by Jake Parent
“That’s correct. My name’s Jordan, but you never got the chance to learn that, I’m afraid, having run off before we could exchange pleasantries. However, you seem like a nice person, so I’d like to give you a second chance.”
What the fuck? Who does this person thing he (or she) is?
“Excuse me?” Cristina asked.
“Hey, I understand what it’s like to be seen as an outsider. I know what it’s like to feel judged and to be pushed into a lonely corner of shameful existence. Trust me, I do. And I’m here to tell you, it’s OK. I’m not here to judge you.”
Huh?
Cristina had to force herself not to drop her jaw open in amazement. The person she was talking to had to be either an egomaniac or a lunatic. Maybe both. Either way, it seemed like a good idea to get going as soon as possible.
At the same time, Cristina had always been a magnet for the eccentric people of the world – something she supposed could be attributed to the fact she herself had always preferred, through thick and thin, to live life her own way. And, if she was honest with herself, Jordan wasn’t exactly wrong. While Cristina didn’t quite feel shameful about herself – at least not anymore, not really – she did feel like an outsider. She did feel lonely, especially without Anise.
“What’s your deal?” Cristina finally asked. “What are you about?”
“About?”
“Yah, twice now you’ve approached me like you’re testing me or something. What’s up with that?”
For the first time, Jordan seemed flustered.
“Um, well, I assure you that’s not what I intended. I simply wanted to make sure you weren’t the kind of person who was quick to judge.”
“So, what you’re saying is that you were judging me as to whether or not I would judge you?”
“Uh, I guess when you put it that way it seems like kind of a silly exercise, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, actually. Yes it does.”
“Well, how about we start over?”
Jordan stuck out a hand and, after a short pause, Cristina grabbed it.
“Hi, Jordan. I’m Cristina.”
“Hi Cristina. I’m Jordan. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Pleasure Point. Can I make up for my past indiscretions by asking you to dine with me this evening at the Venus Café – it’s all vegetarian, all the time.”
“Hmm . . . well, I’m pretty partial to a good burger, but I guess I could be convinced.”
“They have great milkshakes too.”
“OK, sold. Hey, Jordan?”
“Yah?”
“Is this a date?”
“Um, no. You aren’t really my type. Let’s just keep it friendly.”
“Deal.”
13
Jordan and Cristina walked into the Venus Café and found a seat right away, though the place seemed surprisingly popular for a Sunday night.
Cristina knew she was going to like the restaurant as soon as they walked in. The ceiling and walls were covered by a painted night sky, complete with planets and stars and quasars and black holes, along with a few cartoon-looking UFOs piloted by little green spacemen.
Spread around the room were other eccentric, some actually pretty impressive, pieces of art. Impressionistic paintings of cows flying spaceships. Sculptures of oversized forks, spoons, and knives intertwined in ways that made them look both elegant and disruptive. Her favorite, though, was the working jukebox set up near the cash register, made to look like the kind of far-out rocket ship one might expect David Bowie to pilot.
The booths fit right in with the theme, too. Bright-red bench seats covered with little alien-looking symbols that appeared meticulously hand drawn. The table was shaped and painted to look like a set of cockpit controls.
“This place is hella cool,” Cristina said.
“Yes,” Jordan said. “It’s one of my favorite establishments as well.”
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“Not strictly speaking, but I do believe in defending the rights of all lifeforms, including those of the non-hominid variety.”
“Non-hominids?”
“Yes. A hominid is an ape.”
“I knew that.” It sounded familiar at least. She added, “But some of those lifeforms taste pretty freakin’ good.”
“I must admit that’s true.”
A waitress came to their table – a young woman a couple of years younger than Cristina. She had blue hair to match her eye makeup, a spiked bar through her septum, and about a dozen or so small, hooped earrings in each ear.
Cristina ordered Galactic Vegan Nachos and a chocolate Moonshake.
Jordan asked for french fries.
“That’s it?” Cristina asked.
“Indeed. My eating habits are somewhat irregular. My system can only handle certain things.”
“OK.”
Cristina thought Jordan was totally weird, but was quickly coming to enjoy the company. On the ride over – Jordan didn’t have a car so they both came in her Civic – the two had really clicked.
She learned Jordan was a writer (an “artist of the starving variety” as Jordan put it) who, for the past year and a half, had been working on documenting the stories of addicts from Pleasure Point, with the goal of eventually releasing them as “a tool for humanizing an issue that has, for far too long, been relegated to discussion only within a regime of criminality.”
The project sounded fascinating to Cristina, but she sure hoped the writing would be a lot less preachy than the way Jordan talked.
Cristina had also learned that Jordan once spent an extended period of time as a sex worker.
“Mostly out of crack motels and in back alleys.”
The way Jordan described the experience was incredibly candid. Cristina didn’t really know what to say, except that she could very much relate. But she stopped there, not ready to talk about her past in any greater detail than that, at least not until they knew each other better. Thankfully, Jordan hadn’t pushed the subject.
But the two apparently had more in common than Cristina first suspected. And now she felt a bit guilty for being so quick to judge.
“Wow, this shake is amazing,” she said.
“I imagine it is,” Jordan responded, moving hand to belly. “I’ve never actually tried one. I’m lactose intolerant.”
“Aw, that sucks.”
“Indeed.”
“So, Jordan. Tell me about the recovery scene here. So far all I’ve been to is that one meeting with you and the homeless guy.”
“Danny Dee?” Jordan chuckled. “He’s far from homeless. He actually comes from one of the richest families in Pleasure Point. His grandfather invented the wetsuit, or some such thing. Whatever it was, they have lots of money. No, Dan is more of what you might call a traveler. At least, that’s the way he puts it. In other words, a person who has disavowed his worldly possessions in order to live life raw and unencumbered by material needs.”
After a pause to chew a fry, Jordan continued. “I don’t know . . . I think about a decade doing hard drugs might have caused him to develop a bit of a mental disorder, but he really is one of the more fascinating people you’ll meet in Pleasure Point, or anywhere else for that matter. He doesn’t speak much about his past, but I’ve pieced together a few things over the two years I’ve known him. Like the fact he went to Harvard, including law school. Then he worked for some investment bank and was a bigshot in the New York City social scene. But I guess all of a sudden, after a week-long binge on high-end booze, cocaine, and heroin, he decided to get sober. So he quit his job, moved back to Pleasure Point, and gave away a fair amount of his sizeable bank account.”
“Wait, and now he smokes cigarette butts off the ground?”
“Well, sort of. And I believe he calls them ‘stumpies,’ by the way. In all seriousness, he does a lot for people, but always totally in as secretive a way as possible. The whole One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest thing is partly an act. I think he does it to test people. You know, se
e how they do when they’re outside their comfort zone.”
“Wow, I suppose I failed that one.”
“Maybe. But he isn’t the kind of guy to hold a grudge. He pretty much loves everyone. When I first got sober, he really helped me out a lot. I’ve always been thought of by most people as, well, a little strange. But not by Dan.”
“Is he your sponsor?”
“No. I’ve never been all that into the whole steps thing. I mean, I get the principles involved, and I think they’re helpful and all, but only in as much as they lead to action toward living a better life. And I think that’s what I like about Dan. He’s isn’t just about the talk. He truly believes in the idea of service to others, not just as a means to an end, but as an entire end in itself.”
“I guess that’s pretty real,” Cristina responded. “My sponsor Michelle has this program to get people off the street. She’s helped like a thousand women find homes over the past twenty years. It’s pretty crazy actually. But, she’s also kind of obsessed with the 12 steps. I don’t know, to each their own, I guess.”
“Surely. I didn’t mean to sound like I was being hostile. The 12-step community saved my life, and I’m forever grateful. I guess I’m just jaded.”
Jordan smiled at that, dipping a hand down to finish off the last fry.
“These nachos need real cheese,” Cristina said as she finished her own plate. “But I guess they were alright.”
“I suppose you can’t please everyone.”
“Truth. Well, Jordan, I’m glad we ran into each other. And I’m sorry again that I was kind of a bitch the first time.”
“Ancient history. It’s always nice to make a new friend. I find so many humans are less than ideal candidates for the role.”
“Truth again.”
14
Arriving back at home, Cristina was ready to settle in for her first night alone in the new place.
She walked through the front door and was met with a living room full of cardboard boxes marked with big black letters.
CLOTHES.
SCHOOL STUFF.
DISHES.
“Can’t you all just unpack yourself?” she asked out loud.
She spotted a box marked BATH and sliced open the taped edges with her knife. Digging through it, she found the bottle of her favorite bubble bath. She also came across a familiar black bag.
Smiling, Cristina unzipped the fake-leather case and carefully pulled out her Lucky Rabbit’s Foot waterproof personal massager. She rotated the bottom of the sleek, black-plastic device and it buzzed to life. Her eyes brightened. She set the Rabbit’s Foot back into the bag, the bag back into the box, and then lifted the whole thing and carried it all into the bathroom for some much needed relaxation.
The tub seemed to take forever to fill. When it finally did, the water was wonderfully hot and topped with a mound of fluffy, vanilla-scented bubbles.
Cristina slipped off her robe and dipped a foot in. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take the sting while her body adjusted to the heat.
She’d always loved that feeling.
Before getting all the way in, she fished a couple candles out of the box, set them in the corners of the tub, and used the lighter from her cigarette pack to ignite them. While she was at it, and even though she didn’t really want the place smelling like an ashtray, she lit a Lucky Strike, almost giddy at the fact it was her house and no one could tell her otherwise.
With the lights off and candles burning, Cristina slowly crouched down into the tub, bracing herself again as the almost-too-hot water came right to the edge of burning her skin. She winced when it slipped around the scars covering her legs and the fleshy curves of her ass. She rested there for a moment, closing her eyes, feeling the lively skin between her legs tingle.
Dipping further down, the scalding water rounded the slight thickness of her tummy, caressing its way toward her full, plump breasts. Her lungs inhaled a sharp, involuntary breath when the heat pinched her dark nipples. She rubbed them as she settled fully into the tub, again feeling grateful for how firm and elastic her body remained after having a baby, and after so many years of abusing it.
Enjoy it while it lasts, she thought. And thank God for Victoria’s Secret after that.
Not that she was too worried. She’d always understood that the sexiest part of any woman – or man for that matter – was the brain. If someone didn’t feel sexy, it was likely that no one else would think they were either.
And being sexy was one thing Cristina had always been good at. Even through her darkest days, when she hated her existence so much she thought often of taking her own life.
She tossed her finished cigarette into the toilet and began to massage her breasts in earnest, squeezing them gently around the nipples at first, feeling them stiffen, and then with more strength as they started to buzz with pleasure.
An image of Casey came into her mind. Shirtless and covered in dark tattoos. The sharp cuts of his muscles practically glowing. She imagined what it would feel like to have him hold her, pressing her naked body into his hard chest. The fullness of her lips kissing his neck and chest and stomach, and then finally taking him into her mouth.
Her hand slipped between her legs and began rubbing tiny circles as she thought of him on top of her. Slipping inside. Sliding. In and out.
With one hand, she reached outside the tub and felt for the vibrator.
It soon whirred to life.
She imagined riding him. Rolling her hips back and forth. Holding down his hands.
Then he was behind her, slapping her thick backside, scars-be-damned, as he pounded her hard. She would tell him to go harder still. Faster. Give it all to her. Until they both screamed out in a shared explosion of pleasure.
Which is exactly what she did there in the tub, kicking her legs out, groaning, spilling enough of the bathwater to extinguish the candles, leaving herself in the dark while her body pulsated. The spasms continued until she finally pulled the vibrator away, clicking it off and blanketing the room in silence.
Her skin was left saturated with a warm, relaxed energy.
A perfect calm.
Luckily, she’d left her cigarettes on the sink instead of the now soaked floor. She lit one in the dark, holding it high in the air as she slid down into the water, far enough to submerge the top of her head. The warmth sank into her thick hair.
When she finally came up for air, she felt like some kind of sea goddess rising up from the water.
Wow, that was exactly what I needed.
The cherry of her cigarette was the only light in the bathroom. She inhaled and blew smoke through its glowing aura.
Cristina looked toward the open door and the hallway filled with blackness.
She’d never been one to be afraid of the dark, not even as a kid. But in that moment, her new place felt eerily quiet – the only sound a trickle of water slowly escaping through the bath’s imperfect drain plug.
Before her cigarette was done, she tried to light the candles again. The wicks wouldn’t catch, so she lit another Lucky Strike.
The thickening layers of smoke mesmerized her. She watched the clouds morph into shapes before disappearing into the black depths of the hall. Her eyes strained to follow it.
Then, in a flash that disappeared so quickly Cristina wasn’t sure it had ever actually been there, she swore she could see the outline of something in the hallway.
It was nothing, she immediately tried to tell herself.
Yet, it seemed real enough that she’d instinctively jerked away. Even now, she felt like she could still almost see a ghostly imprint, like the remnants of a picture flashed in front of her eyes.
A little girl.
No . . . she tried to tell herself. That’s ridiculous, Cristina. Stop letting your mind get the best of you. There was nothing there. You’re just tired.
But she couldn’t get it out of her head.
As she sat naked in the now lukewarm bathwater, the image became c
learer. A girl, in her nightgown, close to Anise’s age, holding some kind of stuffed animal in one hand, staring into the bathroom.
Cristina shivered, trying to think of something else, anything else, while she wrapped her body in a robe and her hair in a towel.
After drying off and climbing into bed, she could hardly bring herself to close her eyes. The news articles she’d read about the murder kept flowing into her mind. But only in small, incomplete snippets.
She couldn’t help thinking there was a lot she didn’t know.
15
It was well past midnight when Cristina came downstairs after being unable to sleep.
She walked through the house turning on every light.
On top of one of the packing boxes, she set the folder filled with everything related to the house. She sat on the floor, feet stretched out in front of her. She separated out the legal documents and moved them as far away as she could reach. Their officey smell reminded her too much of court.
Cristina had been in front of a judge more times than she cared to remember. Most recently, of course, for her divorce. But she’d also been caught stealing three times as a minor. Twice she was given probation, and on the other occasion she spent three months in The Camp – a juvenile rehabilitation center for girls located somewhere high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. During her time there, she was beat up by a group of cholas who decided they didn’t like her, sexually violated by a fat guard, and imprinted with a lifelong distrust of the criminal justice system.
She spread the news clippings onto the hardwood floor and lit a cigarette, using an empty Coke can from the recycling bin as an ashtray.
Police Search for Missing Girl
May 7 – A local four-year-old girl, Annie Stewart, was reported missing by her mother.
According to Pleasure Point Police Chief Walt Blunderberg, the girl was last seen by her stepfather playing in the woods near her backyard.
Police say evidence found at the scene leads them to believe foul play may have been a factor. Anyone with information is urged to contact the Pleasure Point Police Department immediately.