Justice
There were stalls, but she stood in front of the trashcan in the corner, purple spandex polyester dress hiked up to her hips, G-string stretched around her knees. Dropping a lit cigarette to the floor, she used both hands to extract the heavily soiled tampon. A small amount of blood spattered against the white tiles as she swung the soaked cotton wad by its string into the garbage.
“Hand me a wipe,” she said without looking back, the words only slightly hindered by the still-wrapped tampon in her mouth.
She waved a densely tattooed arm, gesturing toward her purse on the vanity. I reached into the silver sequin bag, finding the travel-size pack of baby wipes and pulling one out to dangle toward her. She snatched it and gave herself a wipe.
“One more.”
I gave her another, and she wiped again, then unwrapped the tampon from her mouth, inserted it, and chucked the applicator in the trash, the thin plastic wrapper slipping from her pudgy fingers and gliding down to the blood-spattered floor.
“Alright, guys… Let’s hear it for Liberty,” the male voice called over the PA. “Liberty’s gonna hop down and take a walk around the bar. Next we’re gonna welcome Destiny to the stage. Destiny.”
“Fuck,” she said, hiking up her G-string.
She dropped down to lift the cigarette off the floor and took a long drag before chucking it into a sink already scarred with several black divots ringed in faded amber halos. Glancing in the mirror, she blew out a long stream of smoke and puckered her lips at her reflection, then, wordlessly and without washing, grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.
Daytime girls...
I scrubbed the brassy pole smell from my hands and, noting the absence of paper towels, dried them on my short black dress before reaching into my wristlet to retrieve my second airplane bottle of Ciroc. I downed it, chucked the empty into the trash, and looked up at my reflection, lips the shade of blackberry curling upward.
Prettiest thing they’ve seen in this place, no doubt.
The moment I stepped out, eyes still readjusting to the dark, a heavyset man caught my wrist in his fat, damp hand. He wrapped a thick, heavy arm around my waist, pulling me against his warm, flabby body.
“Hey, you,” I said, forcing a smile.
“You’re new.”
“Yup.”
“You don’t look like these other girls.”
“I’ll be working nights. Just here to audition.”
“Uh-huh. Nighttime girl. ’at’s what I’s sayin’ ta myself: She looks like a nighttime girl.”
I continued smiling, accepting a folded dollar between my breasts, then another. Before I could speak again, the fat man swung me around, pressing my back to the wall where he began kneading my breast in his fat, sweaty palm. He stood a few inches short, the hard bulge from beneath his sweatpants pressing against my thigh.
“You do lap dances?”
“Sure do.”
I rested my arms on his shoulders while also trying to maneuver out of his grip.
“How much?” he asked, holding me in place.
“Forty.”
The fat man released a sinking whistle, but followed with, “Alright. Only because I wanna be your first.”
“Heh. Cool. Ya ready?”
“Ready.”
I took his damp, meaty hand and walked him back toward the couch dance room. The bouncer, a pale, sharp-eyed man with a shaven head and neat goatee sat on a stool at a small pub table just outside the entrance, wearing a black Dollhouse shirt and a serious expression.
“Hi, I’m Mike. You new?”
“Yup. Justice. Just auditioned.”
“Justice,” he repeated, scribbling the name onto a list. “Welcome. It’s twenty to me each couch dance, eighty to me each champagne court. Charge what you want.”
“Sounds good.”
“Wait here til the next song starts.”
Turning back to the fat man, I rested my arms over his shoulders again. “So what’s your name?”
“Nothin’ as unusual as Justice. Heh heh… My name is kinda weird though. They call me Luca Brazzi. Nickname, of course. Long story.”
“Hmmm… You’ll have to tell me about that sometime. Got my forty bucks?”
The next song began as he handed me the money. I gestured toward the door, then followed him in, selecting the couch nearest the entrance. The fat man settled in the center. I climbed atop him, straddling his lap. He pulled my dress down below my breasts, then hiked up the back, rubbing his hands across my ass, squeezing the cheeks a bit as I began grinding against him. He kept his eyes on my breasts, intermittently lapping at my nipples with his fat tongue. I stared into the mirrored wall behind him, trying to ignore his unpleasant body odor. My blackberry lips tugged downward as I noticed the room’s intense blacklight bringing out my freckles, but quickly curled upward again.
Whatever. Still the prettiest thing here. Justice, baby.
After a minute or so, I stood, turned around, and sat on his lap, grinding my ass against his crotch as the fat man clutched my breasts. When that grew tiresome, I dropped, hands to the floor, legs climbing back to rest a stiletto’d foot on either side of his face, continuing to grind upside-down. The fat man groaned, grabbing hold of my hips to steer me. At the end of the song, I attempted to lift myself up, but he strengthened his grip.
“Keep goin’.”
“Okay. That’ll be another forty,” I called back over my shoulder.
“Just keep goin’,” he said with a grunt. “I’ll say when.”
He pressed my ass down tightly, roughly moving my body back and forth, grinding into me harder and harder. I noticed his socks were mismatched; one white with blue stripes, the other plain white. They both looked old and worn.
I studied the bright fluorescent pattern of the black broadloom carpet. It reminded me of the whirling, swirling neon ceiling lights at Rollerama. Someone’s dad or older brother would always have to help me lace up those ugly brown rental skates. Then I could zoom around and around for hours.
Are people still rollerskating?
I was 13, almost 14 when they finally tore down Rollerama. I’d always been warned it was just a matter of time. My small circle of friends seemed to be their only remaining regulars.
“Are people still rollerskating?” the old heads would marvel.
“Rollerama…” they’d repeat in wonderment. “I used to go there when I was a kid. Everyone did back then.”
The fat man’s heavy breathing could suddenly be heard above the music. Finally, he eased his grip, slowing, then stopping only about halfway through the second song.
Freeing my legs and pulling myself to my feet, I noticed the patch of spooge on his sweatpants and could feel it cooling on the front of my G-string. The two of us made our way out to the bouncer’s table.
“How ‘bout twenty for that one since it was just half a song?” the fat man suggested.
“Sorry. My couch dances are $40.”
“What a bitch,” he muttered, adding in a much louder voice, “You really need to be a bitch to me on your first day?”
“Sorry, it’s $40,” I repeated flatly.
Mike looked up, frowning. “We have a problem here?”
I don’t know,” I said. “Do we have a problem, Mr. Brazzi?”
The fat man scowled from me to Mike, then back to me. “What a bitch,” he repeated, chucking the money onto the table.
Daytime guys...
***
The exit was at the end of a small corridor. I could feel the heat of the afternoon radiating through before opening the door. Stepping out of the club’s artificial twilight, into the searing glare of the sun, my eyes began to sting. Squinting, I scanned the parking lot, then headed toward my Mini Cooper, pulling my rolling suitcase behind me. Rising thermal waves warped the horizon, transforming the surface of the blacktop parking lot into quivering liquid illusions.
A sharp explosive crack echoed inside my skull, vision splintering into a white flash. The world tilted as my knees buckled, bare legs meeting hot pavement. The sharp prickly burn shook me awake. I jerked back, attempting to get back on my feet as a fat hand reached past me, lifting a brick from the ground. Another crack, and the deep radiating warmth turned to a piercing burn, rough asphalt against my stinging hands and arms as I tried again to lift myself. Another crashing dull thud, static roaring in my ears as the lights went out.
It’s hot and dark but for the whirling swirls and swirling whirls of color. I’m sweating, burning, zooming around and around, a buzzing throughout my body. The music is so loud; some old head song they’ve played a thousand times.
Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the risin’ odds?
Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need
Around and around beneath the hot neon lights. Zooming, sweating, burning.
“Hey. Hey. Jesus Christ. Hey! You alright?”
Always someone’s big brother looking out, ready to help, to lace me up, to cool me down. But they never ask me to skate.
“Holy shit. Holy shit! Hey, we need some help here! Aw, fuck… C’mon, baby.”
Am I pretty enough? Am I? Will you hold my hand? Will you want to kiss me someday?
“Jesus Christ… We need some help over here! Help me get her inside.”
Take me. Take me.
***
The heat is relentless. But Conlan’s here. I knew he would be.
“Hey, Grace. Ready for this?”
Oh, God, please let him like me.
“Sure.”
His head jolts back a bit, stung.
“I mean… Well, it’s not like we can stop it, right?”
“Sure.”
Damn it. Think of something smart to say… something comforting, reassuring.
But the diesel engine roars, the mechanical giant moving in closer. I turn and stare ahead at the visibly shimmering heat radiating off the pavement, glancing upward as the excavator raises its boom, extending its arm into the bleached, cloudless sky. The bucket tears into the roof.
Bricks fall in heavy fluid sheets. And there they are: the swirly light fixtures, the red interior walls of Rollerama, and finally, the flawlessly sanded, high gloss hard maple floor, shining in the sudden flood of sunlight it had never before known.
I look back at Conlan to find he’s already watching me. I begin self-consciously swiping at my sweaty face. I know my hair is frizzing, and the sun is bringing out my awful freckles. But he seems to be looking past all of that, gazing deep into my eyes, and I can see that, suddenly, I am no longer just his little sister’s friend.
But you never asked me to skate. And now you can’t.
The sound of wood groaning and snapping like gunfire causes me to jerk back. Steel beams twist and twist apart.
“Hey, uh… Grace…”
Yes.
“Do you wanna maybe..?”
Yes.
“I mean, I was wondering if you might wanna..?”
Yes.
Before he can finish his thought, the machine tears down the central support beams, causing the remaining roof structure to buckle inward with a heavy, hollow boom. A plume of ancient dust drifts upward into the blazing heat, smelling of sour ozone, stale popcorn, and the plasticky sweetness of fog-machine fluid.
Conlan coughs. I cough. The crowd turns away, choking and covering their eyes.
“Show’s over, kids. Time to go home.”
The voice continues over the PA, but I’ve already turned and spotted my grandmother’s car.
“Grace! Grace, get in! C’mon, honey. Time to go.”
***
It’s cool and dark but for the glowing screen of my cell phone. It’s silent but for the steady hum of the air conditioning and the occasional electronic ping.
Flash. Filter. Facetune.
Post. Like. Share.
“Will she wake up? Is she gonna be okay?”
I’m the hottest. I’m the coolest.
“Brain damage?”
Pffft. Yeah, look at these dummies lining up, ready to buy my next CELINE.
“Will there be permanent scarring?”
Let ‘em stare. Let ‘em touch. Why should it bother me any?
“Trauma?”
I’m the same fucking girl. Nighttime girl. Sexy, sassy, classy. Drink it down. Live it up. Justice, baby.
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Ping!
Conlan?
Conlan, after all this time:
Hey, Grace. Been thinking about you, missing the old days. I’d love to catch up. Lunch sometime?
Conlan…
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Hey, Justice. Be by tonite for a couple courts. See u soon, baby!
I peel off my sweaty clothes, and head for the shower. The water is cold. Ice cold.
“Noooooo… too cold.”
“You’re awake! How are you feeling?”
“Hot. And cooold.”
“Do you know where you are, Grace? Do you remember what happened?”
I tried to respond, but it came out a long, low sob.
“Can you tell me who did this to you?”
“Luca Brazzi.”
“Hmmm... You’ll have to tell me about that sometime. I’m gonna go get the doctor, Grace, okay?”
“No, please. Please don’t leave. Why am I here? I can’t see out of this eye!”
“That’s bandaged right now, Grace. We’re doing the very best we can for you. We’re hoping to save the eye, but you’ve got pretty severe burns on that part of your face, and on almost twenty-five percent of your body.”
Again, I tried to respond, but it came out a scream.
“I know this is a lot to handle right now. We’ve spoken with your grandmother. She says she’s housebound? She’s been receiving updates on your care and progress though. Is there someone else we can call for you?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, the burning in the side of my face intensifying. I could feel the buzzing in my legs, see the swirly colors, hear the music.
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above
Out where the lightning splits the sea
I could swear there is someone somewhere watching me
Through the wind and the chill and the rain
And the storm and the flood
I can feel his approach like a fire in my blood
“Conlan.”
“Conlan? Do you have a number for him?”
“Conlan...”
“Where can we find Conlan?”
“Rollerama.”
“Rollerama? The old skating rink? Are people still rollerskating?”
This time when I started screaming, I couldn’t seem to stop. The nurse looked alarmed, rushing from the room. I threw my head back, trying to remember when I’d last heard from Conlan. Was it too late? Yes. Yes, of course, it’s too late, my Grace period long over.
I suddenly felt exhausted. I was sweating, burning, and so very tired.
***
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Justice. Yes. It’s still me. Am I okay? Yes, I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine.
“Hello. I’m Doctor Abramowitz. And you must be Grace.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I need to get outta here, doctor. I’m fine.”
I started peeling layers of fabric, cold with sticky goo off my burning skin.
“Oh! No, no, no… Let’s leave that on for now. You’re going to be just fine, okay? But you need to stay put for a while. We seem to be managing your pain so far, but I’m afraid you’re going to need a few small skin grafts. So, we’re just gonna keep you as comfortable as possible for now. Okay, Grace?”
“No.”
“No what? Grace...”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Is there something else you prefer to be called?”
I looked up at the doctor. He was middle-aged, pudgy in the middle, balding…
...probably has a wife and kids who hate him.
Lonely? Yes. Wealthy? Sure.
I looked up at him, lips curling upward. The bandage tape tugged above my covered eye.
Fuck. How bad is it?
The doctor smiled back.
Ha. Whatever. Still the prettiest thing in here. Justice, baby.
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Non ci sta con la testa il Brazzi, non ci sta con la testa.