“Take care of yourself Mary. You know that I’ll always love you.” There was nothing else on the paper. The note began and ended with those fateful words. “I’ll always love you,” Mary repeated to herself for the fourth time. The black ink was written neatly on a notepad taken from a roadside motel. Beneath the letters, embedded within the paper was a watermark, barely visible after years of age. “Pasco Deluxe Suites,” it read. Mary glanced up with tears glistening in her eyes. A single lamp illuminated the tiny drops that fell from her cheeks and disappeared into the shadowy carpet below. A weight seemed to fall onto Mary as her shoulders slumped and her knees gave way to shock.
A single officer responded to the call, pulling into the trailer park with his lights beaming through the darkness. It was nearing 1:00 AM, and the street was largely deserted except for the silhouette of a stray dog a couple trailers away. The officer stepped from his cruiser and adjusted his belt around his bloated abdomen. His thighs were tight against the fabric of his well-worn pants, and he walked uncomfortably as he ascended the concrete steps to the dented trailer door.
A single knock later and the door opened. A man stood there in a dirty white tank top. His eyes were tired and drooping. Day-old stubble covered his face. Without a word the man stepped away from the door and walked into the trailer. The officer entered slowly, looking around at the dirty carpet and stained couch. His heavy leather boots made dull thudding noises as he walked across the scratched linoleum.
“She’s over there,” the man uttered without emotion, indicating the kitchen door with his dirty hand. The officer looked toward the closed door. A dark red stain crept across the floor underneath it, gleaming with a dark iridescence. “I found her about an hour ago, when I got home from the station.”
“Have you moved her body?” The officer asked solemnly.
“No. She’s exactly how I found her.”
The officer opened the door slowly, creating slight ripples across the hardened surface of the blood pool. A woman’s body lay across the floor; her face smeared red. A girl stood in the corner of the kitchen near the half-opened fridge. She wrapped her slender arms around her trembling body, never releasing the woman’s lifeless form from her gaze.
The girl was young, barely eleven. She stared intensely at the body with a mixture of fear and misery in her wet eyes.
“Get out Mary,” the man said harshly. Mary didn’t react to her father’s demand, and instead backed farther into the corner. “Get out!” he yelled, reaching for his daughter’s frail form. He stepped over his wife’s body and grabbed Mary’s wrist, savagely wrenching her from the kitchen and into the hallway.
The officer ignored Mary and stepped into the room carefully; avoiding the large pool of blood originating from the woman’s wounded neck. “It looks like suicide, Mr. Irwin,” the officer said, reading the crumpled note that had just fallen from Mary’s ghostly hand.
--- --- --- --- ---
It was early in the misty morning. A nearly full moon illuminated the vast expanse of wilderness that crept its way across the land, cradling pockets of human life and lumber mills in its prickly grasp. A single cry echoed through the landscape, causing a ripple of motion across the forest floor. Birds flapped sleepily into the air as the sound cried out again. At the northernmost point of the forest, near a particularly large hill, the trees had been replaced with houses. A mill churned endlessly near the outskirts of the town, releasing a sooty black smoke into the cold air.
A dark form slipped from the shadows between the houses and into the moonlight. The figure walked quickly down the side of the street and out of town. Several hundred yards past the last house, the cloak dropped to the ground, revealing a woman’s slender body. Her hair was blacker than night, even the moonlight seemed to scatter across its glassy surface. She stood there, exposed to the harsh morning air. Her body was opaque against the starry night sky, and she stood unmoving for several minutes as she formed words in her mouth. Sounds escaped her flushed lips only to be caught by the wind and thrown across the town and the neighboring forest in an undulation of echoes and screams. Opening her eyes, she noticed a pink glow taking over the darkness, and she quickly began walking back to the sleeping town of Traehill.
Mary quietly opened the back door of her modest home, stepping carefully across the welcome mat and into the kitchen just as the morning light reached across the vast horizon.
“Where were you?” said a voice as Mary placed her cloak in the closet near the door. She jumped slightly before turning and facing the man standing behind her.
“Clinton. You’re up early. I was just running some errands.”
“At 5:00 in the morning?” Clinton looked at her with anger in his eyes. “You were with him, weren’t you? I know he’s in love with you, and I’ve seen how you look at him in church; your little ‘Angel boy.’”
“I was not! I’ve never even spoken to Clarence.”
“You lying whore!” Clinton spat, slapping Mary across her face with the back of his hand. Mary staggered backward and brought her hands up to her face. The skin where Clinton’s hand hit blossomed into a purplish bruise within seconds. A trickle of blood ran down Mary’s pale jaw where Clinton’s ring cut into her.
“How did you know who I was talking about then?” He asked, raising his hand into the air for a second time.
“Don’t Clinton,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I only love you.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Don’t Daddy,” Mary said for the third time. “I'm sorry.”
“That’s right you're sorry, and see that you never forget.” The man said with the smell of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. He released Mary from his grip, letting her fall limply to the floor. She quickly grabbed the torn photo lying on the ground that had caused her father's anger, and huddled in the corner cradling her hurt arm.
Moments later Mr. Irwin left the trailer with a pack of cigarettes and a match booklet. Mary could smell the acrid smoke wafting into the house beneath the door and through the vents. Her eyes began to burn as she pieced the photo back together. Three smiling faces illuminated the worn picture. Her mother and father stood holding hands with her in between them. It was taken years ago on a trip to California, when they were happy. Her mother’s hair was a mess from lying in the sand, and her father’s grin was as wide as his face. Mary saw herself in the center of the picture. Her feet were buried in the sand, toes wriggling furiously. Her face and arms were sunburned, and her dark hair gleamed in the dying light.
“Mom?” Mary said to the picture quietly. “Why did you leave me? What did I do to make you want to die?” Her tears fell onto her lap quietly as she sat waiting for something to happen. “It’s been exactly a year, Mom. I’m twelve today.”
Mary sat on the floor with a stubby pencil and a stray piece of paper. She carefully sketched the form of a woman onto the yellowing sheet. The woman’s arms and legs were obscured by two enormous wings on either side of her body. The wings were as black as pitch and folded across the woman in a powerful embrace. Mary finished the Angel’s hair, leaving it completely white against the dark background. Her face was an emotionless slate, staring into nothingness. A trail of blood issued from her neck, seeping down across her chest and finally disappearing beneath the folded wings.
--- --- --- --- ---
“You poor thing,” Mary said, softly cradling the hurt sparrow against her warm body. “Your wing is broken, and you’re all muddy.” The sparrow squirmed in Mary’s grasp, attempting to free himself and hop away. His once smooth grey underbelly was plastered with a dark muddy residue, and one of his powerful mahogany wings was lying helplessly at the side of his body, snapped by a small stone hurtled through the air moments earlier. A group of boys passed Mary’s crouched body from behind, laughing to themselves. One of them nudged her to the side, causing her to release the sparrow onto the pavement. Her elbow struck the hard black surface, triggering a jolt of pain to travel into her neck and through her upper arm.
Mary gathered her spilled packages as she searched for the injured bird, who had quickly disappeared within the shadows of the nearby alleyway. Mary stood, massaging her sore elbow, and slowly made her way toward a house on the outskirts of town.
A couple of blocks away, Mary saw Clarence across the street. She stopped momentarily and watched him. He was singing something to himself as he strolled along the sidewalk. She noticed his indigo eyes, framed by strong cheekbones and a messy head of light blond hair. “Clinton was right,” Mary said to herself. “He really does look like an Angel.” Clarence looked up momentarily and saw Mary watching him. He grinned widely and waved at her animatedly. She quickly glanced at the ground and began walking toward her house again. He was 20, barely a year older than she was, and they had never spoken.
She entered the front door and deposited her packages on the counter. Clinton sat at the kitchen table. His gaze followed her as she began putting items in the cupboards and the fridge.
“You think I didn’t see, don’t you?” Clinton said after she had finished putting things away. “You’re in love with him. I saw how you looked at him just a second ago.” Mary didn’t reply, and instead began washing the dishes left over from breakfast. “Answer me Mary! I got you out of that hell-hole with your father, and this is how you repay me? All the money I’ve spent and the work I’ve done and you’re in love with someone else.”
“I’ve never even spoken to him, Clinton. He just waved at me.”
“I don’t care what he ‘just’ did. You wanted him to.” Clinton rose angrily, and walked toward Mary.
She backed toward the sink, “No! Clinton,” she said before his strong grip tightened around her wrist.
“You ungrateful witch!” he screamed at her, droplets of saliva spewing onto her face. In a moment he had her black hair in his hand and began jerking her towards the counter. He held her body helplessly, violently ramming her against the edge of the countertop. “You think we don’t hear you at night. The whole town hears you Mary, every single time, screaming for your ‘mother.’ She’s dead because of you Mary; she couldn’t stand to be around you anymore.”
“No,” Mary sobbed, tears streaming down her face.
“She slit her own throat just to get away from you.”
Mary continued to sob, “Clinton, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry. I should never have brought you with me to Traehill; you’re just like my mother: a needy, lying whore.” Clinton grabbed her body and prepared to ram her into the countertop a last time.
“No Clinton, you don’t know what you’re doing.” She paused again, forming her next sentence in her mind. “I’m pregnant.”
Clinton hesitated with Mary’s trembling body still held immobile in his firm grip. “Are you lying to me? Because I swear to God, if you’re are…”
“I’m not Clinton. It’s been nearly five months.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Come with me Mary; let’s get away.” The man said kindly. He was nearly 27 years old, and spoke with an intensity that instantly drew Mary to him.
“I… I can’t, Clinton. I just barely met you, and I…”
“Yes you can, Mary. Get out of this deadbeat town, away from your deadbeat father. I can see what he does to you Mary,” Clinton said, caressing a long pink scar across her lower jawbone. Mary winced momentarily before continuing.
“He doesn’t mean to, Clinton, he just doesn’t understand.”
“But I understand,” Clinton said. “You’re eighteen. Your father is an angry man. You need freedom.”
“I don’t know,” Mary said softly. “I just don’t know.”
“You don’t have to Mary. My dad basically owns a small town up north. Come live with me. I love you; I’ll take care of you.”
Mary looked into his eyes; they looked like her father’s from the photograph she had kept since her mother’s death seven years ago. Tears filled her own eyes as she quietly replied “all right Clinton.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Mary! It’s me. Hurry and let me in.” Mary recognized the voice and opened the door. The woman entered hurriedly. “Thank God I’ve made it in time. We need to go right now. Something bad is going to happen.”
“What’s happening,” Mary asked with fear in her voice.
“I’ve seen what my son has done to you.” The older woman said, lifting her own sleeve to uncover a massive bruise on her right upper arm. The center was striated with reddish welts and deep lacerations. “He gets it from his father. I’ve stayed with him until now, mostly for Clinton’s sake. It hasn’t made any difference. I’m leaving Mary, and you’re coming with me.”
“I can’t leave Rachael. If Clinton ever finds me, I’m as good as dead.”
“You’re as good as dead if you don’t leave Mary. He’s drunk, and he found your drawing.” The blood rushed from Mary’s face, creating a stark contrast with her raven hair.
“Oh no,” Mary uttered desolately. She looked at her mother in law for one fearful moment before a different look crossed her face. Grabbing her lower stomach, she bent over. Groaning heavily she grabbed at Rachael’s hand. “Oh No!” she said, breathing heavily, “it’s happening.”
The older woman look stunned for a moment, but then understood. She grabbed Mary’s arm, and carefully guided her to a room in back of the house.
--- --- --- --- ---
A figure lay on the simple bed. The room was in a state of disarray. Flowered wallpaper clung to the walls, creating eerie patterns in the low light. A stained quilt covered the bed, and two bedside tables sat on either side. Clinton walked across the room to the bed where Mary lay; her dark hair was matted and sweaty, clinging to her face and neck. He came closer cautiously, rocking the bed with his foot. Stopping at the side of the bed, he looked into her face and held his palm above her half open mouth. Her breaths came infrequently and shallow.
Clinton watched his helpless wife. His smile was filled with anger and violence, a perversion of the smile Mary fell for nearly a year ago. Clinton bent over her weak body and whispered something into her ear. Clinton’s sticky breath warmed her cheek and neck. She opened her eyes slowly, barely able to see where his eyes and mouth should be. Everything around her was spinning in a convulsion of dull colors and shapes.
A tiny voice came from her exhausted body. “No,” she said weakly.
“Where’s the baby,” Clinton said angrily. “You’ve been lying to me all along. I bet it’s not even mine.”
Mary tried to raise her traumatized body, but fell back down again. “I swear Clinton…”
He cut her off. “I’ve had enough of your ‘promises.’ I know the truth now, and to think, I could have loved you once.”
Mary tried to resist as he roughly pulled her off the bed. Her lower body dragged across the wooden floor, she couldn’t muster the strength to pull her legs underneath her. Clinton coldly dragged Mary’s body from the bedroom and through the house to the back door. Throwing her across his shoulder, he started making his way to the edge of the woods just outside of town. The last glimpses of sun had left the sky, leaving only an orange glow originating somewhere beyond the far horizon. Clouds formed overhead, absorbing the darkness and blotting out the bright stars.
As Clinton neared the edge of town, the shadows stirred beneath a nearby woodshed. Clinton failed to notice a woman standing beneath the eve. Her arms were wrapped around a bundle of blankets containing a baby boy. She pressed the child against her chest and rocked him softly, humming into still damp ear. She stayed only a moment longer, watching her son carry Mary across the landscape. Her eyes filled with salty tears that fell across her face and into the darkness. “There’s your mother,” she said quietly. “It’s my fault. I should have done this earlier. Now, you’re the only one I can save.”
Clinton laid Mary against the sappy trunk of the nearest fir. Mary had regained some of her strength, but was still too weak to offer any resistance. Her hair stuck to her pale skin, and the slow passing breeze ran down her spine in a torrent of uncontrollable shivers.
“Have you ever seen what people can do with an ice pick?” Clinton said, extracting a sharp instrument from his shirt. He held the pick into the air to examine the point, running it over his palm in crisscross motions. “My father used to be a surgeon. He told me of this procedure called a ‘transorbital lobotomy.’ It’s supposed to be very effective.”
Mary’s eyes followed the pick as Clinton passed it between his hands slowly. “Now, if you tell my where the child is, I’ll make this quick.” She didn’t answer. “Well, I guess I have no choice,” he laughed balefully. “I even brought someone to watch,” he said, extracting a folded sheet of paper from his front pocket. “It’s fitting, really. The reason for all of this.” He threw the paper onto the ground in front of Mary, who tentatively picked it up.
An Angel stood on the page, framed in a trail of vines. She remembered spending weeks secretly perfecting it, spending hours alone working only with a pencil. The wings arched up and off of the page magnificently. Each feather individually etched in a mixture of light grays and whites. His muscular arms embraced a woman against his supple body. His wing arched downward and covered her nakedness. Her eyes were closed as she rested against his chest. His young face was handsome, accentuated by strong cheekbones and penetrating eyes. “Clarence,” Mary whispered to herself for a last time. She could barely hear Clinton as her heart beat loudly within her chest.
As her Angel watched, Clinton yanked Mary’s head back by her hair. He took the ice pick and slid it between Mary’s right eyelid, just above her eye. He penetrated the orbit and plunged the cold steel into her frontal lobe. He jerked the pick side to side before extracting the bloody instrument. Mary screamed as the pain hit her with full force. The distant town folk glanced up from their television sets for a moment, before returning their gaze to the flickering boxes in front of them.
A scarlet trail seeped from above Mary’s eye, pooling on her lower eyelashes before streaming down her face like crimson tears. The red stain spread across Mary’s shirt and down her body as Clinton repeated the process on the other eye. She blinked several times, shocked, but still alive. “This operation rarely kills the recipient,” Clinton continued. “Father said it works wonders for behavioral issues. You’ll seem completely normal to everyone in the town. No one will ever suspect anything, and you’ll also never think of cheating on me again. I can assure you of that.”
The pain threw Mary to the ground; and she cradled her head with her two hands. She looked at the picture lying on the forest floor. The picture brought a vague memory to her mind, but the pain drove it out quickly. She looked around; her still bloody eyes were vacant and lifeless. Clinton smiled at her confusion, and offered her his hand. “Were am I?” She asked, cringing at the loudness of her own voice.
“You’re safe now, Mary. You’ve just been in a horrible accident.” Clinton replied, caressing her dirty hair.
“Where’s my mother?” She paused, looking down at her bloodied shirt, “Why am I bleeding?”
- Please still comment if you have a free moment; I really want to know if you liked it? Hated it? Or are ambivalent? Also, the "Ice-pick lobotomy," is a real psychotherapy that thousands of people with so called emotionally-derived behavioral issues (i.e. mental retardation, hyperactivity, suicidal tendencies, schizophrenia, etc.) underwent at the hands of their physician during part of the 20th century. It was extremely effective at essentially clearing someone's personality/desires/former interests completely from their consciousness, making them into docile and uninterested shells of themselves, and thus was seen as a relatively easy cure for many types of behavioral issues. Some died, but most lived for many years afterward. I didn’t know how to bring this information into the story without making it “history lesson-ish,” so I just hinted that it was an actual thing, and left it at that.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
(FINAL) The Four Step Program - by Sarah Waarvik
As Samantha Scott sat on the 747 to Edinburgh, Scotland she recalled the last four years she spent with Lexton McKay. She thought of his face, his chestnut brown locks accompanied by his beautiful brown eyes, his toothy grin, and that lone freckle on the left side of his chin. But what she didn’t think about was his dishonesty, his infidelity, or his brutal mind games. No, Samantha Scott didn’t think of all these less than satisfactory qualities, she thought of how much she loved him and the diamond ring placed upon her dainty left hand.
“Sam, are you awake?” questioned Erica while stretching her arms above her head, yawning. Erica O’Donnell was a hair dresser from Chicago and Sam’s best friend since grade school. She was around 6 feet tall and had vibrant red hair. She was as thin as a reed, drank like one of the guys, and ate like a 300 pound man.
“Yeah,” replied Samantha, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Erica was digging in her purse, hoping to find the mate to the Reese’s she ate earlier. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. You’d think they’d feed us more than a package of peanuts,” she raised her voice, "what do they think we are, French?”
Sam couldn’t help but let out a mused chuckle. Erica was always digging in that purse of hers trying to find the stash of food she hidden the day before. “No, I had a little something in Paris.”
“Ah ha! I found it,” shouted Erica triumphantly, waving the melted peanutbuttery chocolate morsel in front of Sam’s face. “Do you want half? It’s my last one.”
“No,” said Sam gazing out the window and watching the sea of fluffy white clouds pass by. She let her blonde head rest against the plexi-glass window and closed her green eyes. Lexton flashed through her mind for the thousandth time. The image of him driving away in his black and white tuxedo still haunted her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She remembered the look of relief that was splashed upon his perfectly structured face when he told her he couldn’t go through with it, that there was someone else and had been for awhile.
“Oh, Sam,” said Erica sympathetically while softly rubbing her back. “Everything will be all right. Forget that ass hole. Just have some fun, let loose, and screw the first Scottish man you meet.”
. . . . . .
Samantha and Lexton started dating the end of their junior year at Penn State. They both studied at a coffee shop near campus every Sunday. Neither of them could remember who made the first move or how it even came about, but what they did know was they couldn’t have been happier those last grueling months at college. At the end of their senior year Samantha knew she couldn’t leave Lexton, so she followed him to Cornell University so he could finish his law degree. He worked as an intern at the Doranzio Law Firm. The first year and a half was bliss. They cooked together, did their laundry together and even cleaned together. They were becoming the domestic couple, the kind you only read about in books or watch in movies. However, the good times always fade to an end and the honeymooner stage eventually wears off. One year later, Samantha was left brokenhearted at the altar, watching the only man she had ever loved drive away in a black porch. He didn’t manage to look back to see her tears make an ebony river of mascara and liner or watch her knees and hands hit the cold pavement, etching deep cuts into her pale white palms. However, he did manage to kiss the leggy brunette in the passenger seat.
. . . . . .
Samantha and Erica arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon, after what was clearly a rough 22 hours by the looks of their haggard bodies. They called a cab and had a quick ten minute ride to the Royal Hotel. Samantha checked in, while Erica checked out a few men and before they knew it they were in the comfort of their so-called home for the next 3 days of vacation.
“Well, Sammy, should we eat, drink, or eat while we drink?” Erica asked while unpacking her over stuffed canary yellow suitcase. Erica was the type of person who packed for five nights when she was only going to be gone for two. In this case, she packed for 4 weeks of travel, instead of the two weeks they were vacationing.
During high school the two drank the better half of their weekend nights. They lived in the small town of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. They often complained of nothing to do, but were often off causing mischief and mayhem, but “all in good fun” as they’d like to call it. They pulled every trick in the book. Sam would tell her parents she was staying at Erica’s and Erica would tell her mom she was staying at Sam’s. Many nights they crawled, stumbled, and laughed their way to Erica’s tree house in her back yard that was fully equipped with blankets, pillows, and a space heater. Erica and Sam had lived next door to each other since the 1st grade when Erica and her mom moved to Grand Rapids from California. They were friends from the beginning. Their days consisted of Barbie’s, playing dress-up, and running away from the neighborhood boys.
“We can probably find somewhere we can drink a beer and eat dinner on the Royal Mile,” said Sam, folding her skinny jeans and placing them in the drawer.
“So how do we get to the Royal Mile anyway?” Erica was staring at a map of Edinburg turning it left, and then right and upside-down. “Oh, screw the damn map. We can pub hop our way to the food and drinks.”
Sam laughed. “Ric, we’re on the Royal Mile, hence the name of our hotel, The Royal Hotel,” said Sam emphasizing on the Royal.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m only a hairdresser, I never acquired problem solving skills.” Erica was always one to tell people to fuck off or to go fuck themselves. “Sorry I didn’t go to an Ivy League school like you did, Ms. Smartie Pants,” she said holding her vowel sounds. Erica went to a local community college for a semester, but decided the school work was too hard to do and the parties were too easy to attend.
“Oh, shut up. It wasn’t an Ivy League school,” Sam chuckled and jokingly swatted Erica with the shirt she was unpacking.
Erica stretched her arms above her head, raising her shirt just enough, revealing her perfectly chiseled stomach. “I need to shower before we go, you should too. You look like shit.”
. . . . . .
The dark cobblestone streets of Edinburg were packed with flocks of people strolling in and out of the pubs. The light summer wind rushed over the faces of passersby leaving the touch of its coolness still present on their skin. The illuminated buildings were almost life-like, waving back and forth in the cool breeze. This night won’t make a difference just as the single nights before had no dramatic change, but put them all together and watch the evolution of history like a flipbook. Speed it up through the rough patches or slow it down, stopping on a page, lingering in its memory then turning to the next scene.
“Holy shit, how many Scotsman’s Pubs can there be? I think that’s the fifth one,” said Erica as she swiped a chunk of her red hair out of her eyes and put it behind her freckled ear.
“Well, it must be a sign,” Sam laughed, “let’s go in.” Sam grabbed Erica’s hand and yanked Erica towards her in the direction of the pub.
“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Erica froze in her tracks. “Samantha Joe Scott, what’s that on your hand?” she shrieked. “You’re still wearing that piece of garbage?” She grabbed Sam’s finger in amazement. “After what that little shit show did to you. Give me the ring right now. You are not wearing that pathetic excuse of a diamond for a man you’re not even engaged to.”
Sam knew that Erica was never too keen on the likes of Lexton. Sure, Erica said he was cute, but she says that about most men. Erica and Lexton first met when he was an hour late from picking her up at the airport. Erica was livid and told Sam all about it. She also mentioned he had a slight wandering eye when they were walking through the terminal. Sam never thought twice about this minor detail considering the extent Erica likes to exaggerate. Erica also complained to Sam about the manner that Lexton ordered her around and the harshness of his voice when he did so, but Sam said that was just their relationship and that’s just how his voice sounded. Lexton worked late Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Erica asked if Sam thought that was strange, considering he was only an intern, but Sam said he was just making a name for himself. Sam reassured Erica he was genuinely nice and good to her, but the last straw was their engagement. Sam called Erica, screaming into the receiver, telling her how he popped the long awaited question, which wasn’t terribly romantic, but nonetheless Sam said she loved him and wanted to be with him. Erica made a point to tell Sam that Lexton McKay was a low down creep and in return Sam made her maid of honor.
. . . . . .
“This was supposed to be our trip, as in Lexton and mine, not yours and mine.” Sam’s green eyes were beginning to glisten over with thick sloppy tears. Lexton always said she was too emotional and over dramatic.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to go call him, go pick him up at the airport and take him to the hotel? Oh, wait he’s probably fucking his girlfriend. You know, the one he cheated on you with. Hell, it could be a reunion. Wouldn’t that be the cherry on top to such a great trip?” stated Erica while doing an excessive amount of meaningless hand gestures. Erica always had the knack for being bitchy, but this was excessive even for her.
“Fine, you win. Take the damn thing.” Sam inched the ring off of her left hand and sat down on the cement curb. She held it up in clear view of Erica and dropped it in her purse. “There, ya happy?” Sam asked with the same attitude she showed whenever Erica called her out on reality. Sure, she knew her brown eyed ex- fiancé was indeed fucking his new mistress, the one he cheated on her with, and had been for the better half of their fourteen month engagement. He was probably never going to come to his senses and realize that she, Sam, was the one for him, but there was always that small chance.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Consider this step number two of forgetting Lexton McKay.” Erica plopped down on the curb next to Sam.
“What? Am I in a twelve step program now?”
“Yeah, the home-made version, but consider it more of a four step program.” Erica put her lanky arm around Sam’s waist and gave her a tight squeeze. Sam leaned her head against Erica’s bony arm.
“Thanks, Ric” said Sam while exhaling a huge breath, laughing a little, and wiping the tears from her cheeks, “I needed that.”
. . . . . .
Old Scottish folklore filled the streets of Edinburgh, winding its way through the cobblestone walkways from the Scotsmen’s Pub. The bellows of Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond filled the air with horrible drunken jargon followed by calders spilt on the floor, staining the bleached hardwood with splotches of dark brown.
“What’s the name of this beer!” shouted Erica over the band disrupting her terrible singing abilities to a song she didn’t know the words to. “It’s the greatest beer I’ve ever had!” The music stopped.
“Aye, ‘tis a Calders,” said the man to her left. He was about 5’8’’ with flaming red hair just like her. Freckles were splattered all over his face and arms leaving very few speckled white spots visible. “Yer must be Americans.”
“How’d ya know?” Sam laughed giving him a slight slap on the back. “I love these songs.”
“Yer haven’t even ‘eard de good ones,” he said then taking a drink of his rich dark beer, winking at the two.
A taller man spotted Liam across the pub and came over to the corner where he was standing, weaving through a sea of drunkenness.
“Dermot Mullally, how ya gettin’ on?” Liam asked.
“Wait, you guys don’t sound Scottish,” said Sam furrowing her brow and pointing lightly at the both of them.
“That's cos we're not, we're from Oirland. We’re ‘ere for a Stag Party,” Liam said while waving the rest of the party over to them.
The other six members of the party slowly made their way over to Dermot, Liam, Sam, and Erica one by one. There was only one who broke six foot and all but three had red hair. They introduced themselves to Sam and Erica. They were all from Cork and only four of them had ever left the country. Two of them sported the name Dahey and the other five had Irish names the two girls could hardly pronounce.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked Sam while playing with her gold necklace Lexton gave her on their one year anniversary, moving the gold plate side to side on its chain.
“Dis lad,” Dermot said while placing his hand on Liam’s shoulder, “but more unlucky than jammy if yer ask me.” He gave a quick chuckle.
“What’s her name?’ asked Erica butting her way into the conversation.
“Fiona, she’s gran’,” slurred Liam, “Not as gran’ as yer though.” He not so casually put his arm around Erica pressing his head into her shoulder nudging her like a cat.
“Ah,” Erica managed to let out, “aren’t you getting married?” She wiggled out of his firm grasp.
“Not for two months,” said Liam trying to be serious and hide his toothy grin. “If yer change yer name ter fiona jist for de night technically 'tis not cheatin'.
“Ah, leave de girl alone,” laughed Dermot. “Jist ignore ‘im, he’s trollied.” He turned his head and peered into Sam’s bright green eyes. “Samantha dear, do yer care to dance?”
“Ah, no, sorry. I’m not much of a dancer,” Sam said awkwardly, making more eye contact with the floor then at Dermot.
“Sam, consider this step number three. Go have some fun,” said Erica, pushing Sam towards the band and snatching her beer from her weak grasp. Dermot grabbed her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He placed his other hand on the small of her back.
“Ye ready love?” Dermot asked with a smile.
Dermot’s six foot frame swiftly moved around the dance floor followed by Sam. They weaved through the mounds of people with ease. He twirled, dipped, and swayed her. She was smiling and laughing for the first time since she could remember. She was actually enjoying herself, although Dermot Mullally wasn’t making it all that difficult.
Meanwhile, Erica was trying to fend off Liam. She was standing next to the counter with the rest of the stag party. They laughed, exchanged jokes, and gave a go at each other’s accents.
“Cum on, jist change yer name ter Fiona.” Liam nudged Erica with his elbow.
She laughed, “You are not going to give up on this are you? Sorry Liam. Friends don’t let friends screw short men. It’s in the rule book.” Erica raised her half empty glass to cheer.
“Ah, but love, we're de seem height layin' down.” He raised his glass in return with a cheeky smile.
Erica busted out laughing, “Well, ya got me, Liam. But you’re still not calling me Fiona. That’s my grandma’s cats name, it will forever be tainted.”
“Erica!” Sam yelled throwing her arms up and running towards her. “I forgot how much I loved dancing! Will you dance with me? Wait, hold that thought. I need another beer.
The ten of them sang, drank, and laughed until it hurt to breathe. The Scotsman was clearing out, leaving empty chairs, and the band was packing and putting away their equipment. Everyone was calling it a successful night in Edinburgh, going to bed, and waiting for another evening of drinking to present itself.
“Well Sammy, should we call it a night?” Erica asked while downing the rest of her calders.
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ tired. And we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” said Sam while rubbing her eyes attempting to wipe the sleep from them.
“Well lads,” said Erica while standing up, “it was wonderful meeting all of you, especially you, Liam.” Erica winked at him and waved her arm to bid them farewell. “Take it easy.”
“Samantha, may Oi talk ter yer over 'ere?” Dermot gestured her over to a couple of chairs.
“Yeah,” Samantha said looking at Erica and giving her an excited face, making her eyes big and opening her mouth, flashing a toothy beam. Dermot grabbed her hand and walked her over to the chairs.
Sam and Erica left a few minutes later and walked in silence, gathering their thoughts from their unexpected night. The cool, dark sky was illuminated by the lamp posts every couple of feet. The drunks were leaving the pubs stumbling their way back to their cozy beds. Sam linked arms Erica and laid her head on her bony arm for the thousandth time.
“It’s great to see you smile again, Sam,” said Erica softly tilting her own head onto Sam’s.
“He asked me to dinner tomorrow night, and I said I would go,” Sam said through a definite smile.
. . . . . .
“Erica, wake up.” Sam was pulling the covers off of the king size bed, allowing the cool air to strike Erica’s warm, limp body.
“A few more minutes,” mumbled Erica snatching the stark white sheet back and rolling over onto her side, “what time is it?”
“It’s 10:30. I let you sleep an extra thirty minutes, now hurry it up. We need to get to the castle before the line gets too big.” She turned on the shower and threw a beige towel onto Erica’s ratted red mop. She ducked her head out of the bathroom door. “I mean it Ric. I’m going to go get us a couple of lattes and by the time I get back, your pretty little ass better be showered and dressed.” Sam knew Erica’s sleeping tendencies. She often slept until one o’clock on her days off and didn’t shower until at least five o’clock, if at all. In high school, when Sam would spend the night at Erica’s she’d wake up around nine, go home, get ready, and wait for her to roll out of bed.
“Fine,” said Erica raising her head a few inches off her pillow and removing the towel Sam threw at her.
Sam left for the coffee shop and Erica slowly rolled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, “well don’t you look good.” She gave her hair a quick brush through, and jumped into the shower. She shaved, washed, shampooed, and finally rinsed off. She quickly dried her pale skin, slipped into some clothes, and started applying her make-up.
“Erica, you better be almost ready,” Sam said while unlocking their door. She poked her head into the bathroom, “well don’t you clean up nice. Here’s your double, sixteen ounce, French vanilla cappuccino.” Erica grabbed her coffee and put the finishing touches on her asymmetrical bob.
“Thanks, Sam. You’re a lifesaver.” Erica took a huge drink of her coffee. “Holy shit, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It tastes almost burnt and it smells like,” she took a deep breath in, “like livestock.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam while looking for Erica’s scarf and coat. “I assumed it was just the coffee shop I went to, but I hit up two more on my way back and they all tasted the same, like burnt livestock.”
“Have you seen my coat?’ asked Erica, looking frantically in her suitcase.
“Yeah, I have it right here.” Sam handed Erica her jacket and scarf while opening the door, motioning for them to leave.
“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Don’t get your titties in a wringer,” said Erica. She put her coat and scarf on and shut the wooden door behind them. “So, tell me. Where are you and Dermot going on your date tonight?”
“It’s not even a date.” Sam was blushing.
“Ah, Samantha Dear, it is TOO a date. Don’t even act like it’s not.” Erica wrapped her arms around Sam’s shoulders forcing her to bend down, putting her in a head lock. “Repeat after me, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishman. Say it!”
“No! Erica, let go! This was only funny when we were ten,” Sam pleaded.
“Say it or I’m not letting go. Do it.” Erica was laughing.
“Fine, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishman.” Now Sam was laughing. “Damn you, you always win that stupid game.” Erica let go and Sam fixed her hair and applied some more lipstick.
“That’s because I have three older brothers.” Erica linked arms with Sam. “You’re going to have a great time tonight.”
. . . . . .
The stone castle sits upon a staggered ridge, guarding the city of Edinburgh. Watching, listening, and waiting for the slightest movement, sound, and even excitement to come about. She has hundreds of years of dancing, booze and illness weaved into her floors and sketched into her rocky sides. She’s been there for years, as she’ll be there for much more, bringing beauty to all those who appreciate her choppy and decomposing structure.
The girls paid 12£ for their passes and made their way up the steep incline to the castle gates. Once they got to the top, they explored the cannons, the dining area, and tried their luck again with the coffee, which they both agreed was awful. They hiked to the very top of the castle that looked out over all of Edinburgh.
“This is so beautiful,” Erica said, attempting to tame her windblown hair, “it would be better if it wasn’t so damn cold.”
“Let’s take a picture!” exclaimed Sam, pulling out her Sony camera.
“No, my hair looks like shit. It’s lost all of its body,” said Erica trying to fluff her limp hair.
“Oh, who cares? Here, let’s have him take it.” Sam pointed to a tall, slender man who was a few feet in front them with his back turned in their direction. “Excuse me,” Sam tapped on his left shoulder. He turned around and faced the bright green eyes he had faced the night before. “Dermot?”
“Samantha, how ya gettin’ on?” he asked, smiling and showing off his white teeth.
Sam and Erica never ended up getting a photograph by themselves. Instead, they took a picture with the stag party, with them in the middle and Liam not too far from Erica. They toured around the castle together and even watched a short film. They ended up eating together at the Mitre, sharing a few pitchers of Guinness over a few laughs and before they knew it, it was four o’ clock.
“Have yer ladies climbed Arthur’s Seat yet?” asked Dermot while the waiter was removing his plate.
“No, we haven’t,” stated Sam, finishing her water.
“Wait, what’s Arthur’s Seat?” asked Erica wrinkling her forehead.
“Why, ‘tis the most beautiful view in all of Scotland, not as beautiful as yer though,” Liam said, batting his eyelashes.
“Oh please,” said Erica sarcastically, “well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” Erica was the type of person who was always ready to partake in vigorous exercise. She fit in more with the guys than she did with the girls. She played volleyball, basketball, and track all four years of high school and understood the game of football better than most of the guys.
They left the Mitre and walked down the Royal Mile onto Abbey Strand. There was never a dull moment between the twelve of them. Whether it was Liam hitting on Erica, Dermot and Samantha casually flirting, or all of them sharing some part of their lives with each other, they never stopped talking. They reached Arthur’s seat, climbing a set of wooden steps to the base of the beautiful hill and looked up.
“Hill, my ass,” said Sam, gazing up the steep mountain. “Good thing I brought my hiking shoes,” she joked.
“Oh, it won’t be that bad,” Erica said, pinning her bangs back out of her face.
“That’s easy for you to say, you’re part mountain goat,” Sam laughed.
The twelve of them started hiking as a group, and then dispersed the first five minutes, thinning out. Erica led the group, while Sam and Dermot tailed. By the time they reached the top, it was dusk and the sun was setting, making a stunning view and lighting up the sky. They took a seat on the rocky terrain and sat in silence for the first time since they had met.
. . . . . .
Later that night, Erica hit up a 23swnew pub called The Three Sisters with the rest of the guys, while Sam and Dermot went on their date to The 9 Cellars Restaurant. They talked, danced, ate, and talked some more. They told stories of their childhood, their college days, and their commute over to Scotland. They talked about their pet peeves, what makes the perfect day, and how terrible the Scottish coffee was. They enjoyed the great food and conversation, but more importantly, they enjoyed one another’s company. They exchanged e-mails and phone numbers.
“Well, here’s my stop,” said Sam, looking into his big brown eyes.
“Ah, well yes it tis’.” Dermot stopped walking and peered right back into her green eyes.
“I wonder how Erica and guys are,” Sam said, feeling stupid, not being able to think of anything else to say.
“Oh, they’re takin’ good care of her,” said Dermot, “they’ve takin’ a likin’ to her yer know.”
“Yeah, they sure have,” said Sam, rubbing the back of neck, wanting the excruciating awkwardness to stop.
Dermot stepped forward in one long stride, wrapping one arm around her waist, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. He placed his hands on the sides of her cheeks, kissing her with such passion she’s never seen before.
. . . . . .
“Sammy, wake up.” Erica was nudging her, looking for and vital signs. “Are you feeling okay? It’s twelve and you’re still sleeping.”
“What?” Sam raised the palm of her hand and placed it on her forehead, as if it would help her comprehend Erica’s muddled words.
“It’s twelve o’clock and you’re still sleeping,” repeated Erica.
“Oh.” Sam rolled over, pulling the blankets over her head, smirking.
“Wait, Sam. I know that face. Spill.” Erica excitedly jumped to her knees.
Sam explained her and Dermot’s date in intricate detail, making sure not to forget a single moment. She told her of the dancing, the wonderful food, and the great conversation. She told her how fond of Dermot she was and how amazing the kiss goodnight ended the perfect evening.
“Congratulations, Sammy. You’ve completed step number four,” Erica said, laying her head back down on her pillow next to Sam’s.
“For such a great shrink, you forgot to mention step number one,” Sam said while turning her head to the left to face Erica’s.
“Well, Sam. You got on that plane with me. This was supposed to be your and Lextons’s vacation and instead you’re spending it with me. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you, but you sucked it up and proved yourself.” Erica reached for Sam’s hand.
“You know what, I haven’t thought about Lexton in a day and half. Let’s not ruin a good thing,” said Sam smiling, lacing hands with her best friend.
“Sam, are you awake?” questioned Erica while stretching her arms above her head, yawning. Erica O’Donnell was a hair dresser from Chicago and Sam’s best friend since grade school. She was around 6 feet tall and had vibrant red hair. She was as thin as a reed, drank like one of the guys, and ate like a 300 pound man.
“Yeah,” replied Samantha, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Erica was digging in her purse, hoping to find the mate to the Reese’s she ate earlier. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. You’d think they’d feed us more than a package of peanuts,” she raised her voice, "what do they think we are, French?”
Sam couldn’t help but let out a mused chuckle. Erica was always digging in that purse of hers trying to find the stash of food she hidden the day before. “No, I had a little something in Paris.”
“Ah ha! I found it,” shouted Erica triumphantly, waving the melted peanutbuttery chocolate morsel in front of Sam’s face. “Do you want half? It’s my last one.”
“No,” said Sam gazing out the window and watching the sea of fluffy white clouds pass by. She let her blonde head rest against the plexi-glass window and closed her green eyes. Lexton flashed through her mind for the thousandth time. The image of him driving away in his black and white tuxedo still haunted her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She remembered the look of relief that was splashed upon his perfectly structured face when he told her he couldn’t go through with it, that there was someone else and had been for awhile.
“Oh, Sam,” said Erica sympathetically while softly rubbing her back. “Everything will be all right. Forget that ass hole. Just have some fun, let loose, and screw the first Scottish man you meet.”
. . . . . .
Samantha and Lexton started dating the end of their junior year at Penn State. They both studied at a coffee shop near campus every Sunday. Neither of them could remember who made the first move or how it even came about, but what they did know was they couldn’t have been happier those last grueling months at college. At the end of their senior year Samantha knew she couldn’t leave Lexton, so she followed him to Cornell University so he could finish his law degree. He worked as an intern at the Doranzio Law Firm. The first year and a half was bliss. They cooked together, did their laundry together and even cleaned together. They were becoming the domestic couple, the kind you only read about in books or watch in movies. However, the good times always fade to an end and the honeymooner stage eventually wears off. One year later, Samantha was left brokenhearted at the altar, watching the only man she had ever loved drive away in a black porch. He didn’t manage to look back to see her tears make an ebony river of mascara and liner or watch her knees and hands hit the cold pavement, etching deep cuts into her pale white palms. However, he did manage to kiss the leggy brunette in the passenger seat.
. . . . . .
Samantha and Erica arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon, after what was clearly a rough 22 hours by the looks of their haggard bodies. They called a cab and had a quick ten minute ride to the Royal Hotel. Samantha checked in, while Erica checked out a few men and before they knew it they were in the comfort of their so-called home for the next 3 days of vacation.
“Well, Sammy, should we eat, drink, or eat while we drink?” Erica asked while unpacking her over stuffed canary yellow suitcase. Erica was the type of person who packed for five nights when she was only going to be gone for two. In this case, she packed for 4 weeks of travel, instead of the two weeks they were vacationing.
During high school the two drank the better half of their weekend nights. They lived in the small town of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. They often complained of nothing to do, but were often off causing mischief and mayhem, but “all in good fun” as they’d like to call it. They pulled every trick in the book. Sam would tell her parents she was staying at Erica’s and Erica would tell her mom she was staying at Sam’s. Many nights they crawled, stumbled, and laughed their way to Erica’s tree house in her back yard that was fully equipped with blankets, pillows, and a space heater. Erica and Sam had lived next door to each other since the 1st grade when Erica and her mom moved to Grand Rapids from California. They were friends from the beginning. Their days consisted of Barbie’s, playing dress-up, and running away from the neighborhood boys.
“We can probably find somewhere we can drink a beer and eat dinner on the Royal Mile,” said Sam, folding her skinny jeans and placing them in the drawer.
“So how do we get to the Royal Mile anyway?” Erica was staring at a map of Edinburg turning it left, and then right and upside-down. “Oh, screw the damn map. We can pub hop our way to the food and drinks.”
Sam laughed. “Ric, we’re on the Royal Mile, hence the name of our hotel, The Royal Hotel,” said Sam emphasizing on the Royal.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m only a hairdresser, I never acquired problem solving skills.” Erica was always one to tell people to fuck off or to go fuck themselves. “Sorry I didn’t go to an Ivy League school like you did, Ms. Smartie Pants,” she said holding her vowel sounds. Erica went to a local community college for a semester, but decided the school work was too hard to do and the parties were too easy to attend.
“Oh, shut up. It wasn’t an Ivy League school,” Sam chuckled and jokingly swatted Erica with the shirt she was unpacking.
Erica stretched her arms above her head, raising her shirt just enough, revealing her perfectly chiseled stomach. “I need to shower before we go, you should too. You look like shit.”
. . . . . .
The dark cobblestone streets of Edinburg were packed with flocks of people strolling in and out of the pubs. The light summer wind rushed over the faces of passersby leaving the touch of its coolness still present on their skin. The illuminated buildings were almost life-like, waving back and forth in the cool breeze. This night won’t make a difference just as the single nights before had no dramatic change, but put them all together and watch the evolution of history like a flipbook. Speed it up through the rough patches or slow it down, stopping on a page, lingering in its memory then turning to the next scene.
“Holy shit, how many Scotsman’s Pubs can there be? I think that’s the fifth one,” said Erica as she swiped a chunk of her red hair out of her eyes and put it behind her freckled ear.
“Well, it must be a sign,” Sam laughed, “let’s go in.” Sam grabbed Erica’s hand and yanked Erica towards her in the direction of the pub.
“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Erica froze in her tracks. “Samantha Joe Scott, what’s that on your hand?” she shrieked. “You’re still wearing that piece of garbage?” She grabbed Sam’s finger in amazement. “After what that little shit show did to you. Give me the ring right now. You are not wearing that pathetic excuse of a diamond for a man you’re not even engaged to.”
Sam knew that Erica was never too keen on the likes of Lexton. Sure, Erica said he was cute, but she says that about most men. Erica and Lexton first met when he was an hour late from picking her up at the airport. Erica was livid and told Sam all about it. She also mentioned he had a slight wandering eye when they were walking through the terminal. Sam never thought twice about this minor detail considering the extent Erica likes to exaggerate. Erica also complained to Sam about the manner that Lexton ordered her around and the harshness of his voice when he did so, but Sam said that was just their relationship and that’s just how his voice sounded. Lexton worked late Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Erica asked if Sam thought that was strange, considering he was only an intern, but Sam said he was just making a name for himself. Sam reassured Erica he was genuinely nice and good to her, but the last straw was their engagement. Sam called Erica, screaming into the receiver, telling her how he popped the long awaited question, which wasn’t terribly romantic, but nonetheless Sam said she loved him and wanted to be with him. Erica made a point to tell Sam that Lexton McKay was a low down creep and in return Sam made her maid of honor.
. . . . . .
“This was supposed to be our trip, as in Lexton and mine, not yours and mine.” Sam’s green eyes were beginning to glisten over with thick sloppy tears. Lexton always said she was too emotional and over dramatic.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to go call him, go pick him up at the airport and take him to the hotel? Oh, wait he’s probably fucking his girlfriend. You know, the one he cheated on you with. Hell, it could be a reunion. Wouldn’t that be the cherry on top to such a great trip?” stated Erica while doing an excessive amount of meaningless hand gestures. Erica always had the knack for being bitchy, but this was excessive even for her.
“Fine, you win. Take the damn thing.” Sam inched the ring off of her left hand and sat down on the cement curb. She held it up in clear view of Erica and dropped it in her purse. “There, ya happy?” Sam asked with the same attitude she showed whenever Erica called her out on reality. Sure, she knew her brown eyed ex- fiancé was indeed fucking his new mistress, the one he cheated on her with, and had been for the better half of their fourteen month engagement. He was probably never going to come to his senses and realize that she, Sam, was the one for him, but there was always that small chance.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Consider this step number two of forgetting Lexton McKay.” Erica plopped down on the curb next to Sam.
“What? Am I in a twelve step program now?”
“Yeah, the home-made version, but consider it more of a four step program.” Erica put her lanky arm around Sam’s waist and gave her a tight squeeze. Sam leaned her head against Erica’s bony arm.
“Thanks, Ric” said Sam while exhaling a huge breath, laughing a little, and wiping the tears from her cheeks, “I needed that.”
. . . . . .
Old Scottish folklore filled the streets of Edinburgh, winding its way through the cobblestone walkways from the Scotsmen’s Pub. The bellows of Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond filled the air with horrible drunken jargon followed by calders spilt on the floor, staining the bleached hardwood with splotches of dark brown.
“What’s the name of this beer!” shouted Erica over the band disrupting her terrible singing abilities to a song she didn’t know the words to. “It’s the greatest beer I’ve ever had!” The music stopped.
“Aye, ‘tis a Calders,” said the man to her left. He was about 5’8’’ with flaming red hair just like her. Freckles were splattered all over his face and arms leaving very few speckled white spots visible. “Yer must be Americans.”
“How’d ya know?” Sam laughed giving him a slight slap on the back. “I love these songs.”
“Yer haven’t even ‘eard de good ones,” he said then taking a drink of his rich dark beer, winking at the two.
A taller man spotted Liam across the pub and came over to the corner where he was standing, weaving through a sea of drunkenness.
“Dermot Mullally, how ya gettin’ on?” Liam asked.
“Wait, you guys don’t sound Scottish,” said Sam furrowing her brow and pointing lightly at the both of them.
“That's cos we're not, we're from Oirland. We’re ‘ere for a Stag Party,” Liam said while waving the rest of the party over to them.
The other six members of the party slowly made their way over to Dermot, Liam, Sam, and Erica one by one. There was only one who broke six foot and all but three had red hair. They introduced themselves to Sam and Erica. They were all from Cork and only four of them had ever left the country. Two of them sported the name Dahey and the other five had Irish names the two girls could hardly pronounce.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked Sam while playing with her gold necklace Lexton gave her on their one year anniversary, moving the gold plate side to side on its chain.
“Dis lad,” Dermot said while placing his hand on Liam’s shoulder, “but more unlucky than jammy if yer ask me.” He gave a quick chuckle.
“What’s her name?’ asked Erica butting her way into the conversation.
“Fiona, she’s gran’,” slurred Liam, “Not as gran’ as yer though.” He not so casually put his arm around Erica pressing his head into her shoulder nudging her like a cat.
“Ah,” Erica managed to let out, “aren’t you getting married?” She wiggled out of his firm grasp.
“Not for two months,” said Liam trying to be serious and hide his toothy grin. “If yer change yer name ter fiona jist for de night technically 'tis not cheatin'.
“Ah, leave de girl alone,” laughed Dermot. “Jist ignore ‘im, he’s trollied.” He turned his head and peered into Sam’s bright green eyes. “Samantha dear, do yer care to dance?”
“Ah, no, sorry. I’m not much of a dancer,” Sam said awkwardly, making more eye contact with the floor then at Dermot.
“Sam, consider this step number three. Go have some fun,” said Erica, pushing Sam towards the band and snatching her beer from her weak grasp. Dermot grabbed her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He placed his other hand on the small of her back.
“Ye ready love?” Dermot asked with a smile.
Dermot’s six foot frame swiftly moved around the dance floor followed by Sam. They weaved through the mounds of people with ease. He twirled, dipped, and swayed her. She was smiling and laughing for the first time since she could remember. She was actually enjoying herself, although Dermot Mullally wasn’t making it all that difficult.
Meanwhile, Erica was trying to fend off Liam. She was standing next to the counter with the rest of the stag party. They laughed, exchanged jokes, and gave a go at each other’s accents.
“Cum on, jist change yer name ter Fiona.” Liam nudged Erica with his elbow.
She laughed, “You are not going to give up on this are you? Sorry Liam. Friends don’t let friends screw short men. It’s in the rule book.” Erica raised her half empty glass to cheer.
“Ah, but love, we're de seem height layin' down.” He raised his glass in return with a cheeky smile.
Erica busted out laughing, “Well, ya got me, Liam. But you’re still not calling me Fiona. That’s my grandma’s cats name, it will forever be tainted.”
“Erica!” Sam yelled throwing her arms up and running towards her. “I forgot how much I loved dancing! Will you dance with me? Wait, hold that thought. I need another beer.
The ten of them sang, drank, and laughed until it hurt to breathe. The Scotsman was clearing out, leaving empty chairs, and the band was packing and putting away their equipment. Everyone was calling it a successful night in Edinburgh, going to bed, and waiting for another evening of drinking to present itself.
“Well Sammy, should we call it a night?” Erica asked while downing the rest of her calders.
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ tired. And we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” said Sam while rubbing her eyes attempting to wipe the sleep from them.
“Well lads,” said Erica while standing up, “it was wonderful meeting all of you, especially you, Liam.” Erica winked at him and waved her arm to bid them farewell. “Take it easy.”
“Samantha, may Oi talk ter yer over 'ere?” Dermot gestured her over to a couple of chairs.
“Yeah,” Samantha said looking at Erica and giving her an excited face, making her eyes big and opening her mouth, flashing a toothy beam. Dermot grabbed her hand and walked her over to the chairs.
Sam and Erica left a few minutes later and walked in silence, gathering their thoughts from their unexpected night. The cool, dark sky was illuminated by the lamp posts every couple of feet. The drunks were leaving the pubs stumbling their way back to their cozy beds. Sam linked arms Erica and laid her head on her bony arm for the thousandth time.
“It’s great to see you smile again, Sam,” said Erica softly tilting her own head onto Sam’s.
“He asked me to dinner tomorrow night, and I said I would go,” Sam said through a definite smile.
. . . . . .
“Erica, wake up.” Sam was pulling the covers off of the king size bed, allowing the cool air to strike Erica’s warm, limp body.
“A few more minutes,” mumbled Erica snatching the stark white sheet back and rolling over onto her side, “what time is it?”
“It’s 10:30. I let you sleep an extra thirty minutes, now hurry it up. We need to get to the castle before the line gets too big.” She turned on the shower and threw a beige towel onto Erica’s ratted red mop. She ducked her head out of the bathroom door. “I mean it Ric. I’m going to go get us a couple of lattes and by the time I get back, your pretty little ass better be showered and dressed.” Sam knew Erica’s sleeping tendencies. She often slept until one o’clock on her days off and didn’t shower until at least five o’clock, if at all. In high school, when Sam would spend the night at Erica’s she’d wake up around nine, go home, get ready, and wait for her to roll out of bed.
“Fine,” said Erica raising her head a few inches off her pillow and removing the towel Sam threw at her.
Sam left for the coffee shop and Erica slowly rolled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, “well don’t you look good.” She gave her hair a quick brush through, and jumped into the shower. She shaved, washed, shampooed, and finally rinsed off. She quickly dried her pale skin, slipped into some clothes, and started applying her make-up.
“Erica, you better be almost ready,” Sam said while unlocking their door. She poked her head into the bathroom, “well don’t you clean up nice. Here’s your double, sixteen ounce, French vanilla cappuccino.” Erica grabbed her coffee and put the finishing touches on her asymmetrical bob.
“Thanks, Sam. You’re a lifesaver.” Erica took a huge drink of her coffee. “Holy shit, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It tastes almost burnt and it smells like,” she took a deep breath in, “like livestock.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam while looking for Erica’s scarf and coat. “I assumed it was just the coffee shop I went to, but I hit up two more on my way back and they all tasted the same, like burnt livestock.”
“Have you seen my coat?’ asked Erica, looking frantically in her suitcase.
“Yeah, I have it right here.” Sam handed Erica her jacket and scarf while opening the door, motioning for them to leave.
“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Don’t get your titties in a wringer,” said Erica. She put her coat and scarf on and shut the wooden door behind them. “So, tell me. Where are you and Dermot going on your date tonight?”
“It’s not even a date.” Sam was blushing.
“Ah, Samantha Dear, it is TOO a date. Don’t even act like it’s not.” Erica wrapped her arms around Sam’s shoulders forcing her to bend down, putting her in a head lock. “Repeat after me, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishman. Say it!”
“No! Erica, let go! This was only funny when we were ten,” Sam pleaded.
“Say it or I’m not letting go. Do it.” Erica was laughing.
“Fine, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishman.” Now Sam was laughing. “Damn you, you always win that stupid game.” Erica let go and Sam fixed her hair and applied some more lipstick.
“That’s because I have three older brothers.” Erica linked arms with Sam. “You’re going to have a great time tonight.”
. . . . . .
The stone castle sits upon a staggered ridge, guarding the city of Edinburgh. Watching, listening, and waiting for the slightest movement, sound, and even excitement to come about. She has hundreds of years of dancing, booze and illness weaved into her floors and sketched into her rocky sides. She’s been there for years, as she’ll be there for much more, bringing beauty to all those who appreciate her choppy and decomposing structure.
The girls paid 12£ for their passes and made their way up the steep incline to the castle gates. Once they got to the top, they explored the cannons, the dining area, and tried their luck again with the coffee, which they both agreed was awful. They hiked to the very top of the castle that looked out over all of Edinburgh.
“This is so beautiful,” Erica said, attempting to tame her windblown hair, “it would be better if it wasn’t so damn cold.”
“Let’s take a picture!” exclaimed Sam, pulling out her Sony camera.
“No, my hair looks like shit. It’s lost all of its body,” said Erica trying to fluff her limp hair.
“Oh, who cares? Here, let’s have him take it.” Sam pointed to a tall, slender man who was a few feet in front them with his back turned in their direction. “Excuse me,” Sam tapped on his left shoulder. He turned around and faced the bright green eyes he had faced the night before. “Dermot?”
“Samantha, how ya gettin’ on?” he asked, smiling and showing off his white teeth.
Sam and Erica never ended up getting a photograph by themselves. Instead, they took a picture with the stag party, with them in the middle and Liam not too far from Erica. They toured around the castle together and even watched a short film. They ended up eating together at the Mitre, sharing a few pitchers of Guinness over a few laughs and before they knew it, it was four o’ clock.
“Have yer ladies climbed Arthur’s Seat yet?” asked Dermot while the waiter was removing his plate.
“No, we haven’t,” stated Sam, finishing her water.
“Wait, what’s Arthur’s Seat?” asked Erica wrinkling her forehead.
“Why, ‘tis the most beautiful view in all of Scotland, not as beautiful as yer though,” Liam said, batting his eyelashes.
“Oh please,” said Erica sarcastically, “well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” Erica was the type of person who was always ready to partake in vigorous exercise. She fit in more with the guys than she did with the girls. She played volleyball, basketball, and track all four years of high school and understood the game of football better than most of the guys.
They left the Mitre and walked down the Royal Mile onto Abbey Strand. There was never a dull moment between the twelve of them. Whether it was Liam hitting on Erica, Dermot and Samantha casually flirting, or all of them sharing some part of their lives with each other, they never stopped talking. They reached Arthur’s seat, climbing a set of wooden steps to the base of the beautiful hill and looked up.
“Hill, my ass,” said Sam, gazing up the steep mountain. “Good thing I brought my hiking shoes,” she joked.
“Oh, it won’t be that bad,” Erica said, pinning her bangs back out of her face.
“That’s easy for you to say, you’re part mountain goat,” Sam laughed.
The twelve of them started hiking as a group, and then dispersed the first five minutes, thinning out. Erica led the group, while Sam and Dermot tailed. By the time they reached the top, it was dusk and the sun was setting, making a stunning view and lighting up the sky. They took a seat on the rocky terrain and sat in silence for the first time since they had met.
. . . . . .
Later that night, Erica hit up a 23swnew pub called The Three Sisters with the rest of the guys, while Sam and Dermot went on their date to The 9 Cellars Restaurant. They talked, danced, ate, and talked some more. They told stories of their childhood, their college days, and their commute over to Scotland. They talked about their pet peeves, what makes the perfect day, and how terrible the Scottish coffee was. They enjoyed the great food and conversation, but more importantly, they enjoyed one another’s company. They exchanged e-mails and phone numbers.
“Well, here’s my stop,” said Sam, looking into his big brown eyes.
“Ah, well yes it tis’.” Dermot stopped walking and peered right back into her green eyes.
“I wonder how Erica and guys are,” Sam said, feeling stupid, not being able to think of anything else to say.
“Oh, they’re takin’ good care of her,” said Dermot, “they’ve takin’ a likin’ to her yer know.”
“Yeah, they sure have,” said Sam, rubbing the back of neck, wanting the excruciating awkwardness to stop.
Dermot stepped forward in one long stride, wrapping one arm around her waist, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear. He placed his hands on the sides of her cheeks, kissing her with such passion she’s never seen before.
. . . . . .
“Sammy, wake up.” Erica was nudging her, looking for and vital signs. “Are you feeling okay? It’s twelve and you’re still sleeping.”
“What?” Sam raised the palm of her hand and placed it on her forehead, as if it would help her comprehend Erica’s muddled words.
“It’s twelve o’clock and you’re still sleeping,” repeated Erica.
“Oh.” Sam rolled over, pulling the blankets over her head, smirking.
“Wait, Sam. I know that face. Spill.” Erica excitedly jumped to her knees.
Sam explained her and Dermot’s date in intricate detail, making sure not to forget a single moment. She told her of the dancing, the wonderful food, and the great conversation. She told her how fond of Dermot she was and how amazing the kiss goodnight ended the perfect evening.
“Congratulations, Sammy. You’ve completed step number four,” Erica said, laying her head back down on her pillow next to Sam’s.
“For such a great shrink, you forgot to mention step number one,” Sam said while turning her head to the left to face Erica’s.
“Well, Sam. You got on that plane with me. This was supposed to be your and Lextons’s vacation and instead you’re spending it with me. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you, but you sucked it up and proved yourself.” Erica reached for Sam’s hand.
“You know what, I haven’t thought about Lexton in a day and half. Let’s not ruin a good thing,” said Sam smiling, lacing hands with her best friend.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Angel - by Ivan Peterson
Hi Everyone. Hopefully some of you can read this before tomorrow. Here is the first part of my revision. It kind of sounds like a new story, but I'm really trying to bring some of the original story in, without making it as unbelievable. I'm trying to emphasize Mary's "oddity," through my revision, so the eventual death and torture (I'm really not evil... I promise) is a more realistic, yet still absurd. Do you guys get the sense that something is different with Mary? Should I give more overt clues? This isn't a happy story, but do you think I should encorporate some comical elements to lighten the mood? Also, what do you think of me getting rid of two of the storylines, and condensing/focusing on just Mary? Thanks.
“Take care of yourself Mary. You know that I’ll always love you.” There was nothing else on the paper. The note began and ended with those fateful words. “I’ll always love you,” Mary repeated to herself for the fourth time. The black ink was written neatly on a notepad taken from a roadside motel. Beneath the letters, embedded within the paper was a watermark, barely visible after years of age: “Pasco Deluxe Suites.” Mary glanced up with tears glistening in her eyes. A single lamp illuminated the tiny drops that fell from her cheeks and disappeared into the shadowy carpet below. A weight seemed to fall onto Mary as her shoulders slumped and knees gave way to her shock.
A single officer responded to the call, pulling into the trailer park with his lights beaming through the darkness. It was nearing 1:00 AM, and the street was largely deserted except for the silhouette of a stray dog a couple trailers away. The officer stepped from his cruiser and adjusted his belt around his bloated abdomen. His thighs were tight against the fabric of his well-worn pants, and he walked uncomfortably as he ascended the concrete steps to the dented trailer door.
A single knock later and the door opened. A man stood there in a dirty white tank top. His eyes were tired and drooping. Day-old stubble covered his face. Without a word the man stepped away from the door and walked into the trailer. The officer entered slowly, looking around at the dirty carpet and stained couch. His heavy leather boots made dull thudding noises as he walked across the scratched linoleum.
“She’s over there,” the man uttered without emotion, indicating the kitchen door with his dirty hand. The officer looked toward the closed door. A dark red stain crept across the kitchen floor and underneath the door, gleaming with a dark iridescence. “I found her about an hour ago, when I got home from the station.”
“Have you moved her body?” The officer asked solemnly.
“No. She’s exactly how I found her.”
The officer opened the door slowly, creating slight ripples across the hardened surface of the blood pool. A woman’s body lay across the floor; her face smeared red. A girl stood in the corner of the kitchen near the half-opened fridge. She wrapped her slender arms around her trembling body, never releasing the woman’s lifeless form from her gaze.
The girl was young, barely eleven. She stared intensely at the body with a mixture of fear and misery in her wet eyes.
“Get out Mary,” the man said harshly. Mary didn’t react to her father’s demand, and instead backed farther into the corner. “Get out!” he yelled, reaching for his daughter’s frail form. He stepped over his wife’s body and grabbed Mary’s wrist, savagely wrenching her from the kitchen and into the hallway.
The officer ignored Mary and stepped into the room carefully; avoiding the large pool of blood originating from the woman’s wounded neck. “It looks like suicide, Mr. Irwin,” the officer said, reading the crumpled note that had just fallen from Mary’s ghostly hand.
--- --- --- --- ---
It was early in the misty morning. A nearly full moon illuminated the vast expanse of wilderness that crept its way across the land, cradling pockets of human life and lumber mills in its prickly grasp. A single cry echoed through the landscape, causing a ripple of motion across the forest floor. Birds flapped heavily into the air as the lone animal howled again. At the northernmost point of the forest, near a particularly large hill, the trees had been replaced with houses. A mill churned endlessly near the outskirts of the town, releasing a sooty black smoke into the cold air.
A cloaked form slipped from the shadows between the houses and into the moonlight. The figure walked quickly down the side of the street and out of town quickly. Several hundred yards past the last house, the cloak dropped to the ground, revealing a woman’s slender body. Her hair was blacker than night, even the moonlight seemed to scatter across its glassy surface. She stood there, exposed to the harsh morning air. Her body was opaque against the starry night sky, and she stood unmoving for several minutes as she formed words in her mouth. Sounds escaped her flushed lips only to be caught by the wind and thrown across the town and the neighboring forest in an undulation of echoes and wild screams. Opening her eyes, she noticed a pink glow creeping into the darkness, and she quickly began walking back to the sleeping town of Traehill.
Mary quietly opened the back door of her modest home, stepping carefully across the welcome mat and into the kitchen just as the morning light reached across the vast horizon.
“Where were you?” said a voice as Mary placed her cloak in the closet near the door. She jumped slightly before turning and facing the man standing behind her.
“Clinton. You’re up early. I was just running some errands.”
“At 5:00 in the morning?” Clinton looked at her with anger in his eyes. “You were with him, weren’t you? I know he’s in love with you, and I’ve seen how you look at him in church; your little ‘angel boy.’”
“I was not! I’ve never even spoken to Clarence.”
“You lying whore!” Clinton spat, slapping Mary across her face with the back of his hand. Mary staggered backward and brought her hands up to her face. The skin where Clinton’s hand hit blossomed into a purplish bruise within seconds. A trickle of blood ran down Mary’s pale jaw where Clinton’s ring cut into her.
“Don’t Clinton,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I only love you.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Don’t Daddy,” Mary said for the third time. “I'm sorry.”
“That’s right you're sorry, and see that you never forget.” The man said with the smell of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. He released Mary from his grip, letting her fall to the floor limply. She quickly grabbed the torn photo lying on the ground that had caused her father's anger, and huddled in the corner cradling her hurt arm.
Moments later Mr. Irwin left the trailer with a pack of cigarettes and a match booklet. Mary could smell the acrid smoke wafting into the house beneath the door and through the vents. Her eyes began to water as she pieced the photo back together. Three smiling faces illuminated the worn picture. Her mother and father stood holding hands with her in between them. It was taken years ago on a trip to California, when they were all happy. Her mother’s hair was messy from lying in the sand, and her father’s grin was as wide as his face. Mary saw herself in the center of the picture. Her feet were buried in the sand, toes wriggling furiously. Her face and arms were sunburned, and her dark hair gleamed in the dying sunlight.
“Why Mom?” Mary said to the picture quietly. “Why did you leave me? What did I do to make you want to die? Her tears fell onto her lap quietly as she sat waiting for something to happen. “It’s been exactly a year, Mom. I’m twelve today.”
Mary sat on the floor with a stubby pencil and a stray piece of paper. She carefully sketched the form of a woman into the yellowing sheet. The woman’s arms and legs were obscured by two enormous wings on either side of her body. The wings were as black as pitch and folded across the woman’s body in a powerful embrace. Mary finished the Angels hair, leaving it completely white against the dark background. A trail of blood issued from the neck, trailing down across her chest and finally disappearing beneath the folded wings.......
“Take care of yourself Mary. You know that I’ll always love you.” There was nothing else on the paper. The note began and ended with those fateful words. “I’ll always love you,” Mary repeated to herself for the fourth time. The black ink was written neatly on a notepad taken from a roadside motel. Beneath the letters, embedded within the paper was a watermark, barely visible after years of age: “Pasco Deluxe Suites.” Mary glanced up with tears glistening in her eyes. A single lamp illuminated the tiny drops that fell from her cheeks and disappeared into the shadowy carpet below. A weight seemed to fall onto Mary as her shoulders slumped and knees gave way to her shock.
A single officer responded to the call, pulling into the trailer park with his lights beaming through the darkness. It was nearing 1:00 AM, and the street was largely deserted except for the silhouette of a stray dog a couple trailers away. The officer stepped from his cruiser and adjusted his belt around his bloated abdomen. His thighs were tight against the fabric of his well-worn pants, and he walked uncomfortably as he ascended the concrete steps to the dented trailer door.
A single knock later and the door opened. A man stood there in a dirty white tank top. His eyes were tired and drooping. Day-old stubble covered his face. Without a word the man stepped away from the door and walked into the trailer. The officer entered slowly, looking around at the dirty carpet and stained couch. His heavy leather boots made dull thudding noises as he walked across the scratched linoleum.
“She’s over there,” the man uttered without emotion, indicating the kitchen door with his dirty hand. The officer looked toward the closed door. A dark red stain crept across the kitchen floor and underneath the door, gleaming with a dark iridescence. “I found her about an hour ago, when I got home from the station.”
“Have you moved her body?” The officer asked solemnly.
“No. She’s exactly how I found her.”
The officer opened the door slowly, creating slight ripples across the hardened surface of the blood pool. A woman’s body lay across the floor; her face smeared red. A girl stood in the corner of the kitchen near the half-opened fridge. She wrapped her slender arms around her trembling body, never releasing the woman’s lifeless form from her gaze.
The girl was young, barely eleven. She stared intensely at the body with a mixture of fear and misery in her wet eyes.
“Get out Mary,” the man said harshly. Mary didn’t react to her father’s demand, and instead backed farther into the corner. “Get out!” he yelled, reaching for his daughter’s frail form. He stepped over his wife’s body and grabbed Mary’s wrist, savagely wrenching her from the kitchen and into the hallway.
The officer ignored Mary and stepped into the room carefully; avoiding the large pool of blood originating from the woman’s wounded neck. “It looks like suicide, Mr. Irwin,” the officer said, reading the crumpled note that had just fallen from Mary’s ghostly hand.
--- --- --- --- ---
It was early in the misty morning. A nearly full moon illuminated the vast expanse of wilderness that crept its way across the land, cradling pockets of human life and lumber mills in its prickly grasp. A single cry echoed through the landscape, causing a ripple of motion across the forest floor. Birds flapped heavily into the air as the lone animal howled again. At the northernmost point of the forest, near a particularly large hill, the trees had been replaced with houses. A mill churned endlessly near the outskirts of the town, releasing a sooty black smoke into the cold air.
A cloaked form slipped from the shadows between the houses and into the moonlight. The figure walked quickly down the side of the street and out of town quickly. Several hundred yards past the last house, the cloak dropped to the ground, revealing a woman’s slender body. Her hair was blacker than night, even the moonlight seemed to scatter across its glassy surface. She stood there, exposed to the harsh morning air. Her body was opaque against the starry night sky, and she stood unmoving for several minutes as she formed words in her mouth. Sounds escaped her flushed lips only to be caught by the wind and thrown across the town and the neighboring forest in an undulation of echoes and wild screams. Opening her eyes, she noticed a pink glow creeping into the darkness, and she quickly began walking back to the sleeping town of Traehill.
Mary quietly opened the back door of her modest home, stepping carefully across the welcome mat and into the kitchen just as the morning light reached across the vast horizon.
“Where were you?” said a voice as Mary placed her cloak in the closet near the door. She jumped slightly before turning and facing the man standing behind her.
“Clinton. You’re up early. I was just running some errands.”
“At 5:00 in the morning?” Clinton looked at her with anger in his eyes. “You were with him, weren’t you? I know he’s in love with you, and I’ve seen how you look at him in church; your little ‘angel boy.’”
“I was not! I’ve never even spoken to Clarence.”
“You lying whore!” Clinton spat, slapping Mary across her face with the back of his hand. Mary staggered backward and brought her hands up to her face. The skin where Clinton’s hand hit blossomed into a purplish bruise within seconds. A trickle of blood ran down Mary’s pale jaw where Clinton’s ring cut into her.
“Don’t Clinton,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I only love you.”
--- --- --- --- ---
“Don’t Daddy,” Mary said for the third time. “I'm sorry.”
“That’s right you're sorry, and see that you never forget.” The man said with the smell of whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. He released Mary from his grip, letting her fall to the floor limply. She quickly grabbed the torn photo lying on the ground that had caused her father's anger, and huddled in the corner cradling her hurt arm.
Moments later Mr. Irwin left the trailer with a pack of cigarettes and a match booklet. Mary could smell the acrid smoke wafting into the house beneath the door and through the vents. Her eyes began to water as she pieced the photo back together. Three smiling faces illuminated the worn picture. Her mother and father stood holding hands with her in between them. It was taken years ago on a trip to California, when they were all happy. Her mother’s hair was messy from lying in the sand, and her father’s grin was as wide as his face. Mary saw herself in the center of the picture. Her feet were buried in the sand, toes wriggling furiously. Her face and arms were sunburned, and her dark hair gleamed in the dying sunlight.
“Why Mom?” Mary said to the picture quietly. “Why did you leave me? What did I do to make you want to die? Her tears fell onto her lap quietly as she sat waiting for something to happen. “It’s been exactly a year, Mom. I’m twelve today.”
Mary sat on the floor with a stubby pencil and a stray piece of paper. She carefully sketched the form of a woman into the yellowing sheet. The woman’s arms and legs were obscured by two enormous wings on either side of her body. The wings were as black as pitch and folded across the woman’s body in a powerful embrace. Mary finished the Angels hair, leaving it completely white against the dark background. A trail of blood issued from the neck, trailing down across her chest and finally disappearing beneath the folded wings.......
The Four Step Program - by Sarah Waarvik
As Samantha Scott sat on the 747 to Edinburgh, Scotland she recalled the last four years she spent with Lexton McKay. She thought of his face, his chestnut brown locks accompanied by his beautiful brown eyes, his toothy grin, and that lone freckle on the left side of his chin. But what she didn’t think about was his dishonesty, his infidelity, or his brutal mind games. No, Samantha Scott didn’t think of all these less than satisfactory qualities, she thought of how much she loved him and the diamond ring placed upon her dainty left hand.
“Sam, are you awake?” questioned Erica while stretching her arms above her head, yawning. Erica O’Donnell was a hair dresser from Chicago and Sam’s best friend since grade school. She was around 6 feet tall and had vibrant red hair. She was as thin as a reed, drank like one of the guys, and ate like a 300 pound man.
“Yeah,” replied Samantha, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Erica was digging in her purse, hoping to find the mate to the Reese’s she ate earlier. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. You’d think they’d feed us more than a package of peanuts,” she raised her voice, "what do they think we are, French?”
Sam couldn’t help but let out a mused chuckle. Erica was always digging in that purse of hers trying to find the stash of food she hidden the day before. “No, I had a little something in Paris.”
“Ah ha! I found it,” shouted Erica triumphantly, waving the melted peanutbuttery chocolate morsel in front of Sam’s face. “Do you want half? It’s my last one.”
“No,” said Sam gazing out the window and watching the sea of fluffy white clouds pass by. She let her blonde head rest against the plexi-glass window and closed her green eyes. Lexton flashed through her mind for the thousandth time. The image of him driving away in his black and white tuxedo still haunted her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She remembered the look of relief that was splashed upon his perfectly structured face when he told her he couldn’t go through with it, that there was someone else and had been for awhile.
“Oh, Sam,” said Erica sympathetically while softly rubbing her back. “Everything will be all right. Forget that ass hole. Just have some fun, let loose, and screw the first Scottish man you meet.”
. . . . . .
Samantha and Lexton started dating the end of their junior year at Penn State. They both studied at a coffee shop near campus every Sunday. Neither of them could remember who made the first move or how it even came about, but what they did know was they couldn’t have been happier those last grueling months at college. At the end of their senior year Samantha knew she couldn’t leave Lexton, so she followed him to Cornell University so he could finish his law degree. He worked as an intern at the Doranzio Law Firm. The first year and a half was bliss. They cooked together, did their laundry together and even cleaned together. They were becoming the domestic couple, the kind you only read about in books or watch in movies. However, the good times always fade to an end and the honeymooner stage eventually wears off. One year later, Samantha was left brokenhearted at the altar, watching the only man she had ever loved drive away in a black porch. He didn’t manage to look back to see her tears make an ebony river of mascara and liner or watch her knees and hands hit the cold pavement, etching deep cuts into her pale white palms. However, he did manage to kiss the leggy brunette in the passenger seat.
. . . . . .
Samantha and Erica arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon, after what was clearly a rough 22 hours by the looks of their haggard bodies. They called a cab and had a quick ten minute ride to the Royal Hotel. Samantha checked in, while Erica checked out a few men and before they knew it they were in the comfort of their so-called home for the next 4 days of vacation.
“Well, Sammy, should we eat, drink, or eat while we drink?” Erica asked while unpacking her over stuffed canary yellow suitcase. Erica was the type of person who packed for five nights when she was only going to be gone for two. In this case, she packed for 4 weeks of travel, instead of the two weeks they were vacationing.
During high school the two drank the better half of their weekend nights. They lived in the small town of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. They often complained of nothing to do, but were often off causing mischief and mayhem, but “all in good fun” as they’d like to call it. They pulled every trick in the book. Sam would tell her parents she was staying at Erica’s and Erica would tell her mom she was staying at Sam’s. Many nights they crawled, stumbled, and laughed their way to Erica’s tree house in her back yard that was fully equipped with blankets, pillows, and a space heater. Erica and Sam had lived next door to each other since the 1st grade when Erica and her mom moved to Grand Rapids from California. They were friends from the beginning. Their days consisted of Barbie’s, playing dress-up, and running away from the neighborhood boys.
“We can probably find somewhere we can drink a beer and eat dinner on the Royal Mile,” said Sam, folding her skinny jeans and placing them in the drawer.
“So how do we get to the Royal Mile anyway?” Erica was staring at a map of Edinburg turning it left, and then right and upside-down. “Oh, screw the damn map. We can pub hop our way to the food and drinks.”
Sam laughed. “Ric, we’re on the Royal Mile, hence the name of our hotel, The Royal Hotel,” said Sam emphasizing on the Royal.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m only a hairdresser, I never acquired problem solving skills.” Erica was always one to tell people to fuck off or to go fuck themselves. “Sorry I didn’t go to an Ivy League school like you did, Ms. Smartie Pants,” she said holding her vowel sounds. Erica went to a local community college for a semester, but decided the school work was too hard to do and the parties were too easy to attend.
“Oh, shut up. It wasn’t an Ivy League school,” Sam chuckled and jokingly swatted Erica with the shirt she was unpacking.
Erica stretched her arms above her head, raising her shirt just enough, revealing her perfectly chiseled stomach. “I need to shower before we go, you should too. You look like shit.”
. . . . . .
The dark cobblestone streets of Edinburg were packed with flocks of people strolling in and out of the pubs. The light summer wind rushed over the faces of passersby leaving the touch of its coolness still present on their skin. The illuminated buildings were almost life-like, waving back and forth in the cool breeze. This night won’t make a difference just as the single nights before had no dramatic change, but put them all together and watch the evolution of history like a flipbook. Speed it up through the rough patches or slow it down, stopping on a page, lingering in its memory then turning to the next scene.
“Holy shit, how many Scotsman’s Pubs can there be? I think that’s the fifth one,” said Erica as she swiped a chunk of her red hair out of her eyes and put it behind her freckled ear.
“Well, it must be a sign,” Sam laughed, “let’s go in.” Sam grabbed Erica’s hand and yanked Erica towards her in the direction of the pub.
“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Erica froze in her tracks. “Samantha Joe Scott, what’s that on your hand?” she shrieked. “You’re still wearing that piece of garbage?” She grabbed Sam’s finger in amazement. “After what that little shit show did to you. Give me the ring right now. You are not wearing that pathetic excuse of a diamond for a man you’re not even engaged to.”
Sam knew that Erica was never too keen on the likes of Lexton. Sure Erica said he was cute, but she says that about most men. Erica and Lexton first met when he was an hour late from picking her up at the airport. Erica was livid and told Sam all about it. She also mentioned he had a slight wandering eye when they were walking through the terminal. Sam never thought twice about this minor detail considering the extent Erica likes to exaggerate. Erica also complained to Sam about the manner that Lexton ordered her around and the harshness of his voice when he did so, but Sam said that was just their relationship and that’s just how his voice sounded. Lexton worked late Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Erica asked if Sam thought that was strange, considering he was only an intern, but Sam said he was just making a name for himself. Sam reassured Erica he was genuinely nice and good to her, but the last straw was their engagement. Sam called Erica, screaming into the receiver, telling her how he popped the long awaited question, which wasn’t terribly romantic, but nonetheless Sam said she loved him and wanted to be with him. Erica made a point to tell Sam that Lexton McKay was a low down creep and in return Sam made her maid of honor.
. . . . . .
“This was supposed to be our trip, as in Lexton and mine, not yours and mine.” Sam’s green eyes were beginning to glisten over with thick sloppy tears. Lexton always said she was too emotional and over dramatic.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to go call him, go pick him up at the airport and take him to the hotel? Oh, wait he’s probably fucking his girlfriend. You know, the one he cheated on you with. Hell, it could be a reunion. Wouldn’t that be the cherry on top to such a great trip?” stated Erica while doing an excessive amount of meaningless hand gestures. Erica always had the knack for being bitchy, but this was excessive even for her.
“Fine, you win. Take the damn thing.” Sam inched the ring off of her left hand and sat down on the cement curb. She held it up in clear view of Erica and dropped it in her purse. “There, ya happy?” Sam asked with the same attitude she showed whenever Erica called her out on reality. Sure, she knew her brown eyed ex- fiancé was indeed fucking his new mistress, the one he cheated on her with, and had been for the better half of their fourteen month engagement. He was probably never going to come to his senses and realize that she, Sam, was the one for him, but there was always that small chance.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Consider this step number two of forgetting Lexton McKay.” Erica plopped down on the curb next to Sam.
“What? Am I in a twelve step program now?”
“Yeah, the home-made version, but consider it more of a four step program.” Erica put her lanky arm around Sam’s waist and gave her a tight squeeze. Sam leaned her head against Erica’s bony arm.
“Thanks, Ric” said Sam while exhaling a huge breath, laughing a little, and wiping the tears from her cheeks, “I needed that.”
. . . . . .
Old Scottish folklore filled the streets of Edinburgh, winding its way through the cobblestone walkways from the Scotsmen Pub. The bellows of Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond filled the air with horrible drunken jargon followed by calders spilt on the floor, staining the bleached hardwood with splotches of dark brown.
“What’s the name of this beer!” shouted Erica over the band disrupting her terrible singing abilities to a song she didn’t know the words to. “It’s the greatest beer I’ve ever had!” The music stopped.
“Aye, ‘tis a Calders,” said the man to her left. He was about 5’8’’ with flaming red hair just like her. Freckles were splattered all over his face and arms leaving very few speckled white spots visible. “Yer must be Americans.”
“How’d ya know?” Sam laughed giving him a slight slap on the back. “I love these songs.”
“Yer haven’t even ‘eard de good ones,” he said then taking a drink of his rich dark beer, winking at the two.
A taller man spotted Liam across the pub and came over to the corner where he was standing, weaving through a sea of drunkenness.
“Dermot Mullally, how ya gettin’ on?” Liam asked.
“Wait, you guys don’t sound Scottish,” said Sam furrowing her brow and pointing lightly at the both of them.
“That's cos we're not, we're from Oirland. We’re ‘ere for a Stag Party,” Liam said while waving the rest of the party over to them.
The other six members of the party slowly made their way over to Dermot, Liam, Sam, and Erica one by one. There was only one who broke six foot and all but three had red hair. They introduced themselves to Sam and Erica. They were all from Cork and only four of them had ever left the country. Two of them sported the name Dahey and the other five had Irish names the two girls could hardly pronounce.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked Sam while playing with her gold necklace Lexton gave her on their one year anniversary, moving the gold plate side to side on its chain.
“Dis lad,” Dermot said while placing his hand on Liam’s shoulder, “but more unlucky than jammy if yer ask me.” He gave a quick chuckle.
“What’s her name?’ asked Erica butting her way into the conversation.
“Fiona, she’s gran’,” slurred Liam, “Not as gran’ as yer though.” He not so casually put his arm around Erica pressing his head into her shoulder nudging her like a cat.
“Ah,” Erica managed to let out, “aren’t you getting married?” She wiggled out of his firm grasp.
“Not for two months,” said Liam trying to be serious and hide his toothy grin. “If yer change yer name ter fiona jist for de night technically 'tis not cheatin'.
“Ah, leave de girl alone,” laughed Dermot. “Jist ignore ‘im, he’s trollied.” He turned his head and peered into Sam’s bright green eyes. “Samantha dear, do yer care to dance?”
“Ah, no, sorry. I’m not much of a dancer,” Sam said awkwardly, making more eye contact with the floor then at Dermot.
“Sam, consider this step number three. Go have some fun,” said Erica, pushing Sam towards the band and snatching her beer from her weak grasp. Dermot grabbed her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He placed his other hand on the small of her back.
“Ye ready love?” Dermot asked with a smile.
Dermot’s six foot frame swiftly moved around the dance floor followed by Sam. They weaved through the mounds of people with ease. He twirled, dipped, and swayed her. She was smiling and laughing for the first time since she could remember. She was actually enjoying herself, although Dermot Mullally wasn’t making it all that difficult.
Meanwhile, Erica was trying to fend off Liam. She was standing next to the counter with the rest of the stag party. They laughed, exchanged jokes, and gave a go at each other’s accents.
“Cum on, jist change yer name ter Fiona.” Liam nudged Erica with his elbow.
She laughed, “You are not going to give up on this are you? Sorry Liam. Friends don’t let friends screw short men. It’s in the rule book.” Erica raised her half empty glass to cheer.
“Ah, but love, we're de seem height layin' down.” He raised his glass in return with a cheeky smile.
Erica busted out laughing, “Well, ya got me, Liam. But you’re still not calling me Fiona. That’s my grandma’s cats name, it will forever be tainted.”
“Erica!” Sam yelled throwing her arms up and running towards her. “I forgot how much I loved dancing! Will you dance with me? Wait, hold that thought. I need another beer.
The ten of them sang, drank, and laughed until it hurt to breathe. The Scotsman was clearing out, leaving empty chairs, and the band was packing and putting away their equipment. Everyone was calling it a successful night in Edinburgh, going to bed, and waiting for another evening of drinking to present itself.
“Well Sammy, should we call it a night?” Erica asked while downing the rest of her calders.
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ tired. And we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” said Sam while rubbing her eyes attempting to wipe the sleep from them.
“Well lads,” said Erica while standing up, “it was wonderful meeting all of you, especially you, Liam.” Erica winked at him and waved her arm to bid them farewell. “Take it easy.”
“Samantha, may Oi talk ter yer over 'ere?” Dermot gestured her over to a couple of chairs.
“Yeah,” Samantha said looking at Erica and giving her an excited face, making her eyes big and opening her mouth, flashing a toothy beam. Dermot grabbed her hand and walked her over to the chairs.
Sam and Erica left a few minutes later and walked in silence, gathering their thoughts from their unexpected night. The cool, dark sky was illuminated by the lamp posts every couple of feet. The drunks were leaving the pubs stumbling their way back to their cozy beds. Sam linked arms Erica and laid her head on her bony arm for the thousandth time.
“It’s great to see you smile again, Sam,” said Erica softly tilting her own head onto Sam’s.
“He asked me to dinner tomorrow night, and I said I would go,” Sam said through a definite smile.
. . . . . .
“Erica, wake up.” Sam was pulling the covers off of the king size bed, allowing the cool air to strike Erica’s warm, limp body.
“A few more minutes,” mumbled Erica snatching the stark white sheet back and rolling over onto her side, “what time is it?”
“It’s 10:30. I let you sleep an extra thirty minutes, now hurry it up. We need to get to the castle before the line gets too big.” She turned on the shower and threw a beige towel onto Erica’s snarly red head. She ducked her head out of the bathroom door. “I mean it Ric. I’m going to go get us a couple of lattes and by the time I get back your pretty little ass better be showered and dressed.” Sam knew Erica’s sleeping tendencies. She often slept until one o’clock on her days off and didn’t shower until at least five o’clock, if at all. In high school, when Sam would spend the night at Erica’s she’d wake up around nine, go home, get ready, and wait for her to roll out of bed.
“Fine,” said Erica raising her head a few inches off her pillow and removing the towel Sam threw at her.
Sam left for the coffee shop and Erica slowly rolled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, “well don’t you look good.” She gave her hair a quick brush through, and jumped into the shower. She shaved, washed, shampooed, and finally rinsed off. She quickly dried her pale skin, slipped into some clothes, and started applying her make-up.
“Erica, you better be almost ready,” Sam said while unlocking their door. She poked her head into the bathroom, “well don’t you clean up nice. Here’s your double, sixteen ounce, French vanilla cappuccino.” Erica grabbed her coffee and put the finishing touches on her asymmetrical bob.
“Thanks, Sam. You’re a lifesaver.” Erica took a huge drink of her coffee. “Holy shit, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It tastes almost burnt and it smells like,” she took a deep breath in, “like livestock.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam while looking for Erica’s scarf and coat. “I assumed it was just the coffee shop I went to, but I hit up two more on my way back and they all tasted the same, like burnt livestock.”
“Have you seen my coat?’ asked Erica, looking frantically in her suitcase.
“Yeah, I have it right here.” Sam handed Erica her jacket and scarf while opening the door, motioning for them to leave.
“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Don’t get your titties in a wringer,” said Erica. She put her coat and scarf on and shut the wooden door behind them. “So, tell me. Where are you and Dermot going on your date tonight?”
“It’s not even a date.” Sam was blushing.
“Ah, Samantha Dear, it is TOO a date. Don’t even act like it’s not.” Erica wrapped her arms around Sam’s shoulders forcing her to bend down, putting her in a head lock. “Repeat after me, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishmen. Say it!”
“No! Erica, let go! This was only funny when we were ten,” Sam pleaded.
“Say it or I’m not letting go. Do it.” Erica was laughing.
“Fine, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishmen.” Now Sam was laughing. “Damn you, you always win that stupid game.” She fixed her hair and applied some more lipstick.
“That’s because I have three older brothers.” Erica linked arms with Sam. “You’re going to have a great time tonight.”
. . . . . .
The stone castle sits upon a staggered ridge, guarding the city of Edinburgh. Watching, listening, and waiting for the slightest movement, sound, and even excitement to come about. She has hundreds of years of dancing, booze and illness weaved into her floors and sketched into her rocky sides. She’s been there for years, as she’ll be there for much more, bringing beauty to all those who appreciate her choppy and decomposing structure.
The girls paid 12£ for their passes and made their way up the steep incline to the castle gates. Once they got to the top, they explored the cannons, the dining area, and tried their luck again with the coffee, which they both agreed was awful. They hiked to the very top of the castle that looked out over all of Edinburgh.
“This is so beautiful,” Erica said, attempting to tame her windblown hair, “it would be better if it wasn’t so damn cold.”
“Let’s take a picture!” exclaimed Sam, pulling out her Sony camera.
“No, my hair looks like shit. It’s lost all of its body,” said Erica trying to fluff her limp hair.
“Oh, who cares? Here, let’s have him take it.” Sam pointed to a tall, slender man who was a few feet in front them with his back turned in their direction. “Excuse me,” Sam tapped on his left shoulder. He turned around and faced the bright green eyes he had faced the night before. “Dermot?”
“Samantha, how ya getting’ on?” he asked, smiling and showing off his white teeth.
Sam and Erica never ended up getting a photograph by themselves. Instead, they took a picture with the stag party, with them in the middle and Liam not too far from Erica. The girls asked why they wanted to see the castle, since they live in Ireland and have definitely seen some before, but they said this was the most beautiful castle in all of the United Kingdom. After touring the castle, they ended up eating together at the Mitre and sharing a few pitchers of Guinness. They laughed, ate, and drank, before they knew it, it was four o’ clock.
I’M NOT FINISHED. I STILL NEED THE DATE WITH DERMOT :) BUT IT’S ON ITS WAY. I JUST WANT TO KNOW HOW YOU GUYS THINK THE VACATION IS COMING ALONG.
“Sam, are you awake?” questioned Erica while stretching her arms above her head, yawning. Erica O’Donnell was a hair dresser from Chicago and Sam’s best friend since grade school. She was around 6 feet tall and had vibrant red hair. She was as thin as a reed, drank like one of the guys, and ate like a 300 pound man.
“Yeah,” replied Samantha, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Erica was digging in her purse, hoping to find the mate to the Reese’s she ate earlier. “Are you hungry? I’m starved. You’d think they’d feed us more than a package of peanuts,” she raised her voice, "what do they think we are, French?”
Sam couldn’t help but let out a mused chuckle. Erica was always digging in that purse of hers trying to find the stash of food she hidden the day before. “No, I had a little something in Paris.”
“Ah ha! I found it,” shouted Erica triumphantly, waving the melted peanutbuttery chocolate morsel in front of Sam’s face. “Do you want half? It’s my last one.”
“No,” said Sam gazing out the window and watching the sea of fluffy white clouds pass by. She let her blonde head rest against the plexi-glass window and closed her green eyes. Lexton flashed through her mind for the thousandth time. The image of him driving away in his black and white tuxedo still haunted her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. She remembered the look of relief that was splashed upon his perfectly structured face when he told her he couldn’t go through with it, that there was someone else and had been for awhile.
“Oh, Sam,” said Erica sympathetically while softly rubbing her back. “Everything will be all right. Forget that ass hole. Just have some fun, let loose, and screw the first Scottish man you meet.”
. . . . . .
Samantha and Lexton started dating the end of their junior year at Penn State. They both studied at a coffee shop near campus every Sunday. Neither of them could remember who made the first move or how it even came about, but what they did know was they couldn’t have been happier those last grueling months at college. At the end of their senior year Samantha knew she couldn’t leave Lexton, so she followed him to Cornell University so he could finish his law degree. He worked as an intern at the Doranzio Law Firm. The first year and a half was bliss. They cooked together, did their laundry together and even cleaned together. They were becoming the domestic couple, the kind you only read about in books or watch in movies. However, the good times always fade to an end and the honeymooner stage eventually wears off. One year later, Samantha was left brokenhearted at the altar, watching the only man she had ever loved drive away in a black porch. He didn’t manage to look back to see her tears make an ebony river of mascara and liner or watch her knees and hands hit the cold pavement, etching deep cuts into her pale white palms. However, he did manage to kiss the leggy brunette in the passenger seat.
. . . . . .
Samantha and Erica arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon, after what was clearly a rough 22 hours by the looks of their haggard bodies. They called a cab and had a quick ten minute ride to the Royal Hotel. Samantha checked in, while Erica checked out a few men and before they knew it they were in the comfort of their so-called home for the next 4 days of vacation.
“Well, Sammy, should we eat, drink, or eat while we drink?” Erica asked while unpacking her over stuffed canary yellow suitcase. Erica was the type of person who packed for five nights when she was only going to be gone for two. In this case, she packed for 4 weeks of travel, instead of the two weeks they were vacationing.
During high school the two drank the better half of their weekend nights. They lived in the small town of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. They often complained of nothing to do, but were often off causing mischief and mayhem, but “all in good fun” as they’d like to call it. They pulled every trick in the book. Sam would tell her parents she was staying at Erica’s and Erica would tell her mom she was staying at Sam’s. Many nights they crawled, stumbled, and laughed their way to Erica’s tree house in her back yard that was fully equipped with blankets, pillows, and a space heater. Erica and Sam had lived next door to each other since the 1st grade when Erica and her mom moved to Grand Rapids from California. They were friends from the beginning. Their days consisted of Barbie’s, playing dress-up, and running away from the neighborhood boys.
“We can probably find somewhere we can drink a beer and eat dinner on the Royal Mile,” said Sam, folding her skinny jeans and placing them in the drawer.
“So how do we get to the Royal Mile anyway?” Erica was staring at a map of Edinburg turning it left, and then right and upside-down. “Oh, screw the damn map. We can pub hop our way to the food and drinks.”
Sam laughed. “Ric, we’re on the Royal Mile, hence the name of our hotel, The Royal Hotel,” said Sam emphasizing on the Royal.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m only a hairdresser, I never acquired problem solving skills.” Erica was always one to tell people to fuck off or to go fuck themselves. “Sorry I didn’t go to an Ivy League school like you did, Ms. Smartie Pants,” she said holding her vowel sounds. Erica went to a local community college for a semester, but decided the school work was too hard to do and the parties were too easy to attend.
“Oh, shut up. It wasn’t an Ivy League school,” Sam chuckled and jokingly swatted Erica with the shirt she was unpacking.
Erica stretched her arms above her head, raising her shirt just enough, revealing her perfectly chiseled stomach. “I need to shower before we go, you should too. You look like shit.”
. . . . . .
The dark cobblestone streets of Edinburg were packed with flocks of people strolling in and out of the pubs. The light summer wind rushed over the faces of passersby leaving the touch of its coolness still present on their skin. The illuminated buildings were almost life-like, waving back and forth in the cool breeze. This night won’t make a difference just as the single nights before had no dramatic change, but put them all together and watch the evolution of history like a flipbook. Speed it up through the rough patches or slow it down, stopping on a page, lingering in its memory then turning to the next scene.
“Holy shit, how many Scotsman’s Pubs can there be? I think that’s the fifth one,” said Erica as she swiped a chunk of her red hair out of her eyes and put it behind her freckled ear.
“Well, it must be a sign,” Sam laughed, “let’s go in.” Sam grabbed Erica’s hand and yanked Erica towards her in the direction of the pub.
“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Erica froze in her tracks. “Samantha Joe Scott, what’s that on your hand?” she shrieked. “You’re still wearing that piece of garbage?” She grabbed Sam’s finger in amazement. “After what that little shit show did to you. Give me the ring right now. You are not wearing that pathetic excuse of a diamond for a man you’re not even engaged to.”
Sam knew that Erica was never too keen on the likes of Lexton. Sure Erica said he was cute, but she says that about most men. Erica and Lexton first met when he was an hour late from picking her up at the airport. Erica was livid and told Sam all about it. She also mentioned he had a slight wandering eye when they were walking through the terminal. Sam never thought twice about this minor detail considering the extent Erica likes to exaggerate. Erica also complained to Sam about the manner that Lexton ordered her around and the harshness of his voice when he did so, but Sam said that was just their relationship and that’s just how his voice sounded. Lexton worked late Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Erica asked if Sam thought that was strange, considering he was only an intern, but Sam said he was just making a name for himself. Sam reassured Erica he was genuinely nice and good to her, but the last straw was their engagement. Sam called Erica, screaming into the receiver, telling her how he popped the long awaited question, which wasn’t terribly romantic, but nonetheless Sam said she loved him and wanted to be with him. Erica made a point to tell Sam that Lexton McKay was a low down creep and in return Sam made her maid of honor.
. . . . . .
“This was supposed to be our trip, as in Lexton and mine, not yours and mine.” Sam’s green eyes were beginning to glisten over with thick sloppy tears. Lexton always said she was too emotional and over dramatic.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to go call him, go pick him up at the airport and take him to the hotel? Oh, wait he’s probably fucking his girlfriend. You know, the one he cheated on you with. Hell, it could be a reunion. Wouldn’t that be the cherry on top to such a great trip?” stated Erica while doing an excessive amount of meaningless hand gestures. Erica always had the knack for being bitchy, but this was excessive even for her.
“Fine, you win. Take the damn thing.” Sam inched the ring off of her left hand and sat down on the cement curb. She held it up in clear view of Erica and dropped it in her purse. “There, ya happy?” Sam asked with the same attitude she showed whenever Erica called her out on reality. Sure, she knew her brown eyed ex- fiancé was indeed fucking his new mistress, the one he cheated on her with, and had been for the better half of their fourteen month engagement. He was probably never going to come to his senses and realize that she, Sam, was the one for him, but there was always that small chance.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Consider this step number two of forgetting Lexton McKay.” Erica plopped down on the curb next to Sam.
“What? Am I in a twelve step program now?”
“Yeah, the home-made version, but consider it more of a four step program.” Erica put her lanky arm around Sam’s waist and gave her a tight squeeze. Sam leaned her head against Erica’s bony arm.
“Thanks, Ric” said Sam while exhaling a huge breath, laughing a little, and wiping the tears from her cheeks, “I needed that.”
. . . . . .
Old Scottish folklore filled the streets of Edinburgh, winding its way through the cobblestone walkways from the Scotsmen Pub. The bellows of Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond filled the air with horrible drunken jargon followed by calders spilt on the floor, staining the bleached hardwood with splotches of dark brown.
“What’s the name of this beer!” shouted Erica over the band disrupting her terrible singing abilities to a song she didn’t know the words to. “It’s the greatest beer I’ve ever had!” The music stopped.
“Aye, ‘tis a Calders,” said the man to her left. He was about 5’8’’ with flaming red hair just like her. Freckles were splattered all over his face and arms leaving very few speckled white spots visible. “Yer must be Americans.”
“How’d ya know?” Sam laughed giving him a slight slap on the back. “I love these songs.”
“Yer haven’t even ‘eard de good ones,” he said then taking a drink of his rich dark beer, winking at the two.
A taller man spotted Liam across the pub and came over to the corner where he was standing, weaving through a sea of drunkenness.
“Dermot Mullally, how ya gettin’ on?” Liam asked.
“Wait, you guys don’t sound Scottish,” said Sam furrowing her brow and pointing lightly at the both of them.
“That's cos we're not, we're from Oirland. We’re ‘ere for a Stag Party,” Liam said while waving the rest of the party over to them.
The other six members of the party slowly made their way over to Dermot, Liam, Sam, and Erica one by one. There was only one who broke six foot and all but three had red hair. They introduced themselves to Sam and Erica. They were all from Cork and only four of them had ever left the country. Two of them sported the name Dahey and the other five had Irish names the two girls could hardly pronounce.
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” asked Sam while playing with her gold necklace Lexton gave her on their one year anniversary, moving the gold plate side to side on its chain.
“Dis lad,” Dermot said while placing his hand on Liam’s shoulder, “but more unlucky than jammy if yer ask me.” He gave a quick chuckle.
“What’s her name?’ asked Erica butting her way into the conversation.
“Fiona, she’s gran’,” slurred Liam, “Not as gran’ as yer though.” He not so casually put his arm around Erica pressing his head into her shoulder nudging her like a cat.
“Ah,” Erica managed to let out, “aren’t you getting married?” She wiggled out of his firm grasp.
“Not for two months,” said Liam trying to be serious and hide his toothy grin. “If yer change yer name ter fiona jist for de night technically 'tis not cheatin'.
“Ah, leave de girl alone,” laughed Dermot. “Jist ignore ‘im, he’s trollied.” He turned his head and peered into Sam’s bright green eyes. “Samantha dear, do yer care to dance?”
“Ah, no, sorry. I’m not much of a dancer,” Sam said awkwardly, making more eye contact with the floor then at Dermot.
“Sam, consider this step number three. Go have some fun,” said Erica, pushing Sam towards the band and snatching her beer from her weak grasp. Dermot grabbed her hand and laced his fingers with hers. He placed his other hand on the small of her back.
“Ye ready love?” Dermot asked with a smile.
Dermot’s six foot frame swiftly moved around the dance floor followed by Sam. They weaved through the mounds of people with ease. He twirled, dipped, and swayed her. She was smiling and laughing for the first time since she could remember. She was actually enjoying herself, although Dermot Mullally wasn’t making it all that difficult.
Meanwhile, Erica was trying to fend off Liam. She was standing next to the counter with the rest of the stag party. They laughed, exchanged jokes, and gave a go at each other’s accents.
“Cum on, jist change yer name ter Fiona.” Liam nudged Erica with his elbow.
She laughed, “You are not going to give up on this are you? Sorry Liam. Friends don’t let friends screw short men. It’s in the rule book.” Erica raised her half empty glass to cheer.
“Ah, but love, we're de seem height layin' down.” He raised his glass in return with a cheeky smile.
Erica busted out laughing, “Well, ya got me, Liam. But you’re still not calling me Fiona. That’s my grandma’s cats name, it will forever be tainted.”
“Erica!” Sam yelled throwing her arms up and running towards her. “I forgot how much I loved dancing! Will you dance with me? Wait, hold that thought. I need another beer.
The ten of them sang, drank, and laughed until it hurt to breathe. The Scotsman was clearing out, leaving empty chairs, and the band was packing and putting away their equipment. Everyone was calling it a successful night in Edinburgh, going to bed, and waiting for another evening of drinking to present itself.
“Well Sammy, should we call it a night?” Erica asked while downing the rest of her calders.
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ tired. And we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” said Sam while rubbing her eyes attempting to wipe the sleep from them.
“Well lads,” said Erica while standing up, “it was wonderful meeting all of you, especially you, Liam.” Erica winked at him and waved her arm to bid them farewell. “Take it easy.”
“Samantha, may Oi talk ter yer over 'ere?” Dermot gestured her over to a couple of chairs.
“Yeah,” Samantha said looking at Erica and giving her an excited face, making her eyes big and opening her mouth, flashing a toothy beam. Dermot grabbed her hand and walked her over to the chairs.
Sam and Erica left a few minutes later and walked in silence, gathering their thoughts from their unexpected night. The cool, dark sky was illuminated by the lamp posts every couple of feet. The drunks were leaving the pubs stumbling their way back to their cozy beds. Sam linked arms Erica and laid her head on her bony arm for the thousandth time.
“It’s great to see you smile again, Sam,” said Erica softly tilting her own head onto Sam’s.
“He asked me to dinner tomorrow night, and I said I would go,” Sam said through a definite smile.
. . . . . .
“Erica, wake up.” Sam was pulling the covers off of the king size bed, allowing the cool air to strike Erica’s warm, limp body.
“A few more minutes,” mumbled Erica snatching the stark white sheet back and rolling over onto her side, “what time is it?”
“It’s 10:30. I let you sleep an extra thirty minutes, now hurry it up. We need to get to the castle before the line gets too big.” She turned on the shower and threw a beige towel onto Erica’s snarly red head. She ducked her head out of the bathroom door. “I mean it Ric. I’m going to go get us a couple of lattes and by the time I get back your pretty little ass better be showered and dressed.” Sam knew Erica’s sleeping tendencies. She often slept until one o’clock on her days off and didn’t shower until at least five o’clock, if at all. In high school, when Sam would spend the night at Erica’s she’d wake up around nine, go home, get ready, and wait for her to roll out of bed.
“Fine,” said Erica raising her head a few inches off her pillow and removing the towel Sam threw at her.
Sam left for the coffee shop and Erica slowly rolled out of bed. She looked in the mirror, “well don’t you look good.” She gave her hair a quick brush through, and jumped into the shower. She shaved, washed, shampooed, and finally rinsed off. She quickly dried her pale skin, slipped into some clothes, and started applying her make-up.
“Erica, you better be almost ready,” Sam said while unlocking their door. She poked her head into the bathroom, “well don’t you clean up nice. Here’s your double, sixteen ounce, French vanilla cappuccino.” Erica grabbed her coffee and put the finishing touches on her asymmetrical bob.
“Thanks, Sam. You’re a lifesaver.” Erica took a huge drink of her coffee. “Holy shit, this is the worst coffee I’ve ever had. It tastes almost burnt and it smells like,” she took a deep breath in, “like livestock.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Sam while looking for Erica’s scarf and coat. “I assumed it was just the coffee shop I went to, but I hit up two more on my way back and they all tasted the same, like burnt livestock.”
“Have you seen my coat?’ asked Erica, looking frantically in her suitcase.
“Yeah, I have it right here.” Sam handed Erica her jacket and scarf while opening the door, motioning for them to leave.
“Okay, okay, I’m ready. Don’t get your titties in a wringer,” said Erica. She put her coat and scarf on and shut the wooden door behind them. “So, tell me. Where are you and Dermot going on your date tonight?”
“It’s not even a date.” Sam was blushing.
“Ah, Samantha Dear, it is TOO a date. Don’t even act like it’s not.” Erica wrapped her arms around Sam’s shoulders forcing her to bend down, putting her in a head lock. “Repeat after me, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishmen. Say it!”
“No! Erica, let go! This was only funny when we were ten,” Sam pleaded.
“Say it or I’m not letting go. Do it.” Erica was laughing.
“Fine, I’m going on a date with a sexy Irishmen.” Now Sam was laughing. “Damn you, you always win that stupid game.” She fixed her hair and applied some more lipstick.
“That’s because I have three older brothers.” Erica linked arms with Sam. “You’re going to have a great time tonight.”
. . . . . .
The stone castle sits upon a staggered ridge, guarding the city of Edinburgh. Watching, listening, and waiting for the slightest movement, sound, and even excitement to come about. She has hundreds of years of dancing, booze and illness weaved into her floors and sketched into her rocky sides. She’s been there for years, as she’ll be there for much more, bringing beauty to all those who appreciate her choppy and decomposing structure.
The girls paid 12£ for their passes and made their way up the steep incline to the castle gates. Once they got to the top, they explored the cannons, the dining area, and tried their luck again with the coffee, which they both agreed was awful. They hiked to the very top of the castle that looked out over all of Edinburgh.
“This is so beautiful,” Erica said, attempting to tame her windblown hair, “it would be better if it wasn’t so damn cold.”
“Let’s take a picture!” exclaimed Sam, pulling out her Sony camera.
“No, my hair looks like shit. It’s lost all of its body,” said Erica trying to fluff her limp hair.
“Oh, who cares? Here, let’s have him take it.” Sam pointed to a tall, slender man who was a few feet in front them with his back turned in their direction. “Excuse me,” Sam tapped on his left shoulder. He turned around and faced the bright green eyes he had faced the night before. “Dermot?”
“Samantha, how ya getting’ on?” he asked, smiling and showing off his white teeth.
Sam and Erica never ended up getting a photograph by themselves. Instead, they took a picture with the stag party, with them in the middle and Liam not too far from Erica. The girls asked why they wanted to see the castle, since they live in Ireland and have definitely seen some before, but they said this was the most beautiful castle in all of the United Kingdom. After touring the castle, they ended up eating together at the Mitre and sharing a few pitchers of Guinness. They laughed, ate, and drank, before they knew it, it was four o’ clock.
I’M NOT FINISHED. I STILL NEED THE DATE WITH DERMOT :) BUT IT’S ON ITS WAY. I JUST WANT TO KNOW HOW YOU GUYS THINK THE VACATION IS COMING ALONG.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
What Satellites Don’t Know - by Rita Rieffenberger
In satellite photos taken of the United States at night there is a large, lake of darkness that is Nevada. In the lake there is a bright island – the brightest in the world. This is a city nicknamed “Sin City.” A city where you can get married by Elvis with no questions asked. A city where you can make or lose a fortune. A city that vibrates with the ebb and flow of booze, strippers, tourists, and electricity. It is the oasis in Nevada’s desolate dessert.
On a summer morning in this oasis, a woman named Jenny Page, is asleep on the 38th floor of a major casino. She lays with a crème colored sheet draped over her legs and her hair cascading across a down pillow. Her lips, still stained with yesterday’s lipstick, are slightly parted. Her arm rests on the curve of her side covering a jagged, pink scar that tattoos her ribs.
Jenny wakes up with a familiar feeling: brain clouded with a dull ache, body pinned down with gravity, nausea pulsing through her stomach, wondering where she is. A vaguely familiar rasping noise has woken her. She turns towards the source and finds the shape of a middle-aged man snoring in bed next to her.
She sits up and waits for her double vision to focus. Blinking her eyes in an attempt to gain clarity, she surveys the room around her. The room is large with beige carpet, and there are big windows covered with darker beige curtains. The bedspread is striped green and pink, matching the floral paintings on the wall across from her. Next to her is a small, oak table with a phone and lamp.
From these clues Jenny deduces that she is in a suite in The Bellagio. The fog in her head starts to clear, and Jenny remembers the events of last night and who the man next to her is. His name is Bob Lewart, and he’s a businessman from Philadelphia. Last night he won $150,000 at the craps table; Jenny’s wallet is now fatter with $1,500 of it.
She pulls herself out of bed wearing only a lacey, black Louis Vuitton bra. She stumbles around the room gathering her scattered belongings, hopping into her underwear, shimmying into her black dress, and strapping on her 3-inch stilettos. In the bathroom she runs her fingers through her long, blonde hair and attempts to rub off the disheveled makeup from under her eyes.
Jenny heads for the door and takes a last look at Bob. “Poor bastard,” Jenny says to herself with a satisfied smile on her face. His plane leaves in three hours, and he’ll be back in Pennsylvania with his wife, kids, and over $130,000 dollars. Vegas and Jenny will just be a wild memory and a great story to tell his poker buddies.
She takes the elevator down and goes through a back way – the employee way. As she passes the maids whisper, but she doesn’t care. People say a lot of things.
Jenny doesn’t have a job in the traditional sense of the word. Her job is to smell good. Her job is to have perfectly styled hair, perfectly lined eyes, and a perfect smile that can blind any eye. Her job is to accentuate her three-foot long legs and her cleavage. Her job is to be present at the casinos with the confidence of a queen and be able to smell wealth better than a bloodhound.
Her job is to con rich men out of their money. She usually does this with the power of seduction.
Some would say this makes Jenny’s job prostitution. But she doesn’t consider it that. Some would say this is degrading. But Jenny doesn’t see it that way, either. She knows who is in charge and who has the power.
For her it’s the men who are degraded. It’s the men who drool over her glowing skin and spend their winnings on gifts of designer clothes, five star dinners, Jacuzzi suites, and often a portion of their winnings. It’s the starry-eyed men, who come to Vegas with dreams of riches and beautiful blondes attached to their arms, that fall under the enchantment of Jenny’s blue eyes.
Just like Bob Lewhart. He was a particularly big sucker, Jenny thinks as she exits The Bellagio. The blaring sunlight stops her in her tracks and brings back the throb in her head. The hot air outside sharply contrasts the crispness of the air-conditioned air inside. She fishes through her purse and produces an over-sized pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.
The Strip is already filled with tourists. There are old people shuffling along in sweat suits and fanny packs. There are parents with their children attached to leashes. There are men passing out flyers with pictures of strippers. And there is Jenny whose heels click across the sidewalk already littered with these flyers.
She lights up a Camel Filter and walks the nine blocks to her apartment. She lives on the second floor of a run-down building east of the Strip. Calling it a shit hole might be an understatement. She could afford something better but doesn’t see the point of it.
Before ascending the stairs, Jenny stops and pets a mangy, brown dog. This dog is always waiting here, for what Jenny doesn’t know. But she pets him every time in spite of his undesirable appearance. He looks at her with hopeful eyes. What he really wants is food, but Jenny doesn’t have any. Maybe next time I’ll bring him something, Jenny thinks for the hundredth time.
Her apartment is dimly lit with sunlight filtered through red curtains. It is a studio and isn’t furnished except for a mattress on the floor. On the floor is also a carpet of fancy clothes mixed with the sharp spikes of heels.
She strips off the clothes she just put on and adds them to the pile on the floor. She picks her way through the mess, careful not to impale herself with a stiletto, and collapses on her mattress to sleep off the hangover.
She wakes up at about three o’clock and begins her daily routine. Jenny gets in the shower and shampoos and conditions, then shaves and exfoliates. She gets out of the shower and moisturizes, plucks, and whitens. With layers of makeup she conceals the circles under her eyes. Then she paints those eyes like Cleopatra and her nails the color of blood.
Slowly she picks out her outfit. A pair of dark wash, skinny fit True Religion jeans, compliments of a Russian businessman who smelled like onions. A silver, sparkly top that scoops just low enough, which was given to her by a handsome, young millionaire. A pair of black, Gucci heels that came from some man who is now only a blurry image in Jenny’s mind. She adorns the outfit with shiny jewelry from Tiffany’s; a gift she gave herself.
She swallows a Vicodin, then crushes up another one and snorts it. The hip drug of choice in Vegas is ecstasy, followed by lines of cocaine as the drug fades. But ecstasy makes people emotional and careless, and Jenny cannot afford either of those attributes.
She wonders when the last time she was completely sober. But quickly shrugs off this thought as she takes one last look in the mirror, squirts herself with Chanel and leaves. Through the neon jungle Jenny makes her way back to The Bellagio. With a cigarette in hand she walks past the sunken ship of Treasure Island and past the volcano at The Mirage. Across the street from the Eiffel Tower, she enters The Bellagio just as the fountains begin to erupt.
“Hey Jenny! What’s up girl?” asks a valet driver in a red suit.
“Hey Johnny! Oh you know, the usual,” says Jenny with a wink.
“All right. Well let me know if you need anything,” says Johnny returning her wink. Jenny knows everyone at The Bellagio; this is where she does her business. Valets are particularly good people to know. They know who’s coming and going at all times. And usually based on what car the customers drive and how much money they tip, valets have a pretty good idea of how much money the customers have. Also, valets will get you whatever you want for the right price: drugs, hookers, special invites, limo rides, anything.
Inside the ground-level casino there are hundreds of people gambling, moving, gawking, and searching for their next machine, drink, or activity. The sea of people is throbbing with the bustle. And through this sea Jenny walks with a certain calculated stillness. There is something about the stride of her legs and the slow swing of her hips that contrast the chaos surrounding her. But the shine in her eyes, smile, and hair seems to reflect Vegas itself.
She walks through the casino waving and saying hello to the dealers and attendants. She goes to The Petrossian Bar. Jenny has the ability to drink for many consecutive hours. She sits at the bar, and the bartender places a gin and tonic in front of her.
Everyone here knows Jenny. They know that Jenny comes with money and that money tips big. They know what she drinks, they know what men she’s looking for, and they know that Jenny always gets what she wants.
They don’t know that Jenny’s last name is Page and that she lives in a shitty, studio apartment. They don’t know that Jenny has moved twenty-one times in her twenty-seven years, or that she has never seen her father.
Jenny was born in a small town in Illinois to a mother with irresistible looks and poor decision-making skills. Her mother bounced from job to job, from town to town, and from boyfriend to boyfriend. They moved each time her mother had another disastrous breakup.
At the age of thirteen Jenny’s mother left to Florida with her latest meal ticket, and Jenny moved to her Grandma’s in Clarksville, Indiana.
Jenny grew up tall and developed early. Everyday she looked more and more like her mother. By the time she was in eighth grade, Jenny was dating juniors and seniors in high school.
At the age of seventeen Jenny left Indiana without a diploma to follow her boyfriend who was pursuing his rock star dreams in Los Angeles. But her boyfriend wasn’t the next Jimi Hendrix, and their relationship ended within months of the move.
Jenny stayed on the west coast and went through boyfriend after boyfriend in search of her prince charming and the true love that Disney movies had promised her. She searched for what her mother never had, but only found herself in the same footsteps she had tried to avoid.
At the age of twenty-one, alone and bitter, Jenny swore off the idea of love. At the time she was working at a bar in the Los Angeles Airport. Rich men would come in and buy her drinks and offer to take her to dinner. Jenny would agree for the opportunity of a free meal. Soon she realized how much these men were willing to pay for her company. After a while she was able to spot them. The men whose eyes glinted when they met hers, who had an indent on their left index fingers from absent wedding rings, who wore thousand dollar suits, drank scotch on the rocks, and tipped in twenties.
Many of these men, Jenny found, were coming from or going to Las Vegas. One weekend Jenny and a friend took a trip there. It was Jenny’s first time and a week later she moved to Vegas.
She started as a bartender and learned the ways of Vegas and the casino quickly. She started slowly by swindling a rich man here and there, but after two years Jenny was making enough to quit bartending all together.
But these thoughts don’t cross Jenny’s mind as she sips her drink. Jenny doesn’t think about the past or the future, only the present. She sits there for two cocktails and jokes with the bartender and other regulars. Then Bruce Spencer, the casino floor manager, comes in. “Hello Doll,” he says with velvet voice. He puts one arm around her, and she kisses him on both cheeks. “So how’d it go with that Philly guy?” Bruce asks. Bruce is from the east coast and has a fading accent that could be either from New Jersey or Massachusetts.
Jenny gives a modest smile. “Very, very well to say the least.”
“I knew that guy was rolling in it when he tipped me $100 for exchanging his money. Listen to me Jenny. I know who’s a sucker and who isn’t.”
“Don’t worry, Bruce, you know I always listen to you. And just so you know, it was me who told him to tip you well.”
Bruce smiles widely showing the hint of a gold veneer. “That’s what I love about you Jenny, always looking out for us.”
“That’s because I know who takes care of me.”
“Well, speakin’ of taking care of you, I actually came here to tell you that some well-to-do lawyer from Chicago just got here. He just started playin’, and so far he’s hot.”
“Hhm. I was sort of thinking of taking it easy, because I made out so well last night. But I was just about to step out for a cigarette, so I’ll check it out.”
Bruce escorts Jenny down to the casino. As they part ways, Jenny sees the man Bruce was talking about. He’s tall and looks a close to fifty. He has silver hair, a strong jaw, slightly tan skin, and a fairly decent body for someone his age. Jenny shrugs. Not too bad, she thinks to herself.
She goes out the side door. Johnny, the valet, is also taking a cigarette break. “Hey,” Johnny says with a nod.
Jenny lights her cigarette. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Actually I was just about to text you. You hear about that lawyer guy from Chicago?”
Jenny nods while taking a long drag from her cigarette.
“Well, he’s totally packin’ yo. The Mirage called to let us know that he was on his way, and Domenic, he’s like this big car buff you know, told me this guy’s some big shot from Chicago staying in a penthouse suite and that he tips big and drives this ’64 Ferrari. So get this, he pulls up in and I patted the hood and give him this real serious look and say ‘Is this a ’64?’ And he looks all impressed and tips me a hundo,” Johhny says between drags of his cigarette. He and Jenny never talk about where they’re from, but Jenny can tell he’s from L.A. “Jenny, listen to me, I’m telling you this guy is packin’, and he’s a sucker.”
“Johnny, you know I always listen to you,” Jenny replies, and as she puts out her butt she decides that this guy is definitely worth a try.
She goes back into the artificial, red lights and steps up to the craps table next to Mr. Chicago. The dealer, Rick, gives her a nod that she returns. Although Jenny has no official authority here, everyone thinks she is someone important. The silver-haired man gives her a sideways glance. He wins again and gives Jenny a full look, taking in her long legs, sensuous body, and beautiful face. She returns his look with an encouraging smile. He bets again and wins. His total is up to $150,000.
He puts $50,000 down for a pair of twos and looks at Jenny and says, “I’m feeling sort of lucky,” with a gleeful grin.
In Vegas, everyone believes in luck. Jenny makes men feel lucky. They feel lucky she is even standing next to them. She looks lucky. She radiates rich. She smells like dreams come true.
Jenny believes in luck, but she believes she creates her own.
The dice slowly tumble to a stop and show two twos. The man jumps up with his arms in the air. He turns to Jenny and hugs her in his elation. He pulls away and looks slightly embarrassed.
“Congratulations,” says Jenny with her most genuinely excited smile.
“Thank you,” the man says still on his adrenaline high. “I’m done though. I’d like to cash out,” he says to the dealer. Bruce, who is always watching big wins, steps up to the table and collects the man’s chips in a briefcase. “I’m smart enough to know when to quit,” the man says to Jenny.
“Well, you definitely seem to know what you’re doing,” Jenny says in an enticing voice.
“Yes, it would appear so,” he says gesturing to his chips.
“I will go and cash these in for you, sir,” says Bruce. “It will only take a bit. Would you like to go get a drink in the Petrossian, and I’ll deliver your winnings there?”
“That would be great,” says the man and turns to Jenny. “Would you like to join me for a drink?”
“Of course,” she purrs.
Jenny returns to The Petrossian, and they sit at a table. The man introduces himself as Charles and orders a scotch. Jenny smiles to herself.
The trick is that people love to talk about themselves. These men love to talk about their achievements, their boyhoods, and the things they own. Jenny acts excited and enthusiastic about their boastful stories. She pokes and prods their pride until it is full blown. With her “ohs” and “ahs” she fattens their egos. She asks a hundred questions but never asks about wives or children.
Just as their drinks are dwindling, Bruce shows up with Charles’ money. “Here you are, sir,” he says handing Charles an envelope of money and winking at Jenny.
“Well, what do you say,” Charles asks Jenny, “how about you help me spend some of this money on a extravagant dinner at the Michael Mina?”
“I’d love to,” Jenny says with a girlish smile. The two walk to the elevator and take it up to the 18th floor. Someone could spend years inside one casino; it has everything anyone could want.
As they pass the eighth floor which houses The Bank, a hip nightclub, Jenny thinks of her nights when no one big comes in. She spends those nights inside the clubs with heirs, heiresses, celebrities, and other Las Vegas elite staying up until eight in the morning. In the V.I.P rooms there are platters with small mountain ranges of coke, pills of every variety, and ridiculously expensive alcohol that has the same results as the cheap stuff. But tonight isn’t a night for that; it’s a night for working.
The restaurant is booked, and they don’t have reservations. Charles slips the hostess a fifty, but it is unnecessary, because once she sees Jenny she seats them at once. They get a nice, quiet table in the back.
They have a gourmet dinner, that costs $100 a plate, and drink two bottles of wine that cost $350 each. Jenny keeps the subject on Charles and flirts without effort. After he has paid the bill, he asks Jenny to join him for another drink at The Fontana Bar. This is too easy, Jenny thinks.
They sit on the outdoor patio just as the fountains begin. Jenny drinks a gin and tonic and smokes a cigarette. Charles gazes at the fountains and raves about the wonders of Vegas. After the show is finished, he turns back to Jenny and says, “I noticed the great taste you have in jewelry,” as he reaches across the table and caresses Jenny’s tennis bracelet with his soft, strong hands. “You can always judge a woman’s character by the jewelry she wears.”
“Well, thank you. I picked it out as birthday present for myself,” Jenny says.
“A woman as beautiful as you should never have to buy her own jewelry. You know, I’m in town for a couple of days. Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow. What do you think?”
“I think that would be nice,” Jenny replies with a smile. They finish their drinks, and Charles invites her back to the Mirage. Jenny agrees. They exit The Bellagio and wait for the car. Johnny pulls up in the Ferrari and hands Charles the keys, and then Johnny opens the door for Jenny and gives her a knowing smile.
They drive to the Mirage, which is only two blocks away. As they walk in, Charles puts his arm around Jenny’s waist, and they enter into the depths of the casino.
Jenny gets out of bed. The room is completely dark except for the red glow of the clock that reads 4:28 a.m. She pads over to the window and pulls the curtain aside. The street is still pulsating.
This city moves at a pace faster than anywhere. Once a building is over thirty years old, it is torn down and rebuilt bigger, better, and more expensive. The cars cruising the strip, are cars made to go from zero to sixty in eight seconds. The lights are always on, always blinking, never stopping. Days and nights become the same thing, and hours morph into days that morph into weeks, and soon time has warped into years.
For a moment Jenny has to recollect what year it is and how long she has lived here. Six years, echoes through her mind. She shivers and notices the air conditioner billowing the curtain and blowing onto her legs.
She goes to the bathroom and turns on the bright, white light. Her eyes struggle to adjust as she quietly shuts the door. Jenny holds her hands under the tap until it is warm enough to splash her face with. Then she looks at her glossy, wet features in the mirror.
Her face is still youthful, but the darkness under her eyes and the tiny lines forming around them are evidence of her lifestyle. And her eyes behold the haughty gaze of someone who grew up too fast and learned the hardness of life too early. “Is this really me?” she whispers aloud. Her voice sounds strange and foreign in the quiet.
Jenny turns to the full-length mirror and examines her naked body. She looks at her long, slender legs and the jut of her hipbone. She looks at the expanse of her flat belly and stops at her ribs gazing at her scar as her fingers gently caress it. Suddenly Jenny wishes she were eleven again more than she wants anything Versace.
She wishes she could be bare foot in the tall grass, breathing in the humid Kentucky summer. She wishes she could taste the cold, earthy flavor of water directly from the hose as it splashes against her face and trickles from her chin down her body leaving trails in her dusty skin. She wishes she could smell the sweet, musty scent of a horse and feel its massive power beneath her.
When Jenny was eleven, her mother was living with a man in a small Cinninati apartment that was too cramped to house Jenny. So her mother sent her to live with a second cousin in Kentucky. The woman’s name was Elma, and she and her husband lived on a farm.
Jenny spent the summer riding horses, catching frogs, helping weed the garden, and running through the fields. It was the best summer of her life.
Once Jenny was running through the field with bare feet. She was running as fast as her long legs would carry her, and for a moment she thought she was flying. Her feet thudded against the ground, but the soles, harden from a shoeless summer, felt nothing. Suddenly her foot fell into a ditch hidden by tall grass. It caused Jenny to trip and fall onto the opposite bank. As she fell a sharp stick stabbed her ribs and created a two-inch long gash.
She looked at the torn, white skin. She seemed to stare at it for a full minute before the truly red blood came to the surface and seeped onto her blue shirt creating a large purple stain. Jenny held her wound all the way home. By the time she got there her hand was covered in blood. Elma doctored the cut with iodine. It stung worse than anything Jenny had felt, but she didn’t care. It was a small price to pay, to know you were alive.
The pain left, and the scar and her memories faded but always remained. Jenny forever dreamed of a life on the land. But God didn’t grant her a family farm or a cowboy for a husband. He granted her beauty and charm, and she did the best she could.
Jenny still stands in front of the mirror, in the bright, white tile bathroom, and tries to repress this wave of nostalgia. “I need a fucking cigrette,” Jenny whispers aloud again. But the “no smoking” sign warns her against it. Instead she goes back into the room. Darkness engulfs her as she gropes for her purse and finds a pill bottle. She swallows an Ambien and climbs back into the king-size bed.
A hand gently shakes Jenny awake. She opens her eyes and takes a moment to decipher whose face she is looking at.
“Jenny, I have to go to a meeting, but you can stay as long as you like,” says Charles.
Jenny mumbles a sleepy reply.
“How about we meet at the fountains at eight for some dinner and maybe some late night shopping?”
“OK,” Jenny nods sleepily.
“OK, see you there,” says Charles. He kisses Jenny on the forehead and leaves. As soon as he shuts the door, Jenny gets up, dresses, and leaves. She goes back to her apartment and sleeps a few more hours. Then she showers and gets ready. It’s only three o’clock, but Jenny decides to head to the Bellagio and have a few drinks before meeting with Charles.
When she arrives Johnny is at his usual post in front of the building. Today standing next to him is someone Jenny’s never seen before. The guy is dressed in the same red suit and appears to be a rookie. As Jenny says hello to Johnny, he eyes her up and down.
Jenny goes into the casino, says her round of hellos, and ventures to The Petrossian. The bar is unusually quiet and Rick, the head bartender is training someone new.
Rick introduces the new guy as Kevin and pours Jenny a gin and tonic. Then he goes back to training Kevin. Jenny looks around; there’s no one to talk to. Bored, Jenny sucks down three double gin and tonics and contemplates how to get Charles to buy her that Versace dress. As she slurps up the last bit, she realizes it has been much too long since her last cigarette.
She goes out to her usual spot, a place designated for employee smoking. At first she thinks she’s alone, but hears two voices from around the corner.
Jenny recognizes one of the voices as Johnny’s and soon realizes the second is the new valet. By the sound of a liter clicking and muffled coughs, she can tell they’re getting high, a favorite past time of Bellagio employees.
They haven’t noticed Jenny, and suddenly she doesn’t feel like company. She steps beside one of the vending machines. Hidden from sight, she slouches against it and listens to their conversation.
“So what do ya think of the job so far, man?” asks Johhny.
“It’s pretty tight,” says the new guy as he exhales the smoke.
“Yeah, man, you just wait. We got all the hook ups, getta drive fast cars, and look at hot girls all day.”
“There were a lot of hotties comin’ in and outta this place.”
“I know,” says Johnny trying to hold in a hit.
“Who was that sexy, blonde babe who said hi to you earlier?”
Johnny pauses for a moment. “Oh, you mean Jenny. Yeah she’s a real fine piece.”
“No joke. So what’s her deal? She work here or something?”
“Haha. Well sort of, she’s a total hooker, yo.”
“No shit, man,” says the new guy slightly incredulous. “I guess that figures.”
They continue chatting as they head back to work. But Jenny hears none of it. Gravity seems to be tugging her heart and stomach down. Her mind empties completely except for one word: hooker. She stands still and the word beats in her mind with the rhythm of her heart. Hooker. The word reverberates through her now hollow mind. Hooker.
She stands there alone in the concrete enclosure, which smells of hot asphalt, damp garbage, and layers of cigarette smoke. She stands there for a while as her senses slowly come back to her. She looks down at the smoldering butt in her hand and throws it on the ground.
The door back into the casino opens as a small, middle-aged housekeeper comes out for her cigarette break. Jenny recognizes her; she has worked her for many years. The woman smiles at Jenny, and she manages to pull her lips into a practiced smile. Then Jenny slips through the door, back into the casino. She suppresses the urge to throw up, sucks in her stomach, throws back her shoulders, holds her head up, and walks through the casino and exits on the strip.
Jenny holds her composure until she is off the strip. Her stomach contracts, and she retches into a row of bushes next to the sidewalk. She heaves several more times on her hands and knees.
She sits on the sidewalk and tries to spit out the bitter taste of alcohol and stomach acid. Tears filled her mascara and eyeliner cut channels through her concealer, foundation, and powder. She wipes the polluted tears from her face and dripping nose. She looks at her hand and realizes her nose is bleeding from the blood that matches her nail polish.
Suddenly Jenny feels as though she has lived 100 years. She can feel the tar in her lungs from her pack a day habit. Her liver aches from years and years for being marinated in gin. And as she inhales her sinuses prickle with the bruises of drug abuse.
She has the urge to crawl into the bushes, which now contain her vomit, and sleep for a thousand years. But instead she removes her heels and heads home. Even though Jenny has walked in heels for the last ten years, she can’t bare six more blocks.
The block before her apartment, Jenny stops at a 7-Eleven. She goes to the section with dog food and contemplates which bag to buy. Her hand reaches for the cheaper bag, but instead she grabs the more expensive one.
As she puts the dog food on the counter, the cashier eyes her curiously. Jenny’s hair is a mess, her face contains a mixture of smeared makeup and dried blood, and two heels dangle in her hand.
“I’ll have a pack of Camel Filters, too,” she says. “My last pack.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he says with indifference. Jenny smiles and swallows the sudden urge to giggle.
As she approaches her apartment, the brown dog’s tail slowly thuds the concrete.
“I got you something,” she coos with a pleased smile. “Yes I did.”
She rips open the bag and pours a portion onto the ground. “Sorry I don’t have a bowl,” says Jenny as she pets him. She goes upstairs, takes a shower, and sleeps for a long time.
When she wakes up she goes through all her belongings, which mostly entails clothing. She separates everything into two piles. One of them, significantly smaller than the other, she stuffs into a blue duffel bag. The rest she puts in three black garbage bags. She goes to her closet and retrieves a shoebox from the top shelf. In the box is all of Jenny’s money. She counts it. There is $8,537. She puts $1,000 in an envelope and the remainder in her duffel bag. She takes the envelope and tapes it to her landlord’s door, along with her key.
Jenny hauls all her bags downstairs and stops to pet the dog and pour a little more food out. She leaves him there on the sidewalk with a bag of dog food and goes to a pawn shop a block away.
Inside the dimly lit shop, the man rifles through the bags pulling out pairs of designer heels, purses, belts, jackets, jeans, skirts, and dresses. He shakes his head in disbelief as more and more expensive items emerge from the depths of the black garbage bags. He looks at Jenny as though she were Mary Poppins herself.
“Are these all real?” he asks in a suspicious tone.
“Of course,” Jenny says. But she can tell by the look of awe on his face that he knows they are. The man assesses the articles again with his narrow, brown eyes.
“I’ll give you $2,000 for everything,” he says.
“Ha! You know very well that those boots alone are worth at least…” Jenny begins to argue. But she stops herself and looks at all her belongings scattered across the glass counter and gurgitating out of the bags. All of the things she had collected over the years, all of her rewards, all she had cared about lied in front of her. Bought new, it is all worth close to a million, but Jenny finally sees that it is all merely clothing.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll take it.”
The man tries to keep a poker face, but can’t hide his smile of elation. He quickly counts the cash and hands it to Jenny before she can change her mind.
Jenny leaves the pawnshop with her small, blue duffel bag slung over her shoulder and walks to the bus depot. An unusual crowd of slightly vagrant people with large packs sits on the benches passing time with blank stares. The air smells of gasoline fumes, disinfectant bathroom cleaner, and people who have been riding on buses for too long.
She steps up to the ticket counter. An older man with kind blue eyes flashes a denture-filled smile. “Good mornin’. What can I do for ya, young lady?”
“Well, I’d like to buy a ticket on the next bus out of here. Where’s it going?”
“Well the next bus leaves in forty-five minutes, to Missoula, Montana.”
“Hmm,” Jenny considers this prospect. “Have you ever been to Montana?”
His grin widens and a deep chuckle rises from his throat. “As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m from.”
“Oh yeah? So what’s it like?”
“I’d say it’s the prettiest state in the union. But very different from here, a whole lotta land and sky, not a lotta people.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. I have one seat left,” he says with a wink.
Jenny takes the ticket in exchange for $60. She sits on one of the black metal benches and waits for the bus to arrive. The last sunlight of the day illuminates the blonde hair that drapes down her neck and shoulders. It reflects in her vibrant eyes and kisses the tip of her unmade-up nose. A ray of it cascades across her legs, revealing her left knee poking through a hole in her worn jeans. Her pink T-shirt hangs loosely around her frame, and her arm rests against her ribs pressing into the jagged pink scar.
The odd assortment of wanders continue to mill around the bus station, shuffling between the benches and bathrooms. The street outside trembles slightly as cars zip past. And as those cars move closer to the strip the tremble turns into a throb, which then becomes the rhythmic thud of a heart beat. But in the fading light the crowds that fill the sidewalks and casinos are too distracted by the sensational sights to hear it.
As darkness blankets Nevada, a grey hound bus leaves for Montana, and a satellite that orbits the earth takes a photo of the bright star that is Sin City.
On a summer morning in this oasis, a woman named Jenny Page, is asleep on the 38th floor of a major casino. She lays with a crème colored sheet draped over her legs and her hair cascading across a down pillow. Her lips, still stained with yesterday’s lipstick, are slightly parted. Her arm rests on the curve of her side covering a jagged, pink scar that tattoos her ribs.
Jenny wakes up with a familiar feeling: brain clouded with a dull ache, body pinned down with gravity, nausea pulsing through her stomach, wondering where she is. A vaguely familiar rasping noise has woken her. She turns towards the source and finds the shape of a middle-aged man snoring in bed next to her.
She sits up and waits for her double vision to focus. Blinking her eyes in an attempt to gain clarity, she surveys the room around her. The room is large with beige carpet, and there are big windows covered with darker beige curtains. The bedspread is striped green and pink, matching the floral paintings on the wall across from her. Next to her is a small, oak table with a phone and lamp.
From these clues Jenny deduces that she is in a suite in The Bellagio. The fog in her head starts to clear, and Jenny remembers the events of last night and who the man next to her is. His name is Bob Lewart, and he’s a businessman from Philadelphia. Last night he won $150,000 at the craps table; Jenny’s wallet is now fatter with $1,500 of it.
She pulls herself out of bed wearing only a lacey, black Louis Vuitton bra. She stumbles around the room gathering her scattered belongings, hopping into her underwear, shimmying into her black dress, and strapping on her 3-inch stilettos. In the bathroom she runs her fingers through her long, blonde hair and attempts to rub off the disheveled makeup from under her eyes.
Jenny heads for the door and takes a last look at Bob. “Poor bastard,” Jenny says to herself with a satisfied smile on her face. His plane leaves in three hours, and he’ll be back in Pennsylvania with his wife, kids, and over $130,000 dollars. Vegas and Jenny will just be a wild memory and a great story to tell his poker buddies.
She takes the elevator down and goes through a back way – the employee way. As she passes the maids whisper, but she doesn’t care. People say a lot of things.
Jenny doesn’t have a job in the traditional sense of the word. Her job is to smell good. Her job is to have perfectly styled hair, perfectly lined eyes, and a perfect smile that can blind any eye. Her job is to accentuate her three-foot long legs and her cleavage. Her job is to be present at the casinos with the confidence of a queen and be able to smell wealth better than a bloodhound.
Her job is to con rich men out of their money. She usually does this with the power of seduction.
Some would say this makes Jenny’s job prostitution. But she doesn’t consider it that. Some would say this is degrading. But Jenny doesn’t see it that way, either. She knows who is in charge and who has the power.
For her it’s the men who are degraded. It’s the men who drool over her glowing skin and spend their winnings on gifts of designer clothes, five star dinners, Jacuzzi suites, and often a portion of their winnings. It’s the starry-eyed men, who come to Vegas with dreams of riches and beautiful blondes attached to their arms, that fall under the enchantment of Jenny’s blue eyes.
Just like Bob Lewhart. He was a particularly big sucker, Jenny thinks as she exits The Bellagio. The blaring sunlight stops her in her tracks and brings back the throb in her head. The hot air outside sharply contrasts the crispness of the air-conditioned air inside. She fishes through her purse and produces an over-sized pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses.
The Strip is already filled with tourists. There are old people shuffling along in sweat suits and fanny packs. There are parents with their children attached to leashes. There are men passing out flyers with pictures of strippers. And there is Jenny whose heels click across the sidewalk already littered with these flyers.
She lights up a Camel Filter and walks the nine blocks to her apartment. She lives on the second floor of a run-down building east of the Strip. Calling it a shit hole might be an understatement. She could afford something better but doesn’t see the point of it.
Before ascending the stairs, Jenny stops and pets a mangy, brown dog. This dog is always waiting here, for what Jenny doesn’t know. But she pets him every time in spite of his undesirable appearance. He looks at her with hopeful eyes. What he really wants is food, but Jenny doesn’t have any. Maybe next time I’ll bring him something, Jenny thinks for the hundredth time.
Her apartment is dimly lit with sunlight filtered through red curtains. It is a studio and isn’t furnished except for a mattress on the floor. On the floor is also a carpet of fancy clothes mixed with the sharp spikes of heels.
She strips off the clothes she just put on and adds them to the pile on the floor. She picks her way through the mess, careful not to impale herself with a stiletto, and collapses on her mattress to sleep off the hangover.
She wakes up at about three o’clock and begins her daily routine. Jenny gets in the shower and shampoos and conditions, then shaves and exfoliates. She gets out of the shower and moisturizes, plucks, and whitens. With layers of makeup she conceals the circles under her eyes. Then she paints those eyes like Cleopatra and her nails the color of blood.
Slowly she picks out her outfit. A pair of dark wash, skinny fit True Religion jeans, compliments of a Russian businessman who smelled like onions. A silver, sparkly top that scoops just low enough, which was given to her by a handsome, young millionaire. A pair of black, Gucci heels that came from some man who is now only a blurry image in Jenny’s mind. She adorns the outfit with shiny jewelry from Tiffany’s; a gift she gave herself.
She swallows a Vicodin, then crushes up another one and snorts it. The hip drug of choice in Vegas is ecstasy, followed by lines of cocaine as the drug fades. But ecstasy makes people emotional and careless, and Jenny cannot afford either of those attributes.
She wonders when the last time she was completely sober. But quickly shrugs off this thought as she takes one last look in the mirror, squirts herself with Chanel and leaves. Through the neon jungle Jenny makes her way back to The Bellagio. With a cigarette in hand she walks past the sunken ship of Treasure Island and past the volcano at The Mirage. Across the street from the Eiffel Tower, she enters The Bellagio just as the fountains begin to erupt.
“Hey Jenny! What’s up girl?” asks a valet driver in a red suit.
“Hey Johnny! Oh you know, the usual,” says Jenny with a wink.
“All right. Well let me know if you need anything,” says Johnny returning her wink. Jenny knows everyone at The Bellagio; this is where she does her business. Valets are particularly good people to know. They know who’s coming and going at all times. And usually based on what car the customers drive and how much money they tip, valets have a pretty good idea of how much money the customers have. Also, valets will get you whatever you want for the right price: drugs, hookers, special invites, limo rides, anything.
Inside the ground-level casino there are hundreds of people gambling, moving, gawking, and searching for their next machine, drink, or activity. The sea of people is throbbing with the bustle. And through this sea Jenny walks with a certain calculated stillness. There is something about the stride of her legs and the slow swing of her hips that contrast the chaos surrounding her. But the shine in her eyes, smile, and hair seems to reflect Vegas itself.
She walks through the casino waving and saying hello to the dealers and attendants. She goes to The Petrossian Bar. Jenny has the ability to drink for many consecutive hours. She sits at the bar, and the bartender places a gin and tonic in front of her.
Everyone here knows Jenny. They know that Jenny comes with money and that money tips big. They know what she drinks, they know what men she’s looking for, and they know that Jenny always gets what she wants.
They don’t know that Jenny’s last name is Page and that she lives in a shitty, studio apartment. They don’t know that Jenny has moved twenty-one times in her twenty-seven years, or that she has never seen her father.
Jenny was born in a small town in Illinois to a mother with irresistible looks and poor decision-making skills. Her mother bounced from job to job, from town to town, and from boyfriend to boyfriend. They moved each time her mother had another disastrous breakup.
At the age of thirteen Jenny’s mother left to Florida with her latest meal ticket, and Jenny moved to her Grandma’s in Clarksville, Indiana.
Jenny grew up tall and developed early. Everyday she looked more and more like her mother. By the time she was in eighth grade, Jenny was dating juniors and seniors in high school.
At the age of seventeen Jenny left Indiana without a diploma to follow her boyfriend who was pursuing his rock star dreams in Los Angeles. But her boyfriend wasn’t the next Jimi Hendrix, and their relationship ended within months of the move.
Jenny stayed on the west coast and went through boyfriend after boyfriend in search of her prince charming and the true love that Disney movies had promised her. She searched for what her mother never had, but only found herself in the same footsteps she had tried to avoid.
At the age of twenty-one, alone and bitter, Jenny swore off the idea of love. At the time she was working at a bar in the Los Angeles Airport. Rich men would come in and buy her drinks and offer to take her to dinner. Jenny would agree for the opportunity of a free meal. Soon she realized how much these men were willing to pay for her company. After a while she was able to spot them. The men whose eyes glinted when they met hers, who had an indent on their left index fingers from absent wedding rings, who wore thousand dollar suits, drank scotch on the rocks, and tipped in twenties.
Many of these men, Jenny found, were coming from or going to Las Vegas. One weekend Jenny and a friend took a trip there. It was Jenny’s first time and a week later she moved to Vegas.
She started as a bartender and learned the ways of Vegas and the casino quickly. She started slowly by swindling a rich man here and there, but after two years Jenny was making enough to quit bartending all together.
But these thoughts don’t cross Jenny’s mind as she sips her drink. Jenny doesn’t think about the past or the future, only the present. She sits there for two cocktails and jokes with the bartender and other regulars. Then Bruce Spencer, the casino floor manager, comes in. “Hello Doll,” he says with velvet voice. He puts one arm around her, and she kisses him on both cheeks. “So how’d it go with that Philly guy?” Bruce asks. Bruce is from the east coast and has a fading accent that could be either from New Jersey or Massachusetts.
Jenny gives a modest smile. “Very, very well to say the least.”
“I knew that guy was rolling in it when he tipped me $100 for exchanging his money. Listen to me Jenny. I know who’s a sucker and who isn’t.”
“Don’t worry, Bruce, you know I always listen to you. And just so you know, it was me who told him to tip you well.”
Bruce smiles widely showing the hint of a gold veneer. “That’s what I love about you Jenny, always looking out for us.”
“That’s because I know who takes care of me.”
“Well, speakin’ of taking care of you, I actually came here to tell you that some well-to-do lawyer from Chicago just got here. He just started playin’, and so far he’s hot.”
“Hhm. I was sort of thinking of taking it easy, because I made out so well last night. But I was just about to step out for a cigarette, so I’ll check it out.”
Bruce escorts Jenny down to the casino. As they part ways, Jenny sees the man Bruce was talking about. He’s tall and looks a close to fifty. He has silver hair, a strong jaw, slightly tan skin, and a fairly decent body for someone his age. Jenny shrugs. Not too bad, she thinks to herself.
She goes out the side door. Johnny, the valet, is also taking a cigarette break. “Hey,” Johnny says with a nod.
Jenny lights her cigarette. “Hey. How’s it going?”
“Actually I was just about to text you. You hear about that lawyer guy from Chicago?”
Jenny nods while taking a long drag from her cigarette.
“Well, he’s totally packin’ yo. The Mirage called to let us know that he was on his way, and Domenic, he’s like this big car buff you know, told me this guy’s some big shot from Chicago staying in a penthouse suite and that he tips big and drives this ’64 Ferrari. So get this, he pulls up in and I patted the hood and give him this real serious look and say ‘Is this a ’64?’ And he looks all impressed and tips me a hundo,” Johhny says between drags of his cigarette. He and Jenny never talk about where they’re from, but Jenny can tell he’s from L.A. “Jenny, listen to me, I’m telling you this guy is packin’, and he’s a sucker.”
“Johnny, you know I always listen to you,” Jenny replies, and as she puts out her butt she decides that this guy is definitely worth a try.
She goes back into the artificial, red lights and steps up to the craps table next to Mr. Chicago. The dealer, Rick, gives her a nod that she returns. Although Jenny has no official authority here, everyone thinks she is someone important. The silver-haired man gives her a sideways glance. He wins again and gives Jenny a full look, taking in her long legs, sensuous body, and beautiful face. She returns his look with an encouraging smile. He bets again and wins. His total is up to $150,000.
He puts $50,000 down for a pair of twos and looks at Jenny and says, “I’m feeling sort of lucky,” with a gleeful grin.
In Vegas, everyone believes in luck. Jenny makes men feel lucky. They feel lucky she is even standing next to them. She looks lucky. She radiates rich. She smells like dreams come true.
Jenny believes in luck, but she believes she creates her own.
The dice slowly tumble to a stop and show two twos. The man jumps up with his arms in the air. He turns to Jenny and hugs her in his elation. He pulls away and looks slightly embarrassed.
“Congratulations,” says Jenny with her most genuinely excited smile.
“Thank you,” the man says still on his adrenaline high. “I’m done though. I’d like to cash out,” he says to the dealer. Bruce, who is always watching big wins, steps up to the table and collects the man’s chips in a briefcase. “I’m smart enough to know when to quit,” the man says to Jenny.
“Well, you definitely seem to know what you’re doing,” Jenny says in an enticing voice.
“Yes, it would appear so,” he says gesturing to his chips.
“I will go and cash these in for you, sir,” says Bruce. “It will only take a bit. Would you like to go get a drink in the Petrossian, and I’ll deliver your winnings there?”
“That would be great,” says the man and turns to Jenny. “Would you like to join me for a drink?”
“Of course,” she purrs.
Jenny returns to The Petrossian, and they sit at a table. The man introduces himself as Charles and orders a scotch. Jenny smiles to herself.
The trick is that people love to talk about themselves. These men love to talk about their achievements, their boyhoods, and the things they own. Jenny acts excited and enthusiastic about their boastful stories. She pokes and prods their pride until it is full blown. With her “ohs” and “ahs” she fattens their egos. She asks a hundred questions but never asks about wives or children.
Just as their drinks are dwindling, Bruce shows up with Charles’ money. “Here you are, sir,” he says handing Charles an envelope of money and winking at Jenny.
“Well, what do you say,” Charles asks Jenny, “how about you help me spend some of this money on a extravagant dinner at the Michael Mina?”
“I’d love to,” Jenny says with a girlish smile. The two walk to the elevator and take it up to the 18th floor. Someone could spend years inside one casino; it has everything anyone could want.
As they pass the eighth floor which houses The Bank, a hip nightclub, Jenny thinks of her nights when no one big comes in. She spends those nights inside the clubs with heirs, heiresses, celebrities, and other Las Vegas elite staying up until eight in the morning. In the V.I.P rooms there are platters with small mountain ranges of coke, pills of every variety, and ridiculously expensive alcohol that has the same results as the cheap stuff. But tonight isn’t a night for that; it’s a night for working.
The restaurant is booked, and they don’t have reservations. Charles slips the hostess a fifty, but it is unnecessary, because once she sees Jenny she seats them at once. They get a nice, quiet table in the back.
They have a gourmet dinner, that costs $100 a plate, and drink two bottles of wine that cost $350 each. Jenny keeps the subject on Charles and flirts without effort. After he has paid the bill, he asks Jenny to join him for another drink at The Fontana Bar. This is too easy, Jenny thinks.
They sit on the outdoor patio just as the fountains begin. Jenny drinks a gin and tonic and smokes a cigarette. Charles gazes at the fountains and raves about the wonders of Vegas. After the show is finished, he turns back to Jenny and says, “I noticed the great taste you have in jewelry,” as he reaches across the table and caresses Jenny’s tennis bracelet with his soft, strong hands. “You can always judge a woman’s character by the jewelry she wears.”
“Well, thank you. I picked it out as birthday present for myself,” Jenny says.
“A woman as beautiful as you should never have to buy her own jewelry. You know, I’m in town for a couple of days. Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow. What do you think?”
“I think that would be nice,” Jenny replies with a smile. They finish their drinks, and Charles invites her back to the Mirage. Jenny agrees. They exit The Bellagio and wait for the car. Johnny pulls up in the Ferrari and hands Charles the keys, and then Johnny opens the door for Jenny and gives her a knowing smile.
They drive to the Mirage, which is only two blocks away. As they walk in, Charles puts his arm around Jenny’s waist, and they enter into the depths of the casino.
Jenny gets out of bed. The room is completely dark except for the red glow of the clock that reads 4:28 a.m. She pads over to the window and pulls the curtain aside. The street is still pulsating.
This city moves at a pace faster than anywhere. Once a building is over thirty years old, it is torn down and rebuilt bigger, better, and more expensive. The cars cruising the strip, are cars made to go from zero to sixty in eight seconds. The lights are always on, always blinking, never stopping. Days and nights become the same thing, and hours morph into days that morph into weeks, and soon time has warped into years.
For a moment Jenny has to recollect what year it is and how long she has lived here. Six years, echoes through her mind. She shivers and notices the air conditioner billowing the curtain and blowing onto her legs.
She goes to the bathroom and turns on the bright, white light. Her eyes struggle to adjust as she quietly shuts the door. Jenny holds her hands under the tap until it is warm enough to splash her face with. Then she looks at her glossy, wet features in the mirror.
Her face is still youthful, but the darkness under her eyes and the tiny lines forming around them are evidence of her lifestyle. And her eyes behold the haughty gaze of someone who grew up too fast and learned the hardness of life too early. “Is this really me?” she whispers aloud. Her voice sounds strange and foreign in the quiet.
Jenny turns to the full-length mirror and examines her naked body. She looks at her long, slender legs and the jut of her hipbone. She looks at the expanse of her flat belly and stops at her ribs gazing at her scar as her fingers gently caress it. Suddenly Jenny wishes she were eleven again more than she wants anything Versace.
She wishes she could be bare foot in the tall grass, breathing in the humid Kentucky summer. She wishes she could taste the cold, earthy flavor of water directly from the hose as it splashes against her face and trickles from her chin down her body leaving trails in her dusty skin. She wishes she could smell the sweet, musty scent of a horse and feel its massive power beneath her.
When Jenny was eleven, her mother was living with a man in a small Cinninati apartment that was too cramped to house Jenny. So her mother sent her to live with a second cousin in Kentucky. The woman’s name was Elma, and she and her husband lived on a farm.
Jenny spent the summer riding horses, catching frogs, helping weed the garden, and running through the fields. It was the best summer of her life.
Once Jenny was running through the field with bare feet. She was running as fast as her long legs would carry her, and for a moment she thought she was flying. Her feet thudded against the ground, but the soles, harden from a shoeless summer, felt nothing. Suddenly her foot fell into a ditch hidden by tall grass. It caused Jenny to trip and fall onto the opposite bank. As she fell a sharp stick stabbed her ribs and created a two-inch long gash.
She looked at the torn, white skin. She seemed to stare at it for a full minute before the truly red blood came to the surface and seeped onto her blue shirt creating a large purple stain. Jenny held her wound all the way home. By the time she got there her hand was covered in blood. Elma doctored the cut with iodine. It stung worse than anything Jenny had felt, but she didn’t care. It was a small price to pay, to know you were alive.
The pain left, and the scar and her memories faded but always remained. Jenny forever dreamed of a life on the land. But God didn’t grant her a family farm or a cowboy for a husband. He granted her beauty and charm, and she did the best she could.
Jenny still stands in front of the mirror, in the bright, white tile bathroom, and tries to repress this wave of nostalgia. “I need a fucking cigrette,” Jenny whispers aloud again. But the “no smoking” sign warns her against it. Instead she goes back into the room. Darkness engulfs her as she gropes for her purse and finds a pill bottle. She swallows an Ambien and climbs back into the king-size bed.
A hand gently shakes Jenny awake. She opens her eyes and takes a moment to decipher whose face she is looking at.
“Jenny, I have to go to a meeting, but you can stay as long as you like,” says Charles.
Jenny mumbles a sleepy reply.
“How about we meet at the fountains at eight for some dinner and maybe some late night shopping?”
“OK,” Jenny nods sleepily.
“OK, see you there,” says Charles. He kisses Jenny on the forehead and leaves. As soon as he shuts the door, Jenny gets up, dresses, and leaves. She goes back to her apartment and sleeps a few more hours. Then she showers and gets ready. It’s only three o’clock, but Jenny decides to head to the Bellagio and have a few drinks before meeting with Charles.
When she arrives Johnny is at his usual post in front of the building. Today standing next to him is someone Jenny’s never seen before. The guy is dressed in the same red suit and appears to be a rookie. As Jenny says hello to Johnny, he eyes her up and down.
Jenny goes into the casino, says her round of hellos, and ventures to The Petrossian. The bar is unusually quiet and Rick, the head bartender is training someone new.
Rick introduces the new guy as Kevin and pours Jenny a gin and tonic. Then he goes back to training Kevin. Jenny looks around; there’s no one to talk to. Bored, Jenny sucks down three double gin and tonics and contemplates how to get Charles to buy her that Versace dress. As she slurps up the last bit, she realizes it has been much too long since her last cigarette.
She goes out to her usual spot, a place designated for employee smoking. At first she thinks she’s alone, but hears two voices from around the corner.
Jenny recognizes one of the voices as Johnny’s and soon realizes the second is the new valet. By the sound of a liter clicking and muffled coughs, she can tell they’re getting high, a favorite past time of Bellagio employees.
They haven’t noticed Jenny, and suddenly she doesn’t feel like company. She steps beside one of the vending machines. Hidden from sight, she slouches against it and listens to their conversation.
“So what do ya think of the job so far, man?” asks Johhny.
“It’s pretty tight,” says the new guy as he exhales the smoke.
“Yeah, man, you just wait. We got all the hook ups, getta drive fast cars, and look at hot girls all day.”
“There were a lot of hotties comin’ in and outta this place.”
“I know,” says Johnny trying to hold in a hit.
“Who was that sexy, blonde babe who said hi to you earlier?”
Johnny pauses for a moment. “Oh, you mean Jenny. Yeah she’s a real fine piece.”
“No joke. So what’s her deal? She work here or something?”
“Haha. Well sort of, she’s a total hooker, yo.”
“No shit, man,” says the new guy slightly incredulous. “I guess that figures.”
They continue chatting as they head back to work. But Jenny hears none of it. Gravity seems to be tugging her heart and stomach down. Her mind empties completely except for one word: hooker. She stands still and the word beats in her mind with the rhythm of her heart. Hooker. The word reverberates through her now hollow mind. Hooker.
She stands there alone in the concrete enclosure, which smells of hot asphalt, damp garbage, and layers of cigarette smoke. She stands there for a while as her senses slowly come back to her. She looks down at the smoldering butt in her hand and throws it on the ground.
The door back into the casino opens as a small, middle-aged housekeeper comes out for her cigarette break. Jenny recognizes her; she has worked her for many years. The woman smiles at Jenny, and she manages to pull her lips into a practiced smile. Then Jenny slips through the door, back into the casino. She suppresses the urge to throw up, sucks in her stomach, throws back her shoulders, holds her head up, and walks through the casino and exits on the strip.
Jenny holds her composure until she is off the strip. Her stomach contracts, and she retches into a row of bushes next to the sidewalk. She heaves several more times on her hands and knees.
She sits on the sidewalk and tries to spit out the bitter taste of alcohol and stomach acid. Tears filled her mascara and eyeliner cut channels through her concealer, foundation, and powder. She wipes the polluted tears from her face and dripping nose. She looks at her hand and realizes her nose is bleeding from the blood that matches her nail polish.
Suddenly Jenny feels as though she has lived 100 years. She can feel the tar in her lungs from her pack a day habit. Her liver aches from years and years for being marinated in gin. And as she inhales her sinuses prickle with the bruises of drug abuse.
She has the urge to crawl into the bushes, which now contain her vomit, and sleep for a thousand years. But instead she removes her heels and heads home. Even though Jenny has walked in heels for the last ten years, she can’t bare six more blocks.
The block before her apartment, Jenny stops at a 7-Eleven. She goes to the section with dog food and contemplates which bag to buy. Her hand reaches for the cheaper bag, but instead she grabs the more expensive one.
As she puts the dog food on the counter, the cashier eyes her curiously. Jenny’s hair is a mess, her face contains a mixture of smeared makeup and dried blood, and two heels dangle in her hand.
“I’ll have a pack of Camel Filters, too,” she says. “My last pack.”
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” he says with indifference. Jenny smiles and swallows the sudden urge to giggle.
As she approaches her apartment, the brown dog’s tail slowly thuds the concrete.
“I got you something,” she coos with a pleased smile. “Yes I did.”
She rips open the bag and pours a portion onto the ground. “Sorry I don’t have a bowl,” says Jenny as she pets him. She goes upstairs, takes a shower, and sleeps for a long time.
When she wakes up she goes through all her belongings, which mostly entails clothing. She separates everything into two piles. One of them, significantly smaller than the other, she stuffs into a blue duffel bag. The rest she puts in three black garbage bags. She goes to her closet and retrieves a shoebox from the top shelf. In the box is all of Jenny’s money. She counts it. There is $8,537. She puts $1,000 in an envelope and the remainder in her duffel bag. She takes the envelope and tapes it to her landlord’s door, along with her key.
Jenny hauls all her bags downstairs and stops to pet the dog and pour a little more food out. She leaves him there on the sidewalk with a bag of dog food and goes to a pawn shop a block away.
Inside the dimly lit shop, the man rifles through the bags pulling out pairs of designer heels, purses, belts, jackets, jeans, skirts, and dresses. He shakes his head in disbelief as more and more expensive items emerge from the depths of the black garbage bags. He looks at Jenny as though she were Mary Poppins herself.
“Are these all real?” he asks in a suspicious tone.
“Of course,” Jenny says. But she can tell by the look of awe on his face that he knows they are. The man assesses the articles again with his narrow, brown eyes.
“I’ll give you $2,000 for everything,” he says.
“Ha! You know very well that those boots alone are worth at least…” Jenny begins to argue. But she stops herself and looks at all her belongings scattered across the glass counter and gurgitating out of the bags. All of the things she had collected over the years, all of her rewards, all she had cared about lied in front of her. Bought new, it is all worth close to a million, but Jenny finally sees that it is all merely clothing.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll take it.”
The man tries to keep a poker face, but can’t hide his smile of elation. He quickly counts the cash and hands it to Jenny before she can change her mind.
Jenny leaves the pawnshop with her small, blue duffel bag slung over her shoulder and walks to the bus depot. An unusual crowd of slightly vagrant people with large packs sits on the benches passing time with blank stares. The air smells of gasoline fumes, disinfectant bathroom cleaner, and people who have been riding on buses for too long.
She steps up to the ticket counter. An older man with kind blue eyes flashes a denture-filled smile. “Good mornin’. What can I do for ya, young lady?”
“Well, I’d like to buy a ticket on the next bus out of here. Where’s it going?”
“Well the next bus leaves in forty-five minutes, to Missoula, Montana.”
“Hmm,” Jenny considers this prospect. “Have you ever been to Montana?”
His grin widens and a deep chuckle rises from his throat. “As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m from.”
“Oh yeah? So what’s it like?”
“I’d say it’s the prettiest state in the union. But very different from here, a whole lotta land and sky, not a lotta people.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day. I have one seat left,” he says with a wink.
Jenny takes the ticket in exchange for $60. She sits on one of the black metal benches and waits for the bus to arrive. The last sunlight of the day illuminates the blonde hair that drapes down her neck and shoulders. It reflects in her vibrant eyes and kisses the tip of her unmade-up nose. A ray of it cascades across her legs, revealing her left knee poking through a hole in her worn jeans. Her pink T-shirt hangs loosely around her frame, and her arm rests against her ribs pressing into the jagged pink scar.
The odd assortment of wanders continue to mill around the bus station, shuffling between the benches and bathrooms. The street outside trembles slightly as cars zip past. And as those cars move closer to the strip the tremble turns into a throb, which then becomes the rhythmic thud of a heart beat. But in the fading light the crowds that fill the sidewalks and casinos are too distracted by the sensational sights to hear it.
As darkness blankets Nevada, a grey hound bus leaves for Montana, and a satellite that orbits the earth takes a photo of the bright star that is Sin City.
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