“Robbie drove a loaded Silverado,” I point out. “He had plenty of money and was anything but respectable. Did you forget about the nice little laceration he gave me?”
“You were stealing items from his house,” she yells. “What reaction were you expecting?”
I’ve spent most of my life taking shrapnel from this woman. I got stabbed in the back, and she still finds a way to flip it and turn me into the aggressor.
“I lived with that twerp for nearly three months. After we broke up, I returned to pack up my belongings. When you move out, you take stuff with you—especially the items you brought when you initially moved in.”
“I’m surprised you’d even know that because you don’t ever take much from here when you leave this house,” she states. “I guess there’s no point when you know you’ll be coming back. You’re like a boomerang with a brassiere. That’s why that room down the hall is always full of your stuff—even when you’re shackin’ up with some drunk for a month or two.”
“You act like I don’t try. I don’t walk into a relationship intending to sabotage it. I enter with my heart wide open and leave with it handed back to me in pieces.”
“From where I’m standing, you’re not making the right choices,” she says, venomously.
“Your passion seems to be collecting my mistakes so you can dangle them in front of my face. Each misstep is always waiting in your holster. It is so damaging for you to keep score like this.”
“All I know is that my two grandchildren are both dabbling in shameful things.”
“I’m not as bad as Ray,” I tell her. “Don’t even lump me in the same category.”
“I don’t see the difference. I’m not putting up with the shenanigans much longer. This sad excuse of a life you’ve been living is about to change.” She takes a sip of wine, sets down the glass, and recommences her attack. “You don’t have an ounce of innate gumption. That is why you’re still living in this house. You work for the crooked little shit and even bring that corruption home with you.”
“What are you talking about? I only bring home tips from Ray’s.” Well, I did transport a case of crabs after an indiscreet encounter in the parking lot, but any mention of that will hardly rack up any points.
“I’m aware of the little pornography empire in your bedroom. I’ve seen that camera mounted next to your computer. I might be old, but I still keep up on some things.”
God, how can she know anything about my webcam business? I’ve been careful to cover my tracks. She is typically unenlightened when it comes to current technology; she still uses a damn VCR. “It’s not what you think, Trudy.”
“Horseshit. The other night, I woke up and wandered out to the davenport.” She still calls a sofa a davenport but has webcam knowledge! How does that work? “In addition to hearing some indecent moaning from your room, I would have sworn you were spanking your rump in there.”
Oh shit, there is just no discreet way to slap a bare ass!
She continues, “Mandi, you’re straight-up white trash: from volleyball star to pornography princess. You’re making a rapid descent into the gutter.”
“I’m not an adult film actress.” There’s no point understating what I’m doing, but she needs to be set straight. “I just run a webcam. Most of the time, it’s nude modeling with some bawdy chatter. Compared to some stuff people are doing out there, it’s tame.”
“From some of the shameful things you’ve been saying to those Johns, it’s anything but tame. A lady is not supposed to talk like that to strange men. Where’d you get that filthy mouth?”
“First off, they’re not John’s. They are paying customers that prefer naughty chatter compared to silence. It’s similar to phone sex but with an added visual element. I’m not a prostitute—not even close. I’m simply selling fantasies at a per-minute rate.”
“If you get paid to perform sexual acts and talk like a tramp, they’re John’s. That definition hasn’t changed since my day.”
“Well, most people would disagree with you.”
“Well most people don’t know shit from fat meat,” she professes. “What will you do when the law comes knocking on our door?”
“What I’m doing is legal in all 50 states. You’re a bit benighted when it comes to the current laws surrounding online transactions.” It may be illegal in Utah, but I’m not offering any wiggle room.
“If that smut is legal, it shouldn’t be.” Trudy thinks she’s the voice of morality. “Forty years ago, you’d have been arrested for exchanges like that.”
“It’s a way to pull in decent money, and it isn’t hurting anyone.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily agree. Some of those paddles must hurt.” I’m not sure where she’s going with this. “Oh, give up the act, young lady. I’ve seen all of those crazy gadgets hidden on the floor of your closet. You have quite the little enterprise tucked away in there.”
“What were you, uh, doing in my closet? You shouldn’t be snooping around in my room.”
“When the property taxes come due, my name is on the bill. I’m writing the check so I will go into any room I damn well feel like.”
“I pay you $175 rent, and you don’t even have a house payment.”
“The monthly expenses around here are my business,” she barks. “Try finding a place to sleep with utilities included for a measly $175 and see how far you get.” She brought up the cheap rent because she loves lording it over me. “I’m not running a hotel here, or in your case, a brothel. When you live under my roof, you will abide by my rules. Your little side business is closing down in two weeks, or you’re out of here. I’m not living one room down from a call girl—granddaughter or not. Imagine what everyone would say if word got out about what you’ve been doing in that bedroom.”
“I’m not a call girl. Besides, this town talks plenty already.”
“Those are the rules,” she states, epigrammatically. “This is not a democracy; you don’t get a vote! You’re practically 30-years-old. It’s time to start acting like it instead of being an ingrate. You’ve always been a woman of leisure, but it’s time you either find a man that can provide for you or find a decent job.”
“That’s why I applied with a publisher.” Surely, she has to give me credit for waking up early and driving across the county. I even circled the date on the kitchen calendar as a visual reminder that I am attempting to improve my situation. She’ll probably bitch that June 20th has black ink drawn around the date. “I admit that I often choose the easiest lane, but I’m out to make a few life changes.”
“I’m through with your feeble attempt at trying. You’ve had 11 years since high school to get your act together. No self-respecting man of any worth will take you seriously once he discovers that you show your naked curves to any John with a credit card.”
“Again, they are customers, not John’s,” I lash back. “And, I’ve had plenty of men.”
“Yeah, everyone is well aware of your dating history.”
I snarl in response to her hostile scorekeeping. “Whatever.”
“You are always with the wrong type of man,” Trudy states. “A man should be opening doors or pulling out a chair for a woman. In my day, men used to take care of a lady. We cooked and cleaned. They brought home the paycheck. That’s how it worked.”
“That dynamic has changed drastically. Men expect everything quicker. They’re not going to settle for a peck on the cheek at the end of the night.” She has no idea how much it costs a man these days to take a girl out on a proper date.
“Those worth a second date will take some time and be gallant.”
Gallant? She needs to get out more. Her pearls of wisdom always have jagged edges. “Guys like that only exist when you’re in high school. Around my age, men are in a big hurry to spark a physical connection.” I know my wording sounds a little proper, but I can’t just come out and say they want to make sure I won’t object when they slip a few fingers down my panties.
�
��I’m well aware that copulating is part of any healthy relationship, but it shouldn’t happen immediately after a man takes you to dinner for the first time. A man used to let us order a slice of pie for dessert.”
“I wish it were that simple, but that has not been my experience,” I explain, retaining my cool. “It’s better to be realistic about what takes place in the dating world than holding onto outdated principles.”
She honestly doesn’t understand the first thing about men—or at least the men that I’ve encountered. No matter how much I offered romantically and physically, some men still would not commit. These days, if a guy wants to go out with me, it’s rarely for the contributions I can make to a stimulating conversation.
After taking time to ponder, she finally says, “Maybe in your world, things have mutated, but I still believe there are good men to be found. A woman possessing so much outer beauty is in high demand, but you’ll never meet anyone of quality until you shelve the bad habits.”
“Some of us don’t want to be dependent on the wrong person. This country already has too much divorce. Women now have to make their own way until we find that perfect guy. It’s harder than it was in the ’60s.”
“Fiddlesticks,” she yells. This tired word usually ends her tirade. “Single people have become too picky. We now have twice as many individuals driving to work just so they can buy more junk they don’t really need.”
She threw in that last comment as a dig about my need to shop. Trudy is a minimalist and deems most of my wardrobe as unnecessary. She has chewed me out many times for buying shiny earrings, varying shades of nail polish, and teeth-whitening strips. I can’t just leave the house au naturel.
“You’ve got two weeks,” she reminds me. “Either close down that bedside business, or you’re out on your ass. If you want to tinker in filth, then you can face the world without the safety net I provide.”
“You’re basically blowing up my stability. How am I supposed to pay my bills? My cam basically keeps me from falling behind.”
“You’re resourceful, Mandi. Find a different job. They’re always looking for help down at the drugstore.”
“Those jobs don’t pay worth a crap. I can’t find a place because I don’t have money to pay rent, security deposits, and all of those initial costs. I’m already up to my tits in hock.”
“Why must you use that word? Please use breasts instead.”
“Jeez. It’s just a different word describing the same body part,” I remind her. Why can’t people quit getting so sensitive over particular words? I hate to break it to everybody, but ‘fucking’ and ‘making love’ mean the same exact thing. Just as tit, jug, boob, and breast describe the same area of my chest. It’s all in the tone, not the word!
“Nevertheless, close down the business, and you won’t have to worry about finding a different place to live and all the hidden expenses that go with it. Seems like a no-brainer to me.”
“Two weeks is too soon. Some of my customers have credits racked up. If I close it down that fast, the credit card processing company will demand that I pay it all back before they’d settle my account.”
“Then, you better find a way to refund their money or stay up around the clock so they can use up those credits,” she states. “I will close my eyes to your sketchy ways for only two more weeks. Don’t push on this. You have no leverage.”
“I’ve already spent most of that money,” I admit. “You’re jamming me up here.”
“It’s my house. I’m already putting up with the way you earn your tips working for Ray. I’m not about to make allowances for some fiendish business operating on my property. Be happy that I’m giving ya the two weeks.”
“Fine,” I surrender. “I’ll figure it out. ”
I walk to my bedroom, fall on the bed, and push my face into a sea of pillows to soften my sobs. Trudy’s cantankerous attitude hasn’t happened with age; she has been insufferable since I was dumped here shortly after my seventh birthday. I’m not about to curl up in a quiet corner and wet myself over it. She has wanted me to hit the bricks for years. It’s all about keeping me under her thumb. To make a point, she would expose my lewd late-night business to the local officials. My filthy exploits would cause this uptight community to hold a vigil and lynch me.
After a much-needed nap, I tease my hair, slide on a denim skirt, and reapply my makeup. It would appear that I’m getting dolled-up to engage in online commerce, but I’m not in the mood to exchange dirty banter with my regulars . . . at least not until Trudy turns in for the night. I should do the math to see if I can close up shop and not be in the hole. I’ll deal with those harsh realities tomorrow.
After the events that transpired this morning, I am emotionally tapped out. When I’m this dejected, I need a colorful drink served in a clear glass to help rejuvenate my spirit. I sent Jackie a text to meet me at The Blue Dragon for a few drinks. Jackie is the only real friend I have around this town. Her family isn’t without their own secrets, so we naturally understand each other. Her dad was caught misappropriating some funds at Northern Illinois Bank and Trust, so we’re both considered undesirables. The Blue Dragon is the one place where we both blend in. It’s not as hedonistic as Ray’s Tavern, but it still caters to a serious collection of debased individuals.
I put on three gold bracelets and my diamond earrings. A touch of glimmer helps me transcend from my present no-win situation. I always hope that I’ll have enough gold glistening in the moonlight to make my Pretty Woman fantasy become a reality. In this erotic daydream, I’m walking along Main Street when a stranger in a vehicle—one that isn’t a pickup—asks for directions to the Interstate. I’m not expecting Richard Gere; I’d settle for a man that doesn’t have a pair of overalls in his wardrobe.
I reach on top of the dresser and pick up my lucky Indianhead penny necklace. For serendipity to strike, I will need to be wearing the right amulet.
I scoff at the coin. “A lot of good you did me this morning.”
I wear this talisman whenever I need a stroke of luck in my corner—although diddly-squat has materialized. Keeping the coin next to my heart hopefully gives it some additional power. I’ve never been on the winning side of good fortune, but when I picked up this one-of-a-kind coin, I suddenly became hopeful. If anything fortuitous materializes, I believe it’ll happen while wearing around this unique penny. Since I began wearing it, at least nothing truly awful has happened—aside from this morning. For me, that’s saying a lot!
This odd little coin found its way into my possession last October when Jackie and I took a drive to Chicago. I needed some customer-requested sex toys and bondage provisions. I couldn’t discreetly purchase items of this nature through the mail. I’m convinced that our little post office branch might be snooping through our packages before they get delivered. They’re probably expecting to find weapons in our parcels, and the type of items I needed may have looked as lethal. When buying nipple clamps, handcuffs, a leather flogger, a ball gag, and a crystal dildo, it might seem as if you are gearing up to torture someone.
After Jackie and I exited the underground B&D store with my foreign objects in tow, the sidewalk was suddenly busy with foot traffic. Although the boutiques weren’t to my taste, many stores on the street attracted some seasoned window shoppers. Jackie is the only person aware of my online enterprise—well, except for Trudy stumbling upon it. Jackie would never leak my secret because I know private details about her that she wouldn’t want repeated. Having shit on each other keeps our friendship balanced.
Jackie pointed to a light blue bus that was waiting at the traffic light. “When you see a school bus painted in some pastel color, it usually belongs to a Bible study group or a church bordering on a religious cult.”
“Those light hues must be a method of mind control from the religious faction,” I said, laughing, “The school buses painted in blocks of primary colors are reserved for musical sitcom families.” My cheesy observations always made her giggle.
As our conversation continued about everything and nothing, two skateboard punks began weaving in and out of pedestrians, making passageway more than a little harrowing for anyone in their path. From the way the skater boys were making subtle signals to each other, it became apparent they were about to pull a scam. Their calculated moves looked choreographed. I held onto my purse and black shopping bag very tightly because I sensed that these dicks were looking to make a quick score and a fast getaway. Seven years earlier, these guys would have seemed quite cool instead of a sidewalk nuisance. It pissed me off to have them invading my space.
About fifty feet ahead, a shapely woman in a blue polka dot dress stood out from the crowd. Other than being a brunette, she was dressed quite similar to Gwen Stefani in the “Don’t Speak” video. The punk with dirty black hair zipped off in her direction while the blonde kid on the red deck trailed about twenty feet behind. The first guy skated in front of her, distracting her footing while the second dickhead sprung around from the other side, reaching for her purse. He miscalculated his ‘snatch and grab’ technique because as soon as he grasped the leather strap on her shoulder, he was forcefully brought to the ground directly onto his elbow.
Even from fifty feet away, I could hear a bone in his arm crack. He then rolled twice, striking his head against the side of the concrete building. Not only did he suffer some severe injuries, but all four wheels also blew off the red deck and rolled in different directions. He grimaced as he quickly got to his feet. He looked at the woman with a mixture of fear and befuddlement. He could have easily snatched her capsized purse but avoided it like a vial of the Bubonic Plague spread about the sidewalk. He reached down with his uninjured arm, grabbed what was left of his deck, and dashed away.
It was one of those crazy incidents where everything happened so quickly that I could barely tell what had actually transpired.
In Dark Places Page 4