and her belongings flung across the yard. If it weren’t raining, if she had her car, if she didn’t so badly want a fix of something — anything, she would turn around and find a hotel room for the night. Her key unlocks the door handle, but the inside security lock is in place. She bangs on the door. No answer. She bangs louder. Then louder.
    Marcus, still in his work suit, martini in hand, finally opens the door. He does not look at her, but stomps back into the living room where he drops onto the couch in front of the coffee table and a pile of cocaine on a dinner plate. “Did you sell your car?”
    “Obviously! I had to take the damn bus, and walk two blocks in the rain.”
    “I told you I wanted to go with you.”
    “I thought you were just saying that to be nice.”
    “How much did you get?”
    “They told me to come back tomorrow.”
    “You lying, stupid bitch.” Marcus jumps to his feet. “I should have never let you move in, and I certainly should have never let you stay.” Shoving her against the wall he shakes her, then grabbing the cocaine plate he storms into the bedroom and slams the door.
    Searching the kitchen and living room Heather can’t find any drugs, not even a pill under the couch cushions, so she drinks vodka and complains to herself of how shitty her life has become, and how it is all the fault of Paul for not letting her live with mommy, and of Marcus for insisting that she pay him rent.
    In the morning, lying on the couch, facing the kitchen, Heather watches Marcus running water into the coffeepot. When he turns, the light slanting through the window makes his skin look saggy and his nose sharp. He bangs the cupboard door then slams the coffee can on the counter. He doesn’t turn to look at her.
    After he has showered and dressed in a suit he appears before her. “I know you’re awake.”
    Lying on her back, she squints up at him.
    “Take whatever amount you got for your Mustang and don’t be here when I get home, and don’t come back. Today I’m getting a restraining order against you, and if I see you around here again you’re going to jail.”
    “You’re an idiot, that’s not how the law works.”
    Quicker than she knew he could move, Marcus comes down on top of her stomach with his left knee and pins her to the couch. Stunned, she gasps. Bracing his left hand on the back of the couch he uses his right hand to grab her hair and yank her head up. Eyes enraged, nostrils bulging, he hisses, “Don’t be here when I get home.”
    #
    A little after one in the afternoon Heather gets up, showers, puts on a lot of makeup, a close fitting white dress and high heels that are almost the same champagne color as her bead and sequin purse. Outside she picks her way around mud puddles as she walks out to Powell Boulevard to catch the nine bus into town. First she’s going to the bank to cash her check, and then she’s going to take herself for supper at her favorite restaurant.
    #
    At the bank, standing in line, a voice behind her says, “Hi, remember me?”
    Turning, she sees a man in his late 30s, wearing an expensive brown blazer, and with silky brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She says, “I think so.”
    “My wife got a job in San Francisco and moved away last week.” He shrugs. “She said I party too much.”
    Putting on her best smile she says, “You can never be too much of a partier.”
    Smiling, he says, “I wanted to go to the store and find you, but I didn’t know if you’d be happy to see me.”
    “I wouldn’t have been there.”
    “Did you find a better job?”
    “Your wife fired me.”
    “Soon to be ex-wife.” Still smiling he says, “I hope I didn’t have anything to do with you getting fired.” Gazing into her eyes, and holding out his hand he says, “My name is Neil.”
    “I’m Heather.” Shaking his hand and gazing into his brown eyes she suddenly becomes overcome with loss and uncertainty.
    Gently putting a hand on her arm he asks, “Are you alright?”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    After a couple of seconds he asks, “Do you live downtown?”
    “No. I came downtown because my boyfriend kicked me out and I had to sell my car, and as soon as I get my check cashed, I’m treating myself to supper at Galeen’s.”
    “Galeen’s! I’ve always heard that’s a wonderful place to eat, but I’ve never been there.”
    “It’s my favorite restaurant.”
    “What kind of food do they serve?”
    “It’s sort of nouveau American cuisine.”
    Neil laughs, “Nouveau American, I’ve never heard that term, but I know what you mean.”
    “It’s ordinary American ingredients but combined in new ways. Like butternut squash cream sauce with nutmeg over meat loaf made with ground turkey.”
    “Now I’m really intrigued.”
    “I think you’d like it.”
    “Are you meeting someone there?”
    “Just me.”
    “Let me take you, “ he says. “I’m starving, and eating alone is —” he gives her his most compassionate smile, “so lonely.”
    Heather wonders if he’s carrying any drugs or if he knows where to get some cocaine. “We can have our own private party.”
    A teller calls, “Next.”
    Cashing the check for her car takes a long time but finally the teller gets clearance on the amount. Heather concentrates on the teller counting down the hundred dollar bills and putting them into an envelope, which Heather puts into her purse. When she turns to find Neil he is waiting for her with his charming, sweet smile. He reminds her of Marcus, same height and body shape, and about the same age, but much nicer and, she’s sure, much more generous. He has that look about him. Plus, by the way he dresses he has money. Grinning like hopeful lovers they leave the bank.
    At Galeen’s they are seated in a dim and quiet corner booth. Behind Heather the cushion extends partway up the wall, and leaning back she feels the beginning thrill of a good time.
    After they are served water, Neil reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle. “Vicodin,” he explains and swallows one. “My doctor hands out prescriptions like a street junkie handing out bad checks.”
    Laughing, Heather says, “Drug companies must be paying big cut backs to doctors for writing prescriptions.”
    “Definitely.” Neil smirks and shrugs, “It’s working for me.”
    “It was for me too for a long time but my ex-boyfriend got greedy, and I got cut off.”
    Confused at this logic, Neil shakes his head and smiles.
    Heather says, “My ex is such a loser. He’d take all my Vicodin, so I’d have to call in early to get my prescription refilled, and after the third time calling in early the doctor said he didn’t think I needed any more prescription pain killers.”
    “Were you in pain?’
    “Yes, and I still am.”
    Holding out his prescription bottle, Neil says, “Would you like one?”
    “It would sure help make me feel better.”
    “Help yourself.”
    She takes two.
    A little later, while they are drinking wine and waiting for supper, Heather feels the warm drowsiness and slight numbness of a narcotic high consuming her.
     After a long look, Neil says, “You’re too pretty of a girl not to be happy.”
    It’s been a long time since anyone has said she’s pretty, or that she should be happy, and Heather feels charmed. Drinking more wine she relaxes a little deeper, smiles a little looser.
    The waiter brings their supper.
    After a couple minutes Neils says, “Tell me why you’re not happy.”
    Not knowing where to start, Heather hesitates.
    “You know you can tell me anything.” He replays his best compassionate smile. “Just start at the beginning.”
    “My life was really good two years ago. I was going to college and I met this woman, Shelley, and she turned me on to all sorts of good things.” Because she wants Neil to know what she really likes, she leans forward, raises her eyebrows suggestively and whispers, “Shelley always knew where to get cocaine.”
    Raising his eyebrows back at her he whispers, “So do I.”
    Hopeful, Heather constructs her story, “One day I was on campus and tripped and fell, and sprained my ankle really, really bad. When I was at the doctor’s office there was this man there, an attorney, and he said he could get me a money award from an insurance company because I had hurt myself while at the college. That was Marcus.”
    Signaling the waiter, Neil orders another bottle of wine.
    Heather says, “He’s another person I know who could always get cocaine.”
    “That’s your ex?”
     “Onhonh. When we first met, Marcus was more fun than anyone I had ever known.” Thinking of some of the things they did she giggles.
    “Then what happened?” Neil asks. Reaching for his prescription bottle he shakes out another Vicodin, hands it to her, and refills her wine glass.
    Swallowing the pill she up-ends her wine glass. “While I was going to college I was living with my mother and her new husband, but they wanted to move to Florida, and I didn’t.”
    “So you moved in with Marcus?”
    Putting her hand on the table and leaning forward, Heather says, “I feel as if we’ve known each other for years.”
    Placing his hand warmly over the top of hers and smiling extra sweetly into her eyes, he says, “I feel the same way.”
    “That’s when I went to work at Berg’s Fine Fashions. The economy was good then, and I got lots of hours and made great commissions, and I bought myself my dream car.”
    “That’s always my motto.” He refills their glasses and makes a toast, “If you want it, you should have it.”
    “I wish you could have seen my Mustang. It was a beautiful car, spitfire red with black leather interior and a screaming loud stereo. People used to stare at me driving down the road.” For a moment Heather gloats in her memories, then she frowns. “Mommy said Marcus only liked me for sex. She and I had a big fight, and now I feel guilty because she was right.” Heather flops back in the booth. “If it wasn’t for Marcus I wouldn’t have had to sell my car.”
    “Why? Does he think you owe him something?”
    “Yes, and it’s so unfair. I was always bubbly and sweet, and I never once denied him. So do you think it’s fair that he expects me to pay rent?”
    “I think it’s more than unfair, it’s flat out wrong.”
    “You’re so understanding.” She drains her wine glass. “I really do feel as if I could tell you anything.”
    Strokes her hand gently, he leans toward her, almost as if he’s going to kiss her, and whispers. “You know you can, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” she stammers, then more confidently, “yes, I do.”
    After they finish the second bottle of wine Neil asks for the check.
    Heather feels as if she is melting into the booth. Smiling and purring she pulls herself to the edge and gets her legs swung to the outside, but when she tries to stand she has to catch herself from pitching forward. Glancing at Neil she thinks she sees, for a split second, his jaw tense in impatience, but of course she’s wrong. From the look in his eyes when he smiles at her she knows he has fallen in love.
    Neil asks, “Shall I call a cab for you?”
    Remembering she has no place to go, Heather’s face drops, “I don’t have anywhere to go.”
    “How about if I get a room for the night?”
    Still sitting with her legs to the outside Heather starts to hiccup loudly.
    Quickly coming and helping her to stand, making sure she doesn’t leave her purse, and then supporting her with his arm around her waist Neil walks her outside and leans her against the brick wall of the building. “The Crescendo Hotel is only a block from here.” Gently he caresses her face then slides his hand over her shoulder and halfway down her arm. “It’s one of the new boutique hotels that are so popular. You would really make me happy if you would let me get you a room for the night.”
    By pushing herself against the brick wall Heather is able to remain standing but she is unable to walk on her own.
    Scratching his scalp, shifting his weight and checking his cell phone, Neil says, “To the Crescendo then.”
    Heather reaches out her hand.
    Half carrying her, Neil gets checked in at the hotel. By the time they get into the room Heather can’t stop giggling. First thing she does in the room, same as she always does, is flip the inside security lock. After kicking her shoes across the room she wobbles and stumbles her way to the courtesy bar, and scoops all of the mini booze bottles into the ice bucket. Climbing onto the queen-sized bed she sits cross-legged and flops her purse onto the side table.
    Shaking his prescription bottle, Neil asks, “One more?”
    “Love to.”
     He gives her another Vicodin.
    Picking up a mini-bottle of vodka she cracks the seal, drinks half with the pill, grimaces, burps, drinks the other half. Giggling, she tosses the empty bottle onto the floor.
    Neil sits on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, and chooses whiskey to sip on. Picking up another mini bottle he cracks the seal and holds it out for Heather, “Here’s another vodka.”
    Three gulps later, she tosses the second empty vodka mini onto the floor.
    “How about gin,” Neil asks cracking the seal and holding the bottle out to her, “you look like someone sophisticated enough to drink gin.”
    Liking to think of herself as sophisticated, Heather reaches for the gin. This time it takes her four gulps before she tosses the empty onto the floor. Shapes in the room begin to blur together in a dizzying sensation of red and black. “I thought you were going to get us some cocaine.”
    “Before we left the restaurant I sent a text message to my contact. She’s always really good about getting right back to me.”
    Heather lets herself fall onto the pillows.
    #
    Banging on the door wakes Heather. Jerking, she gasps in pain; her head feels like a red-hot boil and her asshole is on fire. She can’t figure out where she is or why she’s in bed with her dress bunched up around her waist. The banging bounces maniacally in her head and covering her ears she yells, “Stop.”
    “Security! Open the door,” a woman’s voice, strong and aggressive, yells.
    Looking around she realizes she’s alone in some hotel room.
    “It’s after one-o’clock. You need to vacate this room immediately.”
    Still confused, Heather manages to push herself up and stumble to the door. Looking curiously at the inside safety lock, she flips it closed before leaning against the wall and saying loudly, “I’ll be out in half an hour.”
    “I’m sorry, miss, but if you’re not out in fifteen minutes I am authorized to enter this room.”
    “I’ll stay another day.”
    “I’m sorry, miss, but the hotel is full for the night.”
    Turning away from the door and looking around the room she sees the contents of her purse spilled, and she remembers her money. Heart leaping then plummeting into her gut, she frantically searches the room and in the sheets. On her hands and knees she looks under the bed. Her money is gone. In pain and shock she retches loudly and repeatedly, until she is sitting in a puddle of vomit. Finally she recovers and drags herself to the bathroom.
    Security resumes banging on the door. “Two minutes then we’re coming in.”
    Heather puts what she has left into her purse, and wearing her gross dress and holding her high heels she opens the door and tries so walk past three security guards — one woman and two men, but they stand in her way even as they gag.
    “Come this way,” the woman says, “we’ve got decent guests in the lobby.” They take her down the service elevator and deposit her in the alley.
    The woman security guard loudly remarks, “Didn’t I tell you? Another stupid whore thinking she got herself a sugar daddy.”
    One of the men says, “She’s not even good looking.”
    “A real dog,” the other man says.
    In a red, black fog of misery, Heather walks unsteadily. She knows she’s not a dog; men are always coming on to her.
    #
     In the gray, drizzly afternoon Heather tries to remember last night. She was at the bank and there was a man that she maybe knew from somewhere else. She remembers putting the money for her car in her purse, and that they’d gone to Galeen’s and he’d ordered a bottle of wine. When she tries to remember what she ate she cannot. He must have spiked her drink. That’s all she can think of. If she squeezes her head hard enough she wonders if all the pain will pop out like puss. Slowly walking, sometimes resting against a wall, she makes her way downhill toward the Willamette River.
    In her purse she finds her cell phone to call 911. What’s she going to tell them? That some man she doesn’t remember got her drunk and drugged, and took her to a hotel, whose name and location have already slipped her mind. That he raped and sodomized her. And, honestly, she did have close to two thousand dollars cash on her, and he stole it all. Still, she dials 911. Nothing happens. Two more times she dials before realizing it’s dead. Throwing the phone onto the ground Heather watches it break.
    She continues downhill knowing that people hover under the Burnside Bridge overpass to keep dry.
    At Skidmore Fountain she washes her hands and face and legs then tries to wipe off her dress but it only re-invigorates the vomit smell while the stains remain. Hovering out of the rain are six or seven small groups of homeless people. Some are down and logy lying on cardboard and curled in charity blankets, others are hyped-up, strutting back and forth smoking and flicking lit butts at each other, yelling profanities and spitting. Heather, damp, chilled and hungry, finds an empty space against a cement bridge support, and leaning against it slides down on her left side to cause as little pain as possible. A few of the hypers leer at her, but she’s too frightened to flip them the finger or yell. After giving her some verbal abuse they turn their backs.
    “Heather?” A husky woman’s voice says. “Heather Floyd?
    “Huh?” She looks up to see a woman who looks like her school friend, but rougher and older.
    “It is you. We were in class together at Portland Community College.”
    “Psychology?”
    The woman laughs loudly then glances around expectantly. “Critical thinking.”
    “Shelley?”
     Squatting next to Heather she says quietly, “Everyone around here knows me as Gloria.” Her bright red hair has at least an inch of gray and drab brown roots, and her eye make-up is smeared. She is wearing a low-cut green sweater, tight blue leather skirt and high heels made of black plastic. “My feet are killing me.”
    “My whole body is killing me.”
    “How’d you end up here? Weren’t you living with your mother? And as I remember, you had a new boy friend who was an attorney.”
    “My mother’s husband kicked me out.”
    Again glancing around expectantly Gloria laughs loudly. “At least he didn’t try and make you have sex with him.”
    Gloria’s foul breath assaults Heather and she draws back.
    “Or maybe he did —”
    “No.”
    “That’s why he kicked you out.”
    “Old men are disgusting.”
    Elbowing Heather, Gloria says, “Depends on how much money they have. Know what I mean?”
    “He didn’t have enough.”
    Gloria laughs, looks around. “So you wouldn’t fuck mommy’s new husband and he kicked you out. What happened then?”
    “I had to quit school so I could get a job and pay rent.”
    “What about that attorney boy friend?”
    “I never loved him. I lived with him for a while but all he ever thought about was money.”
    “As long as he’s spending it on you, what do you care?”
    “That was the problem, it wasn’t me he was spending his money on?”
    “What was he spending it on?”
    “He was a gambler.”
    “I had a boyfriend like that. Gambled away every penny he ever made, and tried to get his hands on mine too.” Gloria shakes her head in commiseration. “Where’d you get a job at?”
    “I was working at Berg’s Fine Fashions but because of the recession I got laid off and I can’t find another job.”
    “How long ago was that?”
    “Two months ago.”
     “Where you been living?”
    “Until yesterday I was living with Marcus, the attorney, but we got in a big fight and I’m afraid to go back there.”
    “You don’t have a car to sleep in?”
    “I sold my car so I would have money to get an apartment, but last night I ran into a man I thought I knew. This morning when I woke up all my money was gone.”
    Gloria keeps looking beyond Heather; watching for something or someone. “What are you going to do?”
    “I don’t know.” Heather’s face contorts in sobs. “What can I do?”
    “I know someone who can help you. He helped me.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Gloria reaches a hand over her head and waves. “When I graduated from college I couldn’t find a job — this fucking recession caused by greedy ass money bangers and politicians — couldn’t pay my student loan, couldn’t pay rent and ended up homeless. I tried living on my own on the street but I got robbed, raped and beat.”
    “Same as me,” Heather says.
    “You haven’t really spent a night on the street yet, have you?”
    With frightened eyes Heather stares at Gloria.
    “You’ll like Daryl. He’s strict, but he’s not mean like some of the other pimps.” Putting one arm around Heather and giving her a quick hug, Gloria says, “Believe me, honey, your only other choice is to try to make it on your own. And you won’t be able to.“ She smiles, “Don’t worry, you’re sexy and young; you’ll do fine.”
    “But . . . I . . .”
    “You don’t really have any other choice. Do you?”
    Heather knows she doesn’t.
    Leaning real close, Gloria whispers, “Daryl’s got cocaine.”
    “Do you think he’ll give me any?”
    “He won’t give it to you but you can buy it from him.”
    “But I just told you, I don’t have any money.” She starts crying.
    “You can make as much as you want; it’s just sex. Stupid to give it away for free.”
    Standing, Gloria reaches down and pulls Heather up. “Here’s Daryl now.”
    “Hello, beautiful,” says a middle aged, balding, round-bellied man in tan khaki’s and a peach-colored polo shirt. Tilting his head down so that his bald, white pate shows, he stares at Heather over the top of black, thick-framed glasses. “You look as if you could use a new friend and a hot shower.”
    Afraid to say yes, but comforted by his looking as if he could be someone’s dad, Heather vaguely nods.
    Gloria takes her hand. “Come on, I’ll wash your back.”
    Daryl asks, “Are these all the clothes and things you have?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve got a red dress that will make you look like hot shit,” Gloria says.
    “Walk this way,” Daryl says and starts to lead. From his pocket a cell phone rings. “Yeah?”
    Gloria, letting go of Heather’s hand gives her another one-arm hug as they follow Daryl, and whispers. “You’re going to be really good at this, I can tell.”
    Heather overhears Daryl, “I got a newbie here, a young blonde. I think you’re going to like her.” He looks at the time, turns to examine Heather again over the top of his glasses and then pointedly staring at Gloria he says into the phone, “I’ll have her there in an hour-and-a-half.”
    Gloria nods. A few steps later Gloria whispers to Heather, “If you ask him nice he’ll front you a little cocaine to perk you up, and then he’ll just subtract it from the money you make from your date.”
    Thinking about how good she’ll feel after a fat snort, Heather lets Gloria guide her after Daryl.
    “Daryl rents a couple rooms not far from here. A couple days ago we lost a girl, so there’s a free bed.”
    “But . . . “
    “As long as you stick with me, you’ll be fine.”
    “what if . . . I mean . . .”
    “What else are you going to do? You try and turn tricks on your own, you’ll be lucky to make it through the week without getting beat half to death, or to death.”
    “I’m not a prostitute.”
    “Of course you’re not.” Putting her arm back around Heather but this time giving her a firm shake, Gloria says, “What you are is a survivor, and this is what it takes.”
    “I’m only going to do this until I find something better.”
    “Of course.”
    “Do you really think Daryl will front me some cocaine?”
    “I’m positive. Probably not much, but enough to get you to your date, and then when you get back you can buy more. He’s always got it.”
    “Always?”
    “Always. What do you think about that? All the cocaine you want, and all the money you want!”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...