Read Online THUGLIT Issue Two by Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Justin Porter, Buster Willoughby, Katherine Tomlinson, Mike MacLean, Patrick J. Lambe, Mark E. Fitch, Nik Korpon, Jen Conley
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make a contact who could give her a lead on a job.
She lived off her credit cards and registered for temp work, but by the time all the fees and taxes were paid, she was only bringing home about $50 a day for those jobs and that just wasn’t enough.
She started selling things.
By the end of the year, Nora had become a citizen of what her ex-husband had sneeringly called “the other America,” a place where people existed without bank accounts; where mothers of many children bought cigarettes and booze with their food stamps and let their children go hungry. Nora knew it wasn’t true about the food stamps, because after an enormous amount of paperwork, she’d qualified to start receiving them and there were lots of things you weren’t allowed to buy with them. You couldn’t buy toothpaste or soap or toilet paper, for instance. And you couldn’t buy pet food either. Nora had given Jinka, her beloved Pomeranian, to a former colleague when she was no longer able to feed her.
That had almost killed Nora and the dog hadn’t been happy either. The ex-coworker later told Nora that she’d had the dog put to sleep because she wouldn’t stop barking.
Nora cried for a week, then called a lawyer friend to see if there was any way she could sue the woman for Jinka’s murder. The lawyer—not a dog-lover—had laughed and told her she could try, but that any judge he knew would throw the lawsuit out of court.
Barton, her ex, hated the dog and toward the end of their marriage had accused Nora of loving Jinka more than she loved him.
He’d been right about that.
By the beginning of 2012, Nora was getting desperate. Most of her friends were just barely hanging on themselves, stunned into shame by their inability to get so much as a response to their emailed resumes and carefully crafted job applications.
It had taken every shred of her limited self-esteem for Nora to go to Barton and beg for his help. In hopes of keeping their meeting civil and businesslike, she’d prepared a spreadsheet to show him where every dime of his loan would go. She’d brought a folder full of bills so he’d know she wasn’t just over-dramatizing.
He’d looked over the spreadsheet and then glanced at the contents of the folder, shaking his head at the overdue utility bills and the past-due warnings and the “final notice” messages.
“How’d you get into this mess Nora?” he asked with a hint of a smile Nora wanted to believe was sympathetic, but knew in her heart was simply mean.
“It’s not my fault,” she had whispered, and even as she said it, she knew it was the wrong argument to use with him.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m not going to loan you any money.”
Nora’s heart nearly stopped.
“I’m going to give it to you,” he said.
Nora’s relief was so intense that she almost threw up.
He watched her reaction and his smirk broadened into a real smile.
“But you have to do something for me.”
Nora just managed to stop herself from saying, “Anything” and instead asked, “W hat do you want?”
“I want you to blow me.”
“Okay,” Nora said. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before.
“Here,” he said and leaned back in his chair.
Nora looked around the restaurant he had chosen for their meeting, a place of dark wood and smoked mirrors and crisp, white linen tablecloths. It was the kind of place where they’d often eaten when they’d been married, a place where there were ten different kinds of steak on the menu and complicated desserts.
It was a restaurant where middle managers took their secretaries and then expensed the meal.
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
“And you’re a whore,” he said amiably.
And there was nothing she could say to that because that’s how she thought of herself too.
Nora had dropped her napkin on the floor and crawled under the table as if to retrieve it.
She had to work at getting him hard, and nearly gagged when he shot his wad deep into her
She lived off her credit cards and registered for temp work, but by the time all the fees and taxes were paid, she was only bringing home about $50 a day for those jobs and that just wasn’t enough.
She started selling things.
By the end of the year, Nora had become a citizen of what her ex-husband had sneeringly called “the other America,” a place where people existed without bank accounts; where mothers of many children bought cigarettes and booze with their food stamps and let their children go hungry. Nora knew it wasn’t true about the food stamps, because after an enormous amount of paperwork, she’d qualified to start receiving them and there were lots of things you weren’t allowed to buy with them. You couldn’t buy toothpaste or soap or toilet paper, for instance. And you couldn’t buy pet food either. Nora had given Jinka, her beloved Pomeranian, to a former colleague when she was no longer able to feed her.
That had almost killed Nora and the dog hadn’t been happy either. The ex-coworker later told Nora that she’d had the dog put to sleep because she wouldn’t stop barking.
Nora cried for a week, then called a lawyer friend to see if there was any way she could sue the woman for Jinka’s murder. The lawyer—not a dog-lover—had laughed and told her she could try, but that any judge he knew would throw the lawsuit out of court.
Barton, her ex, hated the dog and toward the end of their marriage had accused Nora of loving Jinka more than she loved him.
He’d been right about that.
By the beginning of 2012, Nora was getting desperate. Most of her friends were just barely hanging on themselves, stunned into shame by their inability to get so much as a response to their emailed resumes and carefully crafted job applications.
It had taken every shred of her limited self-esteem for Nora to go to Barton and beg for his help. In hopes of keeping their meeting civil and businesslike, she’d prepared a spreadsheet to show him where every dime of his loan would go. She’d brought a folder full of bills so he’d know she wasn’t just over-dramatizing.
He’d looked over the spreadsheet and then glanced at the contents of the folder, shaking his head at the overdue utility bills and the past-due warnings and the “final notice” messages.
“How’d you get into this mess Nora?” he asked with a hint of a smile Nora wanted to believe was sympathetic, but knew in her heart was simply mean.
“It’s not my fault,” she had whispered, and even as she said it, she knew it was the wrong argument to use with him.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m not going to loan you any money.”
Nora’s heart nearly stopped.
“I’m going to give it to you,” he said.
Nora’s relief was so intense that she almost threw up.
He watched her reaction and his smirk broadened into a real smile.
“But you have to do something for me.”
Nora just managed to stop herself from saying, “Anything” and instead asked, “W hat do you want?”
“I want you to blow me.”
“Okay,” Nora said. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before.
“Here,” he said and leaned back in his chair.
Nora looked around the restaurant he had chosen for their meeting, a place of dark wood and smoked mirrors and crisp, white linen tablecloths. It was the kind of place where they’d often eaten when they’d been married, a place where there were ten different kinds of steak on the menu and complicated desserts.
It was a restaurant where middle managers took their secretaries and then expensed the meal.
“You’re a bastard,” she said.
“And you’re a whore,” he said amiably.
And there was nothing she could say to that because that’s how she thought of herself too.
Nora had dropped her napkin on the floor and crawled under the table as if to retrieve it.
She had to work at getting him hard, and nearly gagged when he shot his wad deep into her
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