Read by Shin-Fei Chen
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Lay it square in the daylight, Jodie, put your face right against the window so he can see you in all your puppy-fat glory. Here’s me: a child. You’d think some of these guys would be put off, but four weeks and not a single john who is. One day I’ll meet a man who goes white in the face over the idea. I’ll cuff him to me and we’ll do a drive-thru in Vegas. For that I have to wait four years. That’s funny, isn’t it? Here I am doing what I’m doing, but I’ve got to wait four years to get married. This one’s looking at me like he just got a promotion.
Where can we go? Mr. Mumbles, is it? As though if he’s quiet enough he won’t have to hear himself say it.
You’re getting ahead. Leaning myself right through his window. Not much filling my tank top, hollow where a tit might one day be if I live that old, but for some of them, it’s what they like, right?
Forty dollars. I don’t use and he can see it. It’s my selling point. The moment those fancy real estate guys go ‘would you look at this view’? Hey, you’ve got to use your advantages. I’ve got that soapy bath-time look about my skin. Guys feel about me the way mom’s hippy customers feel about a root vegetable plucked straight out of the ground. There’s still something about me to ruin.
He’s squirming in his seat, trying to get his hand in his pocket. Come on, guy, take your belt off. It’s the buckle in the way. But he’d rather chafe his knuckles against it. Quick check of the car – no blades, ropes, that I can see. Tinted windows, but all these trucks have tinted windows – this town is so special the gods can’t stop staring down at us.
OK, there’s the cash. Get in the car, kid. Put the money in your bag.
You want to drive round to the Pratt Trail?
Don’t look at him. They all look the same and if you look at them, you’ve got to pity them. No wedding ring on this one. Some of them take them off anyway. Big, hairy knuckles and square-nailed fingers that won’t straighten. Bright blonde hairs on his arms like sawdust. Gives me an itch in my throat just looking at it. Hairball. Don’t look. Except if you make everything go away, you don’t always hold onto everything you need to see — Mace in the cup-holder by your leg.
What are you planning on doing with that?
I’m not going to spray you.
Uh-huh. Keep it light in your voice, like nothing is real and always your fingers on the door handle. In the back, long planks of wood, tins of paint. You can still get out. If you got out every time you saw a can of Mace, you’d be broke.
You know the way?
He starts the car. Doesn’t say a word on the drive. Car smells like tacos. Probably that tamale place. I’ve ate there too. Look at the dashboard. Grainy. Black. Plastic. Tiny little grains. Like lime skin. Limes shrivel. Inside is like being smothered with heat. Water. Haven’t had nothing to drink. My lips are dry. If I am going to get killed, garlic is not what I’d choose to smell. I’ve got my last meal figured: Double-Double from In-N-Out with Animal Style fries. Cinnamon ice cream and a cheesecake from Vons. And all within the forty-dollar budget. That always ticks me off. Reckon at least my fantasy ought to go beyond the budget. Miss Hickey always said I was limiting myself. Poor Miss Hickey. She thought so long as you knew the state capitals you’d be all right. Like a lot of people who’ve had life easy, she could be a fucking idiot. And what is the point of this ritual, the last meal? It’s not like I’m Jesus. They’ll just give you what they can prepare on site. So why put you through the fantasy?
Park up under that tree.
Pulls round to the right in the shade. Another car to our left, but no one in it. We’ll see them coming before they see us. The ground slopes and I’m on the decline – that gives me some shot at rolling out. Nothing blocking my side. Give him a second to initiate. Come on. Peeling his hands off the steering wheel like it hurts. We’ve only got a half hour. Hey, if that’s what he chooses to do with his time, but next he’ll be accusing me of stealing his money.
I’m Gus.
Whatever you say. Maybe I judged wrong. He is going to whack me over the head with one of them two-by-fours, cover me in paint. I’m going to die in a paint slick and when they put me in my coffin, there’ll still be flecks of blue under my nails they couldn’t get out.
What’s your thing? Your specialty?
Did I hear right? You’d think this was dinner at Red Lobster. I’d have worn my good dress if I’d known.
I’m good with what we agreed. You want to undo your pants?
There must be things.
It’s best you decide. Well, you’ve already decided, right?
Because I’ve been around and no funny business getting away with more than you paid for. He looks disappointed. What do you figure? Alright then, my preference is a hand job. As little as possible. Bet that’s not what he wants to hear. He looks like he can’t find his eyes to see.
My wife makes all the decisions.
Are you kidding me?
The color of the paint back there? She chose it. I just picked it up. Taupe. It’s for my grandkids’ tree house. Even that she chooses.
Treehouse. Fucking excellent for them. I hope they break their necks coming down the ladder.
You ever had a treehouse?
Takes a second to know he means me. Concentrate, Jodie. No.
Must have had some secret place?
Not that I’d tell you about.
I could build you a treehouse. You’d like that wouldn’t you?
Touches my arm.
Look at me.
God, it’s hot.
Look at me.
Slowly. There. Sliding your hand down my arm, rough fingers catch my skin like the soles of feet against sheets. Lighting matches. Hand down my thigh. For God’s sake, not my knees.
You’re pretty. You look kind of like my daughter. When she was your age.
I can’t bear for you to touch my knees. They are ugly knees, speckled and dry like potatoes, but they are my knees. If there’s one thing, it’s my knees. Hand stops on my thigh. Firm. All this time I am looking at you and not blinking. See? Until the whole world becomes concentrated in there, in those blue irises, like smashed flowers. Then a smile. Nothing of the fluster and fumble now, and in spreading your lips, you crack my gaze and I see you, I have to see you, a fat guy in brown slacks, blue shirt with white stripes, glasses. Bald head like a bird’s nest, blistered in the sun.
I’d build you a treehouse and I’d be the only one allowed up. You wouldn’t let in anyone except for me.
This is you and you aren’t fumbling and fidgeting now. Took a few wrong turns, circling round your guts, but here you are, you bastard. Your other hand lightly touching yourself and I get it. You’re thinking: I paid for you. Well, if I’d known this was your game I’d have charged twice as much, three times as much, hell, I’d never have got in. And there’s no way I’m climbing in your fucking tree house, unless it’s to shut you out and you’d have to torch the whole thing to get to me.
What’s the matter, baby?
I’d like to squat and shit in your tree house, pants around my ankles.
Come on, baby.
Less fun when you have to work. The air going out of your tiny balloon.
You’re my baby girl.
What, are you going to ask me to call you granddaddy? I’ve had guys tell me, ‘Call me daddy.’ I’ve done that because that didn’t touch me: the money says call me daddy. You can call cash by a lot of names. But this fucking treehouse. Asshole.
Maybe you can see I’m mad because you’re floppy as shit. Good.
Let’s play nice. We can start something up. I’ll come see you once a week, twice a week. We’ll be tight. Maybe one day I can take you out as a lady.
I could get out – I’ve got a clear access. Except it’s too far to walk back, and you never want to be running from a car. Plus I need the money. He’s just a trick, remember that. And a trick is just money.
You’d like me to visit your treehouse, wouldn’t you?
Why don’t you go fuck your grandkids? Maybe you do. Still touching yourself. Still limp. You’re going to have to stay that way if you don’t shut your mouth. I have to get out of this car as soon as possible. Anything to make him shut up.
Sir, if we were going to do role play, we should have agreed it up front.
Butt-hurt about that, aren’t you?
I’m just playing around. I’m not asking for any kinky shit.
I understand. But I just do straight stuff.
He sinks into his pink putty body. We’re just getting to know each other.
Look, why don’t you relax and let me fix it, OK?
He doesn’t say no.
Condom somewhere in my bag, but don’t think I’m not looking at him the whole time. Hope he’s not going to complain about the rubber. He doesn’t say anything.
Lie back. Let me sort you out.
Put the rubber on. I’d rather smell latex than his sourness. Slide over, get my head onto his side of the car. Leather creaking under my middle, centre arm-rest digging into my ribs, the gearstick against my hip. On go the lips over the rubber, the way you put a mason jar over a beetle and you have to keep eyes somehow rotated up so you can see their hands and they aren’t going to smack you with a concealed hammer, the heel of a knife, they aren’t going to choke you. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He keeps fidgeting his arms. Jesus, keep still so I don’t have to keep looking at the tremble of those fat, freckled fingers. He starts to groan. OK, I’ll move around, so it looks like I’m enjoying it. And he’s lucky I don’t bite him because I know what’s making him groan and if I close my eyes all I can see is that stupid tree house and — it’s alright, Jodie, sweetheart, I’m looking out for you. Concentrate on the dashboard, OK? Grainy dashboard. How many grains? It’s tricky, real tricky to count tiny things like that make me sick grains bumps cauliflower heads broccoli rice he quivers, groans. Careful not to spring away from him. That wounds their feelings. Here’s me creeping back towards my side of the car. The condom is his business, though check to see it’s not dripping. My mouth isn’t wet. I can’t look at him. Can never look at them after.
Can you drive me back?
He starts the car and doesn’t talk. He wants me out of the car the way you want to toss a hamburger wrapper. But it doesn’t matter. He’s driving not hitting or punching, and I got forty dollars.
(c) S. Soliar, 2018
S. Soliar has an MA in Creative Writing from UEA. She has been published in Fitzrovia News, Five Dials and the TLS. She is working on a screenplay with her partner and will soon begin editing the novel she completed last year, of which the following story is an extract.
Shin-Fei Chen's theatre credits include Three Sisters (Lyric Theatre Belfast), Anon (Welsh National Opera), and Avenue Q (Upstairs at the Gatehouse). Screen credits include Chinese Burn (BBC), Doctor Who (BBC), and 101-Year-Old Man Who Skipped Out on the Bill and Disappeared (FLX). Shin-Fei is also a writer (Chinese Burn – BBC).
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