The Rogue Reader

BY MARK T CONARD

Waking across the airport motel parking lot, Sheri-Lynn spotted two girls. She recognized them as Chrystal and Champagne, regulars at the motel. They both seemed like nice girls, Sheri-Lynn thought, even though Champagne was black.

Sheri-Lynn originally hailed from North Carolina, but she’d come up north six years ago. At the time, she thought it would be nice to have a change of scenery.

“Hi, Sheri-Lynn,” said the two girls.

They leaned up against an old Ford Escort, underneath a streetlamp. They looked sexy in their cut-off jeans and halter tops.

Sheri-Lynn said hi to them.

Chrystal said, “Where you been?”

“Oh, I had an office call,” said Sheri-Lynn. “You know that insurance salesman, the one with the funny hair, calls himself Snarky?”

“Ooh,” said Champagne, crinkling her nose. “He’s gross.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Sheri-Lynn.

“We were just going to have a little smoke,” said Chrystal, holding up a joint. “Care to join us?”

“Sure,” said Sheri-Lynn.

Champagne held out the lighter and lit the joint for Chrystal. She took a hit, and passed it to Champagne.

“How’ve things been around here?” said Sheri-Lynn.

“Slow,” said Chrystal, letting out the smoke. “Real slow. Some college boys wanted to pull a train, and then Mr. Allen, works for the Eagles—you know him?”

Sheri-Lynn nodded, taking the joint from Champagne.

“He had me come to his office once, after hours,” said Sheri-Lynn. “It was pretty neat being there, but the place was kind of spooky when it was deserted, and he wanted to do it on the desk. That was uncomfortable. His stapler kept poking me in the butt.”

“You have such a cute accent—‘it was pretty neat being there’,” Chrystal said, trying to imitate Sheri-Lynn.

She and Champagne laughed.

Sheri-Lynn shrugged. “I guess. I know I don’t talk like you city girls.”

“Anyways, that’s all we seen tonight,” said Chrystal. “Hardly worth leaving the house for. Might as well have stayed home and watched the Home Shopping Network.”

“Me, I like game shows,” said Sheri-Lynn.

She took a hit of the reefer, then passed it back to Chrystal.

Breathing out the smoke, Sheri-Lynn said, “Wheel—Of—Fortune!”

Champagne laughed and said, “We were talking earlier about how we got started in this business. How’d you get into it, Sheri-Lynn?”

Sheri-Lynn shrugged again. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I was just born for it.”

“Why don’t you quit and do something else?” said Chrystal.

“I guess I just don’t know what else to do with myself. I don’t really have no ambitions to do anything in particular, so I might as well do this. Better than nothing, I guess.”

“You could be a waitress, or maybe even a hostess at a restaurant,” said Chrystal.

“Oh, shoot, I don’t think I could do anything like that,” said Sheri-Lynn.

“Maybe you could get Vanna White’s job turning letters.”

The three of them started laughing, and Sheri-Lynn blushed.

Champagne said, “Did your father love you?”

“He sure did,” said Sheri-Lynn. “He was a good Christian and tried to make me into a good Christian, so he beat me something awful, on account of my bad disposition. He beat me, and I pretended like I didn’t care any when I was younger, but I really hated it. He even broke my arm this one time. I understand now why he did it. He loved me, and there was just nothing else he could do with me. I mean, what do you do with a girl with a naturally bad disposition? You got to at least try to set her right. But, unfortunately, it didn’t take. I’ll never be a good Christian. I know that.”

“My father used to rape me,” said Champagne. “Then he’d give me presents afterwards, so I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“What kind of presents?”

“Oh, different things,” she said. “Cute little jewelry, or bags of candy. But one time he bought me a new bike.”

“Wow,” said Chrystal. “That must’ve been nice.”

“It was,” said Champagne. “It was really nice, but it turned out to be stolen, so the cops came and took it away.”

“Shoot!” said Sheri-Lynn. “Did your daddy get in trouble?”

“Oh, no. He just told the cops that I stole it. That was the first time I got arrested.”

“Too bad about the bike,” said Chrystal.

Champagne nodded.

A car pulled into the parking lot, and its headlights lit up the three girls and the Escort. It was a newish-looking Buick with out of state license plates. It parked two spaces away from the Ford.

“I guess I’m up,” said Chrystal, and she walked over to the driver’s side of the car and bent down to talk to the man.

“Neat car,” said Sheri-Lynn. “I like the color—green.”

“Yeah, and from Jersey,” said Champagne.

They watched Chrystal nod, as the man pointed towards Sheri-Lynn. Chrystal walked back to them.

“He wants you,” she said to Sheri-Lynn. “Partial to blonds, I guess.”

Sheri-Lynn walked to the car and bent down to get a look at the guy. She took him for a businessman on a trip. In his thirties, he wore glasses, had a round face, and looked nervous, like this might’ve been his first time.

“Hi, honey,” said Sheri-Lynn. “What’s your name?”

“John,” he said.

She snickered. “Well, that works out, now, don’t it?”

“No, it really is my name,” he said, trying to smile.

“Well, relax. You don’t need to be scared. What can I do for you tonight?”

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice. “I…”

“C’mon, now, don’t be shy,” she said. “You want the whole works? You want something fancy? You just want a header?”

He started nodding. “Yeah…Yeah, that’s what I want!”

“Okay, no problem at all,” she said. “That’ll cost you twenty—that okay with you?”

Normally, she’d only charge ten, but since he was out of state and probably didn’t know any better, she thought she’d see if he’d go for more.

“Oh, yeah, that’s…that’s terrific,” he said, hunching up to pull out his wallet. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill.

She put it into the little black purse she carried.

“Now scoot on over,” she said, opening the car door.

“No!” he said, pulling the door closed again. “Not here! Not out here! I paid for a room!”

She frowned. “Well, you didn’t have to go and do that. I could’ve taken care of you right here and saved you the money.”

“Well, it’s already paid for,” he said, showing her the key with the green plastic diamond attached to it. The plastic diamond read ‘10’ in white numerals.

“Ten’s right over here,” said Sheri-Lynn, pointing over her shoulder. “So just shut off your car and come with me.”

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By Mark T Conard

Late on a Saturday afternoon, Ralphie and Quentin sat in a back booth at Johnny’s Place in South Philly, drinking whiskey out of straight glasses. They’d had to move to the back, since more and more the boozehounds who always hung around the bar had started to bug Ralphie and ask him for favors.

For a few minutes, Quentin had been trying to convince Ralphie of the superiority of the Beatles over the Rolling Stones.

“I really don’t give a shit,” said Ralphie.

“Both Lennon and McCartney were great songwriters,” said Quentin. “Either one of them could write a great tune, a great lyric, and it would be a hit song.”

“So the fuck what?”

“So what? So, I’ll tell you so what—the Stones are a one note band. All their songs sound the same—it’s fucking Mick Jagger prancing around, pretending like he’s some nigger, pouting his huge ugly lips, and whining.”

Ralphie sighed and took another drink of straight whiskey.

“I keep telling you,” he said, “I don’t give a fuck. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the fucking Beach Boys, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass for any of them. They all mean shit to me.”

Quentin winced like he’d tasted something terrible. “The Beach Boys? Are you kidding me? We’re talking about the Beatles versus the Rolling Stones. The Beach Boys don’t even enter the picture.”

“Let me make it plain,” said Ralphie. “I don’t give a shit.”

Quentin frowned and took a drink of whiskey. “You’re funny, Ralphie, you know it? You don’t like any of the things everybody else likes. You know what I was thinking? That you’re sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, only without the Dr. Jekyll part.”

“You say some stupid shit sometimes,” said Ralphie. “We’ve been friends a long time, but once in a while I just want to beat your fucking head in with a baseball bat.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I was talking about just now.”

Ralphie looked over to see a blond girl with whorish make up staring at him from across the room. She wore a jean skirt and a black tube top. Ralphie frowned.

“Who’s that?” he said to Quentin.

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Why’s she staring at me?”

“I don’t know that either,” said Quentin.

Ralphie waved to her to come over to the table. The girl looked around, then pointed to herself. Ralphie nodded, and the girl started across the room.

“What’s your name?” said Ralphie, as she stepped up to them.

“Sheri-Lynn,” she said, and she had a cute Southern accent.

“Where you from?” said Quentin. “Delaware?”

She shook her head. “I was born and raised in North Carolina,” she said. “I been here a few years now.”

“What do you want?” said Ralphie.

“Well,” she said. “I heard you’re the guy to come to around here, you know, when you can’t go to the cops.”

Ralphie grinned and nodded and leaned back in the seat. “What if I am?” he said.

“I was kind of wondering,” she said, looking at the floor.

“Wondering what?” said Ralphie. “Spit it out.”

“I was wondering if you wanted to be my manager.”

“Manager?”

“You know, my pimp,” she said, glancing around.

“Shit,” said Ralphie, grinning wider. He looked at Quentin. “You imagine that? Me, a pimp?”

Quentin laughed. “Hell, yeah, you’d make a great pimp! Why don’t you do it, Ralphie?”

Ralphie looked back at the girl. “I don’t know anything about pimping.”

“There really ain’t nothing to it,” said the girl. “You just got to look out for me and make sure nobody takes advantage of me or hurts me, that kind of thing, and I give you a cut of my earnings.”

“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “How much?”

“That’d be up to you, but it’s usually about half.”

“Hey, that ain’t bad,” said Quentin.

“Plus, you get to fuck me whenever you want,” said the girl.

Ralphie looked her up and down. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“And you can beat me if I get out of line,” she said.

“Yeah?” said Ralphie. “That’s part of the arrangement?”

She nodded. “Sure is. It’s part of the pimp/whore relationship. Has been for ages.”

“That sounds pretty good,” said Quentin.

“It’s tempting,” said Ralphie. “But I don’t think so. I got too much other shit to do right now.”

“Okay,” said the girl, hanging her head.

Ralphie let out a sigh, looking at her. “Tell you what.”

“Yeah?” she said, looking up at him.

“If anybody bothers you, just let me know. Maybe I’ll run them off for you.”

“Oh, thanks, Ralphie. Thanks.”

She hurried back to the front bar.

“I really think you ought to go into pimping,” said Quentin. “I’d give you a hand with it. I know Pete would love to help out, too.”

“Nah,” said Ralphie, waving his hand. “Too much trouble.”

“Uh-oh,” said Quentin, looking across the room. “Look who’s here.”

Ralphie glanced over to see a guy they grew up with, Sam, standing in the same spot the prostitute had been standing in, scanning the room. As soon as he spotted Ralphie, he came hurrying over.

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On Friday night at Johnny’s Place, the usual drunks stood at the bar, both the after work part-timers, and the career boozehounds—the used up whores begging for somebody to buy them a shot, and the old guys with the yellowed skin and the rotten livers who’d sell their kids’ toys for a pint of whiskey. Sister Rachel Armageddon, a young nun from the local parish, made the rounds and gave them sermons about Jesus and God and why it’s a sin to masturbate and use contraception.

Ralphie and Marcie walked into the bar and looked around, surprised at the crowd. Ralphie spotted Quentin and Pete in a corner booth and nodded to them. He didn’t want to sit with them because he noticed that they acted stupid around Marcie. Pete always acted stupid, that’s the way he was. Ralphie figured his parents must have dropped him on his head when he was a kid, or maybe his mother had smoked a lot of crack when she was pregnant. But for some reason Quentin also acted funny whenever Marcie was around.

Ralphie directed Marcie to the end of the bar, as far away from Sister Rachel as he could manage, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to her Catholic bullshit. He called to Charlie the bartender to bring them some drinks.

Marcie wore a black skirt, black stockings, and a white shirt that was open a few buttons, so that it showed off her tits. She’d just had her hair dyed a deep red color like cooked cherries, and that pissed off Ralphie when he first saw it. She had naturally pretty chestnut brown hair, so he didn’t understand why she’d want to go and ruin it like that.

Charlie the bartender sat the drinks in front of them, and they clinked glasses like they wanted to toast something.

“Why’s she do that?” said Marcie, raising her voice, so she could be heard over the crowd.

“Who?” said Ralphie.

“The nun,” she said, nodding at Sister Rachel.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Doesn’t she know those people? Pat and Al, and Dickie—they’ll never change.”

“Wouldn’t if they could,” Ralphie said.

“That’s what I mean,” she said, almost yelling. “I’m not sure anybody can change what they really are, you know, deep inside. Those three sure can’t, so she’s wasting her time.”

“Just makes the situation worse,” said Ralphie.

“You’re right! If they can’t help being who they are, then she’s just making them feel bad by harping at them.”

Ralphie felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Quentin grinning like an idiot. Ralphie and Quentin had been friends since grade school, when Ralphie beat the hell out of him in a schoolyard fight and knocked out three of his teeth.

“I was hoping you guys would show up,” Quentin said.

Ralphie rolled his eyes. Quentin would never say stupid shit like that when Marcie wasn’t around.

“Hi Quentin,” said Marcie, turning to him.

“Hi Marcie. Where’d you guys eat?”

“We ate at the Oregon Diner. Ralphie got mustard on his shirt.”

She reached over and scratched at the yellow stain.

“Have anything good?” Quentin asked.

“Vichyssoise and pâté,” Ralphie said, feeling himself getting angry. “What the fuck does it matter?”

“Don’t be so grumpy,” said Marcie. “I had chicken pot pie, and it wasn’t bad. Ralphie had the chopped steak.”

Ralphie glanced at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar and straightened his tie. The mirror was cracked and cloudy, and it distorted his reflection. He felt vaguely sick looking at himself.

“You guys want to come over and sit with us?” said Quentin, motioning towards the table.

“Maybe later,” Ralphie said.

Quentin shrugged, and turned like he was going back to the booth, but stopped. “I forgot—your father was in here earlier.”

“What?” said Ralphie.

He hadn’t seen his father in three years. He couldn’t believe that the old man would just show up like that, just appear in the neighborhood, without warning.

“Yeah,” said Quentin. “He was in here with some woman, and he asked about you.”

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