By Diane Roy
It was wonderful what the room told. 20 by 20 it grasped a blender still dirty, waiting to be washed, a basil plant dying and still waiting to be plucked. The roaches had claimed the frying pan from Williams-Sonoma still fervent with old fried egg. The mice had gingerly walked around the Calvin Klein sheets waiting to be washed. The only thing still alive was the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, rushing still and it was terrible what the room told. The room was neat and it's filth was only a day old, and like a vampire, it was trapped forever in this day. The answering machine was the only thing alive, waiting like an exasperated lover, waiting to be released from the duty of reliving that day, over and over and over, when Margaret would finally have the courage to come over. When she would get the spare key from Stephan's landlord. It was wonderful what the room told. The flowers had long died before the day and looked dreadfully ornate amongst the milk on the counter that had run over. While everything else in the apartment was busy grieving, it was the answering machine alone who was still nervous. It alone held the remnants of Stephan, the eight messages one after the other.
The bedroom was huge really. Wood floors, a little patchy but polished supported it. The walls were yellow, not paisley and complacent but a gold yellow; royal really. The bed was a queen sized bed, fitted with starched sheets, red to match the room and all of the furniture was unfinished wood. The only thing out of place, in the Ikea country décor was the answering machine. Black and sleek, it sat atop the heater blinking. It was a Casio, fit with all the trimmings. Digital answering machine AND Caller ID, all in one shot. The black plastic matched the gold yellow wall and gave the room a bit of new age ambiance. However it was the incessant blinking that disturbed the aura. The little red light flashing on and off sat there like a ghost. Janet sat on the bed, legs not crossed but together. She was perfectly still, but then kept smoothing her skirt over and over. She began to think that if she continued she might wear a hole through it. The sunlight streamed in through the window next to the bed, illuminating the yellow of the wall and the brown in the patchy floors. Warmth filled the room but the phone with the blinking light was still cold. Cold since the day Robert had left for his flight to San Diego. Janet sat there wondering when she would get the courage to hit play. The courage to hear the “I love you's” and the “will you marry me's” and the ominous “will you have my baby's” waiting, on voicemail. She knew he would say all the things he couldn't over dinner and the countless dinners before that that they had together and the little red light waited for her… just blinking blinking. Wondering what it was like for him, knowing he would die and having the freedom to say all the things he couldn't. A freedom she no longer had because during the incident her cell phone had stopped working. She wondered if it was better that he hadn't gotten through. Better because she didn't know what she'd say to a dying man. What would she say? What could she say? Finally she got up and walked slowly across the room and hit play. It responded, quietly and dutifully "I miss you already."
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
Showing posts with label Diane Roy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Diane Roy. Show all posts
September 20, 2004
August 29, 2004
Perversion Dispatched, Part II
By Diane Roy © 2004
At first she made mild suggestions that they go back. Being grown up and all, she thought polite people suggested and other polite people would respond to suggestions, but Hubert was still not there. Jennica was crying but Hubert couldn't even hear her. All he could do was clutch the wheel, eyes straight ahead and bloodshot. Silence prevailed in Hubert's ears as Jennica continued screaming. Honk!!! At a stoplight Hubert slammed on the breaks.
Finally breathing after speeding off the bridge Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop. Hubert turned into an alley and tried talking her down, saying everything would be alright, but Jennica just continued to stare at him as if he was crazy. She just wouldn't stop screaming and screaming and he grabbed her and held her tight and just rocked her back and forth. In reality it was about a minute but it seemed like an eternity and she was silent. Very silent. Hubert slowly detached himself from her, her skinny arms now limp, her eyes closed and set her down. Death didn't even begin to register. He just thought of how peaceful she looked. He poked her face; no reaction. He poked her again; no reaction. He sat back and slumped into his seat not sure of what to do next. That's when he saw it. The panties, poking out, almost smiling, winking really. He had already done the worst, he kidnapped and killed a little girl. Not knowing what, he did what he did best, he drove. He drove uptown. He figured that maybe he could go upstate and bury the body somewhere.
Right and wrong weren’t factors at the moment, just clear and unclear. Clearly he was in deep trouble and he needed out; he'd grieve later with that waitress he supposed. A hour later and the panties were still poking out, winking at him. Stuck in traffic they just lay there winking. Huberts eyes grew large and the panties seemed to loom towards him, his hand inching closer and closer to them. Finally two of his fingers touched them and suddenly the passenger door was open and Jennica was trying to get out. She wasn't dead after all and all Hubert could do was grab. The panties ripped in the struggle but Jennica got out and ran ahead. Something made Hubert stay. She wasn't dead, and he hadn't touched her (well, not really).
Something told Hubert to sit tight, lest he get into more trouble. She ran out onto the highway which wasn't moving anyway and she disappeared a couple cars down. It didn't register that perhaps she might tell the cops or that she would have to explain where she was when her parents discovered her missing. All that mattered was that she was gone and there was peace in the car again. By this time the panties were on Hubert's face, shielding it from the sun, but suddenly the heat from the sun stopped. Something was blocking it. Removing the panties from his eyes Hubert looked out of the driver's seat window and saw a navy blue uniform. "Excuse me sir, but are you Hubert Humbert of 225 West 161st?"
"Yes" Hubert replied.
"Step out of the car sir"
"What's this about?"
"Do you know anything about the accident up front?"
"Well I can tell you that I didn't cause it" Hubert laughed "What is this about?"
"Are you sure about that?"
"Why?"
"A little girl was hit by an oncoming vehicle"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Don't worry, she's okay, however there was something odd about her". The officer leered into the drivers seat and looked down at what Humbert was clutching dearly. Several other officers made their way towards the car. Beads of sweat were now turning into sheets of sweet on Humbert’s back, neck, and hand. Especially his hand.
" What was so odd about her?" Humbert asked meekly.
"She's missing her underwear."
Hubert sat exasperated and relieved in the chair. The room that the police had put him in was air conditioned and even though the outcome didn't seem all that great, he was cool at least for the time being. Jen hadn't gotten hit by car, at least not very hard, but she did cause a three car pile up when she frantically tried to flag down oncoming traffic. From what she told the police they figured that Hubert couldn't have gotten out of the traffic and after walking down the highway it was only a matter of time before they found him. Hubert had been right though, Jen had understood. She was scared but she didn't want Hubert to get in trouble, she just wanted to go home.
"I would have buried her nice," Hubert thought, with one arm cuffed to the chair. The police didn't see the need to have both hands tied back. Hubert had gone with no complaint, almost relieved. He wasn't a flight risk, so they didn't see any hurry. The girl was okay and the parents didn't want to drag this out. They took her home quietly and let their lawyer deal with it. The lawyer, penciled in the meeting with Hubert for 1 PM the next day- after his noon fuck with the secretary. He was always up and proper to crush any notion of a plea bargain. After ramming Sarah from behind on the copy machine, he'd be pumped to go straight for a conviction. And so it was, and Hubert ended up spending that night in jail. Quiet, the other inmates left him alone and Hubert curled up in a corner and fell asleep smiling. Hubert thought of Jen's smile. He really would have buried her real nice, maybe in a field in near Poughkeepsie. He was glad that she was alive, of course, but there had been a certain comfort in the peaceful look she had, laying limp in the passenger seat. He wanted her there, still, forever and forever his. All he wanted to do was smile, and as long as he pictured her face while he was curled up in the corner he was fine. Soon an eternity of this didn't seem so bad.
He was sure that lawyer would want the maximum conviction for kidnapping and Hubert wasn't sure if he even had the energy to say anything in his own defense. What would he say? That she made him happier than any woman could? How could he defend that? Besides, in jail he didn't have to work. If jail was like where he was now, all curled up and peaceful, thinking about Jennica for the next 5 to 10 years , it suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Across the room, a different story unfolded. Roran, up for parole, stared at the pathetic ball in the corner. "New fish," he thought, and Hubert turned his face slightly and the moonlight caught his grin. Roran just stared. Roran was in for suspicion of being involved in a couple of rapes in Central Park. Women knew not to go down there, but those office pricks thought that they could go anywhere as long as they were white. Closing a huge deal and the firm and a couple of martinis and you and the boys congratulated yourselves on being masters of the universe. All it took was a couple drinks to really believe that privilege because you were white and male and you hid your fagginess by fucking your wife in the ass after getting your dick sucked by Peter in the office. Roran didn't think so. Roran was no fag but he wasn't a pussy either. He knew the best way to make those office pricks know where they really stood. He wasn't satisfied with bending them over. A man knows that he's being raped when he's licking your asshole with a knife to his throat. Roran, unruffled and calm all day, was drunk with revenge. Sorting mail everday for the past eleven years, he silently hated the laughs behind his back because of his limp. The army had given him honorable discharge but he had lost a chip in his knee and control of his bowls in the plane accident. He had to wear a bag all day and sometimes it leaked, but always, always they laughed. They weren't laughing now were they? The reality was, that even though night after night, he would go out, masked, dressed in black and get them from behind in the park when they would make the drunk walk home, he felt better but not good. He felt powerful, less embarassed but still he never smiled. He hadn't smiled, not even faking it for going on a year now. He thought that his face would freeze in a grimace like his mother warned him. Looking over at Hubert in the corner, smiling, Roran felt that jealousy again. Soon Roran was back in the copy room and they were laughing again. Roran saw red, and his own perversions rose up from deep in his belly. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes. He saw the smelling of his hand when he wiped his ass, the wiping his face with a towel after using it on his genitals, the wiping of his bloody dick on the face of those corporate pricks and he watched himself in awe. He saw himself from outside, not from within and then he saw Hubert again, in the corner, smiling and Roran lost that outside perspective and rushed him. Hubert, that smiley faced goat was his and as usual Roran felt better as he usually did, when justice was dispatched.
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
At first she made mild suggestions that they go back. Being grown up and all, she thought polite people suggested and other polite people would respond to suggestions, but Hubert was still not there. Jennica was crying but Hubert couldn't even hear her. All he could do was clutch the wheel, eyes straight ahead and bloodshot. Silence prevailed in Hubert's ears as Jennica continued screaming. Honk!!! At a stoplight Hubert slammed on the breaks.
Finally breathing after speeding off the bridge Hubert was slapped with reality as Jennica's screams finally hit him. Panicked, he threw his hands over her mouth to silence her, but she wouldn't stop. Hubert turned into an alley and tried talking her down, saying everything would be alright, but Jennica just continued to stare at him as if he was crazy. She just wouldn't stop screaming and screaming and he grabbed her and held her tight and just rocked her back and forth. In reality it was about a minute but it seemed like an eternity and she was silent. Very silent. Hubert slowly detached himself from her, her skinny arms now limp, her eyes closed and set her down. Death didn't even begin to register. He just thought of how peaceful she looked. He poked her face; no reaction. He poked her again; no reaction. He sat back and slumped into his seat not sure of what to do next. That's when he saw it. The panties, poking out, almost smiling, winking really. He had already done the worst, he kidnapped and killed a little girl. Not knowing what, he did what he did best, he drove. He drove uptown. He figured that maybe he could go upstate and bury the body somewhere.
Right and wrong weren’t factors at the moment, just clear and unclear. Clearly he was in deep trouble and he needed out; he'd grieve later with that waitress he supposed. A hour later and the panties were still poking out, winking at him. Stuck in traffic they just lay there winking. Huberts eyes grew large and the panties seemed to loom towards him, his hand inching closer and closer to them. Finally two of his fingers touched them and suddenly the passenger door was open and Jennica was trying to get out. She wasn't dead after all and all Hubert could do was grab. The panties ripped in the struggle but Jennica got out and ran ahead. Something made Hubert stay. She wasn't dead, and he hadn't touched her (well, not really).
Something told Hubert to sit tight, lest he get into more trouble. She ran out onto the highway which wasn't moving anyway and she disappeared a couple cars down. It didn't register that perhaps she might tell the cops or that she would have to explain where she was when her parents discovered her missing. All that mattered was that she was gone and there was peace in the car again. By this time the panties were on Hubert's face, shielding it from the sun, but suddenly the heat from the sun stopped. Something was blocking it. Removing the panties from his eyes Hubert looked out of the driver's seat window and saw a navy blue uniform. "Excuse me sir, but are you Hubert Humbert of 225 West 161st?"
"Yes" Hubert replied.
"Step out of the car sir"
"What's this about?"
"Do you know anything about the accident up front?"
"Well I can tell you that I didn't cause it" Hubert laughed "What is this about?"
"Are you sure about that?"
"Why?"
"A little girl was hit by an oncoming vehicle"
"Oh my goodness!"
"Don't worry, she's okay, however there was something odd about her". The officer leered into the drivers seat and looked down at what Humbert was clutching dearly. Several other officers made their way towards the car. Beads of sweat were now turning into sheets of sweet on Humbert’s back, neck, and hand. Especially his hand.
" What was so odd about her?" Humbert asked meekly.
"She's missing her underwear."
Hubert sat exasperated and relieved in the chair. The room that the police had put him in was air conditioned and even though the outcome didn't seem all that great, he was cool at least for the time being. Jen hadn't gotten hit by car, at least not very hard, but she did cause a three car pile up when she frantically tried to flag down oncoming traffic. From what she told the police they figured that Hubert couldn't have gotten out of the traffic and after walking down the highway it was only a matter of time before they found him. Hubert had been right though, Jen had understood. She was scared but she didn't want Hubert to get in trouble, she just wanted to go home.
"I would have buried her nice," Hubert thought, with one arm cuffed to the chair. The police didn't see the need to have both hands tied back. Hubert had gone with no complaint, almost relieved. He wasn't a flight risk, so they didn't see any hurry. The girl was okay and the parents didn't want to drag this out. They took her home quietly and let their lawyer deal with it. The lawyer, penciled in the meeting with Hubert for 1 PM the next day- after his noon fuck with the secretary. He was always up and proper to crush any notion of a plea bargain. After ramming Sarah from behind on the copy machine, he'd be pumped to go straight for a conviction. And so it was, and Hubert ended up spending that night in jail. Quiet, the other inmates left him alone and Hubert curled up in a corner and fell asleep smiling. Hubert thought of Jen's smile. He really would have buried her real nice, maybe in a field in near Poughkeepsie. He was glad that she was alive, of course, but there had been a certain comfort in the peaceful look she had, laying limp in the passenger seat. He wanted her there, still, forever and forever his. All he wanted to do was smile, and as long as he pictured her face while he was curled up in the corner he was fine. Soon an eternity of this didn't seem so bad.
He was sure that lawyer would want the maximum conviction for kidnapping and Hubert wasn't sure if he even had the energy to say anything in his own defense. What would he say? That she made him happier than any woman could? How could he defend that? Besides, in jail he didn't have to work. If jail was like where he was now, all curled up and peaceful, thinking about Jennica for the next 5 to 10 years , it suddenly didn't seem so bad.
Across the room, a different story unfolded. Roran, up for parole, stared at the pathetic ball in the corner. "New fish," he thought, and Hubert turned his face slightly and the moonlight caught his grin. Roran just stared. Roran was in for suspicion of being involved in a couple of rapes in Central Park. Women knew not to go down there, but those office pricks thought that they could go anywhere as long as they were white. Closing a huge deal and the firm and a couple of martinis and you and the boys congratulated yourselves on being masters of the universe. All it took was a couple drinks to really believe that privilege because you were white and male and you hid your fagginess by fucking your wife in the ass after getting your dick sucked by Peter in the office. Roran didn't think so. Roran was no fag but he wasn't a pussy either. He knew the best way to make those office pricks know where they really stood. He wasn't satisfied with bending them over. A man knows that he's being raped when he's licking your asshole with a knife to his throat. Roran, unruffled and calm all day, was drunk with revenge. Sorting mail everday for the past eleven years, he silently hated the laughs behind his back because of his limp. The army had given him honorable discharge but he had lost a chip in his knee and control of his bowls in the plane accident. He had to wear a bag all day and sometimes it leaked, but always, always they laughed. They weren't laughing now were they? The reality was, that even though night after night, he would go out, masked, dressed in black and get them from behind in the park when they would make the drunk walk home, he felt better but not good. He felt powerful, less embarassed but still he never smiled. He hadn't smiled, not even faking it for going on a year now. He thought that his face would freeze in a grimace like his mother warned him. Looking over at Hubert in the corner, smiling, Roran felt that jealousy again. Soon Roran was back in the copy room and they were laughing again. Roran saw red, and his own perversions rose up from deep in his belly. It was like watching his life flash before his eyes. He saw the smelling of his hand when he wiped his ass, the wiping his face with a towel after using it on his genitals, the wiping of his bloody dick on the face of those corporate pricks and he watched himself in awe. He saw himself from outside, not from within and then he saw Hubert again, in the corner, smiling and Roran lost that outside perspective and rushed him. Hubert, that smiley faced goat was his and as usual Roran felt better as he usually did, when justice was dispatched.
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
July 20, 2004
Perversion Dispatched, Part I
By Diane Roy © 2004
A deep sigh, and Hubert inhaled the panties. They were white cotton (of course), and after much wear and tear the lace-elastic was already beginning to thin. Smelling underwear was like kissing; you had to do it with your eyes closed. It's not really sincere any other way. It had been a long day for Hubert and he was more than ready to call Dispatch and have them put him on the going home list, however he was stuck in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic so it was a moot point. By this time, it was almost a quarter to seven in the evening but the sun still burned the sky as if it were noon. It stood over the highway omniscient, not out of condemnation but more out of laziness; it was too hot to care. The heat outside crept steadily up to 99.3 degrees and thousands of cars were stuck on the Cross-Bronx because of an accident up front. Traffic was usually bad during rush hour but today it was particularly unbearable. The accident up front had intensified the bumper to bumper purgatory that Hubert was stuck in now. At this point, many of the cars had even turned their engines off for fear of overheating in this weather; besides they weren't going anywhere, anyway. The lady on the radio who gave out traffic updates said that there was some "police business" still going on down there but she didn't give any details. Soon her voice faded out into a drone and Hubert closed his eyes again and inhaled all the way back to the brownstone in Park Slope.
It was an OT from Connecticut and Hubert had almost not gotten the call but he had just made it back to the cab in time. This was a sweet ride, complete with extra stops and waiting time; the works. Guys usually just slept all the way home unless they had some young cheap company with them. Normally, though it was the women who made the expensive trips; especially with a company car at their disposal. It was those little things that turned simple trips to JFK into $300 cash pots. Helping her with her bags was a must, it almost always assured a hefty tip, maybe even cash? It was a credit card that time and that was well and good so a humble thank you was in order. After the door closed, Hubert turned around and made his way down the steps of the newly renovated brownstone and back to his Town Car. That's when it started.
Hubert heard this loud rush of screaming girls coming at him and time slowed down as if it were congealed. They started coming, at first just one by one than two of them then three and four. An army of little girls riding by on their scooters! They zoomed past Hubert. When they got to the end of the street, they just stepped down, turned around, pumped, pumped and pushed. Soon they came back, whizzing by Hubert who was still hypnotized on the stairs. There was no amazement alive in Hubert, more curiosity. It was like watching an accident; you just had to look. They continued, just back and forth
back and forth...
back and forth...
back and forth...
Back on the Cross-Bronx, a frustrated Hubert frantically scratched his head and pulled at the sideburns he had to make up for the lack of hair on his head. Hubert kept shaking his head as if trying to get rid of a bug in his scalp and threw the panties down. "Hmmmph!" Frustrated, Hubert honked helplessly. There was no point; an accident a mile and half down had traffic blocked for at least two hours. The traffic was bad as expected but the accident was like the nail in the coffin, making his stay here seem to last forever. Hubert assumed that; it was pretty gruesome, because though they usually clear this stuff quickly, there was still "police business" going on. But "who needs fingerprints in a car accident?" He wondered.
Hubert sighed and wiped his forehead and then leaned back in his chair with his hand on the armrest. What was done was done and Hubert thought that he should just forget everything and just hope that he got out of this without getting caught. Hubert looked up at the dancing hula lady on his dashboard and thought, "Well she did buy me pizza."
Jennica would understand, she was the type who did with just a little thinking and a little compassion. Hubert was amazed at how intently she listened to him describe Prospect Park before gentrification and how she didn't laugh when he told her guiltily that he still had a soft spot for the Muppet Babies. They were a little behind her time but she didn't have trouble adjusting. Hubert was now feeling hopeful and deciding on just trying to put everything behind him but fiddling in the blistering heat, every fidget brought him closer and closer to the panties. They just sat there, exhausted and teasing. Hubert was inhaling again.
The little girls were going by. Flimsy, the scooter was, supporting them; holding their legs together. They would go down that street (which they didn't cross) to one end, step down, turn around, pump pump and push! And off they were! Flying! on these flimsy scooters, holding their legs; together.
back and forth...
back and forth...
They kept going and going, never getting tired of that game. To one end of a street they didn't cross, to just turn around and go to another they don't cross. Back and forth and "They haven't fallen yet" mumbled Hubert in awe. Crack! and next thing you knew one of the girls had fallen, flat on her back. She had gone entirely too fast and her scooter wheel got stuck in one of the pits in the street. Still in shock, she lay there disheveled. Hubert raced over, no one seemed to be around at the moment and noticed her, her shirt crumpled as she turned on her stomach slowly and Hubert noticed "No spikes yet" in her pre-pubescent spine.
"Don't worry honey," he consoled, "You're safe, this time."
"Thank you," she replied and jumped up, and with a quick brush she was off again. "I'm Jennica," she perked and her friends soon gathered around her to see if she was ok. She dusted off the wall she called a chest and with a wink she was off again down the street.
The Connecticut job had lasted all night and Hubert was in no hurry to get back on the list so he patched into the dispatcher and told Paul he was on break. Back in his cab and Hubert kept watching the little girls go by. It was like watching birds. Pecking, playing, flying it wasn't as if they really did anything but go
back and forth...
back and forth...
It was now three hours in the blistering heat and the traffic had still not moved. The panties were now soaked in the sweat coming off of Hubert's forehead amongst other things. The girls had been playing for about twenty minutes and Hubert was napping in his car before he went home when he heard tapping on his car window.
"This your car?" she said. She told him that she wanted pizza. Hubert saw the other girls huddling and giggling with each other a couple doors down.
"Why can't you get it yourself?" Hubert smiled, slightly annoyed.
"Can't cross without a grownup," she returned with a sly grin.
Jennica was 11 going on 12 he found out. She was old for her age though, and despite the Hello Kitty wallet that protected her allowance (she treated when they went for pizza) and the scooter in the backseat of Hubert's cab, she was better conversation then most of the women he saw. Like the waitress from Dunkirk, New York he had taken out a couple weeks ago. He had met her at the diner outside of LaGuardia Airport while waiting for a pick up. She was always generous with the butter that came with free bread and she always, almost always refilled his water without him even asking. That night he took her home, excited at the prospect of something new and unexpected but though she was new, she was tired like everyone else in the business. In the city for only three months and she was already worn with the disaffection that plagued him and anyone who would ever be desperate enough to settle for him.
Jennica was different though, growing up in the city, she'd already been accustomed to the shit. The hustle and bustle didn't grind her like it did everyone else. She was beyond the grime and it didn't affect her or maybe it was just that she hadn't reached the grime- yet. However this was special; she was special and for the first time in weeks, Hubert sat across from someone who smiled. He asked her if she wanted to go to Coney Island. She was hesitant. This was already a big deal, she wasn't even allowed to cross the street by herself. This whole thing had started off as a stupid dare. Unlike her stupid friends, Jennica wanted adventure. She had even kissed a junior high school boy. She wasn't sure if she should stop now. Next thing you knew, ice cream in hand, Hubert was driving away. He couldn't even think or maybe he just didn't think. He looked over and saw that Jennica, seatbelt strapped across nibblets parading as breasts, was nearing real fright. The ice cream that he had bought her didn't seem to be making her feel any better and Hubert clutched the wheel in a cold sweat.
He knew that he was only a few blocks away, and that he could still turn around, drop her off. No one would even know; they'd only been gone half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most, but he couldn't. Hubert tried to turn around but he couldn't. This was the first time in weeks that he had smiled, he assumed, but in reality it had been months. There were, of course, the sarcastic grins when one of the guys at the base cracked a dirty joke or the fake ones he mustered when he wanted tips or sex, but it had been months since he had truly, genuinely smiled. Hubert was absolutely not going to let go of the wheel and his feet pushed down on the gas even harder and next thing you knew, he was over the Manhattan bridge. Jennica was beyond being uncomfortable. She was now terrified.
To be continued...
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
A deep sigh, and Hubert inhaled the panties. They were white cotton (of course), and after much wear and tear the lace-elastic was already beginning to thin. Smelling underwear was like kissing; you had to do it with your eyes closed. It's not really sincere any other way. It had been a long day for Hubert and he was more than ready to call Dispatch and have them put him on the going home list, however he was stuck in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic so it was a moot point. By this time, it was almost a quarter to seven in the evening but the sun still burned the sky as if it were noon. It stood over the highway omniscient, not out of condemnation but more out of laziness; it was too hot to care. The heat outside crept steadily up to 99.3 degrees and thousands of cars were stuck on the Cross-Bronx because of an accident up front. Traffic was usually bad during rush hour but today it was particularly unbearable. The accident up front had intensified the bumper to bumper purgatory that Hubert was stuck in now. At this point, many of the cars had even turned their engines off for fear of overheating in this weather; besides they weren't going anywhere, anyway. The lady on the radio who gave out traffic updates said that there was some "police business" still going on down there but she didn't give any details. Soon her voice faded out into a drone and Hubert closed his eyes again and inhaled all the way back to the brownstone in Park Slope.
It was an OT from Connecticut and Hubert had almost not gotten the call but he had just made it back to the cab in time. This was a sweet ride, complete with extra stops and waiting time; the works. Guys usually just slept all the way home unless they had some young cheap company with them. Normally, though it was the women who made the expensive trips; especially with a company car at their disposal. It was those little things that turned simple trips to JFK into $300 cash pots. Helping her with her bags was a must, it almost always assured a hefty tip, maybe even cash? It was a credit card that time and that was well and good so a humble thank you was in order. After the door closed, Hubert turned around and made his way down the steps of the newly renovated brownstone and back to his Town Car. That's when it started.
Hubert heard this loud rush of screaming girls coming at him and time slowed down as if it were congealed. They started coming, at first just one by one than two of them then three and four. An army of little girls riding by on their scooters! They zoomed past Hubert. When they got to the end of the street, they just stepped down, turned around, pumped, pumped and pushed. Soon they came back, whizzing by Hubert who was still hypnotized on the stairs. There was no amazement alive in Hubert, more curiosity. It was like watching an accident; you just had to look. They continued, just back and forth
back and forth...
back and forth...
back and forth...
Back on the Cross-Bronx, a frustrated Hubert frantically scratched his head and pulled at the sideburns he had to make up for the lack of hair on his head. Hubert kept shaking his head as if trying to get rid of a bug in his scalp and threw the panties down. "Hmmmph!" Frustrated, Hubert honked helplessly. There was no point; an accident a mile and half down had traffic blocked for at least two hours. The traffic was bad as expected but the accident was like the nail in the coffin, making his stay here seem to last forever. Hubert assumed that; it was pretty gruesome, because though they usually clear this stuff quickly, there was still "police business" going on. But "who needs fingerprints in a car accident?" He wondered.
Hubert sighed and wiped his forehead and then leaned back in his chair with his hand on the armrest. What was done was done and Hubert thought that he should just forget everything and just hope that he got out of this without getting caught. Hubert looked up at the dancing hula lady on his dashboard and thought, "Well she did buy me pizza."
Jennica would understand, she was the type who did with just a little thinking and a little compassion. Hubert was amazed at how intently she listened to him describe Prospect Park before gentrification and how she didn't laugh when he told her guiltily that he still had a soft spot for the Muppet Babies. They were a little behind her time but she didn't have trouble adjusting. Hubert was now feeling hopeful and deciding on just trying to put everything behind him but fiddling in the blistering heat, every fidget brought him closer and closer to the panties. They just sat there, exhausted and teasing. Hubert was inhaling again.
The little girls were going by. Flimsy, the scooter was, supporting them; holding their legs together. They would go down that street (which they didn't cross) to one end, step down, turn around, pump pump and push! And off they were! Flying! on these flimsy scooters, holding their legs; together.
back and forth...
back and forth...
They kept going and going, never getting tired of that game. To one end of a street they didn't cross, to just turn around and go to another they don't cross. Back and forth and "They haven't fallen yet" mumbled Hubert in awe. Crack! and next thing you knew one of the girls had fallen, flat on her back. She had gone entirely too fast and her scooter wheel got stuck in one of the pits in the street. Still in shock, she lay there disheveled. Hubert raced over, no one seemed to be around at the moment and noticed her, her shirt crumpled as she turned on her stomach slowly and Hubert noticed "No spikes yet" in her pre-pubescent spine.
"Don't worry honey," he consoled, "You're safe, this time."
"Thank you," she replied and jumped up, and with a quick brush she was off again. "I'm Jennica," she perked and her friends soon gathered around her to see if she was ok. She dusted off the wall she called a chest and with a wink she was off again down the street.
The Connecticut job had lasted all night and Hubert was in no hurry to get back on the list so he patched into the dispatcher and told Paul he was on break. Back in his cab and Hubert kept watching the little girls go by. It was like watching birds. Pecking, playing, flying it wasn't as if they really did anything but go
back and forth...
back and forth...
It was now three hours in the blistering heat and the traffic had still not moved. The panties were now soaked in the sweat coming off of Hubert's forehead amongst other things. The girls had been playing for about twenty minutes and Hubert was napping in his car before he went home when he heard tapping on his car window.
"This your car?" she said. She told him that she wanted pizza. Hubert saw the other girls huddling and giggling with each other a couple doors down.
"Why can't you get it yourself?" Hubert smiled, slightly annoyed.
"Can't cross without a grownup," she returned with a sly grin.
Jennica was 11 going on 12 he found out. She was old for her age though, and despite the Hello Kitty wallet that protected her allowance (she treated when they went for pizza) and the scooter in the backseat of Hubert's cab, she was better conversation then most of the women he saw. Like the waitress from Dunkirk, New York he had taken out a couple weeks ago. He had met her at the diner outside of LaGuardia Airport while waiting for a pick up. She was always generous with the butter that came with free bread and she always, almost always refilled his water without him even asking. That night he took her home, excited at the prospect of something new and unexpected but though she was new, she was tired like everyone else in the business. In the city for only three months and she was already worn with the disaffection that plagued him and anyone who would ever be desperate enough to settle for him.
Jennica was different though, growing up in the city, she'd already been accustomed to the shit. The hustle and bustle didn't grind her like it did everyone else. She was beyond the grime and it didn't affect her or maybe it was just that she hadn't reached the grime- yet. However this was special; she was special and for the first time in weeks, Hubert sat across from someone who smiled. He asked her if she wanted to go to Coney Island. She was hesitant. This was already a big deal, she wasn't even allowed to cross the street by herself. This whole thing had started off as a stupid dare. Unlike her stupid friends, Jennica wanted adventure. She had even kissed a junior high school boy. She wasn't sure if she should stop now. Next thing you knew, ice cream in hand, Hubert was driving away. He couldn't even think or maybe he just didn't think. He looked over and saw that Jennica, seatbelt strapped across nibblets parading as breasts, was nearing real fright. The ice cream that he had bought her didn't seem to be making her feel any better and Hubert clutched the wheel in a cold sweat.
He knew that he was only a few blocks away, and that he could still turn around, drop her off. No one would even know; they'd only been gone half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most, but he couldn't. Hubert tried to turn around but he couldn't. This was the first time in weeks that he had smiled, he assumed, but in reality it had been months. There were, of course, the sarcastic grins when one of the guys at the base cracked a dirty joke or the fake ones he mustered when he wanted tips or sex, but it had been months since he had truly, genuinely smiled. Hubert was absolutely not going to let go of the wheel and his feet pushed down on the gas even harder and next thing you knew, he was over the Manhattan bridge. Jennica was beyond being uncomfortable. She was now terrified.
To be continued...
Diane Roy is a writer from New York City.
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