Fiction 2, Chapters 1 & 2
Copyright © 1992
Chapter 1 continued:
"Goin' downtown?" Again. The window was rolling down, about half-way then, because I had finally fumbled my way to the right switch by touch.
"Where's that?" Perhaps I was dazzled by the sunset, or maybe by her.
"Don't ya know where you're at?" she asked. "Where" is Aransas Pass, Texas; oil and shrimp, that's all there is.
I couldn't help but grin at her. "Yeah, but I don't know where I'm going to be. What's 'downtown'?"
Maybe while my back was turned, "downtown" had become the new catch-word for getting laid or one of the more pleasant alternatives. A tingle started to radiate __the kind I get when the font of my hopes and dreams gets its expectations up__ even though it knows that my brain is going to shoot the deal down sooner or later.
My -my?- hitchhiker looked to be somewhere in the region of thirty and appropriately lumpy in impertinent places. She was illuminated mostly by the rays of the setting sun bouncing off my windshield so I really couldn't distinguish her features too well. Then she came around to the side.
The first glimpse had been the best and the second wasn't all that bad, except for the smile. An attractive over-bite remained to the lady, but the belly of her smile betrayed a gap about two and a half teeth wide.
"A couple a blocks over; that's WHAT," she answered; her smile knowing now knowing exactly the way my mind was working. "Ah got my kid stashed with a friend, an Ah gotta get a motel room for the night. We ain't got a place to stay, an Ah been walkin' all day, tryin' to find some work to pay for it. Ya goin' over that way?"
-What was I, crazy?- No, not really. Bored and lonely was more like it. "Sure, hop in."
The redhead crossed around the front of the truck to the right side door. I'm not a good old boy with a pickup, just a middle-aging man with a Suburban that pulls a trailer when I feel like moving on. Which I often do.
My right hand was trying to sweep a bunch of maps and junk off the right front seat, and I almost forgot to pull up the doorlock for her before she grabbed the handle. The electric switch had completely skipped my mind.
Just as she climbed into the vehicle, old Sol finally sank into turquoise. Then the overhead light revealed the lady for what she really was: a pale blonde, straight through to the roots. Who wasted no time turning into a damsel in distress. "Could Ah borrow a twenty to get the motel room. Ah gotta get it so Ah can make a little money tonight, an then pick up my boy."
"Borrow" was a polite way of putting it. "Putting it" would be the only way I'd get to collect from her, I knew.
I still couldn't see her very well the cab light had gone off when she closed her door but the voice held its appeal, maybe a little squeaky. She was wearing jeans under a well-filled jacket and there was a big black handbag clamped under her arm, with a broken strap dangling down. The profile was looking pretty good, head included.
Don't think I wasn't thinking about head included, but I knew deep down that I was just dabbling here. Conservative habits die hard, especially these days when the word "communicable" is so relevant.
She asked me again. "How about it, Honey?" There was that little catch in her voice.
Then, instead of trying to put the make on me, the blonde huddled against the far door. It didn't feel like she was afraid of me personally, just really terrified about being turned down. And I sensed that it was terror for the sake of another. I had to wonder why that was so.
A little aside from me to you.
As a child, I inherited a certain sensitivity toward other people's hopes and fears, along with two decks of cards: one prayed over, one cursed. And terror for the sake of another is an old acquaintance.
It's a little awkward talking about myself here. No doubt these events will tell you more about me than either one of us wants you to know anyhow. But the first page would also have been the last one were I a man with fewer or less serious flaws in my character, and so you're entitled to know about some of them to begin with.
There are also some pertinent events that I've inserted in the time-frames where they belong, even though I didn't know anything about them when they happened. I'll try not to get them mixed up too much with my part of things.
One more problem: I should be careful here not to alienate my clan by too much disclosure. Some things I may not speak of, and there are others that are to be spoken of only gently, if at all.
I am an Irish Traveller. That's right, with a double "l," the Irish way. You may have heard a few scurrilous lies about us on TV news shows such as "20/20" or "Prime Time."
And a few truths, unfortunately.
This is not a tale of the Travelling People: I tell you now. The fact that I am a half-breed lately returned to our way of life and also that I am considered more than a bit crazy by my cousins has led to a solitary and chaotic pattern of existence for me during the last few years.
You might have two questions here:
Why am I considered crazy? Carry on; you'll find out soon enough. Does being a crazy Traveller have anything to do with what happened to Roxanne and myself? No; although it had everything to do with my reaction to it. Still, kith and kin were out of the picture.
By the way, it's only fair to let you know up front that there's no moral to this tale.
She was getting antsy waiting for me to make up my mind.
"Honey?"
"Hold on a minute, Ok.?"
Her arms were crossed over her breasts and she was shivering in her jacket; shivering in the warm evening.
Let's try to make the background short and spread it out a little, in between the more sordid scenes here and there. I lost most of my family and all of my career as a country man that's what Travellers call others, those who are settled people just about the same time a while ago. Now, I look for trouble, I guess. A few well-meaning friends have cautioned me that I've been looking for more of it than I can handle for some time now. That could be.
Truthfully, it's always been that way for me even without the rationale. But in the old days there were plenty of other attractions too. So I never got involved enough that it cost me anything like serious money, serious blood or even the need to change my underwear ahead of schedule.
The lady came out of her huddle with a definite sense of purpose, sticking out her breasts a little, and sucking in a small gut. She smoothed her denim jeans down along the left thigh with both hands, looking a little like a send-up of an old movie poster of Marlene Dietrich. I chuckled at the image and ached for the long, slender thighs clad only in black net stockings to complete it.
You probably have some idea where it ached.
Oddly, she wasn't offended; although there was no way for her to know that I wasn't really laughing at her. I could even make out a relieved smile in the dimness.
"Ah like the way ya laugh," she said, and then she seemed to relax, slouching. From the looks of it, being laughed at was infinitely preferable to whatever was bothering her. She____
If I seem to be putting the lady down a little, let me make it clear that she was a lot better looking than I am, except in the teeth department. Knock off about ten or so pounds in the erogenous zones and the same number of years __add a couple of teeth__ you'd have one of the girls up for Homecoming Queen. Of course the darkness helped a lot, I'm sure, but darkness ruled just then.
Since she was already on board____
"Why not?" I asked. -Of nobody in particular-
I really didn't feel like getting my ashes hauled by this particular teamster, but things always seem to get a little more complicated for me than they do for other people.
A bit more background.
Even by Ivana Trump's reduced standards, I'm chump-change. But around here, the economy is almost as flat as a tortilla, at least for the local labor. Every, but every TV ad says "We finance___No credit check." In the fat old days, a few of the locals probably spent more on partying than I clear altogether. That's the trouble. They spent it all partying, and now it's lean, mean times, a veritable year-round Lent after a hard-fought Mardi Gras. Cash is king and in a minor-league way that's me. So a twenty, or a hundred, or even a thousand spent to satisfy my curiosity didn't mean anything, especially not a commitment to go for broke.
I didn't know then about the price of blood, in a buyers' market.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Gory at thasp, keener fortha karabd-
Laugh at death, but weep for those who die before their time.
* * * * * * * * * *
"We've got them pinned down, sir," the creature said. "We know they're somewhere in Aransas Pass or Ingleside."
His voice was almost a falsetto, incongruous in a man who seemed so dangerous, and the quality of the furnishings in the darkly paneled office did not soften his appearance, nor did the neatly tailored business suit he wore. The creature wore sunglasses; although the office was not especially well lit.
"It's about time, Weller. What about the wagon?" asked the Chairman.
The voice of the room's only other occupant was harsh, roughened by years of cigars and bourbon. Its tone was deeper than you would expect from such a small man. And he had a touch of the finely wrinkled parchment-like skin that you often see wrapped around the facial features of "little people."
But in truth he wasn't "little" in that sense; he was merely small.
As the Chairman, he sat behind a large desk in a custom-made executive chair that been raised up as high as its post allowed, and a box under the desk supported his short scrawny legs. That platform was equipped with several foot-switches, shielded from view by the desk's "modesty" panel.
"They've got to have a garage for it, sir. But I'll promise you that they never got to Corpus. They're stuck and we'll be closing in soon." The big man sounded defensive, anxious to please.
"Listen carefully! You can't have the woman until you've found Russell. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir!" The creature sounded like his master had taken away a favorite bone. He looked just the same though: mean clear through!
"Find Russell for me," the small man promised, "and you can do anything you want to the woman. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." The high sweet voice brightened up. Its owner was savoring his anticipation.
"And get me a place down there that has three or four bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. I'm going to have to be down there with you and your goons when we find them____" The Chairman's commands trailed off while he resigned himself to the upcoming discomfort and reduction in his personal security. He turned away.
But the creature seemed to disregard the implied dismissal.
"What are you waiting for, Weller?"
"Tiddler, sir?"
"I might give you Russell, as well, after we retrieve the package. We'll see." Impatiently, he picked up some papers and pretended to be absorbed in their content.
"Yes, sir!" The creature backed away, and turned to leave the office through an open section of the paneling.
After pressing a button to close the panel, the Chairman swivelled away from the desk and slid off the seat to stand erect, the desk top now coming up above his waistline. Removing his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, the small man walked silently across a deep carpet toward an adjoining bathroom.
The stride was an odd one, stiff-legged; his short trunk swaying from side to side as he paced.
The digital lock on the bathroom door required the correct combination to unlock it from either side, and the Chairman punched that number in. Entering, his pupils contracted almost before his finger found the light switch inside.
In contrast to the office, the large bathroom was all white tile and brightly illuminated, clearly defining an open doorway on the opposite wall that led to similar room. Only a massage table and a Nautilus machine in that far chamber broke the symmetry of its tiles, and anything else that would have marred its harmony was concealed within closets.
The sickly stench of pine-oil disinfectant permeated the air.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was already mid-afternoon. For the third time since lunch, the Chairman carefully washed his hands, taking special care with the raw, red circles around his arms, just above the wrists.
Chapter 2
"To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour that I can drink with any tinker in his own language"
First Henry IV, William Shakespeare.
There was still a lot of blood in the color of the evening sky.
We pulled out of the parking lot onto the main road. That wasn't as simple as it sounds. Like many such places in this part of Texas, the lot looked and felt like an Iraqi airfield or a playground in Beirut more than a paved surface. After we stopped bouncing and started rolling, though, my passenger decided that introductions were overdue.
Leaning back, the blonde asked, "What's your name, Honey?"
"It's Dick," I said. "How about you?"
"Ya mean, like Richard?"
"Yeah!"
"How come your mom let you be called Dick? Ah mean, it's like____"
-In south Texas, you don't christen a boy-child with any less than three syllables in front of the family name: Tommy Lee, Bobby Joe, Beauregard Gayelord.
Well, Ok, the last one's Louisiana-
"I know what it's like," I interrupted. "And my parents didn't have any choice. I'm the one who picked it. It was better than Richie, and that's what everybody was starting to call me."
"Ah'm a full-name kind of girl. Mine's Roxanne."
I just sort of absorbed the name. "Roxanne," I repeated, "that's nice. You come from here, Roxanne?"
"Na, Houston. How about ya?"
"I come from New Jersey, but I mostly live in a trailer that's in a campground in Rockport." -Rockport is the next town north of Aransas Pass, about twelve miles-
"Turn left at the yield sign," she said. Ok, we did.
"Now go straight for a block," the directions continued, "an then pull in to the lot right after."
Another minefield!
The place wasn't really a motel at all. It was a collection of rundown, one-room shacks the kind they used to call "tourist cabins" blue-green where the light fell here and there. Ideal for a "working girl." No real privacy but at least a little isolation. I never got to see any of them inside, thank you.
It was full dark, now. We pulled around to the first cabin on the left, the office.
"Here's the twenty," I offered.
Picking out the bill was no problem for me __not since automatic cash machines almost everything in my wallet is a twenty. Roxanne had moved about halfway across the truck. Currency was apparently hard-won in her time and place, and it was likely that she halfway expected to have to work for it, like a sow rooting for truffles. I'd like to think she was pleasantly surprised that this was the exception. Too bad there was never a chance to get around to asking.
"Thanks, Honey."
She got out and knocked on the door. After a minute or so, an older woman opened the door and Roxanne went in. About two minutes later, out she came, but not before Madam DeFarge had given me the once-over through the doorway while I sat in the truck.
There is a protocol about these things, I guess. At least one light was working in the lot, and of course it was hers. But, there must not have been any big, bearded men featured on "Most Wanted" recently, because she handed Roxanne a key to one of the mini-palaces in her care.
Roxanne's entry back into the truck was pretty lively, and it didn't take long to find out what pleasure was providing ninety percent of the anticipation: booze.
"How about somethin' to drink. There's a nice place a couple a blocks from here."
For the first time she touched me, just on the right arm.
"Sounds good," I agreed.
Here was a shot at relieving a little of the boredom that my life had lately become. Her hand on my right knee __for a second or two__ started the tingle humming a little harder, but I was beginning to get a feel for the situation, if not from her. She was a "toucher," and just then her touch meant gratitude for more relief than seemed to be warranted.
By this time I was a lot more than curious. Why was this woman named Roxanne so desperate? That kind of thing has its own appeal to me; not a power trip, something else. I am constitutionally impotent -so to speak- in the face of someone who is helpless, and I don't mean that as a pun. I can't take advantage of them; maybe it's because I've got some throwback prairie dog or dolphin genes in my chromosomes.
It's possible! But it's a hell of a handicap for a journeyman scam-artist.
We humped and bumped and bounced onto the street and then drove over to this dive she had recommended. It's risky to be more specific about which dive because people around here __especially the ladies__ tend to be dangerous if they think you're putting them down. This might be a nice area to settle down if I outlive this story by much. After all that's happened recently, it would be stupid to get killed now, just because I'm unusually offensive by local standards.
We'll just call it "Jimmys." -That's right, no apostrophe-
On the way over, Roxanne had asked, "Whatta ya do?"
"I'm retired; quit working a while before my wife died and never went back. I'm a widower." I volunteered that item, as if being a widower was an occupation.
"How long, Honey?" It didn't seem as though my full name was going to get much use than my "Dick."
"Three years." It wasn't too long ago, just a lifetime. As I said it, there were old echoes of despair trying to lock up my throat. A short lifetime, then.
"Me too, Honey, only it's been eight years. Ah still feel it."
For some reason, I believed her.
It's not that I expected nothing but lies from her, or that they would be malicious, or even have an ulterior motive. I'm not that cynical. It's just that a lot of romantic fiction about the past and wishful thinking about the future has been pushed at me over the years, always from people who are a long way away from having any viable options, or having had any such options in recent memory.
It's like playing with toy soldiers or dolls.
At that, try counting the lies that you'd expect hookers figure they have to tell prospective Johns, like there are never any boyfriends or husbands, or they always insist on condoms but "you look Ok, Hon," or a minute and a half was "good for me too, Babe."
This time we parked on the street, alongside Jimmys.
"Honey, do ya mind if Ah get one of them drinks with cream; they're expensive?"
All nobility, I asked, "Want to get something to eat? If you're hungry, we could pick your kid up, and you could both eat some dinner."
She smiled at the unexpected courtesy. It was too bad about that smile.
"Na, Ah couldn't eat anythin' now, but one of them drinks will take care of me. My boy's all raht. He's stayin' with my friend like Ah said, an Bill's not gonna bring him here until around midnight. Just a drink."
"Like a Brandy Alexander?" It was only around seven-thirty then.
"Ah guess."
I opened the door for her and we entered. Having the door held didn't seem to surprise Roxanne, which surprised me. The only difference between this one joint and any of fifty other dives __not counting cantinas__ in the surrounding twenty-five square miles, was the fact that it wasn't empty. It was about a third full, with perhaps a dozen male and half-a-dozen female customers.
Jimmys was the kind of place where you never see any glass ash trays, because the diamond discus is a dangerous event when the local ladies and/or female transients get pissed, pissed at or pissed on by each other. The overshoed cowboys use pool cues instead, but such are a necessary evil to have at hand __like chopsticks in China__ on the south Texas coast.
The slightly menacing atmosphere inside would have inhibited any outright larceny, had I been there on family business. Though my limited repertory of scams do include some good percentage props, I admit. That just means betting on events with deceptive odds. The hustler usually, but not always wins, and the marks provide and handle their own cards or dice.
Hustles like that, though they're sucker bets, usually generate the least violent reactions in rattlesnake dens like Jimmys. Had the circumstances been different, I might even have taken the chance on one or two of them before buying a round of drinks and making an inconspicuous departure.
We sidled up to the bar, pardner.
Since I had opened the door for her and followed her in, one of the advantages that gentlemen enjoy had accrued to me, my first good view of her backside. And it was a nice one. Like two bear cubs playing with each other in a pup tent; big cubs in a small tent. -I've seen that, you know. For some reason, my presence attracts bears-
Most of the indigenes were seated on cheap white molded plastic chairs, at various kinds of tables that were bare except for beer bottles. The walls had once been painted a way-off-white, I suspected, but it would have taken an archeologist to make sure. The usual posters clutched at the rumpled walls. Their sponsors were mostly travel agencies, breweries or Harley-Davidson, and they were considerably less than successful at covering some of the many holes and cracks on Jimmys plaster horizon. The well-used atmosphere inside was noticeably stale, without smelling of anything specific, except skunky beer.
"Wadda ya want."
The bartender looked Tex-Mex, though his voice held that curious accent from New Orleans; the one that sounds like mutated Brooklynese. And he was one of those people who always look down and never meet you in the eye.
Roxanne responded with, "How about one of them cream drinks?"
"Ok, a White Russian. Waddabout you, pal?" He pushed a squared-off beer blotter in front of me, on the bar where his eyes were fixed.
"I'll take a Lite beer." I dropped an eye-catching twenty dollar bill on the bar.
Not too bad! We got our drinks and change amounting to fifteen bucks and six bits, along with some unwelcome attention to my wallet from the handful of losers nursing their beers at the bar. Leaving half the coins, we moved over to an unoccupied corner near one of the ubiquitous pool tables. This one was being used by a man and woman to fight a grudge match apparently, and the grudge had nothing to do with pool. They were both wearing jeans and stained suitably-named sweat-shirts.
Roxanne and I sat behind one of those tables made from power line spools. I had originally intended no more than getting my ego and id stroked, at most, but I surprised myself. "You seem to be up against it a little, Roxanne. What's the problem?"
I was just staring at her face now. It was framed by the wavy blonde hair, and the tingle was leaving my loins to occupy my conscious mind. Son of a bitch! Maybe a couple of thousand for dental implants or a little bridgework and bonding, and we're looking at beautiful. All the difference in the world. There wasn't a trace of makeup, and I still couldn't see any lines or wrinkles, not even around or below her lime-green eyes. The lady's hair was clean and wavy, as I've said, a little longer than shoulder length and a really lustrous shade of blonde. She looked and smelled just as clean as her hair.
It didn't add up; the rational element of this experience was out of kilter. And the emotional component, even then, felt like a vortex or even a maelstrom already to swallow me whole. I hadn't felt this involved in years.
Involved in what? I didn't have the faintest idea.
" ...then Ah worked a two week turnaround in Houston. That was the last paycheck Ah got, about three weeks ago. Ah'm real happy Ah got new shoes then for my boy an me too. Sears was havin' a sale on, ya know: Nike shoes for him, an Ah got some Reeboks. See?" She held up one of her feet in a proud display. "The Nikes was cut to seventy-three dollars, an the Reeboks was only eighty-five. It's a good thing Ah got them then cause the ole ones was all worn out, an Ah been doin a lot a walkin since."
The woman playing pool called out "Hi" to Roxanne and came over to chat about some problem that didn't grab my attention. Short, chunky below the waist, she had a long nondescript face and a snaggletooth for the lower left canine. I could smell her body odor -You had to be there- over the loud music coming out of an over-sized boom-box in the back of the room, and her eyes gave the appearance of being weak.
When the other woman went back to take a shot, Roxanne said, "Ya know, Ah only been here a little over two weeks an they all tell me their troubles."
I've heard that before, like it was a gift. Who knows?
"When Ah lived in Houston, ya know, my husband drove a Lincoln. He worked for the mob, like a criminal. Ya know?" She bent her head a little and aimed her eyes up at me for emphasis. "That's how Ah lost a couple a teeth when Ah got my jaw broke. Ah got hit with a tartule."
"He hit you?" -First things first-
"Na, somebody was tryin to kill him with a tartule an when he got outta the way, Ah got it in the face, raht here." She pointed to the right side of her jaw and chin and continued, "Broke my jaw in three places, too."
She went on some more, but I tuned most of it out, I guess, -fixated on the "tartule"- and didn't pay attention until, "...an he was fifty-seven when he died, an that was eight years past, like Ah told ya." Not much comfort to give there.
"What's a 'tartule?'" I asked.
She turned her eyes down and away from mine, embarrassed for my sake about the depth of my mechanical ignorance, saying, "Ya know, a tool for fixin' tars on cars." -Oh!-
She changed the subject, "What do ya like to do, Honey?"
I opted for the non-erotic. "Poetry or maybe science." There wasn't much sense in itemizing.
"What do ya think about God, Honey?" Her question came out of the blue.
"I don't know____"
Roxanne started a mixed-up, but charming monologue for about five minutes, somehow mixing deism and fundamentalism without getting deep enough to hit any obvious contradictions. She wound up with, "...an Ah know God won't hold anything against me, Ah gotta do for me an my boy to get along, if Ah got no choice. Ah mean, He's the one who puts us here in the first place." And some predestination, too. Well, it sounded sincere, but you couldn't have tied it all together with barbed wire.
This led to a discussion of basic economics. Roxanne was back to being nervous, and talking a little too fast.
"Ya know, the motel costs twenty for a night if Ah clain the room myself in the mornin', an the ole lady gives me three dollars for any other rooms Ah clain."
I chipped in. "That depends on how many, if any, were rented the night before.
"Raht, sometimes there ain't none, or jes one or two others," she agreed, "but the room's only eighty, by the week, an Ah still get three dollars apiece for clainin' the other cabins each mornin'. Only,___Ah ain't been able to scrape up enough money at a time to give her for a week. Ya know, we gotta eat."
Just at that point, Roxanne's slightly near-sighted gaze was drawn to the front door. She excused herself for a minute, and quickly went over to it and outside. By the time I got myself turned around, whomever or whatever Roxanne had seen was gone.
I shifted my chair back in the direction of the pool table. The masculine contender had been defeated and replaced, which is not a bad metaphor for life. After a minute Roxanne sat down next to me again, and asked if I could spare five dollars for her kid to get something to eat. There was a fiver in my shirt pocket, -an expensive habit- and I fished it out and gave it to her.
Meanwhile, a clean cut, good looking blonde boy around eleven years old had come into my field of vision on the left.
"David, this is my friend Richard. Richard, this is my son David." She tucked the bill into his left side pants pocket, while the boy and I shook hands.
"Hi, David."
Ramrod straight, with slicked-back blonde hair, he'd have made a perfect poster child for the Aryan Nation. But shaking hands, he came across as a nice kid, though; assured and thoughtful, respectful of others. God knows what he's got to be assured about in a pit full of unnatural extroverts like this one is, I thought. The presence of a man standing well behind him could be sensed, but Roxanne was ignoring him, so I didn't turn around to look directly. Before the boy and he left, though, an impression of the guy had impinged on my peripheral vision.
He was a short nerdish Anglo, balding, and the remaining hair was frizzed, as though he had recently gotten a permanent. There was some kind of brownish raincoat, and from the back he looked like the immortal Radar O'Reilly; although there were overtones of furtive urgency in his movements that Radar wouldn't have displayed.
Even though Roxanne had carried off the introduction gracefully all things considered the encounter seemed to disturb her in some way. Most likely, because she resented her "friend" either letting or bringing the boy into the bar to get the money, instead of waiting for her to bring it out. Maybe it was shame, and the survivor in her was trying to bury it in resentment.
Time for me to lighten up. "Speaking of religion: Do you know what hurricanes and tornadoes really are?"
"What?" Her emerald eyes lit up. There was a child-like quality to her instant enthusiasm for anything that promised to be pleasurable.
"God's answer to trailer parks."
Roxanne laughed genuinely for a few moments. But then there was an easily detectable strain in her voice again as she tried to explain why her boy was no longer "stashed." The "friend's" name was now "Dennis" instead of "Bill," and the convolutions would have done justice to a rental agent discussing cockroaches. I felt sorry for her having to lie like that and she sensed the reason for my sympathy.
We both knew how badly she was doing it.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Hugraus tha lishgael ova gamybuer-
Who can know the truth from what a "Working Woman" says?
* * * * * * * * * *
It was well after normal business hours in Houston, Texas, and the outer offices had been deserted by even the most ambitious for some time. A bell rang at the bank of elevators on the top floor, below the penthouse, as the outer door of the middle one opened.
The Nurse strode out of the elevator car, immediately turning to the right toward an unmarked door that was locked by a numeric keypad. In the light of the hallway, the starched white uniform gleamed and crackled as she walked, her white stockings hissing softly with each traverse of softly rounded thighs. A blue cape over her shoulders, below a starched white cap, completed her vestments and the handle of a large medical bag was gripped in her right hand.
Punching in the familiar combination, she opened the door to a stairwell that was completely clad in white tile, except for the ceiling. There, sprinklers projected through suspended white fiberglass rectangles, and television cameras were protected by thick plexiglass barriers at each corner of both levels. The smell of pine-scented antiseptic was especially strong that evening and her nose wrinkled as she approached the steps.
The first time she had come to perform an "adjustment" a few months before the digital locks on both sides of the doors within the stairwell had been a novelty. Now, climbing the single flight of stairs to the penthouse, the woman began to unbutton the loops that held her cape fastened, without giving a single thought to such safeguards.
The Chairman kept track of her progress by means of an overhead monitor in his office. There were three doorways on the upper level, but her pass code would only allow access to the door leading to the exercise room. The television cameras and lights were activated by the body heat of any person in the stairwell, and the system tracked the nurse without any interruption.
The anxious little man was eager to begin, to leave the office and embrace her presence as soon as possible, but he contained his impatience, holding himself back from spoiling the regulated unfolding of his passion play.
Shifting from foot to foot, he waited as long as he could, and then entered a short series of numbers into a keypad, activating it with the master code. The bathroom door closed, locking behind him as he passed through it. The other door __from the bathroom to the exercise room__ was then unlocked, and would remain unlocked until the Chairman either left the premises or re-entered new instructions.
She screamed at him.
"You're late! You're always late, because you want to be. You always do it just to hurt me."
The nurse stood, glaring at him accusingly her legs spread and arms akimbo while he visibly wilted, becoming a child again.
"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't mean to be late."
"Yes, you did and I'm very angry. Get ready for bed!"
He said nothing, removing his clothing, piece by piece. When he was wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, he searched appealingly for some trace of mercy in the strange pout that was painted on her mouth.
She relented, smiled at him and opened her arms. He almost wept with joy and rushed to her arms, hugging her waist and burying his face between her hard, pointed breasts. After a moment, he turned his head to the side, nose and lips following the contours of one breast across a landscape of starch toward the tip of the cone, always the right one. She hugged him closer for a long moment, and then pushed him away.
"That's wicked, evil. You're a very bad boy. Go to bed now!"
There was a secret smile as her eyes found his, though.
He lay face down on the massage table which had been covered with a white bath towel as the woman walked toward the wall in front of the table. Ignoring the Chairman, she removed her cap and started to unbutton the front of her uniform. Exhibiting her rigid white brassiere, whorled and stiffened with stitches of coarse white thread __the straps cutting almost painfully into soft pink flesh__ she turned one way and the other, pacing back and forth before appearing suddenly to notice his interest. Her face was sharp with apparent displeasure, and her voice was husky.
She asked, "Are you ready to go to sleep, baby?"
"Yes, yes!" He almost whimpered in anticipation.
"I don't believe you. I'd better make sure." There was a smug expression under the distorted make-up.
She stooped and fastened thongs tied onto the front sides of the table frame above his wrists, over the angry circles that were already there.
"I'll come and tuck you in."
She stepped out of the uniform dress altogether, each long leg clad in white nylon held up with garters attached to a severe white girdle. Her slim hips were molded by flexible stays each captured in a long, narrow pocket within the Spandex and her thighs swished as she slowly walked down the side of the table, trailing long fingernails down the center of his back.
"You're excited, aren't you?"
No answer.
"Well, aren't you?"
A low mumble, "Yes."
"Are you or aren't you?"
"Yes, Mommy."
"That's better, baby. But____"
"Yes, Mommy?"
"You're very bad. This will hurt me more than it will you, you know."
"What will, Mommy?"
"I'm going to have to punish you, very severely. But you deserve to be punished, don't you."
"Oh, yes!"
She passed her left hand under the elastic band of his boxer shorts and brushed them down to his thigh on the right side of his body, digging in her fingernails. Slap! Her right hand spanked his right buttocks hard and loud, and an expression of utter contentment wrapped itself around his features. The woman then bent to the opened medical bag, searching through a few kitchen utensils within it. The first to be used was a large slotted cooking spoon.
She dragged the shorts down along his thin legs, and began to tease his back and cheeks with the implement until the skin blushed a cranberry tint. Not yet, but soon she would begin to slap him with the heavy spoon, before exchanging it for others of her toys in the bag. The "adjustment" never took very long to complete and most of her "working day" would still be ahead of her that night. Without breaking the rhythm of her movements, she glanced at her watch.
As the Nurse worked over him, the Chairman's eyelids closed over tears of gratitude and his thin lips were slack with mute rapture. The spasms of pain and joy that jolted his body were about to carry him back once again, to a time of transcendent innocence.
You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 1 & 2