the weird chick

All Inclusive

November 3rd, 2009

There’s another hole in my fishnets. I really thought I was being careful this time – guess it got a little rough. There’s red lipstick smudged across my cheeks, a discarded bra hanging from the door handle (where it landed coincidentally), and stains recklessly scattered around the room – on the floor, the walls, the bed, everywhere but the ceiling really. The sheets are a little torn, but I doubt anyone will notice. They won’t have enough time – or at least, they’ll be too busy. The sheets are easier to disguise than the growing hole in my fishnets. It’s not like they’re my sheets, anyway.

I have to give the room back in a couple hours. The bathroom door is open, and I can see some water pooling just outside the shower. There is a used tampon in the garbage can I tossed from the night before. My underwear is draped over the faucet in the tub – I don’t remember putting them there. Not that it matters. I put them on and drop a towel over the water before shutting the light and returning to the room.

Pillows are spread throughout the room randomly, three of which are on the floor, and one balanced awkwardly on the curtain rod. I’ll leave that for the workers to fix. They might find it entertaining. One of my shoes is propping up my skirt, keeping it six inches from the floor; underneath the shoe is my shirt. I grab both the skirt and the shirt together, knocking over the shoe and setting off the flashing lights in the platform. Even though I’ve been doing this for so long, the novelty of light up shoes still makes me smile. I grab the bra from the door, get dressed, and examine the room.

The lamp shade lies upside-down on the floor, with the lamp itself lying on its side, half off the nightstand. Pages from the motel’s bible are torn and crumpled on the floor next to the bed. My other shoe is next to them. I put them on. A large bag waits near the door, and I give one quick look around the room as I walk towards it. There may be a big mess, but nothing besides the bag is mine. I pick it up, go down to the lobby, and check out.

Walking to my apartment is uneventful. There are the usual honks and rude comments shouted from speeding cars, and the occasional proposition. I’ll be back later for the latter. Up ahead is an alley with an open dumpster. I lift the bag, straining under the weight, and drop it in. From my bra (as I have no pockets or purse) I pull the complimentary motel matchbook, light one, and throw it into the dumpster with the bag. Peeking out from the alley, I see no one looking, and walk out to continue towards my apartment.

I go in through the back entrance, and up the staircase to the third floor. My apartment is the second door from the stairs. The lock is broken, so I just open the door and sit on the old couch, and rest for maybe a minute before taking the shoes off and allowing my feet to heal. I lie down, close my eyes, and fall asleep.

An alarm goes off. My eyes open and I look over at the clock on the table. Six. The cord is pulled and I reach over to the TV to turn it on (it used to be my grandparent’s, back in the 70s). The news happens to be on. There is a report about arson in a back alley, and a burnt body discovered with multiple stab wounds. Apparently, it is currently believed to be a gang or drug related murder. Oh, no. How terrible. My spare fishnets are draped over the chair in the kitchen. I change into them, put on my shoes, and head out onto the street.


A man pulls up to my corner in a cheap, run down old Toyota. “How much?” Judging from his lack of talking, he must be married – the guilty never want to say much, whereas the desperately lonely never shut up. His poor widow.

“Fifty even, all-inclusive.” I smile suggestively. “You won’t be able to get up in the morning.”


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