From Dressing for Hope
Norma says she'll borrow the truck from Pavo so we can get the hell out of
Hope for the day. She bounces on the end of the bed a couple of times, then
takes the lid off my Coleman cooler, hunting good stuff for a hangover, something
loaded with Bs. I smell feta cheese and wet onions because they gave me the
room farthest away from the ice machine; the stripper gets the ice machine,
we get rooms overlooking Harley-land. Like musicians don't sleep, or think,
or merit clean air. What are we, plywood?
After work last night—mine in the lounge, hers in the cabaret—we came up here
and ate my Greek salad, drank my Yukon Jack with fresh limes, and waited for
pay-TV to get explicit. There was one good bit where some redhead visited her
boyfriend in jail. Under her sensible pleated skirt she wore bikini underpants
with strings on the sides. Her long fingers pulled the little bows; she masturbated
for her con-man through Plexiglass. We're gonna get some, for a joke.
I offer Norma
my fieldberry yogurt, point to the spoon on top of the television. We left the
set on all night, so the spoon will be warm in the already limp yogurt. She comes
back to bed, leaving the lid off the cooler, but who am I to pass judgment on
niceties? I'm the one who can't face the chambermaid to give her my dirty towels.
Every morning I shout at her through the door, “I'm okay.” I'm sure the maid
would just as soon stay out of our wing. Imagine what she finds in Pavo's room.
Just in the ashtrays.
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