I’m a firm believer that a character doesn’t have to be
perfect to be loveable. It’s often more interesting to have a look through eyes
that are slightly jaded and bear the scars of life. The human experience isn’t always all peaches
and cream. When we have the opportunity
to grow with a character through her anger and fears, we get the privilege to experience
her joy with more intimacy.
A “bad attitude”, as others would call it, is a lot of fun
to write. I love the chance to let my inner bitchiness out. But at the root of that sour tongue is usually a damaged ego just crying to be stroked by the right person. It isn’t that a tough girl doesn’t want to be
taken care of, it’s just that she’s been forced to take care of herself. It’s a hell of a lot more scary
to risk another let down in a long line of disappointments than to keep on trucking in
survival mode.
I’m toying with a new story that doesn't yet have a
name. But here’s the budding start of a romance
that I hope gives a peek into the heart of a tough girl who needs love too.
"Ow!" Hot coffee in my lap while I'm trying to
merge onto the freeway is not the way to start the morning—impossible to manage
the gearshift and a Styrofoam cup at the same time. I might be a girl who's good with her hands, but
this would take a magician. It’s pretty
fucking ironic to be delivering dry-cleaning with a stain on my pants, and so
goes my day.
I would turn around and go
home to change, but that would make me late and I can't afford to lose this
job; not while I'm on parole.
"Come - on!" Not another old lady puttering her way to
Wal-Mart, I can't take it. I should try
to be patient; it's my need for speed that got me locked up in the first damned
place. Boosting cars with my ex and his friends seemed like a great way to
spend the summer, at the time. Too bad I
was the only one who took the heat for it and that jerk took off to God knows
where.
And there it is again, gaining
on me quickly in my rear view, taunting me like it does everyday—that sleek
sculpted beauty. I can't hear its low
rumble over the pounding base of hip-hop swelling my eardrums. But, sure as shit, I can sense that Camaro
hovering behind me every time. The
windows are tinted black—as black as the paint job. I have no clue what’s inside, but by the way
that thing moves, I'd say it's got to be male.
Of course, I could be wrong.
After all, I drive like a bat out of hell most the time. Not today, though. Today my coffee cup has me driving like a
little girl, and I can only watch as he pulls up next to my VW GTI, waiting for
me to make a move. It slows, waiting,
looking perhaps. I imagine he is looking
right at me, asking me … do you want some of this?
I'm thinking about tossing the
stupid coffee right out the window, throwing my second-hand hatchback into
fifth and giving him a run. Too late,
he's already gone. Tomorrow. No, tomorrow I'll
still be on parole and a speeding ticket is the last thing I need.
"You got eight deliveries
before 12:00," my boss barks, with the raspy jingle of the entrance bells
punctuating his command behind me.
I don't even say hello,
because he never bothers to answer me back.
I just take the clutches of tailored suits and pretty dresses belonging
to somebody with a better life and get back in the car. Fuck Tom and his lack of manners. When I made it clear that he wasn't going to
get any bonus pussy for hiring an ex-con, he was done with me. Now, I get about three sentences out of him a
day; suits me just fine.
The job isn't all bad. I know my way around this town better than
anyone, so I can always manage to finish well ahead of when I'm due back. I'll hit the desert outskirts and kick up the
hatch back in the sun, let it beat down on me with its healing warmth. Behind red-hot eyelids, I conjure my own
version of revisionist history and rewrite the last three years of my life. Mostly, I imagine I don't get caught.
Everyday by dusk, I'm finished
with my stops, but Tom always makes me straighten the place up before I
go. It’s a mad rush to get out … in time
to catch the Camaro.
The whole thing is ridiculous,
yes, I know. But, it's become a bit of a
routine for me—a game of sorts. We must
work the same hours, and live in the same direction from town, because if I
leave at exactly 5:30, I'll see him for sure, and it thrills me every time I
do.
In the evening, he doesn't
pass me. He rips around the spattering
of commuters on the freeway that runs through my town, only to hover like a
specter behind me, matching my speed for the three exits I stay for. After that, I don’t know where he goes or
what he does. I can only imagine and I have a pretty damn good imagination.
When tomorrow comes, I'm
ready. No coffee this time, my hand is
poised on the gearshift as I obsessively glance in the rearview, looking for
him. Today I'll see if he'll chase me,
I'll test our little game, force his hand and see who’s holding the cards. The energy I feel radiating from that sleek,
black testosterone-laden machine could be a complete fantasy. Today I'll give a little pinch and see what
happens.
Today, however, there's no
Camaro.
It’s a disappointment, though
who would want to admit it. The whole
thing is silly.
“Get these over to Club Minx
over on Rte 85.” Tom barks just before quitting.
“Wouldn’t you rather make the
delivery yourself?” I sass him with cock of my head.
“Ha, ha. Very funny.
Just make sure they pay you everything, crafty sluts tried to stiff me
the last time.”
Not hard to get over on you, I quip silently, and let
the door swing closed behind me.
The strip club isn’t hard to
miss. It’s the last neon sign at the
edge of town, beyond that it’s just coyotes and moonlight.
I pull up and wonder if I’ll
recognize any of the strippers inside.
In a small town like Gopher Creek every one ain’t exactly going to be a
lawyer or a veterinarian. I’m sure I had
homeroom with at least one of those chicks.
Inside, the action hasn’t
really started yet, but the place is all polished up and ready. Curiosity about what goes on in this place
had me beg my X-boyfriend to take me, but it turned out the only place we ever
went together was court. What a loser.
Nobody even glances in my
direction; bartender and the waitresses are all busy setting up.
“Hey, I have a dry cleaning
delivery.”
The guy with the shaved head
wiping down the bar doesn’t even look up.
“Over there,” he says with a thumb in the general direction of the back.
I save my thank you for
someone who gives a damn and sling the clear plastic covered corsets and studded
boy shorts over my shoulder. Through the
curtain and down the hall, the techno music is getting louder and the smoke is
getting thicker in my lungs. I quit when
I got out, another dirty habit left behind. In front of the door where it’s all
coming from is a guy with a look on his face that tells me he recognizes me
too.
“Last time I saw you, you were
trying to steal my car,” he says grinning too much to be talking to the girl
who popped his door lock last summer.
Exactly what Mr. Perfect Football Captain is
doing in this place, I have no idea. I fix
my jaw and remind myself he isn’t better than me. “I didn’t know she was yours, promise.”
He laughs. “Would it have mattered if you did?”
The wallpaper is looking
pretty interesting right about now. It
beats staring back into those prying blue eyes.
I shrug. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“We had auto shop
together. We weren’t friends, Zach.”
“No, I guess we weren’t.”
“Can I give these to you?” I
ask, doing my best to get the hell out of there.
“I’m covering security for my
cousin. I’m not the housekeeper.”
“The attitude is new.”
He shakes his head. “I’m
sorry. Kind of had a fucked up morning.”
“I kind of had a fucked up year.”
“Your own fault,” he says with
a bashful smile, reaching for the dry cleaning.
The way he’s looking at me
makes my stomach hurt. “That will be
forty two bucks.”
“Hang on.” He knocks on the door and it opens with a
pile of curls and a pair of pouty lips.
“What ya need, cutie?” she says, doing as little as possible to
cover herself since even I can see the spill of her cleavage in his face.
Zach blushes and it makes me
want to punch him in the arm. “Got your
dry cleaning here.”
“Oh, thanks babe. Come in.”
She ushered him through the door and shut it before I could say
anything.
“Hey!” I bang my fist next to the glittering star in
the middle. I’m not sure what I’m more pissed about, the way she snatched him
away or the fact that she’s about to stiff me. I bang some more.
Zach reappears and I snatch
the two twenty’s and leave the ten in his hand.
I’m three steps in middle of heading to the front door when I figure I should give
an explanation. “Don’t worry about the
two bucks, I don’t have any change.”
Truth is I couldn’t take another second of being in there with him and
that gorgeous face of his and the way he was chewing on his lip like he had
something else to say. What else was
there to say? Zach was a dead-end daydream
I started in high school that was nailed shut the minute I got caught in the
Mustang convertible his dad apparently bought him for graduation.
By the time I get outside, I’m
practically running to my car.
