by Radclyffe
She had loved Molly with all her heart, and now Molly was gone. Gone with the drug dealer. Gone.
Blaze wanted to change her name from Barbara because she felt that it suited her better. She was a tomboy, raised on the farm with brothers, and all of them did the same chores. She’d just graduated from high school with above-average grades and was going to community college in the fall.
Blaze had a little money she’d saved up from odd jobs, working for the neighbors mostly, mucking out stables and picking apples, berries and peas. She’d gotten quite a bit of money de-tassling corn last summer and now she thought she’d look for something short term in town, maybe make a little more per hour, which she’d need for tuition.
So when she stopped in at the employment office, she was pleased to find that a company downtown called Rayzon was hiring line workers for the summer only. She wasn’t sure what Rayzon manufactured, but that didn’t bother her, as long as she didn’t have to dress up. She drove her old truck (hand-me-down) over to Rayzon and confidently walked into the office.
Emmy’s mother yelled at her that morning. “Get your lazy butt out of bed and go apply for this job!”
Emmy sat up scared and then plopped back down. You gotta be kidding me.
“I mean it,” her mother went on. “You’re sleeping your life away. Rayzon is hiring, so get dressed and walk down there!”
Emmy opened her eyes. Her mother was standing over her like the Wicked Witch of the West. “What time is it?”
Her mother did not answer but smacked the newspaper on the bed and went out. She had her own job to get to.
Emmy groaned as she looked at the clock. She’d been asleep two hours.
Blaze asked the secretary for an application, said, “Thank you, ma’am,” and sat at a heavy old table, maybe from a library or school, and pulled out her own ballpoint pen, fine-line. She had neat handwriting of which she was proud. It came naturally to her, a talent she shared with her brother, Mike. She could draw, too. Look at something and sketch it on paper. Realistic. Like birds and barns and cows in the pasture. And of course, horses. She still didn’t know what Rayzon did, but maybe these skills of hers would come in handy. She was strong, too. Almost as strong as Mike, but he was taller and a year older, so it was to be expected that he could lift more than she could. Her mother told her someday she’d be glad to be a girl. She doubted it.
Blaze was about to start listing her job experience when the office door opened and three people came in, apparently not together, but all arriving at the same time. They all lined up in front of the secretary’s desk—Mrs. McCall according to the nameplate—and she handed out applications without much chitchat. There was a tall wiry man with two or three days’ stubble who looked angry, a pregnant woman with large, worried eyes and a girl about the same age as Blaze. She looked familiar, cute, sleepy, lost in her own world, a chip on her shoulder, maybe.
Emmy was last in line behind the pregnant woman. She had let the pregnant woman go ahead of her, and that creepy guy should have let her go ahead, too. But he had pushed ahead of the two females and rushed up to the secretary, a middle-aged blonde with a good-natured face. Emmy felt comforted by Mrs. McCall’s calmness as she handed out one-page, two-sided applications and invited them to have a seat. Emmy noticed the farm girl over at the table right away. Cowboy boots and faded Levi’s. Cute with brown, sun-streaked short hair. She looked familiar. Had they gone to the same school? Emmy hadn’t graduated—refused to return after a suspension for smoking, and she hated school anyway after Molly had dropped out. Now she was stuck looking for a stupid, meaningless job. All she wanted to do was write poems and play guitar. She was sure she wouldn’t be doing that here at the junk mail factory—if they even wanted her.
The door opened again and Blaze looked up when she heard tiny bells jingling, the kind some girls wore around their ankles. She smiled at the robust hippie woman coming in. The bells weren’t on her ankles but were maybe attached to her full skirt or something. Blaze couldn’t see where. The woman smelled like an exotic flower, nothing that grew around there. She had long, wavy rusty-red hair flowing around her shoulders, and she seemed to be smiling at nothing in particular. She looked at Blaze and said good morning.
Blaze suddenly felt overly helpful. “You can get an application over there,” she said, and nodded toward Mrs. McCall. “And then sit over here and fill it out.”
“I’m Dancing Bear,” the woman said to the secretary.
“That your real name, hon?” The secretary put on her half glasses. “We need real names here on the application.”
“I’ll write it down,” Dancing Bear said, smiling. “But call me Dance. Everyone does.”
“Alrighty, Miz Dance. You can fill this out over at that table. Then bring it back.”
Blaze was done with her application but she hadn’t realized she should take it back to the desk. You’re not in school anymore, dipstick, she reminded herself and shook her head at her own naïveté.
When she stood up, she caught the sleepy girl staring at her. “Do I know you?” Blaze whispered like she was in a library and could get in trouble.
The sleepy girl said something strange. “Not in the biblical sense.” And her pale face remained cold stone serious. “You want to know me, Cowgirl?”
The hippie woman snorted a muffled laugh and jingled as she shifted in her seat.
Blaze saw that the sleepy girl hadn’t written a thing. “Ain’t you gonna fill that out?”
“‘Ain’t’ ain’t a word,” the girl said.
“Is that so?” Blaze said, embarrassed but intrigued. She turned away and handed her paper to the secretary, who looked over her half glasses at her pleasantly and said she should wait for the manager to come have a look at it. Blaze spotted a piece of typing paper discarded in the trash basket and delicately retrieved it.
The wiry man was up ready to hand in his application, too. Emmy couldn’t stand his energy—all grabby and ugly—a lot like that drug-dealing bastard she hated. Emmy wrote a few lines on her application—basic stuff—and wondered who that cowgirl was. She’d seen her around school for sure but from some other crowd, the farm kids—not her own lot of freaks and misfits. Not that she had friends anymore. Falling in love with your own sex was secret and awkward and isolating. Why did Molly have to leave her? They were so crazy about each other. But Molly said she really wasn’t like Emmy—not in that way. The way that Emmy realized she was by age eleven when she fantasized about the teenaged babysitter.
“Can I draw you?”
Emmy looked up to see the cowgirl looking at her, that pen in her hand and a bent piece of typing paper in front of her. “What?”
“Draw you,” the cowgirl repeated. “On paper.”
“Why?” Emmy said, scrunching up her face.
“’Cuz I can draw. And I draw fast.”
“Well, have at it if it turns you on,” Emmy said and tried to look annoyed and disinterested, but in reality she was fascinated.
The cowgirl drew Emmy’s hair first—long and straight and parted in the middle. Then she put in delicate eyebrows, looking at Emmy and back down at the paper over and over. Emmy got a tingling sensation from head to toe. This good-looking rodeo girl was touching her all over with her eyes and it felt strangely good—and sexy.
Dance had leaned over and was watching the portrait emerge. “That’s cool, sister,” she said. “You’re quick on the draw.”
The cowgirl kept going without comment. Emmy’s lips. The delicate crevasse between her nose and lips. Emmy’s nose. Her chin. Long, smooth neck. But no eyes. Not yet.
That’s when the door opened behind the secretary’s desk and a tall principal-looking man stepped into the office. The manager.
Blaze stopped drawing and turned around in her seat. Meanwhile Dance was picking up her application and the sleepy girl’s, too, and passing them over to the secretary like they’d just taken a test. Blaze figured this was the manager, and he would either hire
her or not. If not, fine. There were other jobs in the world. But something made her really want this one. She was already attached to Dance and the sleepy girl, and she didn’t want it to end yet. She sat up straight and ran her fingers through her hair. The man thumbed through the papers, leaning down and pointing out things to the secretary from time to time.
“Aren’t you going to finish that work of art?”
Blaze swung back around to answer Dance. “Yeah, I will for sure—right after I get this job.”
“You’re going to get it,” Dance said. “You got the karma. Good things are coming your way, sister.”
“You see the future?” Blaze whispered, interested.
“I sense things,” Dance said. “It’s easy if you can tune in.” She closed her long-lashed eyes, and when she opened them she looked right at the sleepy girl.
“Her, too?” Blaze asked. “I mean, getting hired?”
Dance continued to stare at Sleepy Girl, who perked up noticeably. It was like her battery had run down and just by someone looking at her she got charged and the color came into her face.
“Yeah,” the girl said. “What’s my future?” She fluffed out her straight hair.
Dance looked at Blaze and back at the girl. “You’ll see. Good things are coming.”
“Okay, folks,” the manager man boomed. “Thank you all for coming. I’m Mr. Rex. I’ll be taking you through the premises for a look-see, and you’ll all start in the morning.”
The wiry man let out a whoop and Blaze cracked a smile at him. Poor guy needed a break. Well, don’t we all. This was something she wanted, too. Whatever it was they made here, she’d do her very best.
Emmy really wanted to see that portrait complete. It was spooky to leave it with no eyes, like she had no windows looking into her soul. But the rest of it looked so real, the eyebrows and everything. She was still tingling from Blaze studying her face, and then Dance looked right into her soul or something. She hadn’t wanted to go to work, especially in an uncool place like this, but already she wanted to belong with these two, one fresh off the farm and the other fresh off a hippie commune or whatever. She was glad they weren’t going right to work—she was dead tired and hungry—but she could get through an orientation, especially standing close to Blaze.
She stood up with the others and followed behind the cowgirl. Blaze had strong tan hands that looked like they were ready to reach for something to do. Emmy could think of a few things for those hands to do.
“What about the sketch?” Emmy asked.
Dance picked it up. “I’ll keep it in my bag for you,” she told Blaze, and Blaze did not object. Blaze looked like she was standing at attention waiting for orders from Rex. Emmy couldn’t take her eyes off the back pockets of her tight jeans.
“What’s your name?” Blaze asked quietly. They were standing in the entry way of a factory room, waiting for Mr. Rex to come open the double doors and tour them around.
“Emmy, but it’s really Emma, which I hate.”
“Okay. I like Emmy. Nice name.” Blaze felt herself redden in the face. She liked this girl a lot, and right at that moment, she lost all her confidence and felt awkward and nervous. Dance was swaying from left to right as though she had her own private music going. The tall guy was silent but jittery, anxious.
Just then Mr. Rex came back and swung open the doors to the factory. “And here we are,” he said. “Welcome to Rayzon.”
Blaze couldn’t believe her eyes. Row after row of people—mostly middle-aged like her parents—sitting at conveyor belts. The sound of the room was like a construction site with motors running and gears and whistles and noise rising up to the high ceiling trying to push its way out. Blaze unconsciously covered her ears, then slid her hands in her back pockets.
A tall, skinny teenaged boy came by pushing a cart full of packages and Blaze thought he gave Emmy the once-over. She suddenly felt an urge to punch him. Was this all a big mistake or was she meant to be here?
Emmy forced herself to get in bed at midnight with a light still on and the radio playing. She had to sleep if she was going to go through with this job thing, and if it weren’t for Blaze, she wasn’t sure she could do it. But something about Blaze gave her a new energy, different from what she felt with Molly, but maybe just as good. Better? She would sleep with the light on and the radio would keep her company, but she did not have much control over her thoughts of Molly. She cried a little remembering how Molly had loved her—however briefly—how damn good love felt, and sex! Even if you did have to keep it a secret because a lot of people would say you were a pervert. And then her thoughts drifted to Blaze and how good she looked in jeans and boots and how innocent she was in a way and strong, and the drawing…Emmy wanted to see that drawing finished! Would Blaze remember?
When Emmy’s mother woke her the next morning, she was surprised that she had been in a deep sleep. She woke with a start, filled with anticipation, climbed out of bed without moaning and groaning, and got in the shower.
Blaze sat in the old truck waiting for it to be closer to 8 A.M. She was always early. It was easy for her—up at first light, right to work with chores, everything lined up and ready to go. But this morning wasn’t so easy. She was tired. A rare thing for her. She could barely sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night with thoughts of the sleepy girl—Emmy—and she wasn’t sure what to say or do about it. There was just something about that girl she liked—really liked—and she couldn’t wait to see her again. At the same time it scared her to death! Get involved with another girl? Know her in the biblical sense? It wasn’t the kind of thing you could go home and tell your family about, and Blaze wasn’t used to keeping secrets.
“Howdy, partner.”
It was Dance, now standing outside Blaze’s open truck window. She was all dressed in purple and pink with a beaded headband across her forehead holding her thick goddess hair in place.
“Morning, Dancing Bear,” Blaze said. She wondered where Dance had come from. It was like she just suddenly materialized. “Are you ready for this?”
“It’s just a stepping stone in life,” Dance said, smiling. “I can do it for a while. Then it’s time to move on.”
“Yeah, me too, I guess.” Blaze recalled how overwhelming the graying robotic people sitting at conveyor belts stuffing bubble envelopes with free samples seemed. How long had some of them been there in that dark, dusty cave? It felt too cooped up for Blaze. She’d much rather be out driving a tractor or planting trees.
“It’s going to be okay, sister,” Dance said. “You’ll find love in the strangest places, and it’s up to you what you do with it.”
Blaze thought that was a really strange thing to say, but she liked the way Dance talked, like she saw something other people didn’t and she was here to tell you something.
Emmy was afraid she was late after she’d jogged down the hill to Rayzon and she was deeply relieved to see both Blaze in that cool, old pickup and cosmic Dancing Bear swaying in the parking lot. Dance waved her over and Blaze climbed out of the truck and shut the door hard. She was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt—faded—with pearl snaps. Her boots looked worked-in, scuffy but recently polished.
All three turned their heads when an old VW Bug pulled up with the wiry guy in the passenger seat. He leaned over and kissed the woman driving and got out with a big grin on his face.
The woman handed him a paper bag through the car window.
“We better go in,” Dance said, acting like a mother hen. Emmy wondered how old she was. Not old but not young either.
Inside, the secretary nodded at them and called the manager to take them to their jobs. Meanwhile more people were lining up to fill out applications. Emmy recognized the worried-eyed pregnant woman turning hers in.
The manager took Blaze, Dance, Emmy and the wiry man into the noisy workroom and sat them at a conveyor belt that had been completely empty except for a gray-haired woman standing at one end waiting for them.
Emmy
was delighted that Blaze would be sitting on her right and Dance on her left.
“Folks, this is Madge,” the manager said. “She’ll get you started here. Do like she says and have a nice day.” He acted like a robot, delivering his lines and rushing off.
Madge didn’t crack a smile or anything. In a thick German accent, she told the wiry man to stand at the opposite end of the belt from her. When she put the bubble envelopes on the belt, they were to each insert a trial-size cosmetic. Then wiry man was to collect all the envelopes, run them through a sealer machine and stack them in a cart.
I can do this in my sleep, Emmy thought as she glanced over at Blaze’s strong hands ready to get started. She was ready to get started, too, in more ways than one. But could Blaze like her the way she liked Blaze, or was she going to turn out like Molly? The thought of Molly gave her a sinking feeling as the envelope arrived in front of her and she inserted a cherry-flavored lip balm.
Dancing Bear had seen this before: two young women undeniably attracted to each other, their skin tingling with possibility, the thoughts and fantasies crowding up their heads. Yes, she had seen this before, the hesitation, the concern for what was considered normal, the flirtation, again the hesitation, and she had helped, and she would help again. Sometimes she felt that she was plopped down into situations like this to be the silent mediator, bringing together two energies that needed each other. These two had auras merging all over the place and the colors were hot, urgent. This should be good. A miracle, all this earthly attraction and delight.
Dancing Bear pulled little shampoo bottles from a box with her left hand and popped them into the envelopes with her right hand. She could feel the heat in Emmy’s heart, a heart recently broken but now laying itself open for more. Blaze had already set a fire going in that heart, and Dancing Bear would fan the flames. She had the almost-done portrait still in her bag and she’d encourage Blaze to take it home and finish it. The result would rock Emmy’s world. Dance could already see it. The two of them were lovers already on a plane they could not see, and already they were completely in tune with the attraction of nature.