by H. J. Bellus
Tuesdays are the worst, because no matter how many times I’ve begged Becky to work, she won’t let me. She insists I have at least on whole day off, and that means a complete twenty-four hour period of time. Absolute hell in my book. As if my brain knew what was coming, it gifted me with a horrible nightmare last night. Steve and Duane were both in it and hell-bent on taking me back to my mom. I fought with everything I had, but lost the struggle as they tossed me in an old, rusty van and headed back to my hometown. I woke up before I had the chance to see my mom’s haggard face. Woke up in a dead sweat, screaming and grasping for freedom before I realized it was only a dream. Then my eyes focused in on the time, and it was only 4:32 a.m.
So the only way to survive this day is a trip to the grocery store. I always eat a hot meal at the diner. It’s the one and only perk of working almost every day of your life. My piece of shit apartment doesn’t have any appliances, so it’s always a cold meal for me. My shopping list is simple: cereal, chips, Lunchables, cookies, and bananas. Nothing exciting, but enough to get by. Today I’m in desperate need of body soap and shampoo. I’m always able to sneak a roll of toilet paper from the diner. Not classy, but survival mode has never been known to be fancy.
Today on the walk home I’m silently cursing myself for buying a pint of whole dill pickles. You know the type they sell at the movie theaters. I’ve only been to the movies one time, and that was with my mom and one of her boyfriends. I had to beg for Jazzy to come along, and my mom finally gave in, but I know it was only so she didn’t feel guilty for sending me off to a random theater while she and the man went to a different one. Thank God Jazzy did go, because my mom never met us afterward. We ended up walking home, and when we passed Horseshoe Bar we saw her from the front window.
All I remember Jazzy saying was, “At least you got one of those pickles. It was delicious.”
I remember at the time thinking it was definitely worth the pickle, the big comfy seat, and watching a movie. When I spotted the pickles twenty minutes ago on aisle nine, I knew I needed them. I sacrificed a week’s worth of Lunchables to buy the puppies, but now carrying them in the heat, not such a good idea. Three blocks and two turns left.
Goodbye, Jillian.
Chapter 3
412 Miles Gone
Every day I fight the uncontrollable urge to write to Jazzy. Her address is one I’ll never be able to forget. It’s practically my childhood home with all my memories, or at least the ones I want to remember. Building dirt volcanoes in the alley and having to borrow the vinegar from the old lady who lived across the street is one of my favorites. We were scared to death of that lady and played rock, paper, scissors to see who was going in. So many memories with Jazzy, but that’s all they’ll ever be.
I’ve found another small town in the middle of Iowa. Places like this are suitable for now. Not much danger and just enough space to fit in without sticking out like a sore thumb. I’ve noticed more “Help Wanted” posters in the smaller towns and feel safe walking to and from work. The anxiety that builds when I settle in a new place is completely unnerving. Every dark corner or strange person spooks me to my core, causing me to literally walk with my back against the wall until my routes are planned out.
The first thing I noticed while pulling in on the Greyhound was the Hempie Hotel. It’s an old fashioned, rundown dump of a place. It has a swimming pool in the center of it, with a border of one-story rooms around the outside, and one shamble of a larger office with chipping paint. You can tell that back in the day this hotel was the shit. I remember laying my head back on the bus seat and imagining all the rooms with fresh paint, the pool full of blue water, and little flamingos decorating the freshly clipped lawn instead of the white, peeling paint, weed-filled pool, and the litter lying around.
I took a chance and walked down to the hotel immediately after getting off the bus for two reasons. One, it was only three blocks from bus station with no turns, and two, there was a “Help Wanted” sign in the front window. At the time, I was guessing the sign was old, and the hotel was abandoned.
Three weeks later, I’m wrong. The hotel is run by Junior Guerro. He’s rarely around and rents rooms out for three hundred dollars a month. The sign happened to be for a waitress job across the street and a maid job for the rooms. Junior and his dad own the Hempie Hotel, Hempie Laund-O-Mat, and Hempie’s Café. They are real original on names.
Their business motto definitely falls under the category ‘less is more.’ They do the bare minimum to get by on everything. When cleaning rooms, I’m always forced to dilute the cleaning supplies with water, because I only have a bottle a week to use. There have been some construction workers loitering around the motel the last couple days. They’re in town building a new subdivision and strip mall. Absolutely lousy, disgusting pigs, but they are very generous when tipping at the restaurant.
Junior doesn’t care if I work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. There are very few rules and regulations he chooses to follow. The real downside to being employed by him and his father is the quality of food. At my last job, I always looked forward to a hot meal. I don’t even dare try the food at Hempie’s. I’ve seen the kitchen, witnessed what the cook does on break, and have watched the mold cut off bread and cheese. My job is just to smile and serve the food.
Not that Junior would care, but I use more than my fair share of cleaning supplies on my room. It’s actually a very nice place to live. My room is on the end, and so far the one next to mine has been empty. So there are no unwanted smells to linger and seep into my room. I have two large windows, whereas most rooms only have a small one in the bathroom.
The one negative is the room next door is where Junior brings all of his lady friends. I can’t tell if he’s a drug dealer, pimp, or just the slumlord of the town. Two nights ago, I found an abandoned lawn chair in one of the rooms and brought it back to mine. I have a mini – and I do mean a very mini – cement patio. Cleaning up the lawn chair and the fake plastic tree in the corner, I made my own little paradise on my back patio. I just had to climb out the back window, pretending it was a sliding glass door. Armed with a bowl of ice cream and a cheap smut book from the thrift store, I was ready to go on vacation in my paradise.
I had barely sat in the chair and plopped a mouthful of caramel ice cream in my mouth when I heard, “Oh, fuck me harder.”
Without thinking, I looked to my left and saw Junior’s ass bent over taking it to a blonde. Unintentionally, I let out a gasp, causing the two to turn their attention on me. Complete and utter horror filled my veins. Junior took a step back, allowing himself to fall from the blonde, and that’s when I bolted. Blowing out of my chair, grabbing my book, I dove into my window. Not just any dive, but a leaping, nine star dive. My shorts caught a piece of metal on the window frame, and I heard one very long tear. The sound was deafening, and in that moment I knew my ass was bared just as Junior’s was. Wiggling from the window frame, I felt a long, searing pain ripping down the front of my leg. Then I felt the blood flowing. My face landed in the bowl of ice cream, and as soon as I was able to gather my thoughts, I leapt from the floor, slamming my window closed.
“Tiffany,” I heard Junior’s voice, “are you okay?”
Immediately, without thinking, I said, “Fine. Yes, just fine. Just practicing my gymnastics is all.”
That was two nights ago, and here I sit on my bed staring at the long cut over the front of my leg and giggle a bit, because in all honesty it was a hilarious scene. Mortifying, but hilarious. Junior is a sleaze to the max, but I could tell he was genuinely concerned for me. That little escapade taught me two things: fuck paradise, and definitely fuck outdoor sex.
Last night I was brave enough to venture into some of the vacant rooms. I was a little nervous each time I opened a door. It was a very beneficial exploration. I scored a television, two pillows, and a silver necklace. I didn’t feel bad for stealing any of it, because I was borrowing it all and never planned on taking any of it permanen
tly. Well, if I’m being honest, I’ll steal the necklace to remember this part of the trip. In the last town, I took salt and pepper shakers from the diner where I worked. I loved the owners so much I almost ran back and replaced them on the table, but I would’ve missed the Greyhound.
Tonight I’m hooking up the television. There is a mysterious black cable cord running from my wall, and with any luck I might be able to score some television, not that I have any time to watch it between work, scavenging for goods, and walking down to the grocery store. Times like this I need Jazzy. That girl could hotwire anything. She could get you free cable, internet, and milk without blinking an eye. Don’t ask me how she did it.
Channeling my inner Jazzy, I scour the back of the television looking for a hole that matches the end of the cord. Finally, I find a silver something that actually looks more like a screw but has a hole to put the cable in. Right hole, right fit, and we are in business. Giving myself a little pat on the back and shaking my ass for a little added reward, I push the power button. Nothing. Fuck. I try unscrewing and re-screwing the cord. Try every other hole in the fucking back of the television, and for good measure I try the holes in the front of the television.
Giving up, I plop back on the bed and settle for a dill pickle and a terrible, corny, cheesy mystery where it’s obvious the doctor is killing his patients. Three chapters in and there’s a knock on my door. I freeze. Not moving, I hope the knocking goes away. Freezing doesn’t work; the knocking continues and even gets harder and faster.
“Tiffany,” a voice hollers.
Again, scared shitless, I hold very still and hope this all goes away like a bad dream. Mentally, I’m noting the catalogue of people who actually know my name in this town. Junior, but he’s never here on a Saturday night. Senior, who is too fat to get out of his Buick. Gordy, the cook, who I don’t think is smart enough to knock. And all the construction workers, but they always hit the bar on Saturday night. So, whoever is knocking can just keep knocking until they lose interest.
“Tiffany, it’s Junior. Get your ass out here.”
Covering my heart and checking my panties, I head to the door.
“Junior, you can’t do that again. You scared the shit out of me, almost literally.”
“What, did you think I was a bad guy or some shit like that?”
“I didn’t know who you were and never get any visitors. Just spooked me.”
Junior rolls his eyes. “Well, I knew your reclusive ass was in there. Answer on the first knock next time.”
The closer I look, I can tell he is very agitated, and something is not okay. Beads of sweat are pouring off his forehead, and his fists are clenched.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“Are you gonna be home tonight? I need a favor.”
“Really? Just got through calling me out for being a loner, and now you’re asking if I’ll be home.” I pause then reluctantly add, “Yes, why?”
“I need to deliver a package and can’t make it. My customers said they’ll come pick it up here. I just need you to keep it in your room until 9:30 tonight, and then set it out on the sidewalk,” Junior finishes, nodding toward the sidewalk lining the pool area.
“Nope, no way, Jose,” I instantly fire back and try to close the door.
Junior sticks his boot in the doorjamb, gets right in my face, and growls, “You will do it this time. I’ll never ask again. They won’t hurt you. One of my men will be in room twenty-eight keeping watch.”
I look up and see a giant of man covered in tattoos, and he nods at me. The man is fit and very good-looking. I’ve never seen him before, and I wonder if Junior has hired him for protection.
“Fine, asshole,” I mumble.
“What did you call me?” Junior asks, grabbing the neck of my shirt and jerking it toward him.
Nose to nose, I reply, “Asshole. I called you an asshole, asshole.”
I’m not scared of this slime ball, and I have all my scars to prove it. I’ll do his dirty work this one time, but I’m sure as hell going to let him know how I feel about it. Junior’s grip tightens, cutting off my air.
“Try to say it again,” he snarls.
“Ass…”
I feel him being ripped away from me just as quickly as he’d attacked. Catching my breath, I look up to see the giant.
“You don’t fucking touch ladies. Especially the one who’s getting you out of hot water. Touch her again and I’ll bury your sleazy ass, Junior.”
He throws Junior to the ground with ease, grabs the black bag, and turns to room twenty-eight.
“I’ll call you when the deal is done,” he says to Junior.
He then stops and turns to me. Twenty feet away, the man still scares the ever-loving hell out of me.
“It might help if you plug in your T.V.,” he says, then turns and walks into his room.
Junior doesn’t make eye contact; instead he just crawls off to his car. My guess wasn’t too far off. Drugs. Turning to go back into my room, I notice the fucking plug for the T.V. lying on the floor. I can’t believe I didn’t think to plug the asshole in. Might as well give it a shot to take my mind off the night ahead. Plugging in the T.V., I cross my fingers on both hands and my legs, then hobble over to the power button. Closing my eyes and hoping like hell, I push it.
“Tonight’s news. Authorities are closer to catching the kingpin of the Hempner drug ring. Chief Cook is asking citizens to watch out for any suspicious activity.”
I begin a victory dance at the success of the T.V. Pretty darn proud of myself for getting it to work – with a little help, of course – but I’d like to think eventually I would’ve figured out the cord. On about my second hip swing, the words of the announcer slam me in the gut.
“Motherfucker,” I shout.
Junior has put me smack dab in the middle of a colossal clusterfuck. A young stranger carrying a massive black bag to the pool, leaving it, and returning to her dive of a hotel room definitely qualifies as suspicious activity.
“Hey,” a booming voice sounds, and knocking begins again at my door. “Let me in. It’s me. Room twenty-eight.”
Are you fucking kidding me? Now the giant wants to hang out.
“Just a second,” I answer.
Grabbing the knife Old Man gave me, I slide it down my back pocket before I open the door.
“Hey.”
“I want to order pizza and watch some television until this shit goes down. Got a phone, but no T.V. I’m hanging here until then.”
“By all means,” I grumble, opening my door the rest of the way.
The hulk steps into my room. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“Anything but pineapple,” I mumble as I make my way to my bed.
I slide the knife from my back pocket and place it under my pillow, then curl up, resting my back on the headboard with one hand on the knife and both eyes on the giant.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he snarls.
I only nod at him. I’ve seen his type, been around them, hell, even had them in my house while growing up. He’s an all brawn and very little brainpower guy. His type is very dangerous. I’ve seen them blow in seconds, crashing an entire party and setting a house on fire. That was when I was ten. The minutes drag by as we wait for the pizza.
My alleged bodyguard must not be as comfortable with silence as I am, because he tries to start a conversation. “You’ve got some scars, uh?”
“Yeah.”
He makes another lame attempt. “What’s your story, Tiffany?”
“I ain’t got one,” I spit out with a little more force.
“All scars and pretty faces like yours have a story to tell. Guess you’re too chicken shit to share,” he says.
“Guess so.”
Another knock on the door startles me, causing me to jump straight up. The sharp blade of the knife cuts the edge of my finger. I hold the pain in, and it bleeds on the pillow. Disguising pain comes naturally to me. Mom and her boyfriends love
d spanking harder, burning longer, or torturing me more if I ever showed one ounce of pain.
“I’ll be gone in an hour.”
“Here’s to hoping,” I say.
“I can almost bet your smart mouth got you them scars,” he replies before opening the door.
The delivery guy hands over two large pizzas, and the giant slips him a tiny package. No cash is ever exchanged before he turns and leaves. First sign this has all gone too far. Whatever Junior is into is bad – very, very bad. Now it’s a must to get out of this town, which is almost crushing because I love it here. The route to the store and my work is very manageable and profitable, but now it all makes sense as to why Junior can pay me so well.
I still only have one grocery sack to pack. The only items I’ve added are the salt and pepper shakers and necklace. One bag. That’s all that makes me happy. To up and leave a place like this with no one asking questions is truly the life I want. I just hope once I finally take up residence in the town I pick forever, it can always stay that way. My final town will actually be a city. One I can blend into and change jobs and names with no question.
As soon as this deal goes down, I’m gone, running like hell to the next town. I’ll wait for the Greyhound there. We will see how many miles I can cover with six hundred eighty-two dollars.
“Whatcha want to watch, princess?” the giant inquires as he busts into the pizza.
“I don’t care,” I mumble.
He gestures at the open box. “Want to eat?”
“Sure,” I reply.
“Well, you’ll have to get your ass up and come get some,” he growls.
Walking over to him, I notice both pizzas are loaded with Canadian bacon, green pepper, and pineapple. So glad he was so concerned with what kind I like. Pizza is pizza at this point, and definitely beats cereal with no milk.
Grabbing a slice, I bee-line it straight for my bed. Back to the knife and my safe spot. I’ll enjoy this one piece of pizza, picking off all the pineapple, of course, plan my escape, do the delivery, and leave in the middle of the night.