Monday, November 01, 2004
NANOWRIMO Day 1: 1737 words
It was a dark and stormy night. No, really. It was! Pretty shitty out, actually. The rain was coming down in waves. If I didn't know otherwise, I'd have sworn I was in Japan in the middle of typhoon season. Not that I'd ever been to Japan, mind you. I don't travel a lot. In fact, the only two places I've ever been are the town I grew up in in the suburbs and the city itself, where I live now. Though we did take a field trip in high school to the state capital once, to see our representatives and governor and that whole "government at work" crap. I didn't even pay attention. Mostly snuck out of the tours and smoked with the homeless guys. So I don't travel much at all. I just watch a lot of TV. I have to. Otherwise I'd go mad.
You see, my job entails a lot of waiting. A whole hell of a lot. Waiting for calls. Waiting for leads. Waiting for the cops to stop chasing me. Waiting for the landlord to stop knocking at my door demanding rent. I do a lot of waiting. Mostly waiting for calls. I'd hire a secretary so she could take my calls for me and I could go do something else more productive, but that wouldn't really work. I don't get enough calls to warrant someone needing to take them, that little red light on my answering machine is never blinking, and there isn't really anything productive I could be doing except drinking (which is arguably not productive. I wouldn't argue it, I enjoy it. But you probably would, wouldn't you, you bastard?), and I couldn't exactly afford to pay a secretary anyway. Hell, I've already said I can't afford to pay my rent. Or my bookie. But that's another problem I don't want to talk about right now. I have too many damn problems.
So I wait a lot. And I watch TV a lot. And I smoke a lot. And I drink a lot. Mostly all at once. Waiting for the damn phone to ring, watching some crap on TV about typhoons in Japan.
Damn it's wet outside. And too damn cold. It's too wet to light a cigarette. Christ, I need a cigarette. All this waiting around for this asshole to finish up with his whore. Then I can get out of this god damn miserable weather and go somewhere that's not reminding me of god damn Japanese weather patterns. God damn waiting. I already got most of the pictures I need. Just need to get the finishing touches so the broad can have more evidence.
Ah, the bastards done now. Yeah, pay her like the gentleman you are. Hope you pay her better than you tipped the waitress for that crappy cup of coffee. (He likes two sugars, two creams, two sweet n low packets, and a partridge in a pear tree. I like mine black. Like a real man. Man, that coffee sucked.) Here we are. *click* *click* *click* Man, you are such a dick. That wife of yours is going to be pissed. But she was right. She's a hot broad, too. Why do you need to get your kicks with a prostitute when you have that sharing your bed every night? Man, I just don't understand some people. That broad almost made me wish I were married to her. But I don't get married. Marriage and me don't work, see? I know from experience. Three of 'em. Bloody waste of time. But a broad like that...
Yeah, use that umbrella to avoid this ass weather. Get in that taxi. Moron. If you're gonna cheat, at least let the rain wash the smell of you before you get in. That way you have plenty of time to dry off in the cab before you get home. And she might actually buy your "I was working late" garbage. Amateur.
I tied the plastic bag that had been around the camera shut. The rain wouldn't ruin any of the film. I'd develop them, the broad would get her evidence, he'd get the boot and the divorce papers, she'd get the house and the kids, and I'd get my cash for a job well done. But first, a little visit with Lacie.
Every time you meet a ho, she always has some lame ass name that's supposed to be sexy. Like Angel, or Trixie. I did know an Edith once. Man. Whoever heard of a whore named Edith? Edith is your aunt who pinches your cheeks every time she's sees you, no matter if you're five or forty. Ugh. Lacie was, as I'm sure is fairly obvious, the name of the prostitute who is in the process of cleaning herself up after doing her job. I don't think Lacie is her real name. Too much like the rest to be real. I've never asked, though I do wonder sometimes. Hell, maybe it's Edith.
Walking up the steps to Lacie's building, I take out a key. Her key. Now, I don't make the mistake some people make about keeping all their keys on one key ring. at least, not when I go out. I only take what I know I'm going to need. That way, I never have to fumble for the right key. That's a good way to waste just enough time to get yourself shot. Though it would come in handy if you have to deal with any unpleasant surprises. But I plan for those, too. I let myself in with the key. Her key. Not Lacie's key. Lacie and I have an understanding, but it only goes so far. Besides, she knows I can get into the building when I want to, or at least need to. She just doesn't know how. Nor will she. I replace the key. Her key.
Shaking my head to clear away bad memories and a whole lot of wet, I trudge up the stairs. The memories are still there though. So's the wetness. Stupid rain. I reach her apartment and let myself in. She almost never keeps it unlocked. Just when she knows exactly when I'm coming in. Like I said, we have an understanding. I may be able to get in the building, and I'll go in when I'm expected, and probably in the event of an emergency, but she doesn't want me to be able to come and go as I please. Shutting the door, I place my soggy hat and sopping coat on a rack on the wall. They're still dripping profusely, beginning to form a puddle on the floor. But it doesn't matter. There's enough wetness from sweat, tears, blood, and assorted other things in this place that a puddle won't make a difference. The rug soaks them all up without prejudice. Rugs don't give a damn what you do to them, because all they just do is sit there and wait for the next thing to happen so they can do their job and absorb it. I like rugs. Remind me of me. Though sometimes I don't like them too much. Remind me too much of me.
The shower's running. Hot water. The hottest you can get out of the faucet and then some. Lacie likes her water hot. Doesn't burn her. She's used her body so many times it's numb to that kind of thing. Just heats up the cold exterior that she uses every time she works. Gotta do something to stay sane. She withdraws into herself and pretends to be elsewhere, soaking in just enough to know what her clients want to do and what they like and don't like. Better than soaking in what spills on the rug. Or soaking in facts about Japanese weather, I guess. I fix myself a drink. Not really difficult. A double shot of bourbon on the rocks. As I down it quickly, the shower stops. I pour myself another and fix Lacie's drink. Vodka Sour. It's a sophisticated drink, I'm told. A sophisticated drink for a sophisticated lady.
Ha!
I walk over to the couch and sit down. Right on cue, Lacie walks out of the bathroom in her not quite shear robe, skin still glistening and her hair still dripping. She never dries off. I like it better that way. So does she. She takes her drink and joins me on the couch.
"Get what you need?" she asks.
"Pretty much. He say anything?" We always conduct our business before pleasure. And this is business. Two clients settling into their routine every so often meetings. Not clients like she has clients. We're old business associates. And sex isn't the business between us. Information is.
"Just the usual. How hot I made him. How much I was going to enjoy this. No mention of his wife. Kept the wedding ring in his pocket. He put it on as he left."
"So don't bother listening to the tapes?"
"Oh, you can listen. And you know you will. Just don't bother trying to write anything down. You can enjoy them." As she says this, she gestures to one of the tape recorders, this one hidden in the plant next to me.
"Alright. I'll get them when I leave. He do anything weird that'll help in court?"
"No luck there. Straight missionary shooter all the way. Which is kind of weird, since they usually come to me for what their wives won't let them do."
"Mmm." The broad will just have to go without any evidence of deviant sexual practices as leverage with her soon to be ex husband. "Alright, sounds good. He leave as little as I think?"
"Yeah. Cheap bastard. Fortunately you'll make up for that, won't you?" She laughed as she finished her drink.
"You'll get your usual cut. For your information." Prostitution may be illegal, but paying somebody for information certainly wasn't. Convenient loop hole. I set my drink down.
"Of course. Well, I guess that's that then. Nice doing business with you." I replied in kind, and we shook hands, as was customary. "I'm going to retire for the night, now." She let her robe slip to the floor as she made her way to the bedroom. The business part of our deal was concluded.
"Good night, Lacie." I finished my drink and followed her in.
Like I said, we have an understanding.
It was a dark and stormy night. No, really. It was! Pretty shitty out, actually. The rain was coming down in waves. If I didn't know otherwise, I'd have sworn I was in Japan in the middle of typhoon season. Not that I'd ever been to Japan, mind you. I don't travel a lot. In fact, the only two places I've ever been are the town I grew up in in the suburbs and the city itself, where I live now. Though we did take a field trip in high school to the state capital once, to see our representatives and governor and that whole "government at work" crap. I didn't even pay attention. Mostly snuck out of the tours and smoked with the homeless guys. So I don't travel much at all. I just watch a lot of TV. I have to. Otherwise I'd go mad.
You see, my job entails a lot of waiting. A whole hell of a lot. Waiting for calls. Waiting for leads. Waiting for the cops to stop chasing me. Waiting for the landlord to stop knocking at my door demanding rent. I do a lot of waiting. Mostly waiting for calls. I'd hire a secretary so she could take my calls for me and I could go do something else more productive, but that wouldn't really work. I don't get enough calls to warrant someone needing to take them, that little red light on my answering machine is never blinking, and there isn't really anything productive I could be doing except drinking (which is arguably not productive. I wouldn't argue it, I enjoy it. But you probably would, wouldn't you, you bastard?), and I couldn't exactly afford to pay a secretary anyway. Hell, I've already said I can't afford to pay my rent. Or my bookie. But that's another problem I don't want to talk about right now. I have too many damn problems.
So I wait a lot. And I watch TV a lot. And I smoke a lot. And I drink a lot. Mostly all at once. Waiting for the damn phone to ring, watching some crap on TV about typhoons in Japan.
Damn it's wet outside. And too damn cold. It's too wet to light a cigarette. Christ, I need a cigarette. All this waiting around for this asshole to finish up with his whore. Then I can get out of this god damn miserable weather and go somewhere that's not reminding me of god damn Japanese weather patterns. God damn waiting. I already got most of the pictures I need. Just need to get the finishing touches so the broad can have more evidence.
Ah, the bastards done now. Yeah, pay her like the gentleman you are. Hope you pay her better than you tipped the waitress for that crappy cup of coffee. (He likes two sugars, two creams, two sweet n low packets, and a partridge in a pear tree. I like mine black. Like a real man. Man, that coffee sucked.) Here we are. *click* *click* *click* Man, you are such a dick. That wife of yours is going to be pissed. But she was right. She's a hot broad, too. Why do you need to get your kicks with a prostitute when you have that sharing your bed every night? Man, I just don't understand some people. That broad almost made me wish I were married to her. But I don't get married. Marriage and me don't work, see? I know from experience. Three of 'em. Bloody waste of time. But a broad like that...
Yeah, use that umbrella to avoid this ass weather. Get in that taxi. Moron. If you're gonna cheat, at least let the rain wash the smell of you before you get in. That way you have plenty of time to dry off in the cab before you get home. And she might actually buy your "I was working late" garbage. Amateur.
I tied the plastic bag that had been around the camera shut. The rain wouldn't ruin any of the film. I'd develop them, the broad would get her evidence, he'd get the boot and the divorce papers, she'd get the house and the kids, and I'd get my cash for a job well done. But first, a little visit with Lacie.
Every time you meet a ho, she always has some lame ass name that's supposed to be sexy. Like Angel, or Trixie. I did know an Edith once. Man. Whoever heard of a whore named Edith? Edith is your aunt who pinches your cheeks every time she's sees you, no matter if you're five or forty. Ugh. Lacie was, as I'm sure is fairly obvious, the name of the prostitute who is in the process of cleaning herself up after doing her job. I don't think Lacie is her real name. Too much like the rest to be real. I've never asked, though I do wonder sometimes. Hell, maybe it's Edith.
Walking up the steps to Lacie's building, I take out a key. Her key. Now, I don't make the mistake some people make about keeping all their keys on one key ring. at least, not when I go out. I only take what I know I'm going to need. That way, I never have to fumble for the right key. That's a good way to waste just enough time to get yourself shot. Though it would come in handy if you have to deal with any unpleasant surprises. But I plan for those, too. I let myself in with the key. Her key. Not Lacie's key. Lacie and I have an understanding, but it only goes so far. Besides, she knows I can get into the building when I want to, or at least need to. She just doesn't know how. Nor will she. I replace the key. Her key.
Shaking my head to clear away bad memories and a whole lot of wet, I trudge up the stairs. The memories are still there though. So's the wetness. Stupid rain. I reach her apartment and let myself in. She almost never keeps it unlocked. Just when she knows exactly when I'm coming in. Like I said, we have an understanding. I may be able to get in the building, and I'll go in when I'm expected, and probably in the event of an emergency, but she doesn't want me to be able to come and go as I please. Shutting the door, I place my soggy hat and sopping coat on a rack on the wall. They're still dripping profusely, beginning to form a puddle on the floor. But it doesn't matter. There's enough wetness from sweat, tears, blood, and assorted other things in this place that a puddle won't make a difference. The rug soaks them all up without prejudice. Rugs don't give a damn what you do to them, because all they just do is sit there and wait for the next thing to happen so they can do their job and absorb it. I like rugs. Remind me of me. Though sometimes I don't like them too much. Remind me too much of me.
The shower's running. Hot water. The hottest you can get out of the faucet and then some. Lacie likes her water hot. Doesn't burn her. She's used her body so many times it's numb to that kind of thing. Just heats up the cold exterior that she uses every time she works. Gotta do something to stay sane. She withdraws into herself and pretends to be elsewhere, soaking in just enough to know what her clients want to do and what they like and don't like. Better than soaking in what spills on the rug. Or soaking in facts about Japanese weather, I guess. I fix myself a drink. Not really difficult. A double shot of bourbon on the rocks. As I down it quickly, the shower stops. I pour myself another and fix Lacie's drink. Vodka Sour. It's a sophisticated drink, I'm told. A sophisticated drink for a sophisticated lady.
Ha!
I walk over to the couch and sit down. Right on cue, Lacie walks out of the bathroom in her not quite shear robe, skin still glistening and her hair still dripping. She never dries off. I like it better that way. So does she. She takes her drink and joins me on the couch.
"Get what you need?" she asks.
"Pretty much. He say anything?" We always conduct our business before pleasure. And this is business. Two clients settling into their routine every so often meetings. Not clients like she has clients. We're old business associates. And sex isn't the business between us. Information is.
"Just the usual. How hot I made him. How much I was going to enjoy this. No mention of his wife. Kept the wedding ring in his pocket. He put it on as he left."
"So don't bother listening to the tapes?"
"Oh, you can listen. And you know you will. Just don't bother trying to write anything down. You can enjoy them." As she says this, she gestures to one of the tape recorders, this one hidden in the plant next to me.
"Alright. I'll get them when I leave. He do anything weird that'll help in court?"
"No luck there. Straight missionary shooter all the way. Which is kind of weird, since they usually come to me for what their wives won't let them do."
"Mmm." The broad will just have to go without any evidence of deviant sexual practices as leverage with her soon to be ex husband. "Alright, sounds good. He leave as little as I think?"
"Yeah. Cheap bastard. Fortunately you'll make up for that, won't you?" She laughed as she finished her drink.
"You'll get your usual cut. For your information." Prostitution may be illegal, but paying somebody for information certainly wasn't. Convenient loop hole. I set my drink down.
"Of course. Well, I guess that's that then. Nice doing business with you." I replied in kind, and we shook hands, as was customary. "I'm going to retire for the night, now." She let her robe slip to the floor as she made her way to the bedroom. The business part of our deal was concluded.
"Good night, Lacie." I finished my drink and followed her in.
Like I said, we have an understanding.
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