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Authors: John O'Brien
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with which she handily guides her nights.
(Safely on the bus to Las Vegas and thinking back for the first time, Sera was amazed at the timeliness of the elevator’s arrival. Ten, five more seconds might have changed everything. She could still be there, maybe giving another sponge bath to that smelly accountant whom Al had sent her to the night before.
But it went her way. Things took over, or maybe things let go and she took over. Either way, when Al kicked her in the stomach, shouting
Leave!,
and turned back to his newest girl, Sera did just that. For the first time she really did leave, not just the room, but the apartment, and ultimately the city.
And he knew. He knew he had gone too far. He sensed a flaw in the glass. Waiting by the elevator, she heard him scream her name—a new and odd fright in the command. There was time to go back, and there was the distant whir of the elevator’s ascent. There were these two intangible things with her in the hall, both playing out their purposes. Joining them, she held her ground; indoor-outdoor carpeting, and hard won, it was to be.
Waiting
was something she was
doing.
Just like taking a shower or giving head, this was an executed action. Her part. She might have peed her pants—later they were damp—but she felt wonderful to have
done
this one thing.
Unraveling then, she saw the spool of her design, freely givingher slack as the elevator door opened and she stepped in, still not having heard Al’s approach. The steel doors pressed themselves together to the faint sound of glass breaking. All the way down a voice in her head, or what she took to be the meaning of that expression, told her to continue
doing
things…
…and it will be okay, she told herself on the bus, now well past Barstow.)
“No deal?” says a hefty man who has rapidly moved into position beside her. He looks to be in his mid forties, excessively Caucasian. His shirt collar is open and worn out over the lapel of his suit jacket, revealing an abundance of chest hair which continues up to his shoulders. Large and hard, his features are unified in a happy, arrogant smirk which smacks of malice.
She looks at him tentatively. “You’ve been listening in, Officer?” she says, though she knows he’s not a cop.
“Officer my ass,” he says. “Look, baby. You’re not talking to some farm boy. I’m not that loser that just left. I know why you’re here and I’m interested. What’s the fare anyhow? Do I get a discount for looking at your punching bag face?” He laughs cruelly. “Just kidding. After all, it’s not your face I want to use.” He falls silent, as if to convey some special meaning, and looks deeply at her, as if there is anything he could possibly know. “Al sent me over—Arab guy—said you were a good sport. So how much?”
She must be very cold, for the hand on her back feels unnaturally hot. To her ears comes the fat man’s voice:
Here he is now.,
punctuated by the annoying clink of glass from a passing busboy’s cart. Now just a single finger draws an imaginary line along her spine, and as she turns to see who is behind her, she shivers.
Then she meets his eyes, and seven years vanish in an odious, bloodshot wink.
“Answer the man, Sera. He wants to spend some time with you,” says Gamal Fathi. Up close now, he may be surprised at the condition of her face, but this has never mattered in the past, and his own remains as it is: very hard, quite pleased with the moment.
Sera looks away, out into the casino with its anthill of activity, a zillion people serving one common cause. Throughout her life she has never had, never even wanted to taste, a single moment of belonging to anything this big. She can’t remember what hotel this is, though she finds that fact not disturbing in the least. She says, “Al,” and she feels a longing for something that isn’t here right now. She doesn’t know what it could be.
The fat man moves his face close, right in front of hers.
(Safely on the bus to Las Vegas and thinking back for the first time, Sera was amazed at the timeliness of the elevator’s arrival. Ten, five more seconds might have changed everything. She could still be there, maybe giving another sponge bath to that smelly accountant whom Al had sent her to the night before.
But it went her way. Things took over, or maybe things let go and she took over. Either way, when Al kicked her in the stomach, shouting
Leave!,
and turned back to his newest girl, Sera did just that. For the first time she really did leave, not just the room, but the apartment, and ultimately the city.
And he knew. He knew he had gone too far. He sensed a flaw in the glass. Waiting by the elevator, she heard him scream her name—a new and odd fright in the command. There was time to go back, and there was the distant whir of the elevator’s ascent. There were these two intangible things with her in the hall, both playing out their purposes. Joining them, she held her ground; indoor-outdoor carpeting, and hard won, it was to be.
Waiting
was something she was
doing.
Just like taking a shower or giving head, this was an executed action. Her part. She might have peed her pants—later they were damp—but she felt wonderful to have
done
this one thing.
Unraveling then, she saw the spool of her design, freely givingher slack as the elevator door opened and she stepped in, still not having heard Al’s approach. The steel doors pressed themselves together to the faint sound of glass breaking. All the way down a voice in her head, or what she took to be the meaning of that expression, told her to continue
doing
things…
…and it will be okay, she told herself on the bus, now well past Barstow.)
“No deal?” says a hefty man who has rapidly moved into position beside her. He looks to be in his mid forties, excessively Caucasian. His shirt collar is open and worn out over the lapel of his suit jacket, revealing an abundance of chest hair which continues up to his shoulders. Large and hard, his features are unified in a happy, arrogant smirk which smacks of malice.
She looks at him tentatively. “You’ve been listening in, Officer?” she says, though she knows he’s not a cop.
“Officer my ass,” he says. “Look, baby. You’re not talking to some farm boy. I’m not that loser that just left. I know why you’re here and I’m interested. What’s the fare anyhow? Do I get a discount for looking at your punching bag face?” He laughs cruelly. “Just kidding. After all, it’s not your face I want to use.” He falls silent, as if to convey some special meaning, and looks deeply at her, as if there is anything he could possibly know. “Al sent me over—Arab guy—said you were a good sport. So how much?”
She must be very cold, for the hand on her back feels unnaturally hot. To her ears comes the fat man’s voice:
Here he is now.,
punctuated by the annoying clink of glass from a passing busboy’s cart. Now just a single finger draws an imaginary line along her spine, and as she turns to see who is behind her, she shivers.
Then she meets his eyes, and seven years vanish in an odious, bloodshot wink.
“Answer the man, Sera. He wants to spend some time with you,” says Gamal Fathi. Up close now, he may be surprised at the condition of her face, but this has never mattered in the past, and his own remains as it is: very hard, quite pleased with the moment.
Sera looks away, out into the casino with its anthill of activity, a zillion people serving one common cause. Throughout her life she has never had, never even wanted to taste, a single moment of belonging to anything this big. She can’t remember what hotel this is, though she finds that fact not disturbing in the least. She says, “Al,” and she feels a longing for something that isn’t here right now. She doesn’t know what it could be.
The fat man moves his face close, right in front of hers.
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