Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Diary of a Non-Professional
The Sands, how original you think as you stare at the run down motel with the peeling aqua blue paint. He’s motioning for you to come in. You lick your lips at the thought of washing the grit of the desert from your mouth. Cool air spills noisily through the doorway from an antique air conditioner. The first tendrils of headache forms as garish colors swim across the room in various geometric shapes.
He pulls you down onto the bed beside him and you let him run his hands down your leg. High-heeled shoes slip from aching feet and a reluctant moan escapes as he rubs the tender soles. This will help you relax baby, as he pulls out a bottle of scotch. Words like baby and honey fall from his lips like Frank Sinatra in one of those rat pack movies. All we need, darling, is a little ice he smiles with too bright teeth against a too dark tan. The door closes with a click.
Run! Get out now! You can find a job in the next town, but your body is tired, disconnected, detached. It’s easier just to submit. He’s back and he’s pouring a drink. You can hear the ice cracking. You look at him over the rim of the glass with what you hope is a look of desire. You think of Brad Pitt. Your first high school crush. The scotch helps.
The sixties playboy façade is gone. He’s all business now. Is three hundred enough he asks? You nod silently. You have no idea how much to ask for. The room is yours until tomorrow he says as he gets dressed. He lays the money on the nightstand and walks out.
You shower and throw on jeans and a tee shirt. You stare at your face in the mirror, looking for any sign of change. Nothing! You’re slightly disappointed as you slip the money into your pocket. You open the door wondering how long you can make this money last.