Read Online Bad Behavior: Stories by Mary Gaitskill - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Gaitskill
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She held out her freckled hands toward the last girl, who sat with one leg tucked underneath her, looking out the window. “And this is Lisette.” The girl wore a short red-and-black-checked dress, white ankle socks and black pumps. Her bobbed brown hair was curly. When she turned to face him, her expression was mildly friendly and normal; she could’ve been looking at anybody or anything.
The strangeness of it all delighted and fascinated him: the falsely gentle voice, the helpless contempt, the choosing of a bored, unknown girl sitting on her ankle, looking out the window.
“Do you see a lady who you’d like to visit with?”
“I’ll see Lisette.”
The girl stood up and walked toward him as if he were a dentist, except she was smiling.
The room was pale green. The air in it was bloated with sweatand canned air freshener. There was a bed table set with a plastic container sprouting damp Handi-Wipes, a radio, an ashtray, a Kleenex box and a slimy bottle of oil. The bed was covered by a designer sheet patterned with beige, brown and tan lions lazing happily on the branches of trees or swatting each other. There was an aluminum chair. There was a glass-covered poster for an art exhibit. There was a fish tank with a Day-Glo orange fish castle in it. He lay on the bed naked, waiting for her to join him. He turned on the radio. It was tuned to one of those awful disco stations. “I specialize in love,” sang a woman’s voice. “I’ll make you feel like new. I specialize in love—let me work on you.”
He smiled as he listened to the music. It evoked the swirling lights of dance floors he’d never been on, the tossing hair and sweat-drenched underwear of girls who danced and drank all night, girls he never saw except in commercials for jeans. He anticipated Lisette as he imagined her, the grip of her blunt-fingered hands, her curly head on his shoulder. Did she dance in places like that, in her white socks and pumps?
She came in with a white sheet under her arm. She clipped across the floor, sharp heels clacking. She turned off the radio. The silence was as disorienting as a sudden roomful of fluorescent light. “I hate that shit,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. I have to put this sheet down.” She snapped the sheet open and floated it down over him. He scrambled out from under it, banging into the wastebasket as he stepped to the floor.
“Here,” he said. He took a corner of the sheet and awkwardly stretched it over the bed.
“No, it’s okay, that’s good enough.” She sat on the bed and stared at him, her small face gone suddenly grave. Her eyes were round and dark. Her muddy black makeup looked as if it had been finger-painted on. He sat down next to her and put his hand on her thigh. She ignored it. He felt as though he was bothering a girl sitting next to him on a bus. His hand sweated on her leg and he took it away. What was wrong? Why wasn’t she pulling her dress off over her head, the way they usually did?
“Do you come to places like this often?” she asked.
“Not too much. Every month or so. I’m married, so it’s hard to get away.”
She looked worried. She reached out with nervous quickness and picked up his hand. “What do people do now, mostly?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m new here. You’re only my second customer and I don’t know what I should do. Well, I know what to do , basically, but there’s all these little things, like when to take off the dress.”
He felt a foolish smile running over his face. Her second customer! “But you’ve worked before.”
“You mean done this before? No, I haven’t.”
He looked at her, beaming greedily.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m an attorney,” he said. “Corporate law.” He was lying. He felt cut loose from himself, unmarried, un-old, because of the lie.
“How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
She smiled, and her black eye paint coiled like a
The strangeness of it all delighted and fascinated him: the falsely gentle voice, the helpless contempt, the choosing of a bored, unknown girl sitting on her ankle, looking out the window.
“Do you see a lady who you’d like to visit with?”
“I’ll see Lisette.”
The girl stood up and walked toward him as if he were a dentist, except she was smiling.
The room was pale green. The air in it was bloated with sweatand canned air freshener. There was a bed table set with a plastic container sprouting damp Handi-Wipes, a radio, an ashtray, a Kleenex box and a slimy bottle of oil. The bed was covered by a designer sheet patterned with beige, brown and tan lions lazing happily on the branches of trees or swatting each other. There was an aluminum chair. There was a glass-covered poster for an art exhibit. There was a fish tank with a Day-Glo orange fish castle in it. He lay on the bed naked, waiting for her to join him. He turned on the radio. It was tuned to one of those awful disco stations. “I specialize in love,” sang a woman’s voice. “I’ll make you feel like new. I specialize in love—let me work on you.”
He smiled as he listened to the music. It evoked the swirling lights of dance floors he’d never been on, the tossing hair and sweat-drenched underwear of girls who danced and drank all night, girls he never saw except in commercials for jeans. He anticipated Lisette as he imagined her, the grip of her blunt-fingered hands, her curly head on his shoulder. Did she dance in places like that, in her white socks and pumps?
She came in with a white sheet under her arm. She clipped across the floor, sharp heels clacking. She turned off the radio. The silence was as disorienting as a sudden roomful of fluorescent light. “I hate that shit,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. I have to put this sheet down.” She snapped the sheet open and floated it down over him. He scrambled out from under it, banging into the wastebasket as he stepped to the floor.
“Here,” he said. He took a corner of the sheet and awkwardly stretched it over the bed.
“No, it’s okay, that’s good enough.” She sat on the bed and stared at him, her small face gone suddenly grave. Her eyes were round and dark. Her muddy black makeup looked as if it had been finger-painted on. He sat down next to her and put his hand on her thigh. She ignored it. He felt as though he was bothering a girl sitting next to him on a bus. His hand sweated on her leg and he took it away. What was wrong? Why wasn’t she pulling her dress off over her head, the way they usually did?
“Do you come to places like this often?” she asked.
“Not too much. Every month or so. I’m married, so it’s hard to get away.”
She looked worried. She reached out with nervous quickness and picked up his hand. “What do people do now, mostly?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m new here. You’re only my second customer and I don’t know what I should do. Well, I know what to do , basically, but there’s all these little things, like when to take off the dress.”
He felt a foolish smile running over his face. Her second customer! “But you’ve worked before.”
“You mean done this before? No, I haven’t.”
He looked at her, beaming greedily.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I’m an attorney,” he said. “Corporate law.” He was lying. He felt cut loose from himself, unmarried, un-old, because of the lie.
“How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
She smiled, and her black eye paint coiled like a
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