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I’ve often daydreamed of being some bigwig at a law firm or even a bigwig’s assistant, dressing prettily with a new pair of shoes for each day of the month. I’ve never been a girly girl, but I’ve also never been given the opportunity to try it on for size. As much as it pains me to admit it, I think I’d like it.
After a long hour of crossword puzzles and watching the clock, I decide I can’t wait for my thick curls to fully dry. I need to get dressed and start walking to the motel, or I’ll never make it there in time.
My closet door is already open, my only two nice pieces of clothing hanging next to each other—the white blouse and gray skirt, and the red dress.
I look at the dress longingly, wishing I had somewhere to wear it, but that would be completely out of place for a motel maid interview. Rifling through my dresser drawer, I pull out my cleanest, whitest bra and get dressed. The comfort of my pajamas is something I already miss as I pull on the bra, button up the white blouse, and slip on the gray skirt. My makeup container is pathetic, containing a few crusted bottles and used shadows. I pull out all the mascaras, checking the brushes until I find one that isn’t bone dry, and add some length to my lashes. Not that they need them. My lashes are long and thick, but having them done makes me feel pretty.
I pinch my cheeks to add some color, fluff my hair, and prepare to head out the door. All I need now is a pair of shoes. Sifting through the bottom of my closet proves to be unsuccessful. Everything I own is worn, dirty, or broken, except…
I find the bag from the secondhand store and pull out the black heels. They don’t necessarily match my outfit, but they are brand new and unsoiled, so I strap them to my feet. Immediately, my ankles want to give way. Heels aren’t something I wear often, and believe it or not, these fuckers take practice to master.
“Wish me luck,” I call to Mischief as I head out the door for the last time today. The elderly couple waves to me as I head down my stairs and out of Knight’s Trailer Park. The nights are coming earlier these days as October nears its end. Halloween decorations have replaced the token fall decor. Ghosts, witches, and other monsters watch me creepily as I walk by.
I can already feel a blister forming on my heel and debate taking my shoes off and walking barefoot the rest of the way. But in these neighborhoods, you never know what horrors may be lying on the ground. Drug use is rampant around here, and it’s not uncommon to find used hypodermic needles discarded on the streets.
Choice made—I’ll take the blister.
Wincing becomes a part of every step I take, but soon I’m out of the neighborhood and heading down Maine St. I pass The Inferno, a local dive bar where I meet my fence every Friday to see if he has any new jobs for me. A fence is like a middleman. He comes to me with something that the higher ups need done. It could be spying on a certain person, stealing a particular item, and other nefarious quests.
He hasn’t been there for the past couple of months. Secretly, I hope that maybe he’s done with me, that maybe my services are not needed anymore. I don’t like to steal, or rather, I don’t like to do it for other people. Stealing for myself is a different story because I reap all the rewards.
Fucking Donny.
He’s the one who gave them my name shortly after Mitch-bitch went into the hospital, claiming he was doing me a solid. But I know he has ulterior motives. The cocksucker is hoping I’ll get myself into a predicament that will require his help to get out of.
Fat fucking chance.
I’m poor, not stupid.
The flickering light of Motel World looms before me, half of the neon sign burnt out or blinking precariously. Trying not to judge a book by its cover, I pull open the glass front door and head inside. Immediately, I’m bombarded with the pungent odor of vomit and cigarettes, like a Porta Potty fucked an ashtray and shit out the contents. I don’t know if I want to barf, gag, or cry.
Maybe all three.
“Ah, you must be Rory.” I pull my gaze from the worn leather chairs and empty vending machine to the man perched behind the counter. He has a sleazy look about him that I already don’t like, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Plastering a fake smile on my face, I walk casually over to him. “Are you Mr. Buckles?”
He bows deep. “At your service. Please, call me Cory.” He eyes me up and down, the thin black mustache over his upper lip making him look like a pubescent teen boy. “Follow me, and we will conduct your interview.”
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes on him. “What’s wrong with doing it right here?”
“The guests could see,” he counters quickly. “I prefer to keep the business side of my motel out of their eyesight.”
He has a point. “Fair enough. Lead the way.”
Cory grabs a set of keys labeled “Private” and then heads down the nearest hallway, gesturing for me to follow him. The smell doesn’t get any better, just changes to something equally as foul. Rotten food and spilled beer permeate this space. Clearly, this place is in need of a maid. I think I probably got this job in the bag, but wonder if I can handle just how gross it will be.
Cory opens the last door on the left and holds it open. “Come on in, Rory.” Even his voice is unnerving. I walk in front of him and almost cringe when my arm brushes his 1970s brown suit coat. He follows inside behind me, and I hear the token click of the lock being engaged and the sound of keys being shoved into his pocket.
Inside, the room is a typical setup for a motel. Two double beds with puke colored bedding, an old TV with antennae still sticking out from the back, and a beat-up looking table and chair combo perched in the corner.
Not wanting to sit on the bed, I head right for the chair and sit, crossing my legs under my skirt. My eyebrow rises as I watch him, waiting for him to begin, but once again, my intuition is telling me this isn’t what it seems.
Cory walks to the bed across from me and sits down. The room is so stuffed with the furniture that our knees practically touch. He leans forward, his hands linked, and tilts his head. “So, you need a job?”
I almost scoff at the question. Of course I need a fucking job. Why the fuck would I apply if I didn’t? But I swallow down my retort.
“I applied, didn’t I?”
