So Different

by Robinson, Ruthie

  “I doubt that,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. A man can always find a woman. It’s the other way around that’s tough. Gotta go. Meeting the girls tomorrow. See you later,” she said, picking up her shoes and heading toward the door. His sister was a tornado of vitality.

  “Yep. See you later,” he said, standing up and following her out the door. He watched as she got into her car, waved, and drove away. He went back inside, back to the couch.

  He and Yvette were bi-racial, bi-cultural, of mixed race—whatever the correct term—the product of a white father and Mexican mother. They’d grown up upper-middle-class, gated community and private schools, and all things American teen.

  Yvette had been the rebel of the two, embracing all things Latin, while he tried to maintain an evenness between the two. So far it had worked for him, although he hadn’t encountered that many other Latinos in his neighborhood or schools. He hadn’t given much thought to his preferences in women until now. But you like who you like, right? He preferred blondes who were attractive, and quiet yet confident, but not in your face with it. Not much of a list, he knew now. He’d met Jamie and had fallen fast or lost his mind, he wasn’t sure which. He increased the volume of the TV and let his mind drift to the land of nothing.

  * * *

  Deliver me from idiots, Mariah thought as she watched from her perch behind the small bar—all of six feet in length. It was Saturday and she was working at her brother’s restaurant because another waitress had quit. She was filling in, again. She was pouring water for Amber, one of the newest employees who managed to hang on for the pasts two weeks, or was it three? She’d lost count. Amber was one in a very long line of waitresses that lasted for more than a week if they were lucky. Mariah’s training of them was a never-ending job. Her brother ran through them like water.

  Mariah had been keeping her eye on Amber, who now stood taking orders from a table full of the mean girls from hell—the type that picked on other women for sport. They were knee-deep into giving Amber a hard time. Mariah had seen enough. She watched them as Amber stood at the table, working to be kind, which she was naturally. In fact, she was maybe a little too kind for this job, especially with her brother.

  “So what can I get you ladies to drink?” Mariah heard her ask.

  “I want iced tea. Nope, wait. What flavors to do you have?” one of them asked.

  “We have…”

  “That’s okay. What kind of soda?” she asked, rapid-fire, interrupting Amber before she could finish a sentence.

  “We have…”

  “That’s okay. I just want water. What do you ladies want?” she asked, turning to her friends.

  They all spoke at once—water, tea, what kind of soda; it all came back at Amber, confusing her, of course. They laughed while Mariah looked on.

  Amber stood there with them for ten minutes more before she walked over to Mariah, looking scattered, her fine strands of blonde blow-away hair surrounding her face like those dandelions that were a nuisance in Mariah’s yard, adding to her standard I—can’t-recall-my-name look.

  “Let me help you out,” Mariah said, reaching for Amber’s tray, pulling it from her hands and placing five waters on it.

  “What? No. I’m okay. I’ll just ignore them,” she said, looking down at her arm now and replacing her earlier confused look with a when-did-you-take-my-tray look.

  “No, I insist,” Mariah said, walking away before Amber could say anything more, heading to the table of the five. They were all leaning forward, planning their next attack on the waitress. Must have been some new game.

  “Here you go ladies,” Mariah said, all chipper-like. She watched them look her over. Three of the five weren’t quite sure what to do now with this new black girl with the nose stud, the red, spiky hair, the bruise on her cheek, and the tiny t-shirt that read, in very small print, fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

  “What happened to the other girl?” the pretty brunette asked. Mariah bet she wasn’t the ringleader, but was maybe second in command. The ringleader sat back, her eyes running over Mariah again, evaluation in them.

  “I don’t want water. I didn’t ask for water,” the leader said. The other women just looked on, always eager to watch their leader at work.

  “Okay,” Mariah said, putting the water back on her tray.

  “We don’t water, either,” the other four added.

  “Okay. What would you like?” Mariah asked, all friendly like.

  “I already told the other girl. I’m not repeating myself,” the leader said, her eyes hard and stern on Mariah.

  “Give it to me again?” Mariah said, her voice pleasant as she returned the hard and stern look with one of her own.

  “Don’t think so. We don’t want you. We want her,” the leader said, her finger, shiny red and manicured, pointed toward Amber. “Where is your manager?” the leader asked.

  “Just a second and I’ll go get her for you,” Mariah said, completing a two-point turn any soldier in the military would applaud, and without wasting an ounce of water. She walked away and headed toward the counter. She sat the tray down next to Amber, who was watching with apprehension.

  Mariah removed her apron from her waist, dropped it on the counter, and turned back around, executing the same two-point military precision turn and marched over to the table. She stopped, placed one hand on her hip as she moved it to the right, and snapped her head to the left.

  “What?” she said, as she folded her arms under her chest.

  “We wanted the manager,” the leader said, not as sure as she was when she’d started out.

  Mariah crossed her arms, switched the weight to her other hip, hard. Her head moved to the right. “What?” she said again. What she wouldn’t give for some bubble gum—the smack of it would be a nice addition to her tough girl act.

  “You’re the manager?”

  “Yep,” she said. Not really, but taking on that role at this moment.

  “Uh, we…”

  Mariah leaned in close. “Let me tell you what. You can stay and eat or you can leave, but what you can’t do…is fuck with the help. You feeling me?” she said, eyeing the leader, whose eyes had gone wide and round.

  “You can’t talk to us like that,” the leader replied.

  “You know what? You’re right,” said Mariah, straightening and picking up the menus from in front of each of them.

  “Thank you all for coming. Come back when you’ve picked up a manner or two,” she said, stepping back. They sat there for a minute before Mariah said louder, but not as loud as to be considered a shout, “Now,” which startled them out of the trances they’d all gone into.

  She watched them gather up their bags. The leader, trying to play it cool and maintain some semblance of leadership, took her time, giving Mariah the evil eye. Mariah stood closer to her. She jumped back a little, and they left. Mariah was on the heels of the leader the whole way to the door.

  That was fun, she thought, watching them exit through the door. Should she have done that? Probably not, but, fortunately, Joshua’s place provided some of the best food in Austin.

  This place, owned by her brother, was a good fit for her. Her attitude would never get her fired. She didn’t pull it out too much, because most people here were nice, but sometimes a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. She hated bullies in any shape or form, and mean girls were bullies hiding behind prettier-than-usual faces and forms. She walked back over, grabbed her apron, tied it behind her back and smiled at Amber. Back to work it was.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  Last Saturday in February

  Brass Knuckles vs. Thunderstorm

  A couple more streets and he would be there. He was now stopped at the light at Hanover and Seventh. Crap. There were a lot of people heading to the roller derby and he was running late, squeezing into the line that was snaking its way into the parking lot. Michael had agreed to meet him here. He said he’d been here before.


  Adam waved his thanks to the driver of the minivan for letting him in. That would teach him to be late. He’d thought derby and thought a hundred people max; he’d been wrong.

  He had no idea the Rail Yard existed, as he’d been absent during the time of its construction. This part of town used to be more than a little run down. It still was, except for this structure standing tall, two blocks away: the new home to Austin’s Flat Track Roller Derby.

  He checked his watch. He still had ten minutes before it was due to start. He entered the main gate and was ushered to a parking spot by the attendants with their flashlights.

  He locked up his car and made his way to the front of the building, taking in the sheer size of this place, followed the signs. Not the best design for a sign—someone had hand-painted the arrow on it in bright red, with a very large brush.

  The roof was the same blood red. It looked as if it was made of some kind of crackled metal with large, matching metal pillars holding it up. He walked from the newly paved parking lot, following the crowd as they made their way to the front of the building. He checked out the railroad tracks, which weren’t even thirty yards away. Some of the buildings surrounding the railroad were dilapidated. Whose idea was it to build this here, he wondered? Although, truth be told, the new building fit in with the railroad tracks surrounding it.

  Interesting crowd, lots of multi-colored hair, tattoos, and punk rock attire. He’d seen enough dog collars, spiky belts, and combat boots to last him a lifetime. He felt out of place, dressed in jeans and a polo-style shirt. He should have gone more for a grunge look, although for some of those around him the grunge look was real.

  He made his way to the front door. The line was really long now, and he was glad for his pop’s tickets and for his dad’s call before he’d left home, making sure he was going. He told him there was a special line and seating for ticket holders, and not to be stupid and stand in the wrong line.

  He looked around for signs of Michael—not here yet. He found his ticket line and headed toward it.

  “You didn’t realize the roller derby was this popular,” Michael said over his shoulder a few minutes later. Adam turned to face him. He hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Had no idea,” he said, taking in the two females accompanying Michael.

  “This is Allison,” Michael said, introducing Adam to a brunette.“Allison is here with me, and she brought along her cousin, Tiffany. We call her Tiff for short,” he said.

  “Hi,” Adam said.

  “You said you had four tickets. No use wasting them, not when there are two beautiful women who wanted to join us,” Michael said, smiling at the two women.

  “Yep. Guess not,” Adam said, giving Tiff the once-over. She had turned away, her back to him now. “You all ready? I think it starts in a few. We better head in.”

  “Sure,” they all said, following behind Adam as he led the way to the door and handed the tickets over.

  “The season ticket holders’ seating is near the edge of the rink,” the ticket-taker said.

  “Thanks.”

  It was packed inside and loud, borderline rowdy, Adam thought, looking around, taking a moment to get his bearings. The inside resembled something of a mini arena, similar to a football stadium only much smaller, with a roller skating rink at its center instead of a football field.

  Standing not two feet away was a roller derby team, lined up against the wall, talking and watching the crowd as they made their way in. He checked them out, an odd mix of oddly colored hair, tattoos, and snug-fitting clothing. The blonde in line was attractive and closest to his predilection; the red head next to her was too red to be real. The face underneath the hair was one he recognized, though; Mariah of the bruises from her boo, his father’s patient. She stood talking to a large woman, presenting him with an incredible side view of her body.

  That fire-engine-red hair matched a fire-engine-red bustier. He knew the name of that particular piece of clothing courtesy of his clothes horse of a sister. It was cinched up tightly, making her waist appear tiny, and her breasts…well they’d caused the air in his lungs to leave him for a second. He cleared his throat and followed the curve of her waist downward. A red plaid short skirt—shorter than he’d seen in…he couldn’t even remember. It was short enough for him to see some of what was underneath; red panties made of some silk-looking material, covered with tiny white hearts, almost covered her ass.

  Oh, Mariah of the black eye and many bruises, of the hand cupping then rubbing his butt. He still couldn’t get the feel of that out of his mind, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck, nice, lean body pressed against his.

  He cleared his throat again and scanned her legs; lovely, defined brown legs covered in red fishnet hosiery, knee-pads, and skates. He looked up to find her eyes on him now, facing him, an eyebrow lifted upward, and a quirk of a smile on her lips.

  She’d crossed her arms and stuck them under her breasts, shifted her weight to her left hip, continuing to stare at him in that what-are-you-looking-at way. Yep, Mariah of the bruises from her boo. She was something else indeed, and so not a good idea for him—then or now.

  Michael hit him with his elbow to get his attention.

  “There are our seats?” he said pointing to a roped-off area. The sign read SEASON TICKET HOLDERS. Adam led the way, glancing back again at Mariah one last time. She still stared back, arms still under her chest, her earlier look still in place, with a little smugness thrown in there, too.

  Michael nudged him in the back to get him moving again, now laughing.

  Their seats were nice—plush, even—and arranged stadium style. They were closest to the action, right behind this group of people currently seated on the floor, who would be in the line of fire if the skaters fell off the track. Another thirty to forty rows of seating continued upward.

  This place would make a nice venue for a small concert, Adam thought, spotting four seats at the end of a row. He went in first, followed by the two women, and then Michael.

  There was a band playing some rock tune on a stage in one corner of the building. To his right was the line for the concession stand, a sign proclaiming Lone Star Beer as the best beer in Texas and the beer of choice for the roller derby.

  “Allison and I are going to make a beer run,” Michael shouted as they stood up to leave.

  Adam stood and reached for his wallet.

  “No, dude, I’ve got this,” Michael said, stepping aside to let Allison out before him. Adam watched as they made their way to the concession stand.

  He sat back down and turned to find Tiff looking at him, appreciation and calculation in her eyes. He’d seen enough of that to recognize it when he saw it. He smiled. He’d just escaped one just like her at least on the outside—blonde, slim, and polished. He was full, thank you very much, he wanted to tell her. He remained quiet for a while as the picture of Mariah paraded through his mind. He cleared his throat again. Tiff touched his arm, interrupting his wayward thoughts.

  “Is this your first time here?” she asked.

  “Yes. You?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve been here a couple times. I really like the Brass Knuckles,” she said.

  “Brass Knuckles?”

  “The team of women you were just admiring,” she said.

  Caught that, did she? He smiled, not one to pretend.

  She laughed. “Brass Knuckles are one of the four derby teams that skate here. Part of the WTFTD—Women’s Flat Track Derby Association,” she added to his blank look. “Flat track. See the floor. Not like the banked ones that used to be on TV,” she added.

  “The Brass Knuckles and Team Thunderstorm will be competing against each other tonight. I like them. They have a good jammer named Mariah. She was a rookie last year,” she added, and although Adam didn’t have a clue at all about derby, he understood that Mariah was on the Brass Knuckles team and this was her second year. He smiled. Tiffany returned his smile.

  “This is the second off
icial game of the season. Team Thunderstorm has dominated the league for so long, I wish the Brass Knuckles or someone else would win this year. Doubt it, though. Too much strength and skill on the other teams,” she said. She’d scooted over closer to him to talk into his ear and be heard over the din.

  “Good to know,” he said.

  “If you have any questions, feel free to ask me,” she said.

  They sat and listened to the music and looked around at the people present. It took all kinds, Adam thought as he watched, taking it all in. He eagerly accepted beer from Allison and Michael upon their return.

  Ten minutes later the train roared through the track next to the building. It must have been a regular occurrence, because the crowd inside stood and started stomping their feet. If he’d thought it was loud in here before, now he couldn’t hear himself think. He looked at the women and Michael next to him and laughed. They were standing, stomping along with everyone else in this crazy building. The whistle of the train blew as it made its way past the building, shaking the structure as it rumbled by.

  Three minutes later it was gone and the lights in the building went down. Red and blue spotlights came on, twirling around the rink. He could see women lined up in skates again. The music was all hard rock as the women made their way onto the rink.

  * * *

  Mariah made the loop around the track, laughing, hoping she’d get the chance to talk to Junior D.D.S. after the bout. He was surprised to see her, remembering the way he’d checked her out, heat in those eyes behind his glasses, heat that had warmed her in spite of being the “victim” of domestic violence.

  She’d worn her most provocative outfit tonight with him in mind. His father had called her again, the old trickster, and she’d recounted the routine she’d used on Adam, minus the hand on his ass and her body tucked into his. That had been for her benefit alone.

  She rounded the track during the team’s warm up, ready to play. All thoughts from her week vanished in the sport that was derby. Her derby name was Mariah Scary, a tribute to one of her favorite singers, Mariah Carey. A lot of women went for tough derby names, almost like an alter ego. Her regular ego was enough, and not much different than her normal day-to-day you’re-getting-on-my-nerves outlook.