Her New Voice, Her Only Husband Ch. 02

I sit by the window, smelling my cream soda, twirling my hair, looking down the street. Through the old glass pane the pavement appears warped from here, like a skate park for beginners. All around are struggling, stubborn businesses, and beyond them the camp grounds where vacationing families rotate endlessly in and out, the only reliable action here. Beyond that is Lake Pinewood, slate blue and smooth as the sky.

I wish he would come back here, that man I don't know. I'm losing patience for love at first site. Once I would have thrived on the anticipation, the excitement, now it's just miring in longing, the unknown. Getting your first case of uncertainty is such an impossibility, dreaming up ways to distract yourself, without falling headlong into hopelessness.

I suppose I should be worried about this feeling. Is it permanent, or is it like, an act of temporary insanity? Is this what all those men feel for me? I am a natural at drawing such attention myself, and the power that comes with it, the desire to control, to taunt, and the feeling of being wanted. It gets exciting, seeing a man's confidence grow or crash at my whim. There's a satisfaction that fascinates me more than any fairy tale romance.

I can feel my teeth grinding, a vibration in my skull. I've started to gnaw on my bottom lip again. I've reached the place where I used to go when insecure. It tastes familiar. I've caught myself daydreaming of diversions, exploits. Something I know I can have whenever I want it. Sex. But I want to hear his voice again.

It's a little past five and I've waited long enough, time to close up Hartson' shop. He's not coming. Maybe never again.

I last saw him at Bubba's Gas-n-Go, filling up, two weeks ago. He pulled out of the lot before I got halfway across the street, drenched, standing in the rain, watching the tail lights of his truck fade away. He must live here somewhere, I've seen him twice now this month. He could be within a mile of town, he could be right on the next street. I have no idea what I would do if I bumped into him again, at the gym for instance, working out across from me, or waiting at a check out eyeing the tabloids. We would stand side by side, looking at Bat Boy on the cover of Weekly World News and I would turn to him and say: It's me, the girl who loves you. Would he turn, delighted? Would he ignore me? Or would I jump on him boldly, wrap my legs around him? Or grab him by the balls, and drag him to into his truck bed?

I wash in Hartson's tiny, dingy bathroom, resisting the whiskey he keeps stashed behind the wobbly yellow mop bucket. The sink is smeared with oily fingerprints and gritty green soap residue, like usual. It wouldn't feel like a hardware store without a hearty amount of guy messes around. I lean towards the mirror, freshening my face, putting hoops in my ears.

I strip out of my work clothes and wiggle into a little red dress some guy had delivered to the store the other day. I can't remember his name. I told old man Hartson to take the roses to his wife. The tube dress is my disguise for the night, and go out the door wearing high heels, sunglasses, and a smile, trying to look sexy and confident. I could be a supermodel out sight seeing, I could be an actress walking the set, or a hooker walking the street. Anybody but who I was.

Jenn pulls up in her convertible, which is blue, a sparkling sapphire to match her eyes, peers over her shoulder, sees me in the skintight dress and whistles. The voluptuous amounts of skin above her tube top jiggle as she laughs. Her buttocks pour onto the seat from frayed daisy dukes like sweet cream snowdrifts. My friend was a bigger girl with a personality to match.

"So, you done blubbering about your mystery man and ready to have some fucking fun again?," she asked, revving up her Camaro.

"I, uh, I g, g, guess." I timidly answered, thinking, being bent over and railed by two college guys in a bathroom stall while throwing up free jello shots isn't everybody's idea of a good time, Jenn. But hell, she's my devil's advocate. I love her and our crazy adventures.

"God dammit! Stop stuttering already and get in!"

Jenny is on her version of a mission, driving aloofly, hoping to cheer me up. The air is fresh on our faces with the smell of dogwood blossoms. She sings to the radio with nonchalance, poking me with her finger now and then, reminding me to join in, relishing every second of her life, and I almost feel like myself again. She's impervious, immune to sadness, so alive.

"Why are you so hung up on this guy? On the phone you told me it was such a disaster, when you met him." she said to me, puzzled.

"It was," I said. "It was dreadful"

"Then why do you want see him again?"

"That's hard to explain," I answered, knowing I sounded like some love struck schoolgirl, but didn't care. I needed to get out of this funk.

"Stephen says he misses you," she mentions, turning down the B-52's Love Shack. I roll my eyes, as she knew I would.

"Really?" I say honestly. This answer suprises both of us. It puts the history of our relationship in perspective. Stephen, who calls me 'the whore' as if he himself is not one.

It was last summer after graduation when Stephen first called me that, when he caught me beneath Aaron, wearing only his blue and gold letter jacket. I crashed his party early wearing my cheerleader uniform and his jacket for kicks, hoping to surprise him. I crept upstairs, but stopped when I heard Stephen sweet talking some girl into taking her clothes off. I froze and spent a lot of time standing in the hallway listening to the dirty things he told her to do. I didn't understand why she moaned at being told how worthless she was. He was always so sweet when we made love. When he finally shoved her, naked, out of his room and slammed the door, I was face to face with a girl who's mascara was running down her cheeks, like mine. That's how I met Jenny Starr. "He threw my fucking clothes out the window." she laughed, and stumbled past me down the stairs, ass cheeks covered with bright red palm marks. It was a few drinks later in the basement when Aaron finally proved to me he had a bigger dick than the rest of the football team.

"Yup, I seen him last week at the dairy. He's back from college for the summer," she tells me, "He knows you're a stripper now, over in Oldtown, but isn't old enough to get in the club, said he wants a 'private' dance!"

"Ain't been there in three weeks," I said, "Probably fired. Oh, and tell Stephen to go fuck himself."

"Are you fucking kidding me, girl? That place makes more money on a weekend you're there, than a whole fucking month. Vinnie just keeps tellin' em the beauty queen is out winning another pageant, and sells them signed copies of your headshot," she informed me, "I've got pretty good at forging your name by the way"

"You bitch!" I said, laughing.

"Your cut's in the glove compartment," she said, pointing, "V wants you back. Bad. In fact, I'm supposed to be kidnapping you right now."

I blushed while pulling it out. I do have a lot of fans I guess. The bulky envelope was stuffed with bills of various kinds. Some are respectable, with Jackson's jaunty punk rock hair and tailored coat. Hammie's are handsome enough. A lot were poorer and brooding with bushy eyebrows over their dark eyes and scraggly beards. But the majority were good ol' GW's bulgy, pulpy, fingerprint of a face with his crazy pyramid of hair. His mouth is tight, holding back a laugh. He must have known his nose would get tucked beneath an endless supply of G-Strings.

My first night there I sauntered on stage wearing a Dread Pirate Robert's mask, Brandy's long black vinyl boots, a corset with the strings pulled tighter than a tennis shoe, and a rolled up bullwhip in my fist. The DJ missed his mark and all you could hear was the click-clack of my heels on the runway. Every man there stopped talking, drinking, or even walking. That's how I discovered my alter ego. I felt like an evil super hero behind that mask, and soon learned who I could control.

These are the men I like best. They have a certain despair to them, a power of hope, seeing light at the end. They don't care what I take from them. They escape through me, but aren't clear to where. They think my routine is chosen with them in mind, and that when they run out of money and gifts, I'll still notice them. When my night is done, I'm free to choose whichever I want. "I'd leave my wife for you," say some of them afterwards, while I try putting my clothes back on gracelessly; trying to remember which motel we ended up in.

We cruised on down the hill and out of town, through the country, to Tony's house, where Jenny goes inside to trade a blow job for a bag of joints. I wait outside and dance barefoot to her new CD of Salt-N-Pepa's, Whadda Man, while chugging down Boone's Farm I found hidden under the seat.

I was pogo dancing to hip-hop when I seen his old red truck barreling down a side road, glimpses of it flashing between trees, trailing dust.

"Jenny!" I screamed, "I have to borrow your car!"

I jumped over the door, but the damn thing wouldn't start.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I yelled, each time I turned the key.

"It's a stick-shift dummy," Jenn deadpanned walking up, while wiping her lips, "move over."

"Fuh, fuh, follow that cuh, cuh, cloud of dust!" I begged.