“Oh, baby, you’re so funny…”
“Do you wanna get outta here, honey…”
“I know how to take care of a woman…”
“Oh, stop it, just stop it, you bad boy…”
“You alright?” Marsha asks. She’s second generation Polish, with barely the hint of an accent underlying her Texan. Marsha has been known to sit on men’s laps to get tips if she badly needs the cash. Right now she looks bored, as she often does when the hungry eyes of the customers aren’t on her.
“Fine,” I say. “Where am I?”
“Group F.”
“Okay.”
I look out to my tables. A few people are eating. One of the girls is leaving her shift, trying to get out of the door, but a drunk guy is laughing and blocking her way. The girl is laughing, too. If management sees her not laughing, she might be out of a job. Then I spot him, the lone man sitting with his back to me, facing the window. The Lady Shack looks out onto a street which might as well be named Corporate Street: coffee chains, electronics chains, fast food chains, and on and on, left and right. I can’t see much about the man from where I’m sitting, but I imagine he’s much like the rest of them.
I had dreams once, I reflect as I walk on six-inch heels toward him. Not specific dreams, exactly—I was too young for that when life set them on fire—but general dreams of happiness, and love, and contentment, and bras which didn’t squash my body into unnatural shapes. Dreams of a man and a family, sure, but most of all dreams that I could make things happen. Me, not my body, me, not my looks, me. But maybe I’m just a cliché, like a hooker in a movie who is secretly saving to become a veterinarian. I can’t even claim that, though. My account is ever empty and the only thing I’m saving for is to be saved: survival, plan one, two, and three. As I walk, I remember how earlier today I was going to quit, march right into Steve’s office and slam my hands down on the desk and tell him point-blank: “I’ve had enough.” And then I’d walk right out of here, with a strut so sexy even Candice would be jealous, and all the girls would clap me on the way out, cheering. Of course I didn’t.
I need the money.
I hardly see the man when I reach the table. I’m sure that would seem strange to somebody who’s never worked in a place like The Lady Shack. But when you’ve worked with the direct intention of making money based on your tits and ass and legs for long enough, you start to see the same man where once you saw many. Just a slack-jawed, stony-eyed, slathering man who’s going to stumble out some awkward pickup line and hit on you for the next hour or so.
“Hey, honey,” I say, my voice way, way chirpier than I feel. How can a voice be this chirpy when my ankles feel like they’re going to snap? I wish I could find the man who created heels and make him pay. “I hope you’re having a fantastic afternoon! You look like you could do with a beer.”
“Daisy.”
The voice is torn, dragged-out, the sort of voice you expect to hear from a homeless man who’s muttering, “Change,” not from some guy at a booby bar. I recognize the voice, despite how much I’d like it not to be true. I remember when the cancer ate through my mother like a pickaxe eating through rock, shattering her piece by piece until nothing was left but a coffin, how this voice struggled to find the right words. “It’s just…oh God…Tilly…oh…” I remember how this voice cried out at me, “It’s just one bet! Just one goddamn bet! Can’t a man have some peace?” I remember how this voice made me feel guilty for expecting more. And most of all I remember asking him to never, ever come here. I never wanted him to see me like this.
“Dad,” I hiss, my voice completely changed now. “What the fuck are you doing here?” My voice is shaking with rage. All the things that have happened to me in this place—slapped asses, groped breasts, one time a man trying to put a finger inside of me, beer all over my shirt, etc., etc.—and yet this is what drives me almost to madness. I find I’ve dropped the notepad and pen, my hands hanging at my sides in fists.
“Daisy,” Dad says. I hate how weak his voice sounds, how weak it always sounds. It’s like he’s always on the verge of tears. So many times I’ve tried to be angry with him. So many times I’ve wanted to go absolutely ballistic at him. I remember the time he spent a month’s rent on poker and I had to work doubles just so he wouldn’t get kicked out of his apartment, walking over to his place and rehearsing what I was going to say. But then he said my name in that horrible way and all the anger just deflated from me. But not now!
“You shouldn’t be here, you idiot! This is where I work. This is where I make it so you can go out and bury us in even more debt, you selfish asshole! It blows my mind that it isn’t enough for you to saddle us with all this goddamn debt, but you have to come by here and try and ruin the only way I have of paying it off!” I stop, panting.
He’s been trying to cut in, but I’ve just barreled on. But I keep my voice low, a sort of low shout, yelling without once raising my voice.
“I’m sorry,” he says, staring at me with those red-rimmed eyes, shot with blood.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marsha watching me curiously. I know what she’s watching for. Some of the girls arrange to meet the men privately, performing what Marsha calls “illegal services” for some extra cash. I’ve never done that, and I don’t want Marsha to think I am.
“Order something,” I say.
“I need to tell you—”
“Fine, so order a drink and a piece of apple pie and then I’ll bring it here and take my time putting it down and you can say what you want to say. Do you want to get me fired?”
He seems to be about to speak again, but then bites his lip like a chastised child. A painful memory hits me, the way he would make that face when Mom teased him. But back then it was all in jest. Back then it was all good fun. Suddenly, I feel absurdly guilty.
“I’ll have a piece of apple lie and an orange soda, please.”
As I go to the kitchen, Marsha calls over to me, “All good, doll?”
I spin on her, forcing the anger deep down, and plaster a smile to my face. “It’s all great!” I beam. Like a Stepford Wife.
I busy myself with looking pretty and waiting for a bunch of sneering frat boys before Dad’s order is ready. When I bring it to him, I move in slow motion, each movement lengthened so that we have time to talk.
“What is it?” I say. “I don’t get paid for another week. You’ve used the money already? Fine, then maybe you should say bye-bye to Blackjack, and roulette, and whatever else it is you—What is it? What do you want?”
“I’m trying to say,” he whispers. “I just—” He stares at me with those red eyes again. I’ll never understand how I can still feel such guilt for this man when, after Mom died, he basically shoved all the responsibility onto me. Me, a sixteen year old girl at the time. And yet I do, all the time, guilt like razors under my skin.
“What is it?” I say, this time with a softer tone. I’ve placed the apple pie down. Now I arrange the cutlery.
“I can’t go home,” Dad says. “Back to my apartment, I mean. I just…I can’t, Daisy. There’s something—something bad has happened. You get it?”
I feel like my stomach freezes. The absurd idea to close my eyes and once again imagine I’m on that island comes to me, for a few milliseconds of peace.
“So what now? What do we do? What do you do?” My voice is as cold as my stomach, ice-cold, but not in anger or shock. Part of me must’ve known that something like this was coming.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I just…I thought I should tell you, right?”
That’s when the anger hits me. Not anger at the situation, but anger at him, at the way he’s looking at me as though I know how to solve all our problems. I grit my teeth.
“I have other tables,” I murmur, voice trembling. “I’m done in an hour. We can talk then.”
“No, wait—”
But I’m already walking toward my next customers.
Chapter Two
Hound
“Is that your real name, honey?”
I don’t really see the woman in front of me, seeing as she’s not the one I’m here following, but a man can’t forget his manners.
“Of course it is,” I lie. “Was Hound before I was born, even. Parents picked it out of a magazine and said they’d name me that if I was a boy or a girl.”
I look past her to the other side of the restaurant, to where the lone man sits. Dean Dunham looks like the sort of man you’d expect to see hobbling out of a psychiatric ward, all paranoid and skittish. His eyes are pitted, black holes and his skin is saggy and haggard. His hair is sparse and gray. He looks like a broken man. Part of me even feels for the poor bastard. It can’t be good to go to sleep one day a man and wake up the next a skeleton. His clothes hang on him, loose, way too baggy. I try and imagine waking up one day less than seven feet tall and a few feet wide. I can’t do it.
“Oh, you’re too much!”
The woman is called Candy, I think. She’s got big-ass tits and a big-ass ass, but then that’s most of the girls here. She eyes me up and down, pouting, giggling. I can tell I’ve broken through this Lady-Shack horseshit. Part of me even thinks about putting the job off and taking her round back. But then I remind myself that I’m trying to be a better man. Yes ma’am, Henry Roscoe has been doing some reading, two years of it, and he’s finally stowing away some of the money he makes collecting. Has quite the bank forming under his mattress. Maybe one day soon he’ll be able to get out of this life and become some kind of thinking man. I laugh at myself, like I always do, because it’s too close to home.
“What’s so funny, baby?”
“Have you ever seen a wolf and thought to yourself, With a little work that could be a dog, a beloved, kind dog, and not a wolf at all?” I flash a smile at her. I’ve got to admit, charming women is fun. “Or am I just coming across like a freak you can’t wait to get away from?”
She giggles again. “No, no, honey,” she says seriously. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”
She’s so different to the wide-smiled, wide-eyed woman she was when she first came over here. The performance has stopped. Maybe she imagines she’s on a date.
As I watch Dean, a waitress comes over to him. And man, if ever there was a woman to make a man question if he’s going to be able to walk the Changed Man Trail, it’s this piece of ass. Around twenty-five, with a slender body but with a full ass and full breasts, all squeezed artfully to give her an hour-glass shape, hair the color of honey, a cute round face, eyelashes longer than my finger, eyes greener than a forest. She has a strong-vulnerable look about her, like she’s both at the same time. I’ve never seen it before and it interests me. I even get a little hard just at the sight of her, something Candy hasn’t managed since she sat down.
I can tell why the old pervert comes here now. Still, just because we happen to have similar taste in women doesn’t mean Mac won’t want his money. Candy is still talking, but she can’t compare with the woman with the honey-colored hair. I try and think if there’s anything in my books that can relate to this situation. That’s what my online course is always telling me, to try and link what I read with real life, since all books are about life, or some shit. Maybe that old man is like Gatsby without all the money, just a failed husk, and that girl is his Daisy. I shiver. That went creepy way too quick. I know for a fact that Daisy is Dean’s daughter’s name.
“Honey.” It’s Candy, chirping nearer to me. She’s standing over me now, notepad in hand.
I squint across the restaurant, listening closely to the woman serving Dean and blocking everything else out. Man, she’s hot, really hot, the sort of hot which makes you forget that cold even exists. There’s something strange about the way they’re talking, Honey Hair and Dean. I look closer, leaning forward, and then I see it, blurry but readable. Daisy, right there on her name tag. Which means the old man isn’t here to grope and leer.
“Hound?”
“Sorry, beautiful,” I say, leaning back. “I know this is a cruel thing to ask of a lady, but do you think you could send Daisy over to serve me?”
Candy takes a step back, as though wounded. “Oh. Sure.”
She leaves, her heels clicking a little louder than they did on her way toward me. I lean back, relaxed, watching Dean out of the corner of my eye just in case he decides to do something stupid. I doubt he will, though. How many times have I done this? Ever since I was a teenager, following people, tooling them up, scaring them, threatening them, and eventually getting their money. All in a day’s work. I try not to feel bitter about it. I think of my books back at my place and cough out another laugh. What a fucking joke. But then a second later I think of them again, and I smile. I don’t know how to feel about it. A man who never finished high school trying to grapple with the greats, and hopefully go on to math, science, maybe even French or whatever…
I’m glad when Daisy comes over. She’s a welcome distraction from myself.
She’s even sexier up close, especially when she smiles. She’s got some sharp canine teeth, giving her a vampire look, and her eye makeup is darker than a night’s sky, contrasting the bright green of her eyes. Her smile is fake, because of course it is. I try and write something in my head, like the course says: She smiled at me but it was more like she was smiling at somewhere very far away behind me and she was not smiling at me at all. Shit, shit. Maybe I ought to stick at what I’m good at, like bouncing heads off tables. But still, this piece of ass…
“Good afternoon,” I say, with my cheesiest grin. “How are you this fine day?”
She looks me up and down, maybe surprised to hear me speaking like this when I’m seven feet tall with a wild look about me. Most folks seem surprised by that. But I don’t think that a man has to choose between charming and tough, never have.
“I’m great,” she says shortly. All the while I’m watching her Dad with one eye, the way he just sits there and prods at his slice of pie with his fork, making sure he doesn’t duck out. “What would you like?”
“I thought you were supposed to be all sexy and flirty and shit?” I say, enjoying myself now. “It seems to me I’ve walked into some backwater truck stop or something, not into this high-class restaurant.”
I watch her face, watch as a hundred replies rise and fall on her lips, and then as the smile cracks over her like a mask. “Oh, where are my manners!” she beams. “Of course you’re in The Lady Shack! I hope you’re having a swell day. Can I get your name, sweetie?”
I tell her.
“Okay…uh, Hound…what would you like?”
“I would like to live in a world where people can do what they want without being fucked over every step of the way. I would like to live in a world where my knuckles aren’t bloody every night of my life and I haven’t hurt more people than I care to think about. I would like to live in a world where strong men and sexy women can do more than be strong and sexy.”
I don’t say any of this out loud, because I think that’d give the wrong impression. But I think it, and I get angry thinking it. I’ve been doing that way too much lately, questioning my situation. Questioning your situation is only good when you can get out of it, is the way I see it, and I’m not doing that until I have a smooth exit plan. Instead I say, “What would you recommend?”
On the table behind us, a group of businessmen are talking about finance and slamming their glasses together like their Vikings after a raid, shouting, “Cheers!”, over and over and leering at every passing waitress. I feel my seat juddering each time some fat bastard jumps up and down. I think about smashing his face into the table like I would’ve done once, just stood up and slammed his head until he was covered in blood. But whereas once the idea made me feel big, now it just leaves me feeling empty. Much better to get a good look at Daisy’s tight body.
“The pie is great,” she says. “Just great.”
“Something’s up with you,” I tell her, still keeping my cheesy-ass grin on my face. I’ve lea
rnt that people are less nervous about seven-foot scary-looking giants if I smile. “I don’t blame you, though,” I go on. “Every goddamn day, people pawing at you, trying to get your number, calling you a cock tease and all that shit. And you don’t even get the satisfaction of throwing a drink in their faces or slapping them or telling them to fuck off. You have to smile and nod and thank them for all of it, hoping for a tip.”
She tries to keep her smile up, like a fighter trying to keep his fists up, but in the end she’s too weary and she lets it falter. “Well done,” she says, no longer the bubbly seducer. “You’ve solved the puzzle. Would you like a ribbon?” She shakes her head bitterly. “I need the money. The whole world needs the money. Are you telling me your one-hundred percent happy with your place in life? If you are, you’re the exception.”
I let my fake smile drop and give her a real one instead. “Hello, Daisy. It’s nice to meet you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not supposed to talk to customers like this.”
BABY FOR A PRICE Page 20