Honor
by Richard Thomas
I patiently sit in the broken down bar where my mother used to whore herself. My father would beat the horny, drunk bastards to within an inch of their lives, whenever he would catch them. He always caught them, it was part of their sick little game. The bra strap that is digging into my shoulder is vying for my attention with the thong that is burrowing up my ass, so the only thing to do is down another shot of tequila and ignore the leers of my brother. Anthony. Leaning against the back wall of Nick’s, the local hangout only blocks from our home, his eyes never leave me. I think he has inappropriate thoughts about me from time to time. I don’t want his hands on me again, but for this one night all of the rules have been thrown out, in pursuit of fame and fortune, with a sprinkling of honor.
A flash of dishwater blond in the dull, silver mirror across from me, the fractured shelves holding all manner of tinted liquid, the hustle and bustle of people behind me, mating rituals in full swing, gambling in the shark pool, the snap of billiard balls breaking, laughter and cigarette smoke, and my parents are dead. I’ve worn my best cruising outfit tonight. Skin tight blue jeans hug my legs and curves, a black, lace bra that lifts and separates, a crimson silk blouse with the buttons undone to reveal ample cleavage to the boys, and pumps that say all kinds of dirty things. It’s an old ritual. Spritz on some musk and bat your eyes, and a long line of eager erections will parade themselves in front of you. It’s easy. But I’m married, and the third shot of tequila sits in front of me on the long wooden bar, the cool brass railing digging into my forearms. I push the picture of my doe-eyed daughter and my gentle son out of my head, they’ll be starting school next week, kindergarten, and my husband lies at home in bed, crying into his pillow, unemployed for over a year now, emasculated in every way. I’m here to save us all, to earn my keep, and to appease my lecherous brother for the last time.
There are waves coursing through me and there is no desire to fight them. An electric current pulses in my nerves, the prospect of new flesh, of my hands pressed up against the cold steel bathroom stall while a strange man enters me, baring his teeth in hunger and instinct. A dull wash of blood in my veins throbs to the beat of the jukebox at the front of the room, French doors wide open to let in cool air, the leaves outside dropping to the ground, green to mustard to copper, and I envy the pity the world has shown them, ending it all with a drifting hush. A hot splash of nausea in my stomach as the liquor sloshes around, a twinge of muscles tightening, a clenching throughout my body, fighting this alien that holds court in my center, the last bit of control slowly drifting to the edge of a cliff, balancing in a field of grass, the rocks below calling.
I look up and find the bartender watching me, his brow furrowed, lips pursed, running through the options in his head. Does he kick the drunk girl out? Does he get her another shot? Does he mind his own fucking business? I grin and close my eyes, lick my lips and let him off the hook. I tell him it’s okay, I’m celebrating. I’m newly divorced, from the world it seems, but he doesn’t need to know that. He smiles and pours another. It’s on him this time. He understands. Just be careful he says and I nod one more time. It’s time to check the room.
I spin on the green leather barstool and scan the crowd. There are rules in place here if I want to get paid. If I want to get what’s mine. But if that’s how it has to go down, so be it. I’ve sucked enough dick that it shouldn’t be difficult. For three minutes of work it’ll be one hell of a payday. Against all reason and will power I find myself warming up, this permission I’ve been given, that I’ve given myself. I’ve done worse for less.
What would mom do? Work the pool table, bending over to give the crowd a bit of her assets, while the other side of the table gets an ample amount of bosom? Probably. I’m not there yet.
Turning back around I try to summon my most desperate face. I will cry for my beer, I will make my mascara run, little black spiders leaking down my face. It isn’t hard to conjure up the emotion for the task, I just think of macaroni and cheese, Dr. Seuss and the tiny little underwear with the dinosaurs on it. I hear his voice reassuring me that everything will be okay, we won’t lose the house, we won’t lose our retirement, our college savings, every bit of our pride. The schemes, the gambling, the disappearing for days. The begging, the pleading and the unholy love that I cannot dispel. The slap in the face that I ask for and am given. The rough sex after the kids are asleep taking out our anger and frustration in the safest way we know, grunting and slapping flesh, bruises and bloodstained sheets, and lies to their shocked faces. Mommy had an accident. Daddy lost a scab. Nothing to be worried about and they try to believe it. They pretend to not make any connections. But they do.
Soon I am sobbing, and the bartender at the other end, shakes his head and looks away. The girls at his end are promising and tight, eager to bare their ivory teeth, to giggle and shake their whimpering breasts. I am their future, just the other side of childbirth. I don’t blame him. I’d stay down there too. His only thought is please don’t vomit. And I concur.
The man at my side has appeared like a charm, concern and a soft hand resting on my shoulder, his eyes running up and down my backside even while he worries for both of us, unable to resist taking a peek down the back of my jeans. A napkin appears, and his concern is sincere, this pretty woman in distress, the easy mark, this wounded prey with the potential for acts, drunken acts that will disappear in the morning light. This is what he wants.
He is a man. Any man. Tall with two arms. He has a face and is dressed. It doesn’t matter. He is the signature on the paperwork, all that I need to cross the poppy fields and enter the emerald city. The drinks come, despite my keeper’s lingering look, more bright eyes and teeth, I’ve been rescued now. He sees that. The responsibility has been passed. A glance at Anthony, and his neck is flushed, and if he tightens his grip on that bottle of beer it’ll shatter all over his lanky, damaged frame. He is a dark shadow at the edge of my vision, a cloud of gnats about my head and I swat him away and prepare for the consummation.
In a shower of golden liquid, a face ringed in salt and lime, I find myself in a familiar position, down on my knees in a foul alley behind the bar, my skirt hiked up and my panties down. It has gotten out of control. It didn’t have to go this far, but it has. And as my pale breasts spill out of my bra, the romeo has sprung them with his deft fingertips, tiny pink nipples pierce the air as I unzip his pants and root around for his cock.
Anthony. Always Anthony ruining my fun. A fist to the back of my dark knight’s head and the unlucky rube runs his face into the brick. The laughter spills from my glossy, ruby lips. The smack of his fists are wet and overwhelming, for a moment it is sex, we are raping this poor man, and the bile is racing to the back of my throat. Enough I yell out to him, we’ve honored our dead. We have further built up this wall between us. Again. The windows are gone, the doorway bolted shut.
The Last Will and Testament flutters to the ground. A cheap blue Bic pen drops on top of the white. We will do it now. We have taken it far enough. I scratch out my name onto the first line, under witness. I initial it in three places, marked by tiny slivers of yellow, stray bands of streetlight pushing back to the filth. I hand it back up to this lost soul beside me. His handiwork lies in the gutter beside me, writhing in pain, adding his piss to the street. Anthony signs it, my copy splaying to the ground, a handful of doves, with broken wings. We will never see each other again. I think mom would be proud.