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Have an excerpt from a work in progress:
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Miss Challenger, you’d better not be dyeing your hair in there!” Ah, the dulcet tones of Mrs. Brant, rooming-house proprietrix. "Wasting water & staining my good clean sink! Like a --” She whispered, for dramatic effect, I suppose, since as far as I knew we were alone on the top storey: “-- like a hoo-er.”
I glanced down at the tube of Ursol I’d just applied to my shining locks. Jesus, that bitch had perfect timing. What now? From the corner of my eye I could just see the donnicker in the corner. Oh no, not that.
But the pounding resumes on the bathroom door, and it’s any old port in a storm.
Forty-five seconds later, I was innocently greeting my landlady with my hair done up in curlers under an old kerchief. I’m good at quick changes.
“Lovely morning to you, Mrs. Brant!”
“Hmf. I got other folks waiting to use the bathroom. If you haven’t taken all the hot water already.”
I stepped aside with an “after you” gesture that made her sniff haughtily, but which deflected her attention from the rubber gloves and dye box clutched behind my back. When I judged it safe, I made for my room, closed the door gently, and only then did I allow myself a long sigh.
Kid, you just dyed your own hair in a toilet bowl.
And you thought this small town would be all picket fences and lemonade.
But in my line of work, you’ve got looks to keep up; so I gave my hair another towel, and started my morning exercises.
Halfway through a handstand I started to come over all shaky and faint. Now, when you’re upside down like that, the blood should be rushing to your head, if it’s rushing anywhere; so I knew it was bad, that faintness. I turned myself right-side-up and sat for a bit, looking at my purse hanging on the bedpost, trying to resist opening it and counting what I already knew would be two dollars and seventy-one cents. I knew why I was dizzy, too; I hadn’t eaten any supper last night. Never eat after 6 o’clock at night, my Aunt Molly had said, you’ll get fat. But I hadn’t eaten any lunch yesterday, either; just a cup of coffee.
Just give in and go get some food already. You won’t find a gig if you’re passed out.
The nearest place was a couple of blocks away. I’d drunk a glass of water before getting dressed to leave the house, with a nicer scarf over my hair, and I felt human enough by the time I sat at the counter.
“What’ll it be, honey?” asked a big, squared-off blonde who looked about as comfortable in her waitress’s uniform as Paul Bunyan would have been. Madge, I’d heard one of the regulars call her. I’d already figured what I needed, and what I could afford; and I split the difference:
“Just a glass of tomato juice, please.” The waitress raised an eyebrow. She didn’t pluck them, I noticed, but they were nice enough eyebrows, for all that, and plucked brows and make-up would’ve looked all wrong on a face like hers, anyway.
“Well, if I had a figure like yours, I’d take care of it too.”
“If you had a figure like hers we’d be doing better business!” hollered a masculine voice from the kitchen.
“If you had a figure like hers, George” yelled Madge, “you’d never be able to stop giving yourself the eye long enough to do any work!” I looked down at the counter to hide the smile I couldn’t keep from cracking, but I wasn’t quick enough. Madge caught my eye and blushed. Then she lowered her voice:
“I’m guessing it’s really your purse that’s on the diet, though?” Before I could answer she turned to the kitchen doors again: “Adam & Eve on a raft and wreck’em!”
I tried to demur politely, but it’s tough to speak with your mouth watering, and besides:
“Shut your mouth or someone’ll hear you.” She patted my hand grumpily, if that’s possible, and set a tomato juice in front of me. “Can’t have the other customers think I’m getting soft.”
God bless all tender-hearted bulldaggers. Damn her, too, for keeping me alive. Prolonging the fall before I hit bottom.
I’d had better scrambled eggs, but I’d had worse, too. Hunger is the best sauce, my Uncle Arnie used to say. So my relatives talked about food a lot, what’s it to you? Slow bites. Make it last.
Madge was pouring coffee for an old man at the other end of the counter; the radio blared pure Kansas corn, with a gabbling disc jockey between the songs.
Other people envision a future - whether it’s a bright shiny one, or one where the world gets destroyed. I could wish for either, but since the end of the war, or thereabouts, it’s been a big blank page; feels like driving in fog, I know there’s stuff around me but I can’t see a thing until I run into it.
A shadow took the seat beside mine:
“Coffee over here, Madge, when you’ve got a moment. Don’t worry,” he murmured in my ear, “she’s got a heart of gold, really.”
“I know.” Wondering what sort of guy would strike up a conversation with a woman by slapping a left-hand compliment on another woman, I turned to view the guy face-on only to be hit with his profile; he was looking at the wall behind the counter like he’d embarrassed himself talking to me. Fine. I turned my attention back to my eggs.
“I’m sorry if I was rude,” he started up again, “You’re just so pretty I was caught off-guard. Don’t worry, I’m not a creep or anything.”
Nine times out of ten, when somebody starts by telling you what they’re not, that’s exactly what they are. Still, at least he was an obvious case. I figured I could handle an obvious case.
“I’m a bit of a freelance photographer, actually.” I tried to look non-committal, while I checked him out through my lashes, trying to find some detail that would justify my dislike. It wasn’t working - the clothes were clean, neat, and not too new; the only bulges in the pockets were the size and shape of a regular wallet and a hanky. No dirt under the fingernails and the watch was solid but not flashy and set to the correct time.
“Have you ever done any modelling?” Time to cut to the chase - I drew out one of the agency’s cards from my purse. I’d been between things for the last little while, but figured I should still be on their books. It stopped him short, and he hesitated before taking the card at arm’s length and squinting at the letters.
“They’ll handle all the booking, if you’re interested. I don’t do any freelance.” I did, actually, and I should’ve been working on this guy, but --
There was nothing outwardly wrong with the him. I don’t just mean looks - his manner wasn’t nervous, and it wasn’t too smooth either; he didn’t twitch or leer; his voice didn’t have that wheedling tone that can turn bitterly angry in a second when you don’t give him what he wants. All the same, I didn’t much care for him.
I remembered another thing Uncle Arnie used to say: “I’ve known dozens of people who were all excellent judges of character, and they all got scammed regularly. Judge circumstances instead. That way, you only need to figure out if someone’s bughouse enough to harm you when it’s against his own interests.”
I figured if he was willing to go through the agency, he wasn’t just blowing smoke; and he’d have to give them a name and address, which might discourage any shennanigans he might have planned; and it made me feel like a real person, for a bit, to pull out that business card.
Like I said, I can’t see a thing until I run into it.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Miss Challenger, you’d better not be dyeing your hair in there!” Ah, the dulcet tones of Mrs. Brant, rooming-house proprietrix. "Wasting water & staining my good clean sink! Like a --” She whispered, for dramatic effect, I suppose, since as far as I knew we were alone on the top storey: “-- like a hoo-er.”
I glanced down at the tube of Ursol I’d just applied to my shining locks. Jesus, that bitch had perfect timing. What now? From the corner of my eye I could just see the donnicker in the corner. Oh no, not that.
But the pounding resumes on the bathroom door, and it’s any old port in a storm.
Forty-five seconds later, I was innocently greeting my landlady with my hair done up in curlers under an old kerchief. I’m good at quick changes.
“Lovely morning to you, Mrs. Brant!”
“Hmf. I got other folks waiting to use the bathroom. If you haven’t taken all the hot water already.”
I stepped aside with an “after you” gesture that made her sniff haughtily, but which deflected her attention from the rubber gloves and dye box clutched behind my back. When I judged it safe, I made for my room, closed the door gently, and only then did I allow myself a long sigh.
Kid, you just dyed your own hair in a toilet bowl.
And you thought this small town would be all picket fences and lemonade.
But in my line of work, you’ve got looks to keep up; so I gave my hair another towel, and started my morning exercises.
Halfway through a handstand I started to come over all shaky and faint. Now, when you’re upside down like that, the blood should be rushing to your head, if it’s rushing anywhere; so I knew it was bad, that faintness. I turned myself right-side-up and sat for a bit, looking at my purse hanging on the bedpost, trying to resist opening it and counting what I already knew would be two dollars and seventy-one cents. I knew why I was dizzy, too; I hadn’t eaten any supper last night. Never eat after 6 o’clock at night, my Aunt Molly had said, you’ll get fat. But I hadn’t eaten any lunch yesterday, either; just a cup of coffee.
Just give in and go get some food already. You won’t find a gig if you’re passed out.
The nearest place was a couple of blocks away. I’d drunk a glass of water before getting dressed to leave the house, with a nicer scarf over my hair, and I felt human enough by the time I sat at the counter.
“What’ll it be, honey?” asked a big, squared-off blonde who looked about as comfortable in her waitress’s uniform as Paul Bunyan would have been. Madge, I’d heard one of the regulars call her. I’d already figured what I needed, and what I could afford; and I split the difference:
“Just a glass of tomato juice, please.” The waitress raised an eyebrow. She didn’t pluck them, I noticed, but they were nice enough eyebrows, for all that, and plucked brows and make-up would’ve looked all wrong on a face like hers, anyway.
“Well, if I had a figure like yours, I’d take care of it too.”
“If you had a figure like hers we’d be doing better business!” hollered a masculine voice from the kitchen.
“If you had a figure like hers, George” yelled Madge, “you’d never be able to stop giving yourself the eye long enough to do any work!” I looked down at the counter to hide the smile I couldn’t keep from cracking, but I wasn’t quick enough. Madge caught my eye and blushed. Then she lowered her voice:
“I’m guessing it’s really your purse that’s on the diet, though?” Before I could answer she turned to the kitchen doors again: “Adam & Eve on a raft and wreck’em!”
I tried to demur politely, but it’s tough to speak with your mouth watering, and besides:
“Shut your mouth or someone’ll hear you.” She patted my hand grumpily, if that’s possible, and set a tomato juice in front of me. “Can’t have the other customers think I’m getting soft.”
God bless all tender-hearted bulldaggers. Damn her, too, for keeping me alive. Prolonging the fall before I hit bottom.
I’d had better scrambled eggs, but I’d had worse, too. Hunger is the best sauce, my Uncle Arnie used to say. So my relatives talked about food a lot, what’s it to you? Slow bites. Make it last.
Madge was pouring coffee for an old man at the other end of the counter; the radio blared pure Kansas corn, with a gabbling disc jockey between the songs.
Other people envision a future - whether it’s a bright shiny one, or one where the world gets destroyed. I could wish for either, but since the end of the war, or thereabouts, it’s been a big blank page; feels like driving in fog, I know there’s stuff around me but I can’t see a thing until I run into it.
A shadow took the seat beside mine:
“Coffee over here, Madge, when you’ve got a moment. Don’t worry,” he murmured in my ear, “she’s got a heart of gold, really.”
“I know.” Wondering what sort of guy would strike up a conversation with a woman by slapping a left-hand compliment on another woman, I turned to view the guy face-on only to be hit with his profile; he was looking at the wall behind the counter like he’d embarrassed himself talking to me. Fine. I turned my attention back to my eggs.
“I’m sorry if I was rude,” he started up again, “You’re just so pretty I was caught off-guard. Don’t worry, I’m not a creep or anything.”
Nine times out of ten, when somebody starts by telling you what they’re not, that’s exactly what they are. Still, at least he was an obvious case. I figured I could handle an obvious case.
“I’m a bit of a freelance photographer, actually.” I tried to look non-committal, while I checked him out through my lashes, trying to find some detail that would justify my dislike. It wasn’t working - the clothes were clean, neat, and not too new; the only bulges in the pockets were the size and shape of a regular wallet and a hanky. No dirt under the fingernails and the watch was solid but not flashy and set to the correct time.
“Have you ever done any modelling?” Time to cut to the chase - I drew out one of the agency’s cards from my purse. I’d been between things for the last little while, but figured I should still be on their books. It stopped him short, and he hesitated before taking the card at arm’s length and squinting at the letters.
“They’ll handle all the booking, if you’re interested. I don’t do any freelance.” I did, actually, and I should’ve been working on this guy, but --
There was nothing outwardly wrong with the him. I don’t just mean looks - his manner wasn’t nervous, and it wasn’t too smooth either; he didn’t twitch or leer; his voice didn’t have that wheedling tone that can turn bitterly angry in a second when you don’t give him what he wants. All the same, I didn’t much care for him.
I remembered another thing Uncle Arnie used to say: “I’ve known dozens of people who were all excellent judges of character, and they all got scammed regularly. Judge circumstances instead. That way, you only need to figure out if someone’s bughouse enough to harm you when it’s against his own interests.”
I figured if he was willing to go through the agency, he wasn’t just blowing smoke; and he’d have to give them a name and address, which might discourage any shennanigans he might have planned; and it made me feel like a real person, for a bit, to pull out that business card.
Like I said, I can’t see a thing until I run into it.
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Date: 2012-04-24 02:27 am (UTC)From: