Sixty-Seven Cents

The best place to find money was outside the coffee shop early in the morning. Herded through a maze of nylon rope, people quickly get their morning fill and squeeze through the door. A young lady, about the same age as myself, stood outside the door, balancing a cup of coffee and her change in one hand, and opening her bag with the other. A coin hit the ground next to her pointed-toe high heel, and rolled to a stop next to the waste basket.

Her pause was brief. She checked the time on her watch. A dribble of coffee ran down her jeweled fingers. Time worth more than a dropped coined, she zipped her bag and walked off. Regardless that it wasn’t stealing, I waited for the clicking of her high heels to fade into the morning traffic before picking up the dime.

Unlike the coffee shop, The Golden Nugget was alive. Clusters of fried egg dotted the carpet beneath a highchair. Silver spoons clinked on the rims of lidless ceramic mugs. Linda waved me to the counter.

"Coffee this morning?" she asked, uprighting the mug before I could answer.
"I’m three cents short," I said, scraping a piece of crusted muck off the pale countertop.
"No you’re not," Linda said. She slid three pennies out of the Styrofoam cup beside the register and dropped them onto my napkin.
"Thanks, Linda. I don’t know why so many people line up in those upscale coffee shops. I’d take great service over gourmet coffee any day."
"Eh, let them stay there, for all I care. I have enough people rushing me around, and they don’t have to be anyplace," she laughed.

Occasionally, I caught men watching Linda as she shuttled around the dining room, whisking up bits of food and straw wrappers with a little broom and dustpan. I wondered if they recognized her from the photograph that hung above the payphone at the strip club like I had. She got out before the pole and the drugs wrecked her body and mind. If I could shuck off some of my pride, I would ask her how she did it.

"Thanks for the coffee, Linda." I pushed the coins across the counter.
"That’s your change. Hang onto it for when you really need it."
"I don’t want you to get into trouble, Linda. Just take the money." I pushed it back her way.
"I don’t need it. You do."

"Will you accept a collect call?" the operator said.
"Yes."
"Jordan, I’m ready to come home," I said into the phone. "I don’t have enough money to buy a bus ticket."
"How much do you have?" he asked.
"Sixty-seven cents."

Through the graffittied payphone booth, I saw the strong hands that had once held Linda above the dance floor, while her body arched before paying men, wipe scrambled eggs off a highchair.

Road Trip

The sweetness of the corn mixes with musty soybeans and sticks to my skin. One-stop towns decorate the open fields with marquee signs announcing births, engagements, and six piece chicken buckets for $4.99. Every town is my home.

"Do you want that?" Heath nods.

I turn the Billy Idol ‘Rebel Yell’ cassette over in my hand and think what a silly question. We haven’t had a cassette player in months. I’d have to stash it in the saddle bags for later. "That’s okay." I drop the cassette into the bin.

The lady behind the counter smiles at him, at his thoughtfulness. "Ya’ll have a good night," she calls out.

"Thanks. You do the same," Heath waves before guiding me out the door by my waist, inches away from the plastic case tucked into the band of my jeans.

The bugs are violent outside of town, stinging my cheeks, but the darkness pushes us forward. I bury my head into Heath’s back, hunched over, the corner of the cassette case jabbing my belly. Left hand on my thigh, shoulders spread broad, he windshields for me.

He steers the bike onto a dirt path. I dismount and follow him a ways off the road. My legs, tired from the long ride, tremble as my boots shuffle over the rutted ground.

The moon spots us from straight above. There’s no point in setting up the tent. Farmers rise early. The first whir of pickups passing and Heath will wake. I climb into the sleeping bag with him, resting my head on the chest that had become my pillow. The scent of oil and wind is intoxicating.

Lying together, the sleeping bag zipped tight, I ask the dreaded question, "Where are we going tomorrow?" My fingers play with the flesh hanging over his belt. At least he isn’t drinking as much.

"I don’t know. Keep heading south for a while. D.T. has a place for us in Florida. He has a buddy who owns a bike shop. I need to find some work. Our funds are getting low."

"I could always dance somewhere. Just for one night." Just saying those words coats the back of my tongue with bile.

"I told you….never again. And I mean it." He sucks in his gut. The flesh disappears beneath my fingers. "Why do you even bring that up?" His eyes slit and he drops his arm to the ground which was as far away as he could get in the confines of the flannel wrap.

I fumble for the zipper on his blue jeans, letting the crickets speak for me. Their incessant, involuntary cries for companionship fill my ears and I know there isn’t any other language I know how to speak.

Perfect Timing

The singer's boot heel pounds the stage. My hip rocks, skirt swirling around my knees like smoke rising from a cigarette left in an ashtray.

Bottle to my lips, I watch the people at the table next to me instead of the empty dance floor. The girl with the shell necklace slides her feet out of her sandals and wraps them around the boy's leg. His eyes follow the curve of her neck while he talks to the man who grimaces with each sip of imported beer.

Tell me, Baby. The singer backs off the microphone. You got to tell me what's going through your head. The melody lures me onto the dirty white tiles.

He thumbs his bass, eyeing the crowd, watching their reaction as I ride the voice I've heard so many times at home.

I need you to tell me.

Barefoot on the front porch. He coaxes the swing back and forth, a silent bass accompanying his guitar.

What's it gonna be?

Lights of the highway hidden behind the cornfield. I catch the screendoor with my foot, two glasses of iced tea in hand.

You gonna come back home

Stop in front of the swing. Wait for the rock forward.

and stay with me?

Ten years. Perfect timing.

Uncovering Crystal

There are many things I've done in life that most people would hide. I've never believed that my life turned out better or worse because of the road I took as a teen. Three years ago, I took a pickaxe to the lock on the cover that held the pages of my life. I looked over my life as I would a friend's. Holding myself accountable, accepting myself, and giving myself the admiration that I should have long ago, has freed me from years of self doubt. I am a strong woman. I have much to give. And I want to share it with you.


My alter ego exhibits no fear. I wonder if she even knows it exists.

Ten years ago I passed by New Orleans. There was this little bar that lit up on the weekends like lightening bugs in July. Conversation was loud, half the time filled with profanities and insults tossed in jest.

These two cats were playing acoustic guitars this one night. The old man in the stained Sunday shirt thumped his guitar while the younger man's voice melted into the smoke.

In between songs, the singer would reach up and tug on his short beard, probably some habit he started because he thought it made him look intriguing. This one time I caught his eye. He didn't smile at first, just nodded, acknowledging my presence. So I waited until 'Sugar Mama' poured off his lips before I walked onto the dance floor.

Anyway you look at it, it is performing; because it is never me. On the stage I hide behind routines and makeup and on the dance floor, my alter ego takes over. She is confident. She has this way of making people want to be with her, lean into her, want to be close to her. And me? I do well to look people in the eye and speak without stumbling over my words.

I like to converse without speaking. And that is what happened that night. He stopped singing, just played his guitar while I danced. The couples moved to the edge of the dance floor and the lone inebriated lady finally gave up and left too. It was his guitar and me and we controlled that room. When that smile moved his lips I knew that he knew.

I caught a glimpse of her that night in a mirror. Underneath the red Budweiser paint this chick stared back at me, sweaty hair, eyes rushing like a summer crick. She winked at me.

That part of me has no fear. I want to draw her out but she stays far away. Waiting for smoke filled bars with little lights that flicker like the lightening bugs in July.