Missy is hard up.
She's out of gas and stuck in this Podunk town of Arizona. She's sitting on her car hood, the August sun beating down on her, and all the while, the payphone next to her is mocking her. Out of gas. Out of money. Out of people to turn to. She'll be damned if she's going to call her parents. She could hear the conversation now:
"But your daddy gave you four hundred dollars. He gave you an extra two hundred just to be safe. How did you spend it all?"
She could lie, but her mom would know. Once her dad found out, he would tell her to come home. Tell her if she can't even make it out to California to go to school, then she has no business being out there in the first place. He would tell her she has to go to the community college. The one all her friends are resigned to going. No. She would not be embarrassed like that. Her friends saw her off in the biggest party they had ever seen. Missy had bought everything – with the money her dad gave her. They were supposed to collect money from everyone who came. Missy was drunk before the party even started. No one collected. She woke up in Danny's car about five in the morning. It was parked on the farm field his father owned. Almost everyone was gone. She was hangin'. She had to get home. She did. Without the money.
Now here she is stuck on some highway town, just like hers in Alabama without a dime to her name. No food. No water. No gas. And worse yet, she's been staring at the single guys checking into their hotel rooms for the past three hours. There was the room upstairs that had good looking guy rented. He was young and probably heading out to college as well. But, then his three buddies showed up. That ruined the deal. Then there was the old guy who had a beard down to his fat belly. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Then there was the perfect guy. A twenty-something short guy who seemed harmless. He smiled a lot and unpacked a lot of bags. He drove a Lexus SUV. Then his wife and kids got out. That ruined the deal.
Dusk is approaching. Time is not on her side. A man exits his room. She hadn't seen him. He is middle aged. He looks like he keeps in shape. He's wearing a short sleeve button down shirt and shorts. He drives a new Honda. He has Cali plates. Some cartoony hat is covering his hair. It's now or never. Missy closes her eyes.
This will be a funny story, she thought. This will be one of those stories that you tell your girlfriends when you're all sitting around drinking cosmos, like those old girls in that show Sex and the City. This will be a story I keep from my husband. He's going to be rich, and I doubt I'll catch a guy like that, with a story like this. No, this will be the story that ten years from now, I'll say, "Well, I did what I had to do. I was in a jam, but it got me out of that pathetic little town didn't it?" All my girlfriends at the table will laugh, and gasp, and say, "Oh my god!" Then they'll all admire my courage. They'll look up to me, because I had it tougher than them. I didn't have the golden spoon that all of them had. I was born in a little town in Alabama.
"Hey," Missy says turning her southern accent into the charming one, not the stupid one.
The man turns. He's a little unshaven, and now that she's up close she can see he is more built than what she thought. The bag he is holding is causing his forearm to sprout veins like a dry leaf. It looks like Mr. Grendle's arm; her shop teacher from eighth grade. It's big, muscular, and hairy.
"Hello," he says. His voice does not match his forearm. It is soft. Caring.
"I was wondering." Missy pauses here. If she is going to back out, it is now. Once she asks, it's done. She closes her eyes. It will be a funny story. No it won't. Maybe I could just ask for the money? Yea, right, like some stranger is going to give you two hundred bucks. You're in the adult world now. Stop asking for charity. Take matters into your own hands. It will be a funny story.
"Are you ok?" he asks. He is staring at her. Her blue eyes are concealed by a veil of courage.
"Yea. Sorry about that. I was wondering sir, if," deep breath, "you want some company tonight?"
The man takes a step back. His jaw is open a little and Missy knows what is running through his head: the same thing that ran through Mr. Skinner's head when he saw her out at the bar with her fake ID. They went home, even though he was her dad's friend. He couldn't keep his hands off her. They fucked. He was a lot better than Jason, Danny, or the guy she met in Indiana when she was visiting her cousin. He was short and thin, but he knew what he was doing. He was the best looking older guy she knew. He had just graduated. He was the "young guy" in her dad's Thursday night poker group. A lot of the seniors looked older than him. That's how this guy is looking at her.
"No," he says.
Missy opens her eyes. She didn't hear that correctly. She's sure of it. I mean, look at her. She's wearing a thin spaghetti strap shirt, and the bra underneath of a different color is pushing her B cleavage up. Her mini skirt shows off her tan legs. They look like she does track, but she doesn't. She is thin, but not skinny. Her stomach is flat, she has a beautiful face, everyone tells her that. Her teeth are perfect. Why, she only had to bat her eyes at her guy friends and they would trip over anything to help her out. Adam Nitti did her Algebra homework for an entire month, until he heard her tell her friends that he was gross. This guy must think I'm a cop.
"Listen," she says, "I'm not a cop."
"The answer is still no," he says. He turns.
"Look, mister. I don't know how to say this, but I'm kind of trapped here."
"I'll give you twenty dollars then," he is reaching into his pocket. To hell with twenty. She isn't going to sit out here and beg all of tomorrow just to make it to the next state.
"No," she says. "Please listen to me." He puts back his wallet and stands. His eyes are on her, but not like Mr. Skinner. He is trying to be sympathetic. The sun is beating down onto the black asphalt creating those heat waves that you see in the distant when you're driving, only these exist right next to you. Missy closes her eyes. She never did have much constitution when it came to the heat or cold. She asks if they could talk inside. The man reluctantly says yes.
He opens the door to the room. The AC is blasting making it feel like the Super Walmart freezer section on a hot summer day. He motions her to sit in those crappy little chairs in front of the cold blowing air. Her nipples are getting hard from the cold air. She thinks that's good. It'll give her an advantage. Missy looks down at the table. There's an old book there. It looks like the kind that smells like libraries and museums. It's brown. There's not even a picture on the front. It must be really old. Probably even has lice or some crap like that growing in it. Yea, books can have lice in them, right? It says Tennyson on the side. I wonder if that has anything to do with Tennessee or Mark Twain, since it looks old.
"First of all," he says, "what's your name?"
"Missy."
"Missy, nice to meet you. I'm Greg."
"Nice to meet you Greg."
"Now, let me ask you why you're about to sleep with a complete stranger. Is it drugs?"
He is leading the conversation. It's not the way Missy pictured it. She is supposed to ask him, and then, him being a hard up older guy says yes. She'll demand all sorts of shit and he'll agree to everything, because she's young and hot. If every guy at school thought so, she knew that some middle aged perv would think so.
"No, it's not drugs."
"Have you done this very long?"
"Me? No! For God's sake no! I've never done this. I'm not that way."
