Jack 7K

by bluepervina - © 2003

( Mf, voy )

[ 07/06/03 ] - This is a project that I envision as a novel-length erotic tale. The premise is ridiculous, so I'm having a difficult time investing any sort of heart in this; that, of course, is exactly when you start writing with too much sentiment, and it shows here. However, if I can just manage to nail down some plot points, perhaps I can make it work and get myself into the right voice. The premise isn't to be found in this excerpt, though, and I'm keeping it to myself for now. Suffice it to say that this story is about the man who has everything but the girl who has nothing.

 

She was so pretty.

It shocked me because she was so alone, so starkly screaming in her own silent way, and so plucky, too, possessing a keen eye that plainly revealed her intelligence and cunning. All of it bundled into such a very, very pretty girl made her all too hard to resist. She would come with me, of course.

I found her near that convenience store on 7th and Anderson. She wore this ratty backpack, dirty jeans that hung off her ass, and a shirt that proclaimed PORN STAR in sad little sequins and cracked screen-printing. Three neighborhood junkies stood under a tree in that vacant lot next door, pointing at her and calling out in loud hoots of idiot laughter. She stood on the corner like she really planned to get across the street, and she completely ignored them.

The girl had small tits, but, then again, she looked young. She was skinny, obviously under-eating or deprived. Her shirt was supposed to be tight on a girl her age, but it hung a bit loosely around her ribs. It was thin enough to see that she wore no bra. And she had some kind of tattoo on her shoulder, which I merely perceived as a ghostly smudge of something hiding behind the well-worn fabric.

Her hair hung in her face, bangs down to her chin, but it was cut severely short in the back. Very 1983, retro-punk, but she had caved to modernity in her accessories--her eyebrow and lip were pierced with surprisingly fat rings, and the one ear that I got a good look at was well-perforated, too. I managed to count nine little shiny rings climbing up the cartilage-edge before the light changed and she started to cross to the bus station.

For a moment, I was taken aback by the reminder that the bus station still stood there. I hadn't noticed it in years. Perhaps because it was still exactly the same as it had been since 1977 or so, or perhaps because bus travel is a form of transportation that makes my skin crawl... whatever it was, I'd forgotten people still needed that sort of facility. A wino sat slouched against the glass wall beside the glass doors leading in. Trash was scattered everywhere, like a garbage pinata had recently exploded right there above the curb. What little grass there was in the narrow apron between the sidewalk and front entrance appeared sickly, brown, crushed. I can easily imagine another thousand bus stations just like it in other parts of America, each one just as stupidly self-defeating as its brethren. To see her heading through those doors very nearly made me gag.

She was made for more than that sort of life. How many rage-filled geeks and parole-breakers would she have to fend off in her travels before one of them just does the inevitable and punches her in the side of the head, folds her into his bag, and takes her to the woods?

I intended to discover why she was reduced to this. My course was clear before I even plainly saw it, but that's how it always is with me. I go for months and years doing my usual thing, and then I run into a girl like her. Suddenly, completely, everything stops, everything starts. My usual thing for a good long time becomes "her", and I disappear from the world that knew me until it is done.

It wasn't a rescue mission by any means, and my interest in her motivation and in her background was not pure. I had no plan to help her, but she would doubtless find me to be a great help to her nonetheless. My actions would produce favorable conditions for her as an inevitable by-product of the life I'd immerse her in. But while she was under my care she would by no means sense the palsied pats and prods of charity. She would not rely on me for anything. I would make sure of it. She would know, every moment, that she earned what she got--whatever good and whatever bad. She would be free to decide, every second she chose to remain with me, and she would love me desperately for that, if for nothing else.

That love, of course, is why I followed her. I can waste time slathering coats of philosophy and anthropology on it, but I'm too old to be embarrassed anymore. I knew I wanted her to love me, and I knew I wanted her to love me in just the way that I wanted, and that is all. I know the questions that begs.... Did I hope to fall in love with her? Did I intend to explore her soul's deepest longings, enriching her life by letting her enrich mine? Did I expect romance? Was I really that lonely?

Only to that last can I answer yes.

 

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Feedback? Comments and criticisms are welcomed. Just go to the feedback page or email me, and make the subject line something like "jack 7k ideas".

Copyright 2003 by bluepervina.