Heartbreaker (9 page)

The boys open their mouths but the words that fall out lie in the dirt and never seem to reach the girl. In time they grow silent; they grow still as trees.

Do you know how many times there isn't anyone? she says at last. No one at all? Once, I counted just six cars. Six. In eight hours. And none of them stopped, even though I was screaming as loud as I could.

 

JAILBAIT

For stealing two beers and giving a clerk the bird at a Super Stop I spend one night in jail. They put me in a cell with eight other guys waiting for their rides. I ask someone lying on the only bench if I can sit down. The guy stretches out his legs and tells me to fuck off.

I get my one phone call and talk to Bea at a pay-phone-type situation chained to the wall. It's five in the morning and neither of us has slept; I'm smiling into the receiver and I can tell she's smiling, too.

I came right then, she tells me, her voice so warm and close I know she's got her mouth right up against the phone. Just, God, the back of your head, she says. When they put the cuffs on you and made you get in the car. It was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life.

*   *   *

Within a week Bea's asking me if I'll do it again. I do, same store, same beer. The clerk is making the call before I can get the cans in my jacket pockets. The cops ask me what the hell I'm doing. I say I'm thirsty. I think about Bea, in the parking lot, watching me. I get a hard-on and I hope she can see it, though maybe it's too dark. In the backseat I ask the cops if they can turn on the siren and they say, Shut up, wiseass.

This time, when they book me, I'm in a holding cell by myself, but only for a few hours before the cops tell me to stop wasting their time.

Bea comes to get me, hyper, eyes jumping like she's coked up. Just being near the jail gets her this way. She tries to look past the lobby to where the cells are, but a set of green double doors blocks her view.

What happened? she asks. Did anything happen?

Not really, I say.

Why are they letting you out so soon?

I guess they need the room, I reply, shrugging. They don't think stealing beer is a big deal.

Bea's mouth goes hard. You need to do something bigger, like a car, she tells me.

How?

It doesn't matter. Smash the window or something.

I tell her that auto theft is a lot more serious than filling my pockets at the Super Stop.

That's the point, idiot, she says.

I say You're crazy, and then she's mad, and we drive the rest of the way in silence.

At home she darts out of reach whenever I put my hands out to touch her. Come on, I groan; she shakes her head, stomping around the coffee table, rummaging for cigarettes, the remote, casting me these little pissed-off glances. When I try to talk about something else she turns the TV up louder and louder.

Okay! I say finally. Okay, I'll do it, shit, and she yelps and throws her arms around my neck, practically choking me.

Tomorrow, she says. Do it tomorrow.

And that's how I end up with a tire iron in my hand, crouched over the windshield of a red Mustang convertible. The glass spills like kid's cereal over the pavement and the car alarm goes nuts and the lights flip on in someone's house and I start running. The cops catch up with me about eight blocks away as I'm trying to hop a fence. Everyone's shouting and there are flashlights and radios and they tell me, just like in the movies, to put my hands up. They bend me over the squad car to cuff me, someone's hand on the back of my neck, while the cop radio makes noise.

What the fuck were you gonna do with this, asshole? one of them says, holding the gun Bea told me to stick in my jeans, and I just laugh. I roll my face into the hood with my mouth open against the white paint so I can tell her later what it tastes like.

*   *   *

I get used to prison pretty fast. We have TV and a gym, and we don't all have to shower at the same time or anything. No one I talk to is a murderer or a rapist; mostly they're all just thieves or drug addicts and we play cards and talk about our girlfriends and that's it. Sometimes there's a fight or someone pisses on the floor but the prison guards are mellow and you know exactly what to expect out of your day.

At night I write letters to Bea. Five sheets per envelope per week, and I write as small as I can. I tell her how dangerous it is, how hard I'm getting fucked, how because I'm the skinniest guy in here I'm automatically the pussy. I tell her they make me shave my balls, that they choke me, that they come in my mouth and I have to swallow or else they'll beat the shit out of me. And I tell her that I like it, that even though it hurts and I'm afraid of them, I want it. I tell her I get hard and I come and they beat me for that, too. I tell her that no one uses condoms and I could get a terrible disease, I could die in here and no one would stop it from happening. She writes back and tells me what to say, how to act, how to let guys know they can use me. She signs every letter with a string of
x
's and
o
's half a page long and I put them over my face, imagining I can smell her hands, the Candy Apple lotion that I like so much, before tucking the pages beneath my pillow.

*   *   *

Which one do you share with? she asks during our first visiting hour. She looks incredible, in a short black dress with little red flowers on it and her hair puffed way out.

I jerk my head in the direction of the biggest man, black and bald, with arms like fire hydrants, talking to a woman who looks like his mom. Leaning way back in her chair Bea checks him out, eyes narrowed, and when the chair tilts forward again she's grinning.

What's his name?

Leroy, I say.

What's his prison name?

Big, um, Big—Big Daddy.

He wants to pretend he's your dad?

No, it's more like, he just wants to be in charge, you know?

How big? she asks. How big is it?

I hesitate, pretending like I don't want to say.

Just show with your hands, she urges, and I draw a slow line on the table, nine, ten inches long. Her eyes get huge.

No fucking way, she breathes. How much around? she asks.

I tap my lip, considering.

Like, I don't know. A—a soda can? I say, making a motion like I'm sipping from a Coke.

Oh my
God
, she says, slapping the table with her palms. What do they call you when they do it?

I told you already.

I know, but I want to hear you say it, she pleads.

Pussy, I whisper, my hand cupped against the side of my head to keep people from seeing the shape my mouth makes. She scrunches up her shoulders like a kid being tickled.

You're
so
the pussy, she says. I can tell by the way they look at you.

I'm pretty sure no one is looking at me, but I nod like I know what she means.

I love seeing you like this, she says. But wouldn't it be better, I mean, I always imagined it, like, through those big Plexiglas windows? With the phones?

I think that's for the big-time guys, felons and stuff, I say.

Huh, she says, and sucks her tooth the way she does when she's thinking hard about something.

We keep talking and the time flies by. I hold her hand until one of the guards tells me to stop.

It's not your fault, you know, she says. That you want this. That you need it.

No?

No, baby, she croons. You can't help it, and that's okay.

Okay, I say, and all of a sudden I'm not sure if I should smile, because I am smiling, a little, but she's looking at me like, no.

You're not too lonely? I ask her. She seems confused.

Oh God, she says. Are you kidding me?

*   *   *

When I get out she wants to see my ass, right there in the car, before we've even left the parking lot. I unbuckle my pants, slide them off my hips, and she folds herself between my legs, scrunched in the space below my seat, and squints like she's trying to read the directions on a box of instant potatoes. Without warning she spits and shoves two fingers inside me. I wince.

What the fuck, didn't they loosen you up at all? I thought you needed stitches, she grunts, working her fingers up to the knuckle.

It healed, I say, gasping. I want to look at her face but she won't let me; she tells me to keep my eyes on the window in case anyone sees us.

Why aren't you coming, she says, all out of breath.

I don't—if you could just slow down, maybe—

Slow down? You want me to slow down? Like hell you want me to slow the fuck down.

I—

You need cock, is that it? she says, and she is ecstatic when I say Yes, she jerks me off and kisses me so hard I can feel her teeth.

Baby, she says, over and over, Oh baby baby baby.

We stop and get sandwiches at a deli. Bea keeps looking at me, not smiling, more like she's studying me or something. When my knees touch hers under the table she moves them away.

You smell good, I say, and she blinks.

What? she says. What did you say to me?

Your perfume, I say.

I'm not wearing perfume, you jackass, she says.

I guess it's just been so long since I smelled a woman, like, up close, I tell her.

You don't want a woman anymore, she says, sucking on a Funyun. You don't want to smell a woman. You want to smell your own shit on a guy's cock, don't you?

Bea, I say, do you think we could just talk to each other for a moment? Talk about something else?

Why? 'Cause you want to feel normal? You're not normal. You're a fucking whore. You let all those guys fuck you and you liked it. I don't know what else there is to talk about.

I sip my Sprite. I want to tell her I missed her so much, but instead I tell her she's right. I say You're right, and she finally smiles.

I know I am, she says.

*   *   *

The apartment is messier than I remember. The stove is crusted black, and all the dishes are stacked in the sink. The trash is crammed with boxes from microwave dinners and fast food. The whole place smells like sour milk. Above the mattress she's taped the picture she took of me in my prison uniform; the only part of my head that's showing is my chin, but you can tell that I'm smiling.

I take a shower while she watches me from the toilet, her knees pressed together and her feet arched up. The shower curtain is open and water bounces off my body and onto the floor.

Did they ever use anything other than their cocks? she wants to know.

The janitor used a broomstick, I say. And once Mikey used the handle of a razor.

Mikey? she says. Who's Mikey?

Mikey's the, uh, the new guy.

She slips her underwear down to her ankles and touches herself. I want to watch her but she says no, she wants me to put my hands on the tile and tell her how it was. I can hear how wet she is. Leaning my head against the tile I close my eyes. I tell her that Mikey is fucking me with the handle of the razor and I want to scream but he threatens to beat my head in if I so much as blink. He gets it all the way in and the blood running down my thighs is hotter than the hot water from the showerhead. The guards watch, the other guys watch, one of them is going to have a turn next, they talk about it, what they're going to do to my ass, and I'm so scared I piss myself, and that gets them all even more excited.

You wanted it and they knew it, Bea says.

Yes.

It was me doing it to you the whole time, she says. I want it to be me doing it to you.

Yes, I whisper, and she does that thing with her breathing, like she's crying, but it means she's coming.

Oh fuck, I love you, Jonathan, she says.

I love you too, I say.

*   *   *

Bea cleans houses some days but other days she seems to have nothing to do. I know there are bills she hasn't paid, that her mother is sending her money, and twice we wake up with no lights. She says that we're fine, and she's the one with the bank account so I don't say much about it. We watch TV, drink beer on the porch, sleep in the afternoon when it's hot so we can be awake at night when it's cool and the mosquitoes are gone.

Do you miss it? she asks.

No
, I think. Yes, I say, putting my hand in hers.

I'm glad I'm home, though, I say. She touches my hair.

That's sweet, she says. But I know it can never really be home again.

I don't ask her what she means.

She says I can fuck her if I want, from behind. She leans over the kitchen sink, she tells me to pull her hair and I do it, she wants me to say I'm going to hurt her and I do that, too. She laughs when I come, a crazy laugh like she's drunk or high, and even though I want to be nice to her what I want more is to make her happy. So I put my arm around her neck and squeeze. She says Don't stop.

*   *   *

But it doesn't last. We go out, and it's a bad night. Our tacos don't taste right and the margaritas are watery and no matter what I say she doesn't look up from her food. I ask her if she wants to dance and she goes to the dance floor but she barely moves, and when I put my hands on her waist I can feel how tense her muscles are, like her whole body is a fist. She twists away, adjusting her tube top, and we drive home without saying anything.

On the porch when we're having a cigarette I ask her what's wrong, to please tell me, because I thought things were going so good. At first she shrugs, making a face like she doesn't want to talk, but I can tell that all along she's been wanting to say what she finally says.

It's nothing, she starts, sighing and scratching her cheek. It's just … it's not working.

What's not?

This, she says, gesturing between us. With you out. On the outside.

Sure it is, I say, reaching for her thigh.

No, she insists, inhaling sharply on her cigarette, shaking her head. It's not good like this. It's not what you need.