it’s any business of yours.”
“I don’t give a shit what he does. I was asking about you. Kind of pathetic, you know, seeing you all imprisoned and shit.”
“I’m not imprisoned. I can get out any time I want. Besides, he’ll be back soon.”
“Want to go get a beer with me?”
Reba rolls the window all the way down. “I don’t even know you! I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How old are you?”
“Listen, A, I have to guard this truck and B, they’ll card me, C, Billy won’t know where I went to.”
“Look at me. Come on. You’re smart. Look at me. What do you see?” He stops smiling. Is he being serious?
Reba won’t meet his eyes, then does. “That’s stupid.” She feels high like the time she tried smoking one of her mom’s cigarettes.
“Do you think I would plan some kind of complicated thing where I would steal an apple in the afternoon and then come by to the same place at night so I can, what, kidnap you? Seriously.”
“I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”
“Dude, I saw your brother. I’m not going to fuck around. One beer. One.”
“Don’t call me dude. And listen, what’s your name…?”
“Dallas…”
“Dallas…look.” She forgets what she’s going to say.
“Reba, can I be honest with you? You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve seen in five years. I know you’ve got like a million guys in your life, but gimme a chance. Please?”
“Don’t bullshit me, it’s offensive.”
“I know a place two minutes from here where we can get a beer. Come on. One beer. We’ll leave a note, let Big Bro’ know where we are. You’ll be back before he is.”
If they spend any more time talking, Billy is going to show up and hurt this guy. No reason to see his sweet face get all smashed up. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes. At most, eleven.”
THE DOOR YAWNS AND BRUTAL GRAY WHITE BOUNCES off the unfinished wallboard. From where he’s lying, Billy can see patches of spackle and tape where the workmen have left the job unfinished. Must have forgotten to get around to painting it. Wonder if they’re orientals, too? A shiny poster for some kind of chink hair product is taped to the wall. Chinese. Or might be Japanese, how would anyone know? The only other things in the room are a small dresser topped with a lamp and the towel-covered table upon which Billy now lies naked.
The delicate black-haired girl gently shuts the door and the room returns to its peaceful dimness. Perched on the floor, the fake Tiffany table lamp warms the walls, creating the illusion of luxury. Billy sits up. The flimsy dressing gown of red satin embroidered with symbols, probably Chinese, like the poster, like her, slides off the girl’s thin shoulders. In white panties, she leans over him and massages his shoulders and he catches the scent of jasmine. Her face is only inches from his, she smiles as she kneads him. Billy wonders if she has a brother.
“Lay back, I wash.” As usual she’s brought a small tray upon which lies a warm folded towel, like the kind you get in sushi bars. Which came first, the little towel in the sushi bar or the little towel in the whorehouse? She swabs his privates, her efficient determination reminding Billy of his mother cleaning the oven. Reba never cleans the oven. She wouldn’t know how.
Billy can feel himself expanding in her tiny hands. She raises her eyes to him, wary. “How you feel? Good?”
“Um-hmmm. Sure.”
“That’s nice. Relax.” Rub. Rub. “You work hard this week?”
“Yeah.” No point in saying more. Over the past two months, Billy’s figured out her English vocabulary is limited to about twenty-five words.
“I know. You need take it easy. OK. Good. You want massage?”
“Yeah. Massage.”
He lies on the table, passive, inert, the way dogs at the vet’s lie still, eyes open, just before they’re put to sleep. He debates asking her for something besides a massage. Must be all
“I don’t give a shit what he does. I was asking about you. Kind of pathetic, you know, seeing you all imprisoned and shit.”
“I’m not imprisoned. I can get out any time I want. Besides, he’ll be back soon.”
“Want to go get a beer with me?”
Reba rolls the window all the way down. “I don’t even know you! I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How old are you?”
“Listen, A, I have to guard this truck and B, they’ll card me, C, Billy won’t know where I went to.”
“Look at me. Come on. You’re smart. Look at me. What do you see?” He stops smiling. Is he being serious?
Reba won’t meet his eyes, then does. “That’s stupid.” She feels high like the time she tried smoking one of her mom’s cigarettes.
“Do you think I would plan some kind of complicated thing where I would steal an apple in the afternoon and then come by to the same place at night so I can, what, kidnap you? Seriously.”
“I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”
“Dude, I saw your brother. I’m not going to fuck around. One beer. One.”
“Don’t call me dude. And listen, what’s your name…?”
“Dallas…”
“Dallas…look.” She forgets what she’s going to say.
“Reba, can I be honest with you? You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve seen in five years. I know you’ve got like a million guys in your life, but gimme a chance. Please?”
“Don’t bullshit me, it’s offensive.”
“I know a place two minutes from here where we can get a beer. Come on. One beer. We’ll leave a note, let Big Bro’ know where we are. You’ll be back before he is.”
If they spend any more time talking, Billy is going to show up and hurt this guy. No reason to see his sweet face get all smashed up. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes. At most, eleven.”
THE DOOR YAWNS AND BRUTAL GRAY WHITE BOUNCES off the unfinished wallboard. From where he’s lying, Billy can see patches of spackle and tape where the workmen have left the job unfinished. Must have forgotten to get around to painting it. Wonder if they’re orientals, too? A shiny poster for some kind of chink hair product is taped to the wall. Chinese. Or might be Japanese, how would anyone know? The only other things in the room are a small dresser topped with a lamp and the towel-covered table upon which Billy now lies naked.
The delicate black-haired girl gently shuts the door and the room returns to its peaceful dimness. Perched on the floor, the fake Tiffany table lamp warms the walls, creating the illusion of luxury. Billy sits up. The flimsy dressing gown of red satin embroidered with symbols, probably Chinese, like the poster, like her, slides off the girl’s thin shoulders. In white panties, she leans over him and massages his shoulders and he catches the scent of jasmine. Her face is only inches from his, she smiles as she kneads him. Billy wonders if she has a brother.
“Lay back, I wash.” As usual she’s brought a small tray upon which lies a warm folded towel, like the kind you get in sushi bars. Which came first, the little towel in the sushi bar or the little towel in the whorehouse? She swabs his privates, her efficient determination reminding Billy of his mother cleaning the oven. Reba never cleans the oven. She wouldn’t know how.
Billy can feel himself expanding in her tiny hands. She raises her eyes to him, wary. “How you feel? Good?”
“Um-hmmm. Sure.”
“That’s nice. Relax.” Rub. Rub. “You work hard this week?”
“Yeah.” No point in saying more. Over the past two months, Billy’s figured out her English vocabulary is limited to about twenty-five words.
“I know. You need take it easy. OK. Good. You want massage?”
“Yeah. Massage.”
He lies on the table, passive, inert, the way dogs at the vet’s lie still, eyes open, just before they’re put to sleep. He debates asking her for something besides a massage. Must be all
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