Magnolia Blossoms (6 page)

Finding a prostitute is easier than one may think. Dressed in my usual attire, but with the addition of a baseball cap and drawn on eyebrows, I visit my favorite porn shop, Fell A She Oh! Candi Jean is behind the counter. She’s short, red headed, and has lips so puffed up with collagen that she can barely open her mouth. Donning a naughty school girl costume, she pulls out a tube of pale pink lipstick, uncaps it, and begins to run it across her plump lips. She tosses it into a little bin near the register then turns to see who has entered the store. When she realizes it’s just me, she kicks back on her stool and begins to thumb through a magazine.

“Welcome back to Fell A She Oh! Our new arrivals don’t come in until tomorrow,” she says very monotone and bored. I scan the store, then as an extra precaution, I walk up and down each and every aisle to make sure no one else is in there. Once I’m satisfied, I casually thumb through the trinkets on the counter while Candi Jean continues to ignore me.

I place a pair of naughty dice and a nudie keychain in front of the register, and without looking up from her magazine, Candi Jean passes each over the scanner to ring them up. “Will that be all?” she asks, tossing them into a tiny bag.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with a situation,” I say trying to make my voice sound gravelly to disguise it.

“Uh, you know that I already know who you are, right? Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind without the extra effect?” She tosses down the magazine and looks at me expectantly. “Oh, and whoever did your eyebrows—never go back to that person again. Ever.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, pulling the bill of my cap lower. “What I’m curious about… See, what I need to know is… I’m looking for…”

Candi Jean begins to impatiently tap her foot. “I’ve rung up the majority of your past purchases. You shouldn’t be embarrassed to ask for a thing in this store.”

“It’s not necessarily in the store. I was sort of hoping you could tell me where I might find a lady of the night,” I whisper.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that you swung that way, but hey, to each her own. You want to visit Hyde Street if you’re looking for high priced model types, Merryland Heights for the mid-priced crack whores, and Laurel Lane for the washed up has-beens desperate for a dollar.”

“Thanks,” I say, forgetting my purchases behind.

“Uh, hello!” Candi Jean says, holding the bag in the air. I dash back to grab it from her and bolt through the door. Nervous and excited, I take the long route home just so I can swing down Hyde Street. To my dismay, there are no well-dressed women propped against lamp posts, eagerly awaiting the next customer. In fact, the street is essentially barren. I wonder if Candi Jean has fed me a line of bullshit, but then I reach Merryland Heights. Immense, scary looking men hover in the shadows, while scantily clad women of all shapes, sizes, and colors make suggestive gestures towards passersby. There is not a chance in hell that I’ll be stopping here for anything! Laurel Lane is the last place on the list, and I’m already apprehensive of what my options will be if it turns out to be a bust.

My thoughts are scattered as I turn down a long street that eventually dead ends. It’s not until I’m halfway down the darkened road that I begin to take notice of my surroundings. The people of Laurel Lane must not have very many sunshine yellow Vespas frequent the area, and the once packed street suddenly clears out. The houses are row after row of shotguns, all in various stages of decay. The area reeks of poverty and despair. Babies’ cries tangle with dogs’ barking, as do the sounds of extra loud televisions blaring through opened windows. Piles of refuse sit in front of nearly every house, making the street smell about as appealing as a sewer treatment plant. Seeing places like this on television and in movies doesn’t even come close to the reality of it all.

I spy an abandoned park off to the right, so I carefully guide my scooter between the askew, opened wrought iron gates, and prop it under some trees and bushes in a darkened corner. It’s not until I’ve hung my helmet from the handlebars that I scan the perimeter and realize that this isn’t a kiddie park; it’s a memorial park! I’m stricken with the overwhelming urge to wet my pants.

Graveyards completely freak me out—like bad. Really, really bad. So bad that I will go miles out of my way to bypass one, and here I am, all alone in the dank darkness, surrounded by row after row of decayed corpses. The fact that there is a thick layer of concrete, marble, or granite between me and said corpses does absolutely nothing to calm my nerves. My knees start to jiggle, my mouth runs dry, and when a leaf blows up against my leg, I bolt as though my life depends on it.

In my haste to retreat, my skirt snags on one of the frayed iron bars, and I take a tumble on the sidewalk. I survey the scuffs on my knees and right elbow. They’re mild abrasions, but they burn like hell! Trying to shake off the trauma I just experienced, I skirt the edge of the shadows as I continue further down the street.

After three blocks, I notice a woman standing at one of the corners. She’s leaned over, talking into the window of a pickup truck that is more rust than metal. Thick gray clouds of exhaust puff from the tailpipe, obscuring my view, but I hear her loudly telling the driver that he can’t afford her.

Doing my best to disappear into the night, I push my back against the frame of one of the nearby houses and slowly inch my way closer to the action. The truck takes off, and the extra tall woman is left coughing and hacking courtesy of the truck’s pollution heavy wake. I’m almost parallel to her, yet she has no clue I’m here. I feel empowered, like a lioness gearing up for a hunt. Why? I have no clue, but I sure am enjoying the new sensation.

As soon as the coughing spell eases up, she hocks a loogie onto the ground, pulls her oversized bag tightly onto her shoulder, and then sashays down the street. Tailing her, I sprint from shadow to shadow, carefully observing her every move. She’s not nearly as tall as I had originally assumed; the majority of her height comes from the giant, platinum blonde beehive hairdo she’s sporting. Her wardrobe consists of an extremely short red leather cut-out dress, black patent leather stiletto heels, and black thigh highs that have more holes than fabric. The bag she clutches close to her body doesn’t match her ensemble in any way, shape, or form, and is a floral needlepointed monstrosity unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

She continues further and further down the street, moving into an area where the streetlights no longer offer soft illumination of the area. I still hear the
click, click, click, click
of her heels against the pavement; it serves as a beacon, drawing me closer and closer. A car, headlights off, slowly rolls up alongside her, but as soon as she leans into the passenger side window, the car zooms off, tires squealing against the pavement.

“Well, fuck you, too!” she yells towards the rapidly disappearing taillights. The driver makes a rapid U-turn in the middle of the street and barrels back in our direction. A young man clinging to the top of the car sits in the frame of the passenger side window, and once the car rolls to a stop, he yells, “Cougar? You passed that shit up about twenty years ago, grandma! Do the world a favor and retire that snatch!” He bangs his palm against the roof of the car, while peals of laughter echo through the night.

“What’s wrong? Afraid you might try it and like it? Just as well; you can’t afford me. Your entire Taco Hell paycheck wouldn’t even cover a hand job from me.”

“Bitch! I don’t work at no taco place. I’m an entrepreneur.”

“That means you have no paycheck. You’re wasting my time. Fuck off.”

The carload of boisterous men taunts her further. She threatens them with bodily harm, which they laugh at until she starts digging around in her oversized bag and pulls out a butterfly knife that she expertly manipulates to ready the blade.

“Dude, she’s like fucking Bruce Lee or some shit. Ride!”

“Go! Go! Go!” the guy hanging out the passenger window yells, banging his palm against the roof, this time to express urgency. The tires squeal as the car races down the darkened, deserted street. All becomes quiet again, except for the sound of the occasional dog barking or cat meowing. The woman mumbles under her breath and still has no clue that I’m near her in the shadows. I realize she’s crying, and my nurturing side wants to comfort her. Stepping out of the shadows, I inch toward her. I reach for her, resting my hand upon her shoulder, when I hear a
zap
, feel a supercharged jolt of electricity, and then go for a swim in a sea of darkness.

*****

The first of the five senses that comes back to me is smell. There’s an odd odor around: a mix of cigarette smoke, patchouli, and bacon, with slight undertones of mentholated muscle liniment. Next is my hearing. I’m pretty sure a western is playing on a TV in the background, or at least I hope that’s where the sound of clomping horse hooves and the
pow-pow
of pistol fire is coming from. I slowly open my eyes, and as things come into focus, I see a tile ceiling that has seen far better days. I’m sure it was once white, but between the smoke which hangs heavily in the air, and the obvious water damage, it’s now a dingy yellow-brown. Without moving my head, I dart my eyes around the room, desperately trying to figure out where in the hell I’m at.

The room is relatively dark, except for the little bit of light spilling from the television. I’m lying on a lumpy rust-orange velour sofa, and to my right is an avocado green and chocolate brown striped recliner rapidly rocking back and forth. I can’t see who is seated in it because the chair’s back is facing me. I know it’s occupied, not just from the rocking, but from the puff of smoke that rises upwards every thirty seconds or so.

I sit up, and even though I do it slowly, I feel a sudden rush to my head. Grasping my forehead, I wait until the sensation passes before moving again. The chair spins around, and with a lit cigarette one hand and a stun gun in the other, the platinum blonde granny gives me the stink eye.

“Ha-how did I get here?” I softly ask, gently raising my hands in the air.

“How the fuck do you think you got here?” she asks in a gravelly voice.

I nervously shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“I dragged your ass. My turn to ask a question. Why were you sneaking around in the dark in this hood? I ain’t never seen you around here before.”

“I-I was…” The words won’t come out. All I can concentrate on is the stun gun she keeps fiddling with.

“This scare you?” she asks, removing her hand from the stun gun to snuff her cigarette out against the sole of her stiletto heel. She tosses the butt into an old coffee can near her chair.

“Yes. I can’t say that I remember very much about what happened.”

“Give it about ten minutes. It’ll start coming back to you. Your brain waves are all jumbled up. It’s normal. What’s your name?”
“Magnolia Berrybush.”

“Shit. That jolt must’ve scrambled you up real bad for you to be spitting out nonsense like that.”

“No, that’s my name. I’m sure of it,” I say, looking toward the floor.

“Berrybush. I’ve heard that name before. Where?” She looks in deep thought for about twenty seconds. “I’ll get you your money faster than green grass through a goose! His name is Berrybush. Murray! Yeah, Murray Berrybush, the fat attorney who dresses like Colonel Sanders. I love his commercials. Awww, fuck me,” she groans. “I just stunned the relative of one of them dirty trial lawyers. I’m so screwed. I ain’t got a pot to piss in, lady. Have mercy, please. See? Look around. Nothing. But if you see something you like, maybe we can work out a deal?”

“I don’t want your things.”

She sucks on her teeth. “Oh, so it’s gonna be like that? Planning on making a fool outta me in court? Fine. Do what you gotta do, but I can promise you this…”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Wait. I’m not taking you to court. I’m not suing, and I’m not telling my father about this, so relax.”

“Your father? Oh great. No, oh wait! What’s the daughter of the most well-known attorney in South Louisiana doing in my neighborhood? You have to be up to no good, especially with the get up you got going. I’m sorry, honey, but you need to fire your beautician.”

I reach up and notice that the bandana/ball cap combo is gone from my head. Instead, I feel a stretch of stubble on the top and the ring of dishevelment around the sides.

“I did it to myself,” I say softly.

“Why?”

“It was an accident.”

“Why don’t you just shave the rest to match the top, that way it’ll all grow back at one time?”

I’m embarrassed to tell her that I hadn’t thought of that, so I sort of shrug my shoulders in response. She rises from her chair and takes a seat on the cushion beside me. I’m able to see that she’s not nearly as old as I first thought. In fact, it’s her hairstyle and makeup that make her appear aged beyond her years.

“So, how much you gonna give me to keep my mouth shut?” she asks with a smirk.

“What?” Nerves start to get the best of me, and I start to giggle.

“Hush money. I’m sure your father wouldn’t appreciate it getting out that his daughter frequents this neighborhood. Might hurt his career,” she says with a devious grin.