Be a Good Girl

Chapter 02: IVO

We drive towards town. You pepper me questions about our little adventure at the beach. I answer as best I can, but my thoughts are skipping around like a scratched and dirty CD. I have questions of my own; I am dying to know all about Davy, but I know that I never will. You enjoy leaving me to my own devices far too much. My imagination can be my own worst enemy in that regard. Never far from my thoughts is the paper cup in the cup holder, and what is in it.

The car comes to a stop, idling outside a cobbler. It is the only store on the block amid walls and closed down establishments with blacked-out windows. It's a sleepy, threadbare shop -- a few workbenches, a counter that can barely support the heavy, black cash register atop it, and then racks and racks of shoes of every style, color and material. Inside a middle-aged man is hunched over a workbench plying his trade.

"Angeline, be a good girl, and run in and pick up my shoes?" You hand me a ticket.

I look at the ticket. It has today's date and a printed number on the back. Seems innocent enough. I give you a kiss, grab my purse and get out of the car.

"Angeline?"

I stop and lean back in the window.

"Yes?"

"Leave your purse."

I'm not getting it. I open it and take two twenties out, figuring that will cover it. I drop my purse on my seat and start back to the shop. You let me get halfway there.

"Angeline?"

I can smell trouble; that tone is back in your voice -- that tone that means something is in the works. I turn back to the car; smiling as sweetly as I can knowing you have that kid's sperm in a paper cup.

"Yes?"

"Leave the money."

"How am I going to pay?"

"It's taken care of."

I could argue but what's the point? I drop the money into my purse and shrug.

"Happy?" I ask.

"Delirious. Don't dawdle, we have dinner reservations."

"Well quit calling me back." I say, rolling my eyes at you.

You make a shooing motion with your hand. I take a few steps towards the store and spin back towards you as a joke, but you're already engrossed in a magazine -- also a bad sign.

The inside of the shop is warm, and over years the smell of leather and saddle soap has been worked into the texture of the air. The walls are a moldy shade of green; the only decoration is a tattered Greek holiday poster. A small radio plays a concerto quietly in the background. When I open the shop door it rings an old bell and the shopkeeper looks up from his work. He might be fifty, or he might just be tired -- bifocals pushed to the tip of his nose, and skin that has the sheen of a man who has been hard at work all day. He is completely bald but for wisps of gray around his ears. I think that if a man was ever born to do his job it is this man. His hands are magnificent: large, worn and hard. Studded with calluses earned over years. He wipes those same hands together and puts down a black mule he is resoling.

"What can I do for you?"

I meet him at the counter with the ticket. Hi, I say, I'm here to pick up some shoes. Taking the ticket, he pokes around through the back of his store. To the untrained eyes it looks like absolute chaos, but there must be method to the madness because he returns quickly with three shoeboxes and sets them on the counter. He takes out a calculator and adds up numbers, tallying them on an invoice he writes by hands in heavy block letters.

"It comes to thirty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents with tax."

"I think it's already been paid for."

He shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure it hasn't."

"Could you check? I'm sorry. I think it has." I say without sounding very sure of myself. I cast a baleful eye back towards you sitting reading the Economist.

"Miss, I don't mean to be difficult, but I don't have to check, because no one pays ahead of time. I can't predict what something will cost to repair so it makes sense for customers to pay when they pick up."

"I apologize. I must have misunderstood my friend."

"That's alright. I've been married 26 years, and I can barely make myself understood."

"How much was it?"

"Ah, that was thirty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents."

"With tax."

"Right."

"Thing is I didn't bring my purse with me. Didn't think I would need it, you know?"

He nods sympathetically, but his eyes have stopped reflecting light, and those glorious hands have slipped behind his back; he looks like a military officer listening to a private trying to bullshit their way out of KP.

"Is there any chance I can swing by tomorrow? I'll be in the neighborhood anyway. If it wouldn't be any trouble."

"I don't like to do it as a rule. You look like a nice girl, but it's bad business. If you were a regular customer I might make an exception. Look, I'll be open for another hour. Just come back. If the doors locked, knock, I'll just be in the back."

I make a lame excuse about having somewhere to be. About not being able to get back in time before he closes. I stop talking and an eternity passes; he barely moves, barely breathes. I want to play with my hair. It is almost impossible not to fidget under this man's gaze. Finally he seems to draw some inward conclusion.

"I take it you have no ID. If you have no purse."

I nod my head sheepishly.

"No money, no ID, no credit cards. Where are your keys?"

"I don't have them." It's preposterous.

"You travel light, don't you?"

"Sort of silly, isn't it."

"Well you tell me, would you give you the shoes if it were your shop."

"No."

"You can't even leave anything as collateral. There's no way to know if you'd ever come back."

This is that make or break point. Either, I tuck tail and run, go back to the car empty handed, or I get creative. I know this is your idea of fun. You're reading the Economist and listening to the news, but you're right here beside me; it's all about you and me. If I fail in this little task of yours, it will be months before I hear the end of it. Little jabs, small joking reminders. I know how you operate. Plus there is that paper cup to think about. What did you call it? Motivation? Right there I decide that even if I have to mug this man, those shoes are coming with me. I'm going to save mugging him for last. I smile at him as sweetly as I can. How to start?

"Let me ask you this, sir. What would it take for me to leave with those shoes now?" Cutting him off quickly, "besides the money."

"I think you're out of luck. I'm sorry."

"Sir, I really need to have those shoes. I'm going to be really embarrassed if I go home empty-handed. He's planning on wearing them tonight, and I offered to pick them up for him, and it'll be all my fault."

"It's not the end of the world."

"No, but I'd still like to avoid it if possible."

"You're accustomed to getting your own way aren't you?"

"I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass. I just wish we could figure this out. I'm an upstanding citizen. I have a checkbook and everything."

"Yes. Just not on you."

I'm trying to be cute, but it is just bouncing off him. Have a heart. I'm giving him my A material; this is supposed to work, goddamn it, I'm a girl. He's not having it. Phase one is a bust. I had a feeling this was going to take more than sweet-talking, but it would have been so satisfying to walk out of your little trap without incident. That is clearly not to be.

"Look. I need those shoes. I want you to want to give them to me. There has to be something. What is it going to take? I'll do anything."

I think something in how I said 'need' and 'want' and followed up with 'anything' caught his ear. He cocks his head to one side like a dog, I think, a dog that just caught a scent. He seems suddenly in a more receptive mood.

"What exactly are we talking about?"

I take a deep breath, "we are talking about me walking out of here with those three boxes, and you being happy about it."

"That's going to take some doing."

"I kind of imagine it will."

"We're not talking about you sweeping up in back. I just want to make sure we understand each other"

"I know we're not."

"Well that's good. Are you sure? Prove it."

"How?"

"Lift up your shirt." He finally admits to what we're talking around.

"What's it worth to you?"

He thinks it over, "fifty-nine cents."

"Fifty-nine cents? Well at least that isn't insulting."

"Well to be honest you're a little small up top. I don't mean any offense, but you aren't my ideal."

I have several choice things to say here, but I bite my tongue.

"Fifty-nine cents?"

"That'll bring you to an even thirty-seven dollars."

"Fifty-nine cents?"

"Consider it a show of good faith."

I don't think he really expects me to do it. I think he is trying to call my bluff, because when I lift my shirt up he becomes unnaturally quiet. His lips slightly parted, and a look in his face as if he's only half seeing me, as if the other half of him is somewhere else or sometime else entirely. He isn't wrong; my breasts are small so I let my shoulders fall forward to help plead their case. It reminds me of beach week during high school and a game of strip poker I played in. This has the same 'I dare you to' vibe about it. I count slowly to ten and let the shirt fall back to my midriff.

"Thank you," he says with a smile. "I'm certainly going to have a hard time justifying spending fifty cents on a candy bar from now on."

"Well I'm flattered that I rate higher than a Snickers."

"Oh quite, quite."

"I thought I wasn't your ideal."

"You aren't, but it's been a long time, and at my age you begin to forget what makes a young woman's body so unforgettable. There is a certain quality to young women that make you every man's type. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say and mean it.

He takes his glasses off, wiping them clean with a fold in his shirt. There is a faint, nostalgic smile on his lips.

"So is this the point where you congratulate me on being brave, let me off the hook, I take the shoes and come back with the money tomorrow?" I figure it's worth a shot.

"That would be the gentlemanly thing to do."

"But?" I hear it in his tone.

"But, I am thinking that I am always a gentleman. My whole life, and I don't have much to show for it. Just this shop and a wife that hasn't heard a word I've said since they cancelled Dynasty. I think I would regret letting this slip past me out of some misguided sense of chivalry. Besides, I can be twice as gentlemanly tomorrow to make up for today."

"That's very Catholic of you." I say and laugh.

"I hope you understand."

"I'll get over it."

"So about that thirty-seven dollars?"

"How about it?"

"I thought we could go in the back and... You know. Just work it out." He's back to beating around the bush.

"Work it out? You want to fuck me, you mean."

I think that surprises him a little. Maybe in his day women didn't talk like that. He is too easy. This is like messing with my father. On second thought, probably better not to think about dear old dad.

"Well I wouldn't have put it that way, but that's about the size of it."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?" He asks as if he were surprised, then a little hurt.

"Look," I start. "It's nothing personal. I know they say everyone has their price, and I'm sure that's true of me too, but thirty-seven dollars isn't it. I want the shoes but not that badly."

I'm bluffing, but he doesn't know that. Actually, I'm trying to shake the mental image of this man on me - him fucking me right here in his store. That's been a taboo between you and I, and some part of me wants to violate it. Violate it while you are reading the letters to the editor in the Economist. I wonder how you would react. One could argue that you had it coming. Would I want to win or lose that argument? The shopkeeper is staring intently at me. Have I misjudged him? It can be dangerous to spurn a man's advances too glibly. Have I overstepped myself? I should stay focused on the task at hand.

He punches the cash register purposefully. He takes out a stack of ones and begins counting them out onto the counter between us - three stacks of ten and one stack of seven. He puts the rest of the bills back and spoons out two quarters, a nickel and four pennies; this he slides across the counter to me. The thirty-seven singles he gathers up in his hands.

"I think you earned that," he says and there is a shot of bitterness in his tone.

I eye the money without picking it up.

"Should I count it now?"

"I think you should quit being so cute. You're lousy at it."

"Oh."

"Come around here. I think you should stop acting cute and start thinking about the fact that you need something from me. I don't need anything you've got little lady. My little princess. I've had it all in my time, and far better than you. Maybe it's been awhile, but I know where I've been. Look at you. You barely know where you're going. You think you're going to skate through life being skinny, flat chested and blonde?"

I loop around the end of the counter obediently. I'm a little breathless, because he's hitting a lot of sensitive nerves all at once, and I'm supposed to smile sweetly and take it. We're about the same height, but he has about 80 pounds on me. I can't quite bring myself to make eye contact with him. Instead, I stare at those hands of his.

"If this is going to be a waste of my time then get out. I have better things to do then stand around while you tell me all the things you're too good to do. Get on your knees."

His voice has an earthy, deep register to it that make my knees buckle of their own accord. I start to protest, back to my original line about not being that cheap. It's starting to sound a little hollow to me too. I don't get very far. He snaps at me; my jaw keeps working for a moment but the words stop coming.

"Shut up and get on your knees." He tosses a dollar on the ground between us. "Get on the ground and get your money."

I guess I'm through posturing. Down I go. I scoop up my dollar. Thirty-six to go. We look at each other for a minute.

"I have to say you look good down there," he considers me.

I pick up the dollar and keep my eyes on the floor. I've played this game before, but never with a complete stranger. What does it mean about me that he can put his finger on me that easily? It's different with this man, but different how? More insulting maybe? More presumptuous? Maybe that's why I like it immediately. His attention shifts to the door, but from behind the counter I can't see at what he is looking. He holds a dollar out to me, and points to the corner where the wall and counter intersect.

"Get in the corner. Face the wall. Stay low and keep quiet."

He takes me by the neck and guides me into position. I'm walking on my knees, which reinforces the sense of being childlike.

"Hold your skirt up so I can see your ass."

Another dollar. I do as I am told. In the rush, I forget about the pink plug. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and I feel his hand pressing down on my shoulder blades. His hand takes hold of the pink handle, I feel it shift slightly inside me and for half a second I'm terrified he's going to try to lift me by it. But I am saved by the proverbial bell -- the shop door opens and I hear an old woman's voice. His hand goes away and he stands to wait on his customer. Best as I can work out the woman must be eighty years old; she has that doddering quaver to her voice. She has one of those little-old-lady-dogs that are angry at the world for being born so small. It is scrabbling about at the end of its leash making a racket. She keeps shushing it, but it isn't having it.

He greets her by name, takes her ticket and gets her shoes. The dog gets loose when she goes to pay; it makes a beeline around the counter and plants its cold little nose in the crack of my ass. I am being sniffed. Somehow I don't squeal or do anything else stereotypically girly to give myself away, but if the dog licks me chances are I will loose it. I shut my eyes and will the dog away from me. The old lady apologizes profusely for letting her dog get loose.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Dutton, nothing back here it can hurt."

They finish their transaction. The dog's claws are scratching the back of my calves. He scoops up the dog and walks Mrs. Dutton to the door.

"Closing early? That's so unlike you."

"I promise not to make a habit of it, but something came up at the last minute."

"Nothing serious I hope."

"Well that remains to be seen."

I hear the door open and close, and the clack of a deadbolt being turned. He doesn't come back right away. What is he doing? I'm locked into the shop of a man I don't know. If this goes badly, really badly, you wouldn't be able to get to me in time. Even if you breakdown the front door, I wonder if you could overpower him. He has the kind of strength that comes from working for a living, not earned pumping stacks of ten-pound Nautilus weights. This is not the position a rational woman should put herself in. This isn't the controlled environment we've played with before. I'm a little bit scared, and not in the way I like. This isn't the safe scared you get on a roller coaster. This is the scared you get when you realize that your little hobby could actually get you hurt, and you start to wonder what you're doing up on this ledge anyway. I think of a friend of mine who I give a hard time for his obsession with parachuting. I make a hasty vow to lay off him. I mean look at me.

He's behind me. He takes the back of my head in one of his huge hands, and I feel the scruff of his stubble on my neck.

"Who's the guy in the car?"

"My boyfriend." I don't see where lying would get me, and part of me is glad to let this guy know I'm not here alone.

"You think he might have forty bucks on him?"

"Yes."

He exhales through his nose, his breath like sandpaper on my neck.

"So what is this? Some kind of joke? I do not understand what is going on."

The idea of actually explaining it to someone else, when I can't even really explain it to myself, renders me mute.

"Are you two fucking with me?" His grip on my head tightens, and he twists my head back so we're eye to eye. "Answer me now."

"No. We're not fucking with you."

"Then what?"

"We're fucking with each other."

He stops to ponder that one.

"So this is your idea of fun? He sets little task for you?"

"Yes."

"And that makes you feel alive, or your version of alive? What's the matter with you? Don't feel alive unless you're flashing someone for a pair of shoes?"

"You don't have to be so mean. It's just a little harmless fun."

"Shut up."

I do shut up. I want to be far away from him and far away from here. He stands up and mutters the words 'harmless fun' to himself. He goes back to the door and stares out towards you. When he comes back he has a magic marker in his hand. He stands me up and hands me two dollars.

"Lift your shirt. Look at the ceiling."

He takes the cap off the marker. I start to say something.

"Get out or shut up. You've been paid."

He waits; I don't say anything. Satisfied he starts writing something across my chest in block letters. He's pressing hard with the tip of the pen, and if I were not so emotional I'd probably be able to figure out what he is writing. As it is I'm feeling a little chaotic inside. This angry mix of embarrassed, humiliated and scared...and the other thing that I don't want to admit -- that circle of heat in the small of my back that is making it so hard to stand still. That edge that I have to have before anything really seems to count. Someday I should figure out why crying is erotic to me but for now, I'm a human billboard.

"You know if you weren't so flat this would be a lot harder."

I'm trembling now. He finishes writing and tugs my shirt back into place. He hands me two more dollars.