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Jelena. What kind of name is that? She would've blinked more if she cared enough. "Russian," she responded. Messenger bag swung over her shoulder (was it really necessary to carry two journals, a magazine, a Chuck Palahniuk novel, and turkey on white with no mayo?), her fingers drumming on the counter would've told any bright person that she was ready to leave. The man with almost yellow eyes behind the counter taking his sweet time stamping her envelopes. You come here often? I never see you around. blinkblinkblink (apparently she cared enough at this point of conversation). At the post office? "You going to ask me on a date, or you just going to stamp my letters and tell me I owe you a few bucks?" That was an eye-opener. You busy on Friday? She set down four dollars and thirty-nine cents (it was always the same) on the counter and walked away.
Just walk away. The post office was almost as bad as the DMV. Fucking government buildings, fucking nine to five systems with brutal employees that don't give a shit about anything but PTO. Politeness was a rarity these days, but sexual energy wasn't. In fact there was surplus of it, especially in this particular building that was like a long tunnel -- afternoon sunlight bleeding into the glass doorways. She wandered slowly (aimlessly), brown eyes drowning into the small images of stamps lined up in a vending machine like they were Crunch and Butterfinger and Twix, only she found stamps to be much sweeter.
Jelena loved mail, ever since she was young girl and used to open her mother's junk credit card applications. She narrowed in on the prey, booked herself against the glass, taking a closer look at 9/11 stamps and smirking. She hated nothing more than the American Flag. She was sick of all the fake patriotism. Everyone was scared shitless so they stood by those star-spangled banner with fear. It probably had nothing to do with pride -- although she knew about all the damn Americans and their shiny golden pride. Fuck terrorism. Fuck Bush.
<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 30, 2006 05:48 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>
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"You don't want to go out there sober. Trust me, honey." Her name was Rain. Well, her real name was actually something like Lynette, but I'd only seen her I.D. once, and that was because she was trying to prove that she was from Los Angeles.
"I'll break my ankle," I whined, trying to strap on my shoe (the fucking little piece of metal refusing to go into the hole).
Rain rolls her eyes. "Here. Let me do it." And she did, like a pro.
"Thanks." I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I almost don't recognize myself with all the eye make-up I've got on. Red lipstick vixen.
"Your tits look great, honey." She's tugging on her own, lifting a good handful up, to make sure it's being properly supported up in that wimpy triangle top.
"Uh, thanks." I'm as modest as a stripper can be. But it's only my third day, so we'll see what I'm like in two months. If I make it that long, that is.
"I'm up next. Wish me luck." The Ludacris song is ending, and she's getting ready for Madonna. Some high energy shit that makes the clients drool when she's bouncing around. "You better drink that." She's giving me the mother-glare, the eat-your-vegetables one.
I sigh. I pick up the strange concoction.... she said it was Hypnotiq and Remy Martin and Sprite. Great. I hurry up and drink it, and it's horrible. HORRIBLE. There's no time to think about it because I hear "Raquelle, you better shake that ass harder than last night. We've got a very important politician out there, and I heard he's got a thing for brunettes."
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[ Did someone say VIP? ]
"Senator Engler, I'd like you to meet Raquelle." The Shark, the manager of Little Darlings, extended his hand out to her. It was like a late QVC showcase.
"Why, I don't think I've ever met this lovely girl before." The Senator had eyes that shined even in the dark strip club. She'd say they were almost kind, but you can't be so sure at this time of night.
"She's new onboard."
"I can see that." A pause. "Come closer..." He laughed. "How can I enjoy your company if you're all the way over there?"
She only hesitated for a second. She was sitting in his lap before she could receive a single glare from The Shark.
A hand resting subtly on her hip, he leaned in close to her ear and whispered "What's a girl like you doing amongst all these wolves?"
"I don't know, sir." She was fiddling with the top of her thigh-highs, and it naturally distracted the Senator.
"So, tell me, Raquelle. Are you a registered voter?" He was teasing. The Shark and the other girls had left them for a little... privacy.
"Well, Senator Engler, I'm freshly eighteen. I may need some persuasion." She told him what they wanted to hear. She grinded into him gently, shifting herself so that he was able to look over her shoulder at the rise of cleavage.
He moaned, a strain in his pants letting Jelena know that age had no affect on Bill Engler. It was magic what the swell of her ass could do at a time like this.
A couple minutes later, and topless, she was ready to bend over for him again when he stopped her. "Do you ever do private parties, Raquelle?" He quietly set down a stack of hundreds on the vinyl bench.
Right when you think things couldn't get any dirtier at Little Darlings.
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She tried not to make eye contact with them. You know, the boys in the navy blue suits with the straight ties. Their straight teeth and backpacks, bicycles and Bibles. Does the word "bible" deserve to be capitalized, anyway?
"It's not too late."
She feared it was. She eyed the intersection of Folsom and Eighteenth Street, and thought God fucking dammit, it's TOO god damn late to run.
"I'm sorry?" Jelena heard them, she's just trying to buy time, watching cars fly by. They don't know her pain.
The boys look puzzled, cheekbones slashed with pink from labor in the city streets. The labor for God. She hopes he pays well.
"It's not too late." They're like zombies. Like pretty boys. "If you could just listen, take some time to hear what we've got to say, I think you would find all of this very inspirational, very life changing and--"
"I've got a class to get to," She lies. Jelena feels sorry for them. Why aren't they selling chocolate instead?
They seem to snap out of it all at once. "Don't you want to have meaning to your life?" They look so concerned. One even tried to ask, "What's your name?" but it's lost somewhere between her eyes drifting over them, back and forth, like she's in the desert, trying to figure out which vulture she needs to take out first. "We are all lambs of God."
She always likes to make a situation worse.
"I do. I take my clothes off for money and it's very rewarding at the end of the day." Her hands shudder into fists, and it's because she feels threatened. "Hi, I'm Raquelle. I like sunbathing nude with my girlfriends and licking the sins right off their mouths."
She thinks she has put the Glock up their ass. Their eyes are exploding. She is gloating in the sheer madness of shooting down religion.
"You can be saved." They sputter in a chorus, but instead of giving her space like she needed, they get closer. Surrounding ger like she's something shiny, sequins in Vegas.
"Honey, this is all truly touching, but--"
"It's not too late. God heals all his children. He won't forget you, and when you come to his kingdom, he will forgive you, he will absolve you--"
They're trying to bash in her skull with their chirps of optimism, with their repetitive rants like she didn't hear them the first time.
She needs to find her own sharp rock.
"I need to eat a slice of chocolate cake to pretend like I didn't just hear what you said."
The light turned green.
Mid-crosswalk, she turns to see them gobbling at each other. "A girl like me can't be saved, didn't you know?"
They shake their heads. "We'll pray for you," they call after her.
