It didn’t always use to be like this. There was a time when Molina lived a normal; some would even call a privileged life. Every night as she slid on her boots before leaving for work you could see the grace in her motion. What a waste, someone had spent money on her ballet class and driven her to piano recitals. Such a waste. A year seems like forever when spent in this type of place. It didn’t used to always be like this. She didn’t have to be a stripper at some sorry excuse for a club; she could have been anything she wanted to. Oh well what’s done is done.
Shit! It is too god damn cold in here. I know it is not raining, I just know it aint. Not today, not this one day I get to step the hell outta’ this sorry town. No not today. It isn’t raining on me today. I’m gonna’ need to find some way to get a car.
Damn it I’m bout to be late again. Where is my jacket? I can’t ever find where that damn thing is at. Shit, well he’s just gonna’ have to deal with me being latte. I’m not the one who wanna’ meet all that far away to keep people from seeing us. I don’t have no problem bein’ seen.
Why is the damn elevator taking so long? Finally. Well damn and who is she? She looks new, still happy and cheerful. I guess this hell hole hasn’t broken her down yet. I really aint in no mood to see some happy ass looking little girl. I know if I get on she is goin’ to try and talk to me and I ain’t got shit to say. I guess I ma have to be taking the stairs. Already late, might as wel avoid what I don’t wanna’ deal with.
My hair is going to get messed up.
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It was a gusty day. Fresh with excitement. Invigorating right to the bone, chilling the heat, and jump-starting the mind. Marissa awoke this morning with a rejunevated spirit, and as always, she couldn't explain why. It was just a windy, gusty, intense sort of day.
Her day off from work, too. That was always a plus. And combined with the inspiring wind, the day's atmosphere was breathed cooly and easily. It was a Wednesday, no, maybe, a Thursday? -- it didn't matter. Marissa grasped the ball, handed to her by a mysterious force deep within the gloom of Washington Heights, and ran with it.
She slipped on her pink Chucks, remnants of her high school days. Before the baby, before getting kicked out, before Washington Heights. And off she skipped, spritely toward the Metro and then off to the University. She had her one morning class of the week, and she was excited.
Wait a second, what day is it again? Oh, Thursday -- good, she did have class and breathed a sigh of relief. And plus, tomorrow is Friday. She always appreciated Thursdays, though. The anticipation for the weekend always caught her senses -- she almost enjoyed the eager waiting more than the actual weekend. She lived by hope.
But not everyone did, and Marissa received a stark reminder as she saw Fil scramble around to repair his roof. He offered her a paper, and though she almost replied in the affirmative, she couldn't bring herself to it. New York Times, only. Not the Baltimore Sun. She had enough of Baltimore. In her mind, she dreamed of Broadway, Wall Street . . . Baker Street was the present, and she wanted none of it.
As her mind wandered off into the future, her past came back to shock her. No, not anyone or anything directly related to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. That didn't even matter. The past came to her in the form of Molina Rose, who shared her story. Once normal, even affluent, but then took a turn for the worse.
Worse? What am I thinking? she pondered. This is a great life, she retorted. This is freedom. No parents, no yacht clubs or tea parties -- no expectations. At least, none from anyone else. As Marissa hopped on the train to downtown, the only things she expected came from herself and herself only. All the cute boys at school, just distractions. All the foolish people in Washington Heights, all just distractions.
The future lay waiting at the other end of the subway line, at the other end of a college diploma, at the other end of a cul-de-sac, with a happy house, a happy family, and a happy life.
fatigue is the best pillow.
Chloe was tired.
The days seemed to be getting longer, and even though she didn't work, she was exhausted.
It was seven am, late for Chloe, but early for others. She'd stumbled out of the apartment in a daze to buy cigarettes, only to find that seven was also late for some. A woman met her at the elevator, wearing stripper boats, so Chloe only assumed....
Even if she was a stripper she didn't really come off as one, and she definitely didn't have the walk. Chloe however, was too drunk to care so she rudely ignored the woman and carried on her way to Manny's Grocery. Are they even open this early? She thought as she walked, pulling her jacket closer.
Turns out they were, and she got her standard Camel Lights, smoking two before reaching the short walk back to her apartment.
When she was back in her room, the window had been left open and the room was freezing. Chloe shut the window quickly and drew herself a bath.
The bubbles seemed to consume her as she climbed in, feeling the warmth sink into her core. The sun was beginning to rise, and the noise outside and in began to increase. She got out, dried off, and crawled into bed. For the first time in several months Chloe pulled back the sheets and slept properly in her bed.
Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count sheets.
Rizzo Sprayberry
Is stripping below me, or does it fit?
Before Rizzo even fully stepped out of the subway station, she heard a woman yell "Shit! Where the hell did that puddle come from?!" From the foul language,Rizzo knew that it was probably Washington Heights "klassiest" stripper, Molina Rose. Even though it was impossible to tell that Molina might spell "classiest" with a "K," Rizzo had a sneaking suspicion. She realized that mocking an employed Molina was out of place, especially coming from a basically homeless and unemployed woman- herself.
Trudging through the wet, dirty streets on a day such as this was made bearable when she wore her father's black army boots. Dirt couldn't penetrate those suckers. Not even Washington Heights' dirt. She looked both ways before she crossed the street and headed for the bakery. "Stripping is such easy money,"Rizzo thought to herself as she spotted more girls (skanks ) exiting the strip club after a thriving night. She could barely afford to eat three meals a day on her fixed income- that would be zero dollars. She scrubbed dishes from time to time at the bakery for a bagel or something. If anyone at a local Washington Heights' restaurant called in sick or didn't show up, their managers knew to go walk into to car #1 and wakeRizzo up to fill the position that day. It just so happened that most of Washington Heights' residents were losers, so this was a daily occurrence, and this was usually how she ate dinner. Once she filled in for the Rabbi during Sunday school classes. It was a toddler level class. They probably couldn't distinguish between the bearded Rabbi andRizzo anyway.
A wad of cash fell from the pocket of Miss Kandi Jones, the strip club's "naughty teacher," who was walking in front of her. "Holy shit! That is more money than I've ever seen in one place! Did she make that ALL last night?!"Rizzo's inner voice screeched inside her head. She picked it up off the ground, and enviously handed it back to the smug Miss Kandi. Maybe she would rethink this whole stripping thing after all, but she had to wonder, "Is stripping below me, or does it fit?"
I sometimes wonder what I'm doing here in this drab, gray apartment building. My dad left me a lot of money...so why am I in such a dumpy place?
I had forgotten to pay the electric bill (what's new?) and so my apartment was freezing and dark. Not to mention the weather outside was not much better: wind and gray skies. Awesome.
I haven't slept in quite some time, due to the fabulous temperature of my home. I've been eating less and cutting more. I think that I'm doing worse than ever....but, I don't care.....it's not like he's here anymore.
I get up from my couch, cigarette in hand, and slowly walk over to the window. I look out onto the street, which is completely desolate. There is not a living soul in sight. No one wants to go out in weather like this.
Why am I here, again?
I turn around and walk back to the kitchen. The room smells so incredibly sour. Damn. Whatever is in my fridge needs to be thrown away....nah, I don't feel like it.
I look around for cigarettes....I can't find anymore. My I have already smoked up my last pack. Great. Cigarettes happen to be one of the few things that I cannot live without...I guess that I'm going to have to go get some at the store.
As soon as I get to the elevator, the doors open, exposing a woman dressed in a short dress and high heels. She gives me a nasty look that asks, "are you getting on, or what?". I really do hate people sometimes.
The elevator doors close behind me, encasing me in a box that reeks of perfume and total awkwardness. The doors open and I quickly exit, making my way out into the windy and gray atmosphere of this hell hole.
The grocery store is fairly empty--thank God.
I grab a six pack of beer and head to the cashier to get some camel lights.
After I scrounge around for change at the bottom of my coat pocket, I am able to come up with the money to pay for my "necessities".
All too quickly I am back in apartment 901. Thank God.
I pop open a beer and light up a cigarette, making my way to my old, beat up couch. I inhale and wash the smoke down with a swig of the bitter liquid. Heaven.
I close my eyes and think of Him.
I inhale again, this time keeping the smoke inside my lungs as long as I can.
I open my eyes and extinguish the cigarette butt the cushion of my couch. I watch the tiny red pieces slowly burn a hole into the fabric.
Oh well.
I go to the kitchen and go straight to my knife drawer.
I open the drawer, exposing the beautiful, sharp and shiny blades of relief. I slowly pull one of them out, examining it closely.
I watch as my left hand wraps itself around the handle of the knife, guiding the blade to my right wrist. The blood comes out in a smooth, straight line.
"this one's for you," I think.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Life and Times of Lola Fontaine: Cleaning Day
Lola pressed her back against the cold, hard door in the dumpy bathroom of the bar. Sliding to the floor, her face fell into her hands. What was she doing here? Not even her eternal optimism could illuminate the shadowy corners of this bar. She wanted to be a show girl, but something was just not right at all about this situation. As she sat propped against the door, it suddenly swung open with such force that Lola went toppling head over heels into the toilet. A lumbering, but exotic figure pushed into the bathroom. Her clothes were falling off of her, heavy make-up sat smudged on her glistening face, but even the make-up could not conceal the sadness and bitterness in her eyes. She smelled of cigarette smoke, the spilled beer, the wasted hope. But, this woman, this juggernaut was dripping with dollars. She did not speak, but Lola watched her form where she sat crouched beside the running toilet. The woman slipped money into an envelope labeled Molina Rose and started to remove the inches of thick make-up: circles of blush, false eyelashes, slick, red lipstick, the works. Molina Rose looked over at Lola with a look of disgust, pity, and a hint of amusement. "If you’re gonna go out there , you might as well go ahead kid. They’re good ‘n drunk now, so they’ll be um... more friendly " she smirked as she turned back to her task of removing her painted face. Lola scuffled to her feet, put on the pumps, the feathers, the sequins, stood up straight, and pranced out the door. The lovely Molina Rose said the people were friendlier now, and the oodles of money they had given her sure was nice, so the people really must not be all that bad...right?
Lola stared out the window watching the rain fall on Washington Heights. The window began to Fog up where she breathed in and out. Remembering that night at The Bar brought tears of regret to her eyes. It was a good thing it was raining, then noone would notice her tears. She watched as the people on the side walk ran for cover. Clio Ford brought in her lovely flowers and began to lock up her shop. The strange woman who owned the stuffed animal stand sat patting each animal then placing it out of reach of the rain. Opened doors of the shops began to close to keep the rain out. How unlovely this day was proving to be. Rain was like tears from the sky, a lovely thought, but why was the sky sad? thought Lola. Then she had a thought that dried her own tears and brought back her ever glowing smile. The rain was giving Washington Heights a quick tidy up, just what it needed. That was just what Lola needed, a pick-me-up. So she left her apartment to go and try to find a new pair of shoes. As she came out onto the sidewalk she could see just one shimmering ray of sunshine peek form behind the clouds. Lola smiled.
Center
Nicole placed the scarf on the couch when she entered the apartment. It was smoldering red, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. She had to admit, it was nice scarf. She took her boots off, placed her purse near the door. She peeled her jacket off her warm skin, and walked over to the sink of the “kitchen.” Her eyes never left the red gift draped on her couch. She had seen him walking down the street, but she hadn’t noticed him walk in. She heard the bell, but it didn’t register that anything of interest had happened. He asked for a coffee—it was he. She remembered him from the bar, she also remembered him ignoring her completely.
“Want a scarf?” his voice was gruff, but somehow wrapped up in velvet at the same time.
He caught her off guard, but he didn’t see that.
“Thanks,” conjuring up just enough boredom in my voice to hide the surprise that I felt. It wasn’t until he was out of the shop with his back safely to me that I chanced a small smile. I scooped up the scarf and walked to the back. It was soft as much as it was red. Scarf in hand, she sat on the metal chair facing the mirror.
She looked at herself in the mirror with the scarf cradled in her arms. She’d gone out the other night because she couldn’t stand the steady hum of things left undone. Watching the red cover her hands in the reflection, she reflected on the useless night that had been her attempt at an escape; she only made things worse. The steady thud of the bass in the club had only exasperated her thoughts. She watched everyone, taking her time to make sure that she got each and everyone of them. Each had their own agenda to attend to, not one of them was paying her any mind. They saw her and they moved on, one more memory in that vast expanse of things forgotten.
The other day she almost had it, she’d been so close. Just as soon as the solution had come to her it had gone, on the floor with the rest of the wine that she had spilled in her brief realization. She had fallen to her knees and cried. Hands on the floor, in the pool of things she would never understand. She knew what she wanted to do, but somehow she knew that that wasn’t the answer. She hated this. She looked into her eyes, searching, in vain. Giving up, she lay her head in her arms, forehead in the pool of the simple scarf.
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, she tried to hold them back—she couldn’t. Lost tears fell from her eyes and stained the scarf under her. As soon as she these insults on the clean fabric, she stopped.
She fixed herself before she raised her head to look at herself in the mirror. Again? No more crying, this is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Take a step back, what have you missed?
She didn't know much now, but she knew that she shouldn't be sitting here. She got up with the intent to see a "friend."
She made her way to apartment 212--Molina.
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