It's about 5:32, Wednesday or Thursday I guess, the day after I met Crazy Bitch. I would of course wait until everyone else left before I did, because I'm the new guy, and the kid. So as soon as I thought it was safe, I left my laptop and briefcase at my desk and almost ran the three blocks or so. I did this all the time. I had twenty four hour access because sometimes I'd have to do some night work, so I could always walk back, go up, grab my stuff, then catch a cab back home in time to sleep.
I couldn't wait because I wanted to get down to the dive bar to flirt with REDACTED!
I wanted to get in her pants so damn bad I could taste it, but she was having none of it. She liked me fine, but I was just another loser at the bar to her. I wasn't her type.
But she was my type apparently. I just don't even know how to explain it. She had long, jet black hair. A tiny little nose. Lips. Her body - Venus. Curves. Everywhere.
She was the bartender so she was fun and would flirt but she did not take her "job" seriously because of course her real job was not pouring drinks, it was being friendly, flirty eye-candy. And as she was, what, twenty-three? She would drink on the job and by the end of her shift … lol … sometimes it was, uh, I can't explain it.
Something about her brought out this predatory instinct in me. I wanted to literally grab her by her hair and drag her back to my cave.
So there was this REDACTED chick who would hang out there, a couple of times I smoked weed with her in her car. She was a bit too old to be a hipster, but my suspicion is she was on the hunt for a REDACTED hipster boy. A kind of "cougar" vibe I guess. I've known women like her before. I'm sure she took money occasionally, maybe often.
Her and I would scheme because we were both after a REDACTED hipster. And we were both mercenaries - we recognized each other immediately. Can't say how it works but it does work - always has.
So REDACTED is pouring a drink, I'm talking to her, and I'm literally leaning over the bar - like I'm about to lunge for her. My body is literally, subconsciously, prepared to jump over the bar and just grab her.
So the REDACTED chick slaps my arm and says, "calm down, you're being way too obvious." It was true but while on the surface I was being fun and sociable and even "ironic" and funny my body was - quite without the consent of my brain - just prepared to catch her, grab her, fuck her brains out.
She was friendly to me. I mean, she liked me - having me as a customer. It was often just me and a handful of randoms so she would talk to me about whatever bullshit just to have random company. Of course I tipped well, but there was a friendliness there.
Maybe if I had a bunch of tattoos and rode a bike or something - that was her type, I found out, at a private show there I took Crazy Bitch to. I think Crazy Bitch was kind of into her too - oh that would have been awesome, but ah well, you can't always get what you want.
She remembered Crazy Bitch and assumed she was my girlfriend or something. She would laugh at my jokes and sometimes even help me flirt if some cute gal came in. Soon after they hired another gal that honest to god looked just like her, but smaller and not quite as hot. But the same look - jet black hair, curves out to here, early twenties, cute little nose. I guess the owner had the same tastes I did. I met him, some REDACTED gangster type, and helped Surfer Girl put on some "indie" shows there when it re-opened.
In a profound bit of foreshadowing, she explained why she was named REDACTED and what it meant. Her father was REDACTED or something.
And here's the fun thing, she was the second girl with that sort of background who I knew - REDACTED father, REDACTED mother, through a simple twist of fate wound up in America with mom instead of in the REDACTED with dad.
Instead of wearing REDACTED, dressing in tight blue jeans and tiny tops that showed off magnificent breasts. Smooth skin, olive something or other, the jet black, long, thick hair, the curves, the scent.
The first one I met was Miriam, in my private school, ninth grade. I was thirteen. The year they decided to "experiment" by not making us wear those uniforms. Within three months the principal gave us a lecture complaining that the boys dressed too "sloppy" and the girls dressed too "sexy" and he was right.
Miriam would wear these long, ultra tight, knit skirts. I was thirteen. It's hard to explain because this was like a cult school, not like a normal school you people went to. Possibly a chain school - I never figured that out. Most of the time we weren't sitting in a chair staring at the teacher, we had individual, private desks, facing the wall.
And Miriam sat across from me so I could turn around half way and see her. I would get a boner just looking at her. Once, she "caught" me and then decided to tease me.
I mean - no shit. She's like sixteen I guess. She would whisper, "hey, hey, look" and I would turn to look at her, and she would have her skirt pulled up with her legs open flashing me her panties. I mean, she did this a bunch of times, it was almost like a routine, "hey, hey, look" and she would spread her legs and show me her panties. Obviously she thought it was funny I would get a boner or whatever.
She knew Babysitter who would do something similar, but physical, to me. With me. I was friendly with Babysitter, she was sixteen I was thirteen. We're at the dinner table, her and her sister are visiting. We would talk all the time - like grown-ups.
We're having dinner, she was sitting next to me. Then, under the table, she put her hand on my thigh. She just rested it there. Then, she started rubbing me. Real slow, just lightly caressing me. You can imagine my reaction - my body's reaction.
Then she stopped. I caught my breath. After dinner we went downstairs to "talk" and then it got even more intense. Next week, at her house, she "let" me touch everything. I nearly went out of my head.
Later Babysitter would arrange make out sessions with me and other girls in the class. There would be a secret signal the supervisors wouldn't notice, and I would get a bathroom pass, go into the hallway, and into a spare classroom. The lights would be out, and there were no windows so it was pitch black. So I would go in there and make out with whatever girl Babysitter had sent in there. I never went under her clothes or anything, it was just sloppy kissing and groping. Crazy how organized it was. A conspiracy you might say.
Again - it's a fucking cult I'm telling you. Decades later, when I told Whisperer about it - the school, the desks, the girls, the supervisors, especially the, er, "militia training" for the boys - she flipped the hell out. She was terrified of guns but they taught us boys at least how to use them.
Miriam was a sad girl. You might call her an "emo" or a "goth." Sometimes she would rebel against the school by telling me she was a REDACTED, not a REDACTED, because of her dad. But then she would admit she didn't want to be a REDACTED living with her dad in the REDACTED, wearing REDACTED, raised strictly.
I was desperately in love with her. Obviously she just thought I was a cute young boy and enjoyed my puppy like adoration of her. I guess any older girl who treated me like an equal attracted me and if they gave me any sexual attention at all, well, I was easy.
So when REDACTED told me about her name - about her father - the complexities of her feelings about it - everything - it played out right on her face. Ambiguous expressions and tones of voice. The eyes trailing off, looking away for a moment. I remembered Miriam having the same conversation with me, about her father and mother, about her name, about her background.
The sadness - whatever you call it, the vulnerability, it is a deep dark cold hole, a black hole, and something in me always dived right in, always thinking I could find the bottom. Obviously Crazy Bitch had it. I suspect all women have it but some don't seem to - like Surfer Girl. Crazy Bitch explained it to me - she and I are not the same as people like Surfer Girl. She was right, I knew it, I understood it, but can't explain it.
So this one night, with REDACTED, she is on the early shift so gets off at nine, the REDACTED chick and I decide to leave too, so I hike back to the office. I take the elevator, then get off and get in the other elevator, then go up to the door and swipe my key.
Instead of turning green, the little light blinks red, and it beeps. Weird. I try it again. Same thing, red blinking light, beeping. I do this a couple of times until I feel stupid, it's obviously not working.
Now this was kind of stupid to do but I was curious. And I can't explain this fully because it would be too obvious. But I left the one building, then went to the other one, did the same routine. Up one elevator, transfer to the other, go to the door, swipe the key.
Same thing. Blinking red light, beeping. Three times.
So I figure, whatever, something changed. Obviously my access was cut off. Shit, who knows, maybe I got fired and they didn't tell me. Whatever, it's getting late, I'll just come in tomorrow morning and find out what happened.
I go outside, grab a cab, head back to the apartment I'm sharing with the hipster girls uptown to get some sleep.
Forget all your politics for a while Let the color schemes arrive Come onboard, it's a curious sight Absorbing sound that's never been right Never ahead of, never behind it Occasionally guarded, just keeps us surrounded It's luck I propose a less serious boat But don't mistake it for a party of jokes, who are never ahead of, never behind us Floating in circles there's more to remind them of less Everything's gonna get lighter Even if it never gets better