The Trick

-Him, he murmurs, breath like slime on my neck.

I slowly close my eyes to quell my rising panic; a deep breath and I kill my feelings... Everything will be okay; I am okay. Watching the fat man, silently with Alex, my memory flicks over the last few days. I hitched a ride from Alex about five days ago. He looked all right; he's club-trendy, about thirty-five, but you can smell his dirty money. We got talking, and I told him I'd moved here about a year ago.

-Do you work?

-Yeah. Crap jobs for slaves wages.

-You working at the moment?

-Nope. I'm looking for work though.

He smiled over at me then, looked like he would share a secret. It made me edgy; I lit a smoke. Just then he pulled over, killing the engine of his Beemer.

-I'll give you a job...it'll pay really well.

He sounded so pleased with himself. I was staring at him now, dumbfounded, and he was staring straight back, grinning slightly. He leaned over very close, keeping his visual hold on me, and slid his hand up my skirt.

He dropped me home, told me to think about it, he'd call me tomorrow. I was sick, my legs numb. I sat and smoked and shook. Disgusted, not at Alex's offer, but at my own slow realisation that I was actually considering it. I was, I am, broke. No money, no food, no smokes and a whole heap of bills - I was on the verge of being disconnected from the twentieth century, my necessities were becoming luxuries. So I did think about it: I'd had a few one-night stands, wouldn't it kinda be the same but with money? I didn't have a job, or any emotional ties of any kind. Maybe if I tried it once I could decide whether to take or leave it. Just once would pay some bills; I could look at it as a financial kick-start. Alex called the next evening and I made a decision.

And so Alex is my pimp. I'll just try it the once and see how it goes. I can't really lose anything; I am in control of the situation. I take my eyes from the fat man and turn to Alex,

-I'll need something to help me on my way.

He nods again and our chairs scrape as we stand. We walk from the beer garden to Alex's car where he chops long fat lines of coke. I roll a note into a straw and erase as I snort. My nostril is burning and tingling right back up into my eyeball, and the taste is sinking down the back of my throat. I'm pausing for a moment, rubbing my nostril with my thumb.

I feel my hidden hunger quenched, and my teeth clench in anticipation of when they are forced by sheer delight of the drug. I shut my eyes tight, waiting, and the burning subsides slightly. Next, I am sitting on the pavement, lighting a cigarette and inhaling its smoke. Soon it will hit my blood-flow and anticipation will be reality. Still my teeth clench: tighter and tighter. The fat man waits.

Alex leaves soon afterwards and I feel tears blocked by a frightened, self-protecting barrier. I want to reach for something warm, emotional - but I am cold and unemotional. I am alone. Returning to the beer garden, to the fat man, I am sick, but untouchable even to myself, especially to myself. The coke is starting to work.

-Hello, my name is Anna.

The fat man looks up from his paper expectantly. And through me the cocaine says,

-You are in my hands.

The fat man is rich and over-fed; he reminds me of Toad of Toad Hall. So I smile brightly. I am in control - he is a sad, old, fat man buying my company.

-Can I buy you a drink?

-Hmmmm, whatever - it doesn't matter.

We drink and go dancing. But in truth he sweats exuberantly while I dance seductively. In between I powder my nose. I know at the end of the night the Toad-man will pay a lot for my company. I throw scraps of attention, affection to the man I now call "Toady". I let him feel privileged to be the sole benefactor of my company; but I am a little aloof... to keep him eager, creating the chase. I am an enchantress, a temptress. And I feel power. I powder my nose again.

The nightclub is voluptuous and loud, I slip into the snug, and slide over the seat to Toady. I look at him from under my eyelids, smile, then lean forward on my elbows. He slobbers gentle kisses on the nape of my neck while groping my body through the material of my dress. If I concentrate on the feeling rather than the feeler it really is turning me on. I chuckle to myself and take out a smoke. The coke is grinding my teeth, and I must shut my eyes tight in order to absorb the high. Toady's left hand is groping my left breast, and as I light the smoke his right hand works its way between my legs, up my dress and inside my knickers. I drag deep off the cigarette and feel the smoke massage my whole body. Close my eyes and slowly exhale. Toady is getting over-excited; I push him off me. I want to concentrate on smoking this delicious cigarette.

-Lets go home, Toady.

He smiles.

I leave as burdened as when I entered the club, with Toady. Outside he flags us a taxi. As I climb into the car Toady pats my arse. And so, from here on in I decide to imagine someone else in his shoes. It is difficult as he lurches his flabbing mass on top of me. Again I push him off...

-There's no rush Toady, we have all night so lets just take our time.

He grins a stupid, fleshy grin and my stomach turns. So now he backs off, and suffices himself with rubbing his hand roughly along my inner thigh.

I detach myself and gaze out the window into an imagined new life. My teeth clench, my throat retracts, my nostrils tighten, my eyes close, I rush.

We are at my flat. Toady pays the taxi man and I open the door. When we are inside I know there is no more pushing him off, and he's on me again. He pulls away, surprising me, leaving me an instant to grab at buried hope - perhaps he's changed his mind, chickened out, he feels guilty and thinks of his wife. But I look at him and the intense, feverish, horny look in his face assassinates my hope.

-Dance for me.

He is slurring, and I look at him blankly.

-Dance for me slowly, and peel your clothes off.

I choke back the laughter, and my fear. This is ludicrous, the Toads obviously gotten off on many sleazy movies. I bite my lip to stop myself erupting with malicious, humiliating laughter. And yet, ever so slowly, I dance and peel, dance and peel; this is my job and he is paying. I realise I am not in control here. I close my eyes and become absorbed in the movement. I am naked and dancing. Toady comes to me and touches me; my eyes stay closed. He undresses awkwardly and fast, pushes me on the bed and clambers on top. I give into the cocaine, which gives way to Toady.

Smokes - that's all you really need. Running out of smokes is like running out of gas. I'm bombed and the Toad is beside me, making me feel uncharacteristically cheap. Filthying my bed with my bored help; He spews cliché romanticism's at me, making sweet promises like an eager virgin boy. They're the words of another faded background and I don't hear them 'cause I don't want to: pillow talk for fucking. Not that Toady knows much about that. He can fumble but he can't fuck. I exhale smoke and watch as it spirals upwards into the dark, and I imagine Him there instead of the Toad. He's the one I can't have, will never have, but he's here in my head, soothing me, caressing me and telling me it'll be okay, that I'll be okay - but I know that it won't, that I won't. I turn to the wall and slip into sleep with the soul of an imagined love.

In the morning, I dress in cold, grey light, memorabilia from last night strewn evidence on the bedroom floor: it is my room and I have invaded my own sanctuary. I walk the Toad to the taxi rank. Hair unbrushed, sleep eyes, I'll never see him again. I'm cold. No goodbye, no kiss, no emotion, I leave with my shame.

Epilogue....

The Walk.

In the smelly, cold rain under dark, depressed skies, she walks in loose boots. Clad in her favourite old ripped t-shirt, rolled, hippy dungarees, with messy hair and a bright orange ice cream dangling ground wards from her hand. Her jacket is draped over her arm, whose hand clenches an empty Marlboro box. Feeling like a woman she looks like a child: A childish mess glaring angrily at the world. She even walks at the pace of a child’s carefree stroll. But her feet drag as the weight of life's depression droops heavily on her shoulders.

Although her face holds a childish scowl, her eyes show the film of bitter knowledge. She is lost in her own mind, watching and listening as her thoughts race past. The weather matches her mood, and she feels a power from this. She is almost enjoying her depression now...for each feeling and emotion should be savoured like cold beer on hot days. She knows this as she realises feeling and emotion has become more and more elusive to her in the recent past.

Two typically beautiful girls walk by. It seems, on approach, they turn their heads to avoid her eyes.

-They're chocolate box girls. That’s what her mother would have said. She thinks their beauty is only visual, and often boring. There is no hatred for them, only a condescending like, and a jealousy; they are happy.

The noise of traffic and pedestrians, of dirty town life, impinges its mess on her mind. It pisses her off. She plays with that thought, and enjoys the sound of it stomping through her mind for a while.

In front of her, by just a few steps, is an old stumbling man... he is an artists tramp. Besides him is his friend, who looks very much less the "conventional tramp", but he is a tramp all the same! They are sadly comical, which gives a slightly cheerful note to her depression. The twosome head towards a bench, and talking, swerving, stumbling together, they agree to sit down. She passes just as the unconventional tramp absolutely misses the bench, and falls with a batman THUD! to the concrete paving. She glances his friend swaying above him - obviously thinking of a way to rescue his buddy... His problem is immense. The rules she has been given tell her not to help tramps. But they could obviously use some help. And anyway, she thinks, those rules no longer apply to her. She returns to the tramps. Picking up beer cans, bottles, and bits of paper, she hands the old man his possessions. He slurs something in German, and she answers in English. He laughs, and she smiles a true smile. That feels good. She tries to help him up, but he's happy where he is. So she tries to make him comfortable, and asks is he okay?

-Alle ist klar.

She smiles, -o.k., and moves off.

A gruff German walks towards her, staring in her eyes always. He growls as she passes and her brain screams "WHY?.."

Now the walk is almost over. She goes down the stairs of the train station, through a tunnel and up another set of stairs. She surfaces on the platform. Everyone is sheltering from the rain until the train comes. She'd forgotten the rain. Sitting on a wall she watches all of them. A group of teenage boys are shouting hellos at one another. They are irritating to her. There's a man in the shelter, she sees him through the glass. He's an Indian, dressed in dark green suit trousers, white shirt and tie...but then a brilliant flash of colour; on his head is a huge, bright, yellow turban. He reminds her of a carnival when she was a child. Her eyes skirt the other people - nothing. She spots a pair of jean-clad legs in high heels. The right trouser leg is rolled a quarter the way up. She frowns; it's weird.

An elderly couple joins the platform of waiters. They are a nicely dressed, sweet looking pair. Tall, and with a graceful air: they are sharing an umbrella, his arm affectionately cups her shoulders. That is what romantic looks like. Their era, the nineteen twenties, thirties, is about them. She is reminded of her Grandparents, and begins to feel a longing for them. She watches them, quietly happy by the sight of them. As they get closer to her, he sees her eyes. They hold. Reaching her now he gives her a warm, gentle smile.

Soon the train comes. She crowds on, and finds a lonely seat. Her thoughts race past with the scenery. She tells herself that she'll write when she gets home.

^