The Magazine Girl

Dear Readers, the following story is one I’ve wanted to do for some time. It’s a present day followup to my ‘Keep Me Awake’ series I did seven years ago, while it also ties in some of ‘Mitzi at Poolside’, which won the National Nude Day contest in ‘03. If you haven’t read my earlier work, that’s fine. This story has its own legs because I spent a little time setting the table. It’s a longer than normal story with more parts to follow.

*

I was back in the shed repairing an old GE fan from the thirties. The cloth cord needed replacement and I had the base pretty well apart. The Georgia game was underway over in Athens and Larry Munson was doing the play by play. We miss him. Anyway, the skies were azure, little tufts of clouds scudding by, humidity down, light breeze out of the north swaying the monkey grass on the stone walkway back to the house. My maples were turning and the Bradford pear trees were ablaze. It was the perfect time, before the leaves come down, that moment suspended in our memories when we know all’s right with the world. It’s not hot, it’s not cold, the Bulldogs are up by ten and there is a short redheaded waif waving to me as she walks down the stone path.

Confusion. I was there alone, having my day. It was perfect. A time out. Larry’s voice faded, going to commercial. It’s a quick one. Then the band is back thumping, cymbals crashing, horns blaring, we’re on their 42, T formation, we’re gonna pass.

Let’s take it back to that day as it happens. It begins around two o’clock.

She’s at the open doorway, smiling, perfectly white teeth framed by full lips, no lipstick, she’s talking. “I knocked up front, heard the radio. We ahead?”

I nodded, “Yeah by ten, we’re going to score again, listen...”

Sure enough, down the right sideline, pass good, pushed out of bounds, but a TD. And the crowd at Bobby Dodd Stadium goes wild. Then, weekends were made for Michelob...it will take a few commercials before we’re back. I turn the radio down. She’s inside now, looking around at the man stuff on the walls, my pinups of Oliver tractors torn from old Georgia RFD magazines.

She looked fixedly at my muscled forearms, my rolled up sleeves, my half buttoned torn chambray. I have an office, but I once was a ball player and part time stevedore on the docks. “Broke down?” I ask.

She’s up to my face, my blue eyes, my graying hair. “Um, no. I uh, don’t have a car, actually they dropped me off. I’ve got a quota to meet, but there’s not many people home. Maybe they’re at the game.” Her eyes wander as she speaks, as if addressing the rafters, the hand drill collection and an old oil lamp.

I smile. Her face is flushed. “What am I supposed to buy to help make your quota?” I look at her alabaster face, a spray of freckles on a straight slightly upturned nose. She wears a thin cream sweater that invites further inspection. She might have forgotten some of her undergarments in her rush to get to work today.

“Subscriptions, Popular Mechanics, Sewing Circle, Boy’s Life, Teen, Vogue, Newsweek.....uh, just about anything. I, I’ve got a list here...”

She turns away to explore her leather fringed clasp, astonished that someone asked. I put up my roll of electrical cord, glancing back to behold her Gloria Vanderbilt covered ass, soft, full, round. Inviting. Squeezable. It just had to be dimpled. Kissing her face as my hands would cup that bottom, lifting her up and....

She finds the list, turning towards me. “Here’s all of them, there are even some ah, men’s magazines if you like. I need to sell at least two different ones, so.” About then her gaze has centered on the window over my bench, discovering a moth in the shaded corner.

I nod, “Magazines. Got it.” Looking at her face. She looks down. She licks her lips, deep breath in. Green eyes, like a cat’s, framed in red lashes meet my gaze now, turning her head up, way up, she can’t be much over five feet.

“Yeah. We get prizes if we sell enough. They say we go on trips, free dinners.” She nibbles her bottom lip. “Lotta walking, seems to me.” Delivered laconically, almost world weary. Odd for a late teen to be so wry so soon, odd she’s hawking magazines. Maybe a few more miles on her than I suspect. Possible some of those miles were rough, lock in the hubs, pavement ends....

The wind is up, carrying the sound of trucks downshifting out on the highway, growling up the pass. A crow calls and a mower starts a few doors down.

I take the list, turn the radio back up a little. Point after is good. This moment is awkward. Turning, I sit on the stool at my bench to peruse this battered list of publications that will probably never arrive. Suddenly, she’s at my shoulder, very close and a hint of musk reaches my nose. Then a hint of upturned breast presses against my arm as she leans in pointing to the gardening selections. My shirt is worn out thin. Her sweater isn’t much thicker. Her face is on level inches from mine. Her breathe slightly peppermint. I have forgotten about the list or her hand rustling over mine. We look at each other, inches apart.

“You must work very hard to sell these magazines,” I offered, trying to focus on her face at such close range.

The eyes of a minx, Key Largo ocean green two miles offshore, where the underwater park is. Before the deep blue starts, keep going out to where the marlin has hit, and you’re six hours in a fighting chair, buddies yelling encouragement and handing you ice cold cans of Busch. Later, after landing the huge thing, slamming it’s tail on the deck like thunder, I go below decks, exhausted and sore, a remembered love lathering me in the shower, later tucking me in with her....

All thought in a nanosecond. How does that happen? Do they teach her to be brazen to sell mags? Her breast is really against my arm, it’s outline framed in the thin sweater fabric

She has said something maybe quietly, or else I’m mind wandering. The mower’s sound rises and falls. Normally I’m not a ditz, nor do I get bewitched, just shifting gears here, please stop swelling down there, all thoughts aside, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Did you see anything you like? I need to sell at least two subscriptions from this side, or three from the other side. It takes about two months for them to start coming....” A pause, “Could I get some water? Don’t mean to be a bother or anything.” Drawing back from the awkwardness, she smiles, putting the list on the shelf above me, breasts moving freely, perfectly. Watching me watch her, amusement twinkling in those eyes.

Rising from my stool, “No bother at all. Let my grab your list here..” I’m wedged, ouch. “We’ll go up to the house and I’ll find us something.” At last remembering my manners, I introduce myself.

She proffers her hand, “I’m Gwendolyn.” A smile. “Just Gwen really.” She turns to the doorway to leave. I adjust as her back turns, grab the lists and we head to the house. On the pathway is one maple already turning red. It reflects in my koi pond at the same moment as Gwen’s hair. I watch her hips move as she walks ahead, one hand worrying the hem of her sweater. The porch screen door creaks as we come through, then into the kitchen.

She looks at the pot rack, all the copper bottoms aglow from the skylight. “Is it just you here, I mean, um, I’m nosy, sorry.” A little flush rises on her cheekbones as she backs against a cabinet, elbows on the counter behind her. The sweater becomes absolutely enchanting. It’s all I can do. Can she tell? The breeze trills the sheers at the window, whispers of fabric. All has stopped. I hear the wind chimes, a progressive chorus, the gongs Tibetan, so deep, the cries of wrens at the feeders. Which day is this in my life? The cat wanders in, yawning, stretching, fresh from the study.

I gather what’s left of my wits. “Cat here’s my housemate. She reviews my work, other than that, she doesn’t lift a paw to help around here.” We laugh together, awkwardness easing as I get some clean glasses out of the dishwasher. My cat was accepting praise, complete with cooing sounds and chin scratches as I got ice and water from the fridge.

She was bent from the waist, beautiful pear divinely defined, a visual gift.

I knew another that petted the cat right there in the kitchen. How long ago? My mind conjures, the reel emerges.

It was Karla in my remembrance. The last girl standing in a torrid affair that lasted too long. She was the weekend girl even after Marie stormed out for the last time. I’ve written about all that, it’s no secret. A sepia print in my mind, the cat hugged up to Karla’s breast, purring, them both looking at me as we laid in the bed, listening to the rain. Cat always stayed on the bed with us when she was here....

I drop cubes into the glasses, glanced up at the Glenlivet in the pantry, poured water. “Been a while since Cat’s had any girl company here. Been kinda quiet of late.” I paused, “Seems like y’all get along just fine.”

She took the water with a nod. “I have a dog, um, I guess had a dog. They came for him after he bit the UPS man. That was six months ago?” A sigh. Mitzi’s gate creaked in the wind next door, then a roar from the crowd on the radio in the shed. Missed that play.

She focused on the cat which immediately sprawled on her feet, eliciting a girlish giggle. At last she straightened, “Gotta make some sales....More houses to bother, you know?”

I’d gotten used to her being in the house in just these five minutes or so. I’d completely forgotten her initial purpose while I’d been out wandering around in my own head.

I straightened her list and started making X- marks on the gardening stuff, even adding Southern Living, which I already get. “This might cover the next few houses for you. My checkbook’s in the office, be right back.”

Unsaid from stilled lips, “Please don’t go. Not just yet. You’re young and pretty. I’m getting creaky, but I know a good filly when I see one. Just stay a little longer, that’s all.”

I find myself in my office, sun coming through the blinds, making rectangular patterns on my oak desk. The old leather chair receives me, then top drawer on the left. The checkbook, nope that’s the wrong one, still says Theodore and Marie instead of just me. Just me. There’s the landline phone right there. The one that rang with the Georgia State Patrol officer on the other end. “There’s been an accident...Do you know a Ms. Karla A. Hollister?”

The mower down the street stops at long last. It’s getting cooler, I think of the back door being open. The checkbook is in my hand, the only me checkbook...

Steps on the plank floor, there she is. “Did you need the total?” Then looking at me harder. “You OK?” Glancing around at the paneling, the OCGA volumes, framed Revolutionary War era handwritten property deeds, a picture of my boat in the Keys and some manila probate folders awaiting my perusal stacked on the leather couch.

I smiled, “Just trying to remember what’s next is all. I tend to daydream a lot more these days.”

“Yeah. Me too. I used to be someone else, I mean really. Everything just kinda, I don’t know, went wrong at once. I mean, you don’t have to buy the magazines, I don’t care. I’ll eat tonight, stay in some room with 2-3 other girls and wait for the water to get hot so I can take my shower.” A pause. “I’m talking too much aren’t I? Like destroying the sale maybe?”

I leaned back in my chair, “What happened to you? Where is your real life?”

Gwen moved to the edge of my desk, propping on a corner, hands behind her. That sweater, eye level, unbound beauties bid on my senses, it’s been a great while. It will come to nothing....”What do you care?” She challenges, flaring before catching her own overreaction.

I’m rapt. All of me is watching her breathe, the rise and fall. I’m so obvious, it’s a disgrace. She’s pretty. My parts still work, I still yearn....

“I listen. That’s what I do.” I gestured around. “Although in the end I get paid to argue. Where will you stay tonight?”

“Day’s Inn, Dahlonega. Two queens per room. Two princesses per bed I figure. Quite the high life with the usual Continental scone and coffee at six in the AM.” Her shoulders drooped, a personal disappointment.

The mantel clock kept ticking. The pen reposed in my creased hand and the implications of her transient life weighed like a dim fog swirling around the legs of the furniture. I felt my avuncular nature begin to override my sexual longings, casting them in an almost predatory light.

“I’m grilling trout tonight. I caught them myself. I’d be happy to share.” I finished making out the check, handing it up to her. “I have a car and can run you over to the motel afterwards, as you wish.” I looked her dead in the eye, calm and sure.

Gwen breathed in deeply. “I just saw you change. I’ve been teasing on you. They teach us that, bigger sales. I’m sorry I did that to you. And so, yes.....yes, I’ll stay.”

The world had just tilted, imperceptibly, but some. We no longer had a contract with artifice, I believed, but instead the openness of sharing and the breaking of bread to come. I stood, patted her shoulder. “You must be hungry. Come.”

The house had cooled. The radio in the shed had a talk show going and the birds were making their settling sounds in the cedars by the porch. I heard the clanging of pans as I closed the up the shed. She must have found the rice and veggies to go with the fish and had set to. So very domestic, I thought as the grill came to life. Except I’d been drafting pleadings long before Gwendolyn was even an idea.

The window over the sink was still open and I could hear a snatch of song, something old, something Irish. Then silence, then resumption. The street light over the driveway started to hiss on as I went for the fish.

The grilling went better than usual and Gwen’s efforts rewarded us with full bellies and lazy dispositions.

“Been some time since I had some cooking talent in the kitchen.” I paused, recollecting. “Do you sing? I thought I might’ve heard you when I was outside, is all.”

“Just things my granny taught me. She came over from Belfast after a gunman killed my grandfather. It was such then, you know.” Dark, then brightening Gwen listed a few songs she liked.

The dishes were stacked in the sink and I went for my guitar. Tipping back from the table, I played along as she quietly began, gaining confidence, singing in a sweet contralto. I placed candles on the table, dimming the lights and imagining an Irish pub, laughter, the clinking of mugs and men dancing jigs.

Then unbidden memories of another redhead from the poverty days, singing while I strummed for tourists in North Beach, fingers frozen in the fog. They paid their quarters to hear Roo sing, then paper money the later the hour.

It ended too soon. The crickets were the last fiddlers in the band and Gwen was putting papers and my card and check in her clasp.

“I’m ready as I’ll be. The world beckons or some such.” A sigh. “Who would’ve expected all this?” Eyes soft on my solemn face, squeezing my hand, “Thank you, Ted.”

The drive to Dahlonega was uneventful, introspective over the bridged age gap and my fleeting sadness over the spark in darkness ending, not to repeat. The talk was banal, almost desultory. As we pulled up to the motel I sensed her sadness and withdrawal. It’s only mental self preservation. She leaned across, kissed my cheek. No words. Sad face. I hugged her, then waited for her to go inside.

I remember listening to ‘Prairie Home Companion’ on the way back. It reminded me other people don’t spend so much time alone.

An Unexpected Development

Ten days later, I’d just gotten in from putting tires on my ancient car. As I set my briefcase in the side chair, the office phone rang.

“Ted? Hello, is this Ted?” Girl voice, torrent of background noise, like cars on a highway.

It was Gwendolyn.

She had taken a cab to her motel after no one picked her up at the appointed hour. The rest of the crew was gone as well as all her personal effects. Calls to the head office were met with a ‘Line no longer in service’ recording. She had three dollars and my card and her phone was nearly dead. She was upset, apologetic, didn’t want to bother me.

Depends on who wants to bother me.

She was about an hour away over the mountains to the west. I knew there was a Denny’s across from the motel. I told her to go eat, I’d catch the bill when I got there. I gave her my cell phone number and rang off. It was till warm in the Eldorado as I pulled down the driveway. There were streaks of lightning, the wind was picking up, and the first drops of rain pelted the windshield.

I wondered where all this would lead, if anywhere. Sometimes it’s just better to keep hope in your pocket, a note of latent good intentions, with a quiet ask in the last line. The rain increased its intensity, the threatening thunder portending imminent doom for the unwary. The wipers were my metronome, scoffing at my fool’s errand.

Then, descending the grade, lights ahead, including an almost empty 24 hour Denny’s. She waved from the window as I snapped open my umbrella, made for the door.

She arose, a grateful hug my reward. Her outfit much like the last time, save a grey cable knit over her jeans. The waitress brought decaf and cleared the dishes while Gwen fleshed out her employer’s betrayal. When the rain finally eased, we left, the return journey uneventful, punctuated only by Gwen’s gentle snores as she slept against my shoulder.

At Home

I went upstairs, started a bath, looked for a robe while Cat greeted Gwen like an old friend.

There were a few things. They were Karla’s. A robe that cinched. I put it on the back of the door.

She cleaned up while I worked on some matters still due the next day, my evening rescue notwithstanding. It was hard to concentrate in light of the previous few hours.

Suddenly she was beside the desk. She was standing there in Karla’s robe, I should say immersed in it. Karla was a big comfy woman, Gwen a sprite. “Where should I sleep?” Holding my eyes, but still only a heartbeat from abjection.

I took her hand, brought her up to the guest room, the coverlet turned down. “There’s some PJs in the drawer and the remote for the TV is on the nightstand if you need it.” I gently hugged her. “Rest now, turn off your mind. Time for that later, OK?”

She nodded, not meeting my eyes. I heard the door lock as I descended the stairs.

Another Day begins Anew.

The county extension agent was being interviewed on the local radio station. The portable was propped on the window ledge as he was explaining how it was possible to hybridize a variant of the weeping willow tree. I was pulling biscuits out of the oven with a weather eye on the bacon crackling when I divined Gwen’s presence. She’d brushed out her hair all shiny clean, Karla’s bathrobe cinched at her waist. She stood by the sink with me while I whisked eggs. We said our good mornings as the sun ascended, promising a fair day.

After breakfast, I asked her how I could help.

Gwen took a deep breath. “I don’t know exactly. Everything went wrong at the same time. I don’t mean last night, but before. My mom had remarried a guy named Jim. He thought he was getting a twofer. I worked in the office for a carpet supplier. It closed. Then they took my dog and Jim wouldn’t go get it back unless...” She dawdled with the sash on the robe. “So I left. Momma thought I was leading Jim on, called me a tramp, and don’t come back. Brother’s in Afghanistan, just started his third tour. He called me last week, said Jim was gone and to go home. Right.”

She sipped her orange juice. “I spent that first night away at a girlfriend’s place. She’d been working for a publishing house and knew a contractor that needed help with subscriptions. They took me on and I’ve been travelling ever since. I was doing good until they stopped paying us about three weeks ago. There were only five salespeople left, counting me.” A pause, “I shoulda left, oh, about three weeks ago. But I wouldn’t have met you, Star Subscriber!” A bitter laugh. “So I don’t know what to do, where to go, I mean I was born with only slightly less than I have now, right?”