

                      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 roll 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 weeknights,
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 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 marshaling 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.








Read more of Night Writer's works at: http://www.asstr.org/~Night_Writer/

Contact me at: night_writer99@hotmail.com



What are all of those funny letters after the titles of stories? And what do they mean? Find out here: http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/code/scfr.htm


