girl’s crying. It felt like razors on my skin.
The pony-tailed woman, Shirel, seemed to understand my withdrawal. Whenever the girl got emotional, Shirel would look at me, then ask her into her bunk. She would eagerly crawl in and sleep soundly on those nights, spooned with Shirel like two pieces of a broken puzzle. But I don’t think Shirel slept a wink. She only stared at the wall and blinked, lost in thought. She ended up even more haggard and droopy the next day.
I was too afraid she’d stop if I asked her why she was doing it.
After the rest of the women fell asleep, I’d leave, off to wander through the empty marketplace on 15th and Avenue L, hiding behind shop tents and huddling beside mountains of garbage, waiting until the red bar opened.
Since the first night, the bar had a different singer each time. Some knew a few more songs than the toothless lady, but not many.
The smoke in the air seeped into my clothes and my hair, becoming a part of me.
I found this comforting, in a sickening sort of way.
When there, my eyes followed the blonde girl as she waited tables and went into the back room. All the while, Benny worked behind the bar, pouring drinks into dirty jars. I ordered sausage sandwiches when I got hungry. It was the only food they offered, and when I didn’t want to throw up, it made sense to eat. My stomach was iffy at best. Even though the idea of food often made me sick, I knew I had to eat.
It wasn’t only about me anymore.
I didn’t know how I was going to do this, this life, motherhood, alone. Or how I could survive in Auberge, caring for two more people, especially since I felt as if I could hardly take care of myself. The more I thought about it, the more it scared me.
First things first, though, I had to get out from under the Line. This meant my plans for the waitress had to work, the quicker the better. In my mind, there wasn’t any other option. It gave me a direction, the beginnings of a larger goal.
By the fourth day of my hanging out in the bar, they’d found some clean water to offer me, because I kept asking if they had anything to drink other than beer. They charged me five credits more for the water.
During all this, the waitress continued her appointments. She was an enthusiastic partner, regardless whether the buyers were male or female. She developed the habit of searching me out when she exited the back room door. I could tell she got off from the look on my face.
It was a cross between disgust and admiration.
I listened for signs of her faking it, but she was either a far superior actress to me or honestly enjoyed herself every time. Being an expert at faking it myself, I couldn’t tell the difference, which was a testament to her abilities. I wanted to be sure she was authentically interested in sex. It helped alleviate my guilt for what I was about to do.
Finally, one night when the bar had thinned out and was almost empty, I got up the nerve and asked her what her name was, and for some odd reason, she told me.
“Margo.”
I was taken aback and hadn’t thought in advance what my next question should be, so I dumbly answered, “Oh.”
Margo smirked and went back to work.
When she arrived later with more water, I was ready. “You like it here?”
Given the purse of her lips, the question appeared to stump her.
“You have options, you know,” I added.
Her dark eyebrows raised in distrust. “What?”
“Ever hear of the Line?”
“Yes.”
“You get paid there.”
Sort of. I wasn’t sure it was possible for a girl to turn herself in to the Line and get paid. I didn’t know with one-hundred-percent certainty that they’d let her keep payment for her services. I didn’t want her pay, but technically, if I brought her in, I’d be the one to receive it. But I wasn’t sure. The asshole manager hadn’t mentioned that, and I hadn’t thought to ask at the time.
Margo lost patience with me and went straight for my jugular. “You want a go or
The pony-tailed woman, Shirel, seemed to understand my withdrawal. Whenever the girl got emotional, Shirel would look at me, then ask her into her bunk. She would eagerly crawl in and sleep soundly on those nights, spooned with Shirel like two pieces of a broken puzzle. But I don’t think Shirel slept a wink. She only stared at the wall and blinked, lost in thought. She ended up even more haggard and droopy the next day.
I was too afraid she’d stop if I asked her why she was doing it.
After the rest of the women fell asleep, I’d leave, off to wander through the empty marketplace on 15th and Avenue L, hiding behind shop tents and huddling beside mountains of garbage, waiting until the red bar opened.
Since the first night, the bar had a different singer each time. Some knew a few more songs than the toothless lady, but not many.
The smoke in the air seeped into my clothes and my hair, becoming a part of me.
I found this comforting, in a sickening sort of way.
When there, my eyes followed the blonde girl as she waited tables and went into the back room. All the while, Benny worked behind the bar, pouring drinks into dirty jars. I ordered sausage sandwiches when I got hungry. It was the only food they offered, and when I didn’t want to throw up, it made sense to eat. My stomach was iffy at best. Even though the idea of food often made me sick, I knew I had to eat.
It wasn’t only about me anymore.
I didn’t know how I was going to do this, this life, motherhood, alone. Or how I could survive in Auberge, caring for two more people, especially since I felt as if I could hardly take care of myself. The more I thought about it, the more it scared me.
First things first, though, I had to get out from under the Line. This meant my plans for the waitress had to work, the quicker the better. In my mind, there wasn’t any other option. It gave me a direction, the beginnings of a larger goal.
By the fourth day of my hanging out in the bar, they’d found some clean water to offer me, because I kept asking if they had anything to drink other than beer. They charged me five credits more for the water.
During all this, the waitress continued her appointments. She was an enthusiastic partner, regardless whether the buyers were male or female. She developed the habit of searching me out when she exited the back room door. I could tell she got off from the look on my face.
It was a cross between disgust and admiration.
I listened for signs of her faking it, but she was either a far superior actress to me or honestly enjoyed herself every time. Being an expert at faking it myself, I couldn’t tell the difference, which was a testament to her abilities. I wanted to be sure she was authentically interested in sex. It helped alleviate my guilt for what I was about to do.
Finally, one night when the bar had thinned out and was almost empty, I got up the nerve and asked her what her name was, and for some odd reason, she told me.
“Margo.”
I was taken aback and hadn’t thought in advance what my next question should be, so I dumbly answered, “Oh.”
Margo smirked and went back to work.
When she arrived later with more water, I was ready. “You like it here?”
Given the purse of her lips, the question appeared to stump her.
“You have options, you know,” I added.
Her dark eyebrows raised in distrust. “What?”
“Ever hear of the Line?”
“Yes.”
“You get paid there.”
Sort of. I wasn’t sure it was possible for a girl to turn herself in to the Line and get paid. I didn’t know with one-hundred-percent certainty that they’d let her keep payment for her services. I didn’t want her pay, but technically, if I brought her in, I’d be the one to receive it. But I wasn’t sure. The asshole manager hadn’t mentioned that, and I hadn’t thought to ask at the time.
Margo lost patience with me and went straight for my jugular. “You want a go or
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