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Subject: {ASSM} Two Blocks from the Edge {Night Writer} (MF hand-job incest noir)
Date: Wed,  3 Sep 2003 17:10:05 -0400
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"Two Blocks from the Edge" 
   by Night Writer
   

Dark days. Things could have been worse, but at the time, you'd
have had a hell of a time explaining how.

Boredom had already settled in after only three months in a job
that I had hoped would launch my career. My new boss was an
ex-Nazi SS officer, still playing the role to perfection. He
didn't like any of his reports much, but I was special. My day
always ended the same way, with Herr Doktor's red-faced tantrum
in broken English, laced with undecipherable German expletives. I
took it all with a smug grin. He hated me for it. After a few
stiff ones, I would have killed him for a stick of gum.

A few stiff ones. There was that, too. Most nights, more than
just a few. But was it my fault my dear wife decided she needed
some time by herself? Out of the fucking blue. Oh, she said all
the right things. "It's not you, it's me." "I just need to be
alone for a little while." "No, there's nobody else, I swear."
She had already rented a small apartment across town. She left
after packing a few necessities. Her diaphragm was one of them.

Wallowing in depression and humiliation required the proper
ambience, a place as dank and black as my best mood. I didn't
have to look far. The Variety fit the bill nicely. Tacked onto a
short strip mall next to a tiny barbershop and a transvestite
show-bar, its flickering, yellowed plastic sign caught my eye on
the way home from work one particularly bad day. I parked in the
back and strolled to the door, which opened diagonally onto the
busy street corner, immersed in the decaying downtown blight.
Across the street, a huge, rusting locomotive rested in the wide
median, a forgotten monument to a time no one remembered.

It was perfect, small, dark, and empty, except for a few
regulars and a half-dozen strippers. I found a quiet table to the
side of the small stage and ordered some ice. It was a bottle
club, but that wasn't a problem then. Johnnie Walker was my
companion long before Sam Adams, and he kept a permanent
residence in the back of my Toyota.

The dancers weren't bad, for that time of day. A few were my
type, a few weren't, but as usual, scotch was the first priority.
I drank what I had, left to buy more, returned to watch the night
shift, and closed the club. Hey, it worked for me. So I went
every night.

In a week I was a regular's regular. Angela took me under her
wing as though I was an employee. She was a sort of house-mother
to the other girls, and even played DJ once in a while. Tall,
slim, a little older than the rest of the dancers, she would
listen to my drunken tales of woe like no other woman I'd been
with. She wouldn't touch my JWB, so I'd bring her a pint of vodka
every night, just for putting up with me. Why she sat and drank
with me for hours, night after night, I'll never know. Of course,
it couldn't last forever.

One night, she took my hand, her large brown eyes a bit more
sober than usual.

"I have a friend I'd like you to meet."

"I don't need any friends."

"I'm quitting. Saturday is my last night."

What was I supposed to say? Why? Don't quit? I'll miss you? I
didn't say anything. So go ahead, quit.

She knew me better than anyone that night. She knew what I
wouldn't say. She knew why. I didn't talk much her last two
nights, but she sat with me anyway. And she introduced me to
Sunshine.

At first glance, Sunshine wasn't a nine, or an eight. Maybe a
seven. Maybe. She wasn't even my type, the brunette hard-bodied
girl of my dreams. Blonde, fair-skinned, and short-waisted, she
had me making mental notes on how to ditch her as soon as we met.
No big deal. I didn't need any more trouble anyway. I'd fuck with
her head, she'd get pissed and leave me alone, and Johnnie Walker
and I could get reacquainted.

She didn't say much either, which was fine with me. She led me to
the opposite side of the l-shaped club the first night, and
settled in close beside me in one of the padded booths.

On the rare occasion when she did speak, her voice was soft and
even, and dripped with the most authentic southern drawl I'd ever
heard. And the things she said, well, maybe Angela knew what was
best for me after all.

Sunshine thrived on physical contact. Whether it was a bare thigh
pressed tightly against mine, or a tug on my arm around her
shoulders, she couldn't seem to get close enough. She'd take my
hand, guide it inside her top, cupping her full, natural breast
with it, then move my fingers, one at a time, over her small,
hard nipple.

Later in the evening, as the club emptied as it did on most
week nights, she thought nothing of loosening my belt, slipping
her hand into my pants, and playing with my cock like it was some
intriguing, newfound toy. She seemed obsessed with the shape and
feel of it, regardless of its state, which often depended on how
far below the black and gold label the level of my favorite
beverage fell.

On stage, she was an angel. Long blonde hair flowed everywhere as
she danced, whipping her shoulders, kissing her firm breasts,
then falling halfway down her back when she arched her neck. Her
movements were fluid and effortless, allowing soft curves of
muscle to rise now and then from beneath white satin skin. Much
of her dancing was done with eyes closed, a slight, satisfied
smile forming at the corners of her mouth as she stretched and
posed. Each time she leaned forward against the pole, went up on
her toes, and thrust her round little ass in the air, I'd spill a
little JWB, grab the edge of the table, and try to remember to
breathe.

That smile. I think it was the smile. Ever present, unchanging,
an unnerving combination of bliss and seduction, its hold on me
rivaled that of the scotch I used to remind me not to give a
shit. She was the Mona Lisa, with just a hint of tragedy. Just
what I needed. Right.

So, we drank together. A lot. Almost every night until dawn. I
can't imagine how I kept my job. But I managed. Why she spent so
much time with me was again a mystery. I didn't spend a dime on
her, except for a few tips on stage, and the bottle I brought her
each night. Funny, I didn't even think about it at the time. More
ice, please, and some OJ for the lady.

The sex. The sex was, well...there wasn't any. Why? It wasn't
like I didn't ask, at least a few times. The answer I remember
was that she had a husband, a big house at the beach, and too
much to lose if he busted her. The truth? What the fuck did I
care? I was too drunk most nights even if she had said yes. I
still had our grope sessions in the booth, and I even got to cum
some nights, if she was especially frisky before half my bottle
was gone. On a really good night, she'd lick her fingers clean,
her blue eyes locked on mine. Hell, it kept things simple.
Fucking fine with me.

Months followed weeks. A summer was lost in an alcoholic blur.
Sometimes during the day, I'd puzzle over our bizarre
relationship, and whether it was really a relationship at all.
Sometimes at night, while she danced, I wondered how long it
could possibly last. One answer scared me. More ice, please?

"I'm quitting. Tonight's my last night."

"So, you waited till the last minute to, what, surprise me?"

"I didn't want to ruin our last night. I'll miss you."

"Thanks."

I only got the short version. I didn't need the details anyway.
Her husband dumped her. He decided she wasn't respectable after
all. She would move back home. Her mother was sick, and needed
her. I couldn't tell if she was upset or not. She refused to show
it, if she was. By the end of the night, I was sure I noticed a
bit more sadness in her smile. She fished a scrap of paper from
her purse and offered it to me. It was the first time I'd seen
uncertainty in her eyes. It made my guts churn.

"It's my new address. Come see me? Please?"

She left early that night. I used the paper for a coaster. Hours
later, I slid out of the now empty booth, jammed the nearly empty
bottle of scotch back into the rumpled paper bag, and headed for
the door, right after stuffing the damp coaster into my shirt
pocket.

By the time I reached the state line, the weather had turned from
bad to terrifying. A light drizzle of rain was now a wall of
water and hail. Lightning arced across the sky in all directions,
interrupting the pounding wind and rain with sudden deafening
claps of thunder. Just ahead to my right, a huge tree exploded
with a blinding white flash. Small branches and bits of scorched
wood joined the water and hail against my windshield. I pulled
off the road, took my first nip of the day, waited for the storm
to pass, and drove on.

I had lasted four weeks without Sunshine's company. This time no
one took her place. A few tried, and failed. I still went every
night. I didn't miss her that much. But hell, what else did I
have to do on a rainy Saturday morning?

I found the house a little after noon, with the reluctant help of
a few suspicious natives. It wasn't the picture of squalor, but
it was a damn close first cousin. A young boy sat hunched forward
on the front steps, dwarfed by a background of dark windows and
peeling paint. He didn't look up, even after I pushed the wooden
gate aside and stopped three steps in front of him. When I asked
for her, he called her name just once, still preoccupied with his
work. She appeared behind the screen-door, beaming. Then, after
four bounding steps across the planked porch, her arms were
around me, her belly pressed against mine as she buried her face
in my chest. Over her shoulder, I saw a frail, blonde, three-foot
replica of her watching us, her eyes now locked on mine from
below. As Sunshine led me inside, the little girl burst into
tears. The boy on the steps worked the broken blade of his
pocketknife into the face of a naked doll, prying the eyeball
loose and waving it in front of her with a vicious grin.

Mama was a large woman, easily looking me in the eye at my
six-foot- plus height. Loose skin hung from her once-heavy arms
as if it might tear under its own weight to reveal patches of
tired bone beneath it. The whites of her eyes were the color of
lemon yogurt, deeply sunken into blue-black craters. The
slightest movement appeared to require the marshalling of every
ounce of her remaining energy. She was a woman of few words,
stoically thumbing a ride on the River Styx.

They called her Mama, but as Sunshine gave me a rundown on the
family tree, I learned she was her grandmother. Her real mother
left Sunshine and her ten-year-old brother, Trevor, in the Mama's
care over five years ago. They hadn't seen her since. Their dad
was still around, but didn't spend much time with them. He lived
across town and only visited them when he wasn't in jail or
fishing. Her mother had never seen Carol Ann, Sunshine's
three-year-old daughter. Trevor reacted badly to his abandonment,
year after year building a wall of hate and apathy around him.
They were concerned that he may have serious "problems". Fuck,
who didn't? In fact, I was adding a few to my own collection.

I drove the kids to McDonald's that evening. Sunshine sat beside
me with her hand on my thigh, oblivious to her food and Trevor's
attempts to torture Carol Ann. When he took the small toy that
came with her Happy Meal, Sunshine simply went to the counter and
returned with another. Carol Ann accepted it with a smile and a
"Thank you, Mommy." Trevor sulked as he broke small pieces off
his plastic prize.

Late that night, after the house was quiet and dark, I listened
for a change while Sunshine did the talking. She reminisced about
the club, the people she grew to know there, and the good times
they had, long before I became a regular. That ever-present touch
of sadness left her eyes when she went there, then returned
moments later when she ran out of words. It was more than the
night air that chilled me when I got it. She was looking back on
her short career as though the best part of her young life was
over, now resigned to accept it as her past, but terrified to
consider her future.

But hell, I had terrors too. We both knew how to face, or, um,
run from them. Mine was aging comfortably in its tall, square
bottle, and she took hers with OJ. So we did the best we could,
for hours on the front porch, until the mosquitoes drove us back
inside.

She persuaded me to stay. It didn't take much, considering I had
run farther from my terrors than on most nights. She led me to
her room, her giggling and me stumbling. I was sure we'd wake
Mama, if she hadn't already died. Either way, no one stirred, and
we fell into her bed, fumbling with each others' clothes.

What followed is still a hazy blur. Did we have sex? I'm still
not sure. I know we tried. I know the touch her firm, silky skin
took me back to those nights at the Variety, that night when she
cupped her breast with my hand for the first time, and I was
lost. But, as it did on too many occasions, our escape led us to
a rabbit-hole deep and dark, a welcome and familiar fall from our
waking hell.

I lay in the dark later that night, drifting in and out of my
stupor, always aware of Sunshine's warm breasts and belly against
me, one perfect thigh thrown over mine, keeping me close. The
room was moving again, or was it the bed? Again...bouncing,
shaking, as though someone was....

With a single open eye I saw the dark shape towering, then
crouching at the side of the bed. He was shaking the mattress,
then a huge hand on her bare arm, shaking, shaking, grunting...
what...something unintelligible, whiffs of beer with each
guttural sound. Now a new horror, one I couldn't run from, had
found me. Fucking wonderful. This is where I'd be found, murdered
(shot? stabbed? beaten?) beside the raped and mutilated body of
an ex-stripper in a Louisiana swamp. And the kids...what about
the....

I had never heard her voice sound so fragile. Even so, I remember
it cutting through the humid night air like ringing crystal as I
lay paralyzed beside her.

"No...please, Daddy, I have company."

I closed my eye as he crouched over me, the stench of sweat and
beer forming a dense cloud that threatened to force me from my
bogus sleep. Then, after a long growl that I'm sure had my name
on it, he left in search of fresh prey, slamming the door behind
him. Sunshine moved against me again, clutching me tighter with
the same bare arm. Suffocating night settled over us, now too
dense to allow words to pass between us.

Morning found the house empty, Mama having dragged the kids off
to church early. Sunshine sat on the front step, her bare legs
and shoulders drinking in the heat of the first sunny day in a
week. She sensed I was studying her from the other side of the
screen-door and turned to smile at me. I hoped the gloom of the
house at least partially hid my failed attempt to return a smile
with the same enthusiasm. It didn't, and her smile faded.

She stood and extended a flawless arm, palm up, delicate fingers
begging me to close the distance between us.

"Walk with me?"

My car sat twenty feet away. The Anvil Chorus was playing in my
head. My mouth tasted like the nesting place of a family of
long-deceased rodents. I needed a shower, five aspirin, and a
place to hide. Run away. Now. Easy. Like the ad said, "Just do
it."

I never paid much attention to that voice in my head, even after
years of wishing I had. Hold my feet to the fire, and I'll take
the fire every time. So I walked with her. She led me by the
hand, gently, as if to let me know I could escape any time I
wanted, past rows of aging houses, then vacant lots with weeds
higher than the decaying rooftops. Two blocks past the last
house, the road turned to gravel, then to dirt. It sloped sharply
down-hill for thirty feet before sinking beneath the stagnant
water of a wide, muddy bayou. Parallel ruts dug by the narrow
tires of boat trailers teamed with minnows that swam with the
surge of current that filled and emptied the shallow pools with
each wavelet that traveled over the calm water.

Sunshine kicked off her shoes and padded confidently,
heel-to-toe, along a fallen log that jutted precariously out over
the glassy surface. I caught myself holding my breath as I
watched the lines of her thighs and calves, resilient flesh
swelling and shifting under velvet-white skin. She stopped near
the end, keeping her back to me, eyes fixed on the tangled brush
on the opposite bank.

"He doesn't mean to hurt me. He's not a bad man."

Shit. What was I supposed to say? She was begging from the needy.

"He's your father."

When she didn't answer, I guessed my counseling days were
numbered.

More silence. Five minutes, then ten.

"It's why my husband left."

"He left you because your father rapes you? Christ, why?"

"You don't understand. Carol Ann got sick. She needed blood. The
blood test came back...and...he isn't Carol Ann's father."

It took a few seconds to sink in. Maybe it was the hangover, or
maybe just that even my scorched brain refused to accept it. When
it hit me, I took a step backward, only to find my shoes
half-buried in Louisiana mud, and sinking fast. Just then she
turned, catching my expression as I struggled to free myself from
..the mud? Right.

The walk back to my car seemed to take hours. Once there, I made
a few lame excuses, my hand welded to the car door as I charted
my escape route. All she had left was a quiet, "Bye" and a peck
on my cheek that lingered just a second longer than a peck. I
looked into her eyes one last time as her hands slid from the
front of my wrinkled shirt. I turned away, screaming inside. They
were Mama's eyes.

The Variety was a vacant lot for a while, then a small park. The
rusting locomotive got a fresh coat of black paint, complete with
bright white numbers, and a new silver fence. I pass by them
almost every day. There are still days when I feel like just
another brick in the wall. But I almost never think about
Sunshine. And my days have never been as dark.


                          -- The End --


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