The Price of Candy (19 page)

After a moment. “No car,” she confirmed
quietly.

I’d been had and felt foolish. I told her I
was exiting at the next opportunity, and she could try her disabled
car routine on the next sucker. That brought her up. She pleaded
she was sorry, she was stranded back there, she was desperate. Did
she think I was an idiot? She was a hitchhiker...or worse. She had
no luggage or anything.

She gave me an explanation that sounded like
the start of another fairy tale. She’d been ripped off. She’d
answered a share-the-ride ad in the paper, and left Baltimore that
morning with a woman she didn’t really know. She gave her fifty
bucks for gas and the woman agreed to take her as far as
Jacksonville, Florida.

“I went in to use the crummy restroom back
there,” she said. “When I came out the bitch was gone. Can you beat
that? Gone, along with my suitcase full of new Florida-style
clothes and the very nice coat I was wearing. That woman better
hope she never meets me again.”

I didn’t believe her. Her prevarication
should have been a strong warning to me. “Sorry to hear that, but
still....”

“I had plenty of chances for a ride. I didn’t
like the looks of the guys. A woman has to be careful. Getting in a
car with the wrong man and all that. I waited for someone decent
looking like you. You seemed nice and I figured you’d go along with
it. But I understand. Just let me out somewhere safe. I’ll wait for
another gentleman.”

Notice how she shrewdly called me a
gentleman? This was a clever woman. I said, “You shouldn’t be alone
on the highway at all. When I exit, we’ll look for a place you can
catch a bus. You’ve money for bus fare?”

“Hey! I’m not a homeless bag lady, mister.
Don’t treat me like one. Of course, I have money however I never
ride buses.”

This from the woman who had conned me into a
ride. She was angry so I apologized. She settled down immediately
and we rode on in silence until she said, “You know it’s a long way
to Florida. I could be good company.”

She wanted to get back on my good side. She
knew I had misgivings. Yet she could be a nice complement to the
trip to pass the time. I supposed I could stand having her along.
I’d have to watch her, though. She wasn’t above deceit considering
that fictitious car and ripped off story. I could always put her
out. I decided to relax. “I’m Freddy.”

“Betty Jo, nice to meet you.”

As I approached the next exit neither of us
said anything. I cruised on by, so I supposed that was tacit
acceptance of our travel arrangement. “Betty Jo and Freddy,” I said
aloud making it sound friendly.

“I want to pay you something for the
gas.”

“It’s nothing. I’m making the trip anyway.” I
asked if she lived in Jacksonville. No, Fort Lauderdale. I didn’t
tell her I was going almost that far. It might sound like a
commitment. My Florida residence was an hour north of Fort
Lauderdale in Jensen Beach. My wife, Ellen, was down there waiting
to pull me knee-deep into nonstop holiday dinners, parties, and
other boring affairs. None of which I cared a fig for. DC would be
quiet. I’d prefer to spend the holidays in my office there on
Capitol Hill working on the amendments to the energy legislation
I’d be presenting to the committee in February.

There’s a simple explanation of how a shy
introvert like me could succeed as a politician. My father had held
the congressional seat I now hold for a quarter-century. I was
barely out of law school when he died unexpectedly of a stroke. I
ran for his seat and won easily with the sympathy vote. Half the
voters thought they were still voting for my father. The name
recognition factor has kept me in office without much campaigning
ever since.

My wife would be surprised if she knew a
young woman like Betty Jo was sitting beside me in the front seat
of our car. Not because she’d think I was up to something, but
because she knew I was the least likely man on earth to even speak
to a strange woman. I could never walk up and say, “Hi.” I couldn’t
survive whatever came next.

I started thinking back to her ‘good company’
remark. If she had indeed meant it to be suggestive, I’d have to
decide if I had the daring to get involved with a woman of that
sort. My imagination had taken over and I had to be certain. I said
something very forward that I immediately regretted, “You say
you’ll be very good company. What does that mean?”

That was nervy of me. I wished I hadn’t said
it. Remember, I didn’t know what manner of woman she was, although
I suppose it was obvious. Her out hitchhiking on the highway. An
evocative answer wouldn’t change anything because I had no desire
to get involved with her. It would just be amusing to learn of her
intentions and limitations. I’d never contemplated such an
encounter before. It’s risky when someone of importance starts
mucking around with a questionable woman. Too late to take the
words back.

“Correction, Freddy, I merely said good
company. You sweetened it up with
very
good company.”

Embarrassing. I must have sounded juvenile.
Like some witless bore at a party trying to turn everyone’s words
into an off-color double entendre. Now she must think I’m just
another predatory male. Should have kept my mouth shut. Should
never have let her into the car in the first place. However, she
didn’t seem to make much more of it.

There I was comfortably speeding along with
Betty Jo. I‘d decided she was harmless, but I’d keep my options
open. I might be letting her out at any time. It might become
uncomfortable, as I didn’t know how to engage her in conversation.
Legislation was the only subject I knew much about, and I didn’t
want to talk politics with her. In fact, I didn’t care for her to
know I was a member of Congress. She might try to take advantage of
me in some manner.

After another hour, the silence became
awkward. I asked, “What do you do in Baltimore?” Just making
conversation, it was of no matter to me.

She laughed. “Librarian.”

“I’m surprised. I figured you more for a
teacher.” That was a stretch; I figured her more for a waitress.
“I’ll bet you’re one of those highly organized types who can recite
the Dewey Decimal System backwards.”

“The what?”

I glanced over. “Okay, truthfully what do you
do?”

“I’m joking. I’m not really a librarian, but
I play one in my act. I take off my glasses, shake my hair loose,
and turn into a beautiful swan.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m a stripper.”

“A what?”

“A stripper.”

“Oh! I didn’t expect that.” I really didn’t.
So she was one of those women. Interesting. But not the type of
person I wanted in my car. When we stopped, I’d have to take a
closer look at her. Do you know what I mean? Like school kids when
they hear that some girl in class lost her virginity the night
before. Everyone wants to stare at her to see if she looks any
different. Have you ever glanced at a painting, Sandy, and walked
on? Someone then explains it’s not just another painting. It’s
exceptional, there are elements unseen and unimagined. You’d go
back for a second look.

This woman riding in my car tells me she
prances around naked for a living. I had to look at her again. When
I did, I indeed saw a different woman sitting there. “So, you dance
nude,” was the best I could bring myself to say.

“Wow! I see I can’t get anything passed you.
No, museum statues are nude, strippers are naked.”

The situation was intriguing to say the
least, but I also began to feel nervous. I’d have to tell her the
ride was over. “Do you do private parties, pop out of a cake, that
sort of thing?”

“I
am
the cake, Freddy.” She seemed
relaxed and stared ahead down the highway.

“So you’re a performance artist, an exotic
dancer?”

“No, I’m a stripper. Wait...I’ll spell it for
you.”

I wasn’t doing very well with my end of the
conversation. “You do much more than strip, you dance.”

“The dancing part I fake, not that you’d
complain. Most strippers don’t know how to dance. Of course, you
have to get all your standard moves and your pole work down. But
it’s not real dancing. Like starting lessons as a little kid and
sweating it out for years—dance class twice a week ruining your
feet. Now that’s dancing. Anyone can take their clothes off and
swing on a pole. Well, maybe your wife couldn’t.”

My wife would have a good laugh out of my
getting myself into this uncomfortable situation. “Have your hands
full, do you Freddy?” Is what Ellen would say. As a woman, can you
understand my feeling? I couldn’t help imagining this woman’s naked
body right there beside me in the front seat. She happened to have
it covered up at present, but it was under there. It amused me to
fantasize, but I had no actual interest in her.

So she was a stripper. That changed
everything. Everything was clearer now. The provocative way she
stood at the gas station. Her walk of practiced confidence on
heels. Her trim body and long legs. If I had second thoughts about
her before I learned what she did for a living, you can imagine my
anxiety now.

As that cloud of initial fascination cleared,
I began to see the situation was potentially dangerous. I knew
nothing about this woman or what she had in mind. It just wasn’t
propitious for a congressman to be out on the highway with a
stripper. Should there be some kind of accident or incident and the
press picked up on it,
The Congressman and the Stripper
headline would be fatal to my career.

Another dark thought flicked across my mind.
Had I indeed been picked out at random back at that convenience
store? Or was I the target of some scheme and been followed there?
Did she just happen to get on queue behind me, and just happened to
feel compelled to start talking to me. It wasn’t common for the
public to recognize me, although it had happened. I’d been on CSpan
a few times and once on a Sunday news program. Politicians are
bound to have enemies. Perhaps the plan is to get me in a
compromising position and blackmail me for my support of certain
legislation.

Maybe she’d decide to pull that gun out and
leave me somewhere in a ditch. Yet, she didn’t look the type.
Sounded like famous last words, she didn’t look the type. What type
was I talking about? She wasn’t above lying to hitch a ride. She
wasn’t above stripping—and whatever went with that business.

Crazy thoughts. I attempted to dislodge them
all from my mind. Yet there was no denying this woman from a very
dissimilar class of society, was in my front seat with her
mysterious black handbag clinched between her feet. Remember, she
had lied to get herself in my car. I decided Betty Jo must go.

We soon crossed over the North Carolina
border from Virginia and I started looking for a suitable
opportunity to get her out of my car and out of my life. I’d
explain it to her somehow. A shame. She could be good company on
the way to Florida. It’d be pleasant to have her along. She was
acceptable to look at and even a low level of conversation would be
diverting. But I didn’t need her complicating my life or
worse—somehow threatening it.

At that moment, she was asleep. The front
seat of my Chrysler sedan was quite roomy and she was leaning back
relaxed with her long legs straight out and uncrossed. Her shoes
were off and I couldn’t miss her Chinese-Red toenails. Likely the
standard color for strippers. Her knee-length maroon skirt had
ridden up some as she slumped down. A band of lace at the hem gave
the illusion of being shorter. I was growing accustomed to her
exotic appearance. She was all right I supposed.

She awoke and sat up. “Where are we?” She put
her hand down and touched the black shoulder bag.

“Into North Carolina. I guess I’ll start
looking for another place to stop.” Best to be stopped somewhere
safe when I told her the ride was over. I didn’t want to face any
outburst while underway.

“Why the hell stop? Excuse me, you’re
driving, but we’ll never make it to Florida if you stop every
hour.”

She was correct. Another hour or so with her
in the car wouldn’t make any difference. I nodded and offered some
more conversation, “You dance in Baltimore?” It really made no
difference to me where she did her stripping and whatever attendant
activities that entailed.

“The Blue Triple X, down by the harbor. Ever
been there? Classy. Has the top reputation all over the east coast.
All the big wigs from Washington come up. Just started there. Had
to work in an ordinary club to find my groove before they’d take
me. Good money. By two a.m. fifty-dollar bills are flying around
like confetti on New Year’s Eve. Haven’t saved much yet. Some
strippers make more money in a week than both of their parents put
together in a year...and end up blowing it all. I’ve been paying
off credit cards. Don’t want to end up with nothing like my mother.
Need to start a savings plan. Something for my retirement. For a
stripper retirement could come at any time. My face isn’t my
fortune—it’s not that great. My body is the thing and I won’t keep
this shape forever.”

“You have a very attractive face. Everyone
likes it, I’m sure.” I’d give her that so she wouldn’t think I was
focusing just on her body.

She ignored my compliment. “Every day, I get
older and some adorable young thing skips through the door wanting
my job. She’s not only prettier than me, she might move
better.”

“I didn’t realize beautiful young women were
racing in to take their clothes off.” I hoped that didn’t sound too
derisive.

“Each one has a reason, Freddy. From making
tuition money to feeding a family. Some are interesting. Some are
dull. What they all have in common is a body. Steve, that’s the
boss, says the female body is like a shadow that has the power to
cloud men’s minds. So, I’m in the mind-clouding business. I kind of
like that expression. Everything we do must point to the last show.
If you can’t make them stay, Steve will fire your ass. Each dancer
does her sets off and on. Each set gets more suggestive. For the
last show, the G-strings come off and the padlocks come off their
wallets.”