A Man, a Whore, and a Junkie

1

She was a whore. The thought, which flowed like bile through the sweet dream, jolted Gunner awake. In the dream he had been holding Marissa, sitting on damp sand, watching the sun peek over the ocean. The feeling had been better than good. It had been pervasive, an all-encompassing warmth. Something he hadn’t felt since the accident. But in his sleep his hand had cupped a sagging breast, his nose smelled the sour peach tequila that the whore drank, and wakefulness had come with a vengeance, bright, yet hopelessly forlorn.

He rolled out of bed without a glance at the woman. He wasn’t sure that he remembered what she looked like, but he was sure that he didn’t care. They were all the same, they were all not Marissa. He pulled a pair of sweats from the pile of clothes on the chair. They didn’t smell, at least not too badly. In the pocket were his Winstons. He lit one and took a long drag. Relishing the flavor of the smoke, the hope of death. The air was already sticky, and through the sliding glass doors he squinted at a sun hot on the sand, glaring on the water. He shuffled to the doors, nearly tripping on the piles of clothes, tipping a quarter-full can of beer on the carpet. He grunted at the spreading puddle. His housekeeper would clean it. She would clean everything. She was expensive, but there was plenty of money. Blood money.

Through the doors, and onto the deck. The sun was already three inches above the water. He guessed it was seven, maybe seven-fifteen. No one on the beach but the early walkers, dreamers. None of his concern, six months he had lived here. He knew no one.  

He padded over to the compact fridge in the corner of the deck, glancing in the bedroom as he did so. The girl hadn’t moved, one leg exposed to the hip, dishwater blonde hair hiding her lined face. He squatted and opened it, the rubber seal popping as the door pivoted out. Inside rested a six of Miller Lite. Before the accident he drank good beer, craft beer, now he didn’t see the point, now he drank to stupefaction. Beside the beer waited the Glock, always loaded, ready for the day that his grief would overcome his cowardice.

2

The warmth spread like a comforting blanket through Sandy’s body, relaxing, yet not. Every nerve was alive, yet her being was chill. She had tried to describe it, had listened as others tried to describe it. None of them could, but all of them understood it. The explanations always dissolved into “Well, you know…,” a sleepy smile, and a slow nod.

She was feeling good today, light ‘n bright, so she taped the needle, and carefully placed it in the wooden box with the moon and star etched on its cover. It was a present from her Dad. Three years since she had seen that fucker. Five since she had seen her mother.

Rat would drop needles on the street. Once, she asked him why. “Fuck ‘em,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. Rat wasn’t bad. Flipped burgers at Mickey D’s most days, dealt a little pot on the side, hoped for the big time, the big smack-dealing time, but lacked the money.

She walked through the room to the kitchen. It was small. Hell, the whole, slum-lord apartment was small. There was a stove with two burners out, a single sink, and a refrigerator that was about ten years past its junk yard turn in date. There were cupboards over both refrigerator and stove. Flaking orange paint when she moved in, and partially painted now. She'd get back to it when she had a minute. At least the dishes were clean.

She opened the freezer, standing for a moment as the cool air wafted over her face, relishing the sensation. A minute turned into two, then she shook herself before fishing out a box of Stouffer's broccoli from behind the ice trays. It was light, empty. Sandy opened it and slid the needle box inside, then resealed the Stouffer's broccoli, and placed it in the freezer. Safe and sound.

She ducked into the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. Dark black hair, green eyes, and a complexion gone sallow from malnutrition. Piercings, and the attendant studs, winked in the bathroom light. One in her nostril, one in her lower lip, and three in each ear. Not much makeup, light gloss on the lips, light eye shadow. That wasn't Sandy. Sandy was black lipstick and heavy eye shadow, but today was a work day. Today was Wal-Mart. Her blue shirt was clean, as were her khakis, as were her white shoes. Rat made fun of her clean apartment and clothes.  She could imagine him in the threadbare recliner, toking a jay, gesturing at the room surrounding him. "Why you want to clean this piece of shit? Don't you know you can't polish a turd?"

She shrugged at the image. She didn't know. Didn't know why she dressed for work, showed up early for work, worked at work. They never promoted people like her. She left the apartment, making sure the door was locked, and began the three-block walk to Wal-Mart.

3

Gunner chose the Miller Lite, ignoring the Glock this time.

He popped the can, and drew hard on the beer. Wiping the foam from his mouth as he lowered the can.

"That's such crap," he whispered, holding up the can and grimacing at the thought of another pull.

"Mind if I have a can of that crap?"

She stood at the sliding doors, barely covered in a pink wife-beater and white panties. He shrugged and turned back to the ocean. The beach was filling with early risers, sunning themselves on their towels, or reading in the shade of brightly colored umbrellas. A few kids played in the water, a pair of surfers paddled their boards, a couple walked the surf line. Hand in hand. The way he and Marissa walked the water.

The refrigerator opened. He waited for the inevitable gasp, for the "What's a gun...". Nothing. A beer popped, and then she was next to him, leaning against the rail. She clinked her can against the half full beer in his hand. "To sex."

He glanced down at her, but she looked away, toward the ocean, bleached hair tossed in the wind.

He drained the beer, crumpled it, and threw the crushed can to the corner of the balcony. He gestured toward the beach combers with his chin.

"You know they can see those white panties of yours." Three-quarter inch square pickets, spaced about six inches apart, comprised the balcony's railing. Good enough to keep a drunk from failing over, or through, but not much help when it came to blocking the sunner's view of the balcony's inhabitants.

She chuckled. "This job sort of drains the modesty right out of you. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do." She arched an eyebrow but said nothing else. He stepped to the refrigerator, and plucked another beer from the shelf inside, ignoring the cool, black gun.

He sank into a blue Adirondack, and she sat in the yellow one adjacent. For few moments, both drank. Neither spoke. Gunner fished the Winstons from the pocket of his robe, pulled one from the pack with his lips and lit it. She stared. He shrugged.

"Smoke?" He held the pack out. She took one and he lit it.

She popped a smoke ring, quickly whisked away by the ocean breeze. An American flag ripped at its pole on the cottage next door. She took another long drag, exhaling the smoke into the wind.

"Not many of us left." She spoke with a Demi Moore rasp.

"Losers?" Gunner queried.

She laughed, and he regretted the comment.

"No offense intended," he added. He wasn't used to talkative prostitutes. Wasn't used to people at all.

"None taken," she smiled. "This job sucks all the 'offense taken' right out of you."

He nodded. She thought she even saw a smile. she'd like a smile.

"No, I mean smokers," she added. He nodded.

"It's a dying breed," she said. This time he laughed, the sound genuine, hearty.

She glanced back to the bedroom. Spartan, yet well done. Wooden bed frame, looked like cherry, similar dresser low and long, chair and foot stool from the same wood. Matched the man. Long, lean, muscular, yet showing a bit of the middle-age pouch. To the right of the wooden chair, double doors led to a large, walk in closet. She caught a glimpse in it the previous night. Mostly t-shirts and football jerseys.

She drained the beer, setting the can next to her chair, obviously empty. No offer of replacement from the man. "This your place?"

"Yeah." Lit another cigarette, shook one out for her, but she waved it off.

"You like football?"

He looked at her sharply, cigarette poised at his lips. "Why?"

She frowned, pointing vaguely at his closet.

"Oh." He took a drag. "Yeah, I guess so."

"You play?"

He took a long drag and dropped the butt in her empty can of Miller Lite. "Another life."

She waited, but that was it. It was time to go. She knew that, but there was something about this one. Perhaps one more try.

She smiled. "Your place is nice, peaceful. Good place to get your mind off things."

He grunted. "Nothing gets your mind off things."

"Yeah?" she whispered, and put a hand on his knee. "What kind of things would you like to have on your mind?"

He took her hand by the wrist, gently, and took it from his knee. "Not that."

She leaned close, her lips not an inch from his ear. "Yeah? This one's on the house."

He stood. "I don't want one on the house, I don't want one for free. Free sex is too much like..." He turned away from her, back to the ocean. "Just leave."

4

Rat stole the plasma screen from a three story house on Atlantic Avenue. May was the best time. The rentals were sporadic then. One week the house would be rented, and the next not. Starting with June, it was solid up until September. Finding out when there was a rental hole was easy. Sandy would spy out a likely house. Something new, something that would have the latest electrics. Electrics, that's what they called TVs, stereos, WiFi routers. Then she'd place a call to the realtors, inquire about rental opportunities, and find an open week.

Breaking in was easy. Burglar alarms were few and far between; too many falsies when the renters forgot to set them. Sandy would break a pane on the back door, and unlock the house. Rat had a van, a beat up Ford Econoline, with a cool starscape on the side. Once they were in, they'd lift anything they could sell hot, sell quick.

This week it was a 72" Visio flat screen. Probably cost a grand in Best Buy, they unloaded it for $300. Then they called Vinnie. The loot got them an ounce of pot, three lines of coke, and dinner at Applebee's. There was thirteen dollars left. Rat kept it.  Sandy let it ride. Not like Rat was violent or anything, but he could pout with the best of them, and she didn't want to spoil the day, a damn good day. She sucked lightly on the newly-lit doobie and passed it.

It was sunset, and they were driving to the public access as Mile Marker 12, their stomachs full with cheeseburgers and wings. The Econoline ran rough, but at least it ran. All was right with the world.

Rat grabbed the doobie without looking, an orange towel covered his lap, a hand towel drooped from the front of his shirt.

"Keeps me from burning holes in my clothes," he'd told her when she asked a while back. "I don't want to drop forty dollars on a pair of Abercrombie's just to ruin them with a popping seed."

Of course, she had never seen him drop forty dollars on a pair of shorts, or anything but beer and dope. He pulled on the jay, and she studied his profile by the light of the burning marijuana. Rat wasn't bad looking. Wasn't good looking either, mind you. He was thin, many of them were thin. Not healthy, but rather malnourished. His beard was scruffy, caught in a perpetual state between full beard and unshaven, but he was clean, and his teeth were brushed. Usually.

Ahead a traffic light turned red, and Rat slowed. Traffic wasn't bad, it was Tuesday night. There was a Corolla behind, and a large pickup in front. Two teenage girls  sat facing them in a love seat from the bed of the pickup truck. They looked young to Sandy, but were probably her age, if not older. She doubted that she had much in common with them. To their right a large Wings beach store advertised cheap t-shirts.

He passed the doobie back, low so that the teenagers couldn't see. Not that the teenagers would care, but you couldn't be too careful.

"They got nice hoodies."

She took the jay, noticing the dirt under Rat's nails. "They're wearing tees, Rat. What's wrong with you?"

Rat giggled. "Not the kids, babe. Wings. That Wings has nice hoodies, I'd like to get one."

The light turned and Rat accelerated, the van belching smoke. Sandy let the teenagers pull ahead, then took a drag, shielding the doobie from view with the cup of her hand.

"Yeah, I'm sure they would be glad to sell you one. All they want is money."

"Ain't got no money."

Sandy nodded. "That's true."

Rat turned the van right on Holloway, and parked. Sandy snuffed out the joint, placed it in an empty Big Mac box, and slid it under the seat.

//30//

So many times I start the blog with an explanation. No explanation here, no resolution. I'm going ask two questions, but I don't really expect answers. Seems like folks don't participate like they used to. The questions. Who are these people? Where are they going?

Mark H. Walker served 23 years in the United States Navy, most of them as an Explosive Ordnance Disposal diver. He is the owner of Flying Pig Games, the designer of the aliens-invade-Earth game Night of Man, the author of World at War: Revelation, a creepy, military action, with a love story, alternate history, World War Three novel thing, as well as Desert Moon, an exciting mecha, military science fiction novel with a twist, with plenty of damn science fiction in it despite what any reviewer says, Everyone Dies in the End, and numerous short stories. All the books and stories are available from Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing right here. Give them a try. I mean, what the hell? The games? Well that's Flying Pig Games. Retribution the sequel to World at War: Revelation, will release in the summer of 2015.

Sign Up for Mark's Newsletter