Decay

She had been defecating quietly in the corner for an hour before Rob hollered. The guys by the door grabbed her up by the arms, thinking she would slump limp between them. But she smiled, trustingly, conspiratorially. The gesture was like any of the girls, chin brought to the shoulder, top teeth bared, eyes red but not blank. The breath was less promising, but Jim, who had her left arm and her frank open face turned towards him grinned.
“You need some mouth wash”
In heels she was taller than both the men at her arms, and her legs, strong, struck out at the concrete with assurance. They let her go, amused. And she stood, gripping the edge of the plastic shoes with her toes, smiling. The light above the door provided humble spot light for her shiny eyes. Now and again the beam was interrupted by insects. A cloud of bugs was barely visible surrounding his head now, like an agitated halo. He hadn't moved when the other guys had gone to pick up Jesse or Diamond or Chlamydia or whatever the girl's name was. He sat down on the over turned plastic pail and resumed his cigarette, watching their progress with her long, unambitious limbs.
“Christ that stinks.”
“Yeah, this corner bad, Rob.”
“She needs, she needs one them menthol things—”
“A cigarette?”
“No like the commercial, with the music and the kids”
“mint? You mean a mint? Nah, that's not the stink I'm talking about”
She was still teetering somewhat, the left foot ankle twitching and rising as though the heel was stuck to the ground with gum. A cigarette had manifested between her fingers, but the other hand as yet did not seem disposed to lighting it.
Jim, who was watching her more intently than Bill, as if her crooked movements might burst into beauty, stepped forward and lit the end of her new appendage.
“She gonna burn herself.”
“Nah she's okay. Just been a long night”
“Hell that. we got three hours—” Jim eyed Rob, still sitting in his halo. Rob watched the girl's torso, which jagged slightly out, as if disconnected from the shoulders and hips. Jim rustled through his jacket pocket and withdrew slightly damp transparent rolling papers. Without moving his gaze, the thick fingers blindly twisted the paper around moist pungent leaves.
“—and you weren't here when she did burn he damn leg. In three places! Put the damn lit end in her thigh like she was putting the thing out.”
Jim hit the joint.
“How much you figure she makes?” Bill took the pass, but was studying the thighs with purpose.
“What—when she's working or when she out here?” Jim had already appraised the wad wound round the garter, colorless in dull light. Or perhaps generally colorless.
The door opened and Joe, grinning, Chinese noodles dangling from open the upturned lips, stood. He had a way of keeping his mouth wide when eating, which like a bull dog panting, gave the impression of benevolence beamed at who ever he turned his head towards. He did that now with the girl, who shook her head, only slightly out of time with the music, and smiled back. Joe leaned into the door frame, and the unobstructed light pelted the girl's face. The music, now unmuffled, seeped sticky over the men, stagnating the already motionless bodies. The girl, though, began to oscillate with greater frequency. Jim stared somewhat transfixed by the hips, the thighs rotating in the sockets.
“How can you eat out here with the smell?” Joe continued chomping, unperturbed.
“Maybe he brought it.”
“Nah, it was here. Stank and still stinks. Shit, Rob, you gotta clean up back here. Like a dog park.” Rob had retreated from the circle,engulfed in the bug cloud and spelling dilemmas of a text message.
Jim's jaw hung unhinged as he leaned towards the legs, his thick fingers nearly graping the garter, when the phone flew forward, striking his forehead.
The plastic pail upturned as Rob stood, scattering beetle bodies and crushing one into the concrete. Rob grabbed the pail, in one gesture bringing it off the ground and into Jim's face and neck.
“I wasn't taking it!” The roach corpse slid off the pail as Rob started to bring it up again for another swing.
“Look!” Jim thrust his hand, soiled knuckles and finger tips at Rob's face.
“She's fucking shitted—” Jim's ecstatic proof collided with his nose and Rob brought the bucket back around. Bill saw it, dark on Jim's hand, shimmering from Rob's nose and cheek as he stood in the light of the door frame. The garter and it's bulge were also visible now, sliding. He laughed, nodding his chin at Joe, who catching the glance, leaned casually back into the club looking, and rolled forward on his heels, out of the door frame, shutting it behind him.
With the light gone, Bill moved forward, pushing Jim's form, already cowering before Rob, on to the edge where the concrete met with the gravel. Rob's shoulders had already started to release, dropping back into place and Bill, watching this movement, laughed and kicked Jim's shoes.
“Come on, get up.” Rob didn't drop the pail, but held it with a loose grip. Jim didn't move, didn't turn over, but let out a groan. Bill laughed again and seeing Rob's gaze dropped down, looked over his shoulder to the girl, standing as still as she could manage. Rob bent, and Bill moved quickly towards her.
“Help me get the sack of shit up.” Bill nodded enthusiastically to this command, though Rob's back was to him. He stuck one hand swiftly in his pocket, moving back to the men.
“You want Joe to bring her in?”
“Yeah.” Joe had her arm and the door open when Rob looked back around at them.
“Clean her up.”
II
Paris, late but excused, thought that she didn't look like the grinning corpse of a tractor accident, but something of the girl, sitting before the mirror stalked in on her mind, giving the impression of up turned earth and a head several feet from shoulders and torso. She moved closer, pulling out her makeup bag, but then feeling nauseated at the idea of sharing lipstick or mascara.
“Where's your bag, Jubbie?” She paused. Outside the club the club the girl was called Melanie or so she said, but it didn't matter except to the men, who always hounded at the real name. But Jub or Jubbie had evolved from the prior dj who couldn't spell. His call sheet had been passed around the bar on a slow night, the cramped illiterate attempt at names drawing more attention than the stage. Jew Belly was finally recognized as the girl now sitting at the dressing table in front of her. Paris realized she couldn't think past that name.
Melanie-Jew Belly sat, hands and forearms laying on the long flat surface before the mirror. She shifted ever so slightly, from cheek to cheek as if her butt, substantial as it was, couldn't find steady ground on the chair. The movement was slight, and like her hands which were still except the left thumb, the impression was of a child strapped to the roof of a moving vehicle, sick but so accustomed to the movement that it is without protest. The left thumb lifted up, down, not rapidly like a twitch, but continually, reflectively, as though it hadn't quite decided which position, up or down, was the better.
“Hey we need her.” Rob's narrow face hung disembodied through the curtain. Paris nodded and he withdrew. She tried avoiding looking at the girl directly, because she looked back, even a glance at her through the mirror would find her trying to smile. Paris concentrated on lips and decided to leave them as they were. Falling asleep in her lipstick had produced a series of pimples around the frame of her mouth, which with the next days layer of powder applied, appeared as bubbles or froth around a dark red jetty.
She then moved her eyes to arms, as sometimes girls wound keys to their lockers around their wrists. Hers were bare, though, and Paris was drawn to the thumb, still motioning restlessly. The nails on the left hand were chewed, but the right were manicured with press-on acrylics, too long and painted light, shimmery cream. Paris crossed her arms, leaning with her back to the mirror.
The eyes were the only thing she could do now, quickly, that would help. Grabbing some tissue and hand cream from the dressing table, she wiped away the blue beneath the eyes. Someone's Visine lay forgotten on a folding chair, and Paris squeezed the liquid liberally, pealing the upper and lower lids back with her nails. She paused when she realized the other girl wore contacts, the left of which sloshed toward the corner of the eye, doubled over and threatening to slip out. She guided it back with her nail, pressing against the iris to make it stay in place.
The sound of sirens surprised her and she hurried over to the sink, still watching the other girl. Jew Belly-Melanie rose as if beckoned by the noise. She touched the back of her cropped hair reflexively and smiled at Paris, who watched her slide through the curtain. Only lastly did her eyes drop to the legs and the scattered streak which ran down them.

tough

Erica wore her beauty aggressively and her aggression beautifully. She performed an impromptu tap dance as the Sinatra song ended, but even this ironic gesture revealed skill and training. In the silence between one music beginning and another ending, kept her hips in motion. Ed—Mr.Ed! she thought half hysterically to herself—shuffled across the carpet. He bore two drinks, one to serve as an apology.
She smiled, but turned to hide her teeth in the pole. Head Like a Hole began in all it's murky subdued glory, and she couldn't help smiling wider, shaking her ass at the little man enticingly. She hadn't really been offended when, half and hour before, she had stopped giggling and risen abruptly. But the moment, his comment, had been too good not to use for her own purpose, and so she narrowed her eyes, muttered the one racial epitaph which hurt him, and stalked off haughtily. She let him see her sit with Rose, her back to him. Once, and only once, had she brought her chin to her to her shoulder, glancing with slitted eyes at his ridiculous figure. Even without turning completely she could tell his lip was trembling and his ever-damp palm greased the side of the glass.
Now she turned from the poll to face him fully, allowing the eye contact which he had become so greedy for. The music shifted, Trent Reznor assaulting the handful of bar patrons with steel-voice nerves. Erica reflected that even the crummy jukebox, frequently broke and with a depressingly large selection of country music, couldn't repress some music. Just like you, stupid. She threw herself down with abandon, tossing her long, fantastically blond hair over the edge of the stage, before raising her face a quarter of an inch from Ed's.
He sucked in his breath, and she hid her satisfaction in another convulsion, this time allowing her hair to trail over into his lap. Pathetic, she thought. Like he might start whimpering at any minute.
But that was exactly how she had planned it. The morning, with offensive daylight pouring through her sheer curtains, had brought that abrupt realization of the necessary money. Erica had weathered this, and her roommate's complaints, with a certitude born out of years of strife. Clara had threateningly waived bills while the two sat in the kitchen, and Erica had gazed, expressionless, back thinking at the college girl, worried about her little college girl troubles. Her silence silenced the other girl petulant complaints, and the two had sat, Clara feeling righteous but becoming disconcerted.
After her cigarette and coffee breakfast, she had gone back to the futon which served as her bed, and lain thinking about who would be a juicy squeeze. When her mind had settled on Ed, she allowed Clara to turn the TV on and accepted the jay, which the other girl had anxiously offered as amends. In the happy haze, and Clara's growing relaxation, she had picked through the stories he had told her, his sick wife and distant son. She had let his words drift through her head, and stretched out, finally happy for the sun, when she fell upon her strategy.