Saturday, July 14, 2012

Big Debby




She sits at the bar tapping her foot impatiently at the wooden footrest beneath the counter. She looks at me like I’ve done something wrong, but all I know is that I covered her tracks. Her tracks, not mine. She stares at me for a beat too long and asks, “Why do you care what people think of you?”

And for a moment I couldn’t answer. I stared blankly into her eyes, green and unengaged. I thought, “Fuck she’s right.” I’ve always cared way too much of what people think of me.

I was born a natural antagonist. Watching the rising anger in my older siblings was a favorite pastime of mine. Wasn’t it everybody's? I guess not.  I did it for affection. But it was worse. I needed affection from everybody. As a 1st grader I assisted grand theft snack stealing from kindergartner’s backpacks. “Fuck em’”, I thought. They deserve what they get. I should eat their snacks.  They’ll see how careless I am. They’ll see how much I get in trouble. Then they’ll all want to be my friends.

But in reality all they saw was the crumbs and chocolate smears of little Debbie snacks they’ll never eat. They saw desperate dessert morsels they never thought to care about, in my backpack, and guilt spread across my seven year old cheeks.

She was right though. This woman here. It may be five in the morning in Las Vegas Nevada; she may be a hooker, but goddamnit when you’re right you’re right.

“You’re right.”

“What honey?”

“You’re right. I’ve spent my entire life caring way too about what people think of me.”

“Oh that’s right honey. I can tell. You care too much.”

“Thanks for helping me learn that.”

“No problem, honey.”

“Like seriously. I never thought a prostitute in Vegas would help me come to terms with a life long realization.”

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Huh?”

“That part about realization.”

“Nothing. I was thanking you.”

“Oh. No problem honey. You wanna' get out of here?”

Was this a trick question, I thought. I not so secretly witnessed my friend pay her ten dollars and go off to the bathroom twenty minutes earlier. I asked, “Did you just pay her to have sex with you?” He assured me he only got a “blowie.” Still, she wasn’t my type. And people might think I just had sex with a hooker. So thank you hooker of Vegas. Thank you for reminding me what it was like to feel insecure.

When I was seven I did it for love. I did it for 1st grade popularity. First grade popularity guaranteed second grade kingship. But this wasn’t second grade. This was Las Vegas hookery, in all irony lost, reminding me what it was like to be a kid again. A lying bastard 1st grader with a chocolate addiction and a knack for stealing little Debbie snacks. 

“Sorry. I uh-- Nothing personal. I don’t need a prostitute.”

“Oh-- no you didn’t!”

“Nothing personal. Really.”

“I aint’ no prostitute you little bitch!”

“But my friend gave you ten dollars for a blowjob.”

I looked at my friend from across the bar and he shrugged. He was talking to another girl already, definitely a hooker. Every girl in a Las Vegas bar at five in the morning was most likely a prostitute.

“R’ you’ getting cute with me boy?”

“No ma’am. I just don’t want to have sex with a hooker tonight.”

“Oh, NAT UH!”

“Guys! I don’t understand why she’s mad at me!”

The bartender and I made an all knowing eye contact. He put down the bar phone and smiled to himself. The day in the life of a Las Vegas barkeep, I thought. He looked at me but winked at the security guard-- who was almost a mile away.  

This must happen a lot.

Then a sharp pain stabbed me in the shin and I realized the hooker was embracing me.  Fuck that, she was savagely attacking me. The hooker was making me wish I took up karate instead of binge drinking. She was kicking my ass.

“You ain’t NEVER call me a hooker!”

The hooker kicked me in the shins again and again. I looked for help.  I begged mercifully for relief, vengeance, some motherfucker to pull her off me. Somebody would see me, help me, look at me. I hoped somebody would acknowledge my anxiety before I screamed, “FUCK YOU BARTENEDER PULL HER OFF!” That's when I realized help wasn’t going to come.

I felt the icy cold hands pressing against my throat and I struggled. I struggled for breath, for restraint.

I was confused, gasping for air, when she was reluctantly yanked off of me like a rag doll.

“Fuck that little bitch! He aint getting’ none of this!”—Flashing her vagina

Trying to breathe—“I don’t understand why she’s mad. She’s a hooker, right?”

The bartender shook his head, and my buddy stood across the bar smiling. He knew better to interfere.

The bartender poured me a drink.

“They come here every night. Drink this and get the fuck out of here.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said sharply.

“Just get the fuck out of here.”

I pounded my drink and signaled for my friend, who has been laughing hysterically since the hooker was forcefully removed from my throat. We left together that night, and he didn’t’ say a word.

I could have sworn I saw him slip her ten dollars.

“She was a hooker, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“How do you not give a shit about what people think of you?” I said.

“Well, you know-- fuck em’.”

I looked at him and nodded.

“Fuck em.” I said to myself.

It must be nice.

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