Jack O'Connell - Wireless

Speer ignores her, takes off his suitcoat, and throws it on the wicker rocking chair. He goes to the single kitchen cabinet, pulls down an unlabeled bottle, and begins pouring what looks like bourbon into a white coffee mug that says One Day at a Time . Mina walks over to the radio and begins to spin the tuner, looking for some music.

Speer wheels around immediately and says, “Don’t touch the radio,” in a flat, slow voice that makes Mina squint at him. He walks to the table and readjusts the tuner until the room is filled with static again.

“What are you doing?” Mina says. “This gives me the headache.”

Speer cups her chin in his hands, tries to smile, and says, “Five minutes, you won’t notice it.”

As if this is some sort of cue, Mina steps into him, brings her mouth up to his neck, and begins to unbuckle his belt. Speer jerks away, but Mina’s persistent, following the flow of his body, trying to unlatch the belt as she says, “It’s okay, papacito . Mina take good care of you.”

Speer gets his hands on her shoulders and holds her still, but he’s breathing heavy and he stammers as he says, “Now, you slow down. You slow down and we’ll do this right.”

He takes a long breath, then moves over to the bed, gets down on one knee, reaches underneath, and pulls out a worn and crumpled brown paper shopping bag. He reaches into the bag and for some reason the crinkling, rustling noise that his hand makes bothers Mina, tenses up her stomach like a sign of the flu coming on. Speer pulls from the bag a medium-length blond wig, done in sort of a bland style with a limp curl at the ends. He holds the wig out from his body with one hand and awkwardly tries to straighten the hair with the other.

He carries the wig across the dim room as if it were a chalice, kind of reverent, maybe a little bit scared, Mina thinks. He holds it out to her as if he were giving her a gift, an engagement ring that cost a year’s salary.

“You want me to wear it?” Mina says.

Speer nods.

“You know, you could’ve just bought a blonde, saved us both the trouble.”

But she takes it from him, fits it on her head, tucking her own hair underneath. Speer puts a hand on her shoulder and steers her toward the cloudy mirror hanging over his bureau. Mina adjusts and tucks a bit, rolling her eyes the whole time, but smiling as if this could be a fun game, or at least a good story for the girls when she gets back to Goulden Ave.

Speer stands behind her the whole time, hands lightly on her shoulder, looking at her reflection with devoted attention, adjusting his stance a bit, seeming to be looking for something he hasn’t named. When Mina gets the wig as attractive as she thinks is possible, she holds her hands out at her sides for inspection. Speer nods back at her in the mirror, then turns her around, steps back, and begins to look her up and down, feet to wig and back to feet again.

“All right,” he says. “Fine.”

He takes the money from his shirt pocket and holds it up in the air for a second, eye-level, then tosses it on top of the bureau.

“What do you want me to do?” Mina asks, and follows the words with a long-practiced lick of her lips.

Speer moves around her, takes a seat in the rocker on top of his suitcoat, loosens his tie, and puts his hands down on the rocker’s arms.

“Now you stand in front of me,” he says, his voice barely audible. Mina positions herself before him.

“Now,” he says, “you get those whore’s clothes off you.”

She nods, slides out of her heels, then, slowly, arching her body side to side, she begins to pull her top off over her head, saying, “You gonna love what Mina’s got for you.”

“No,” Speer barks, surprising them both. Mina holds the loose halter against her chest for a second, then Speer starts rocking slowly, lowers his voice, and says, “Don’t use that name. In this room, your name is Margie.”

Mina nods and Speer says, “Say it.”

“My name is Margie.”

“Say it again.”

Mina sighs a bit, but complies. “My name is Margie.”

“All right,” Speer says, “keep going.”

She drops the halter to the ground, reaches around behind, and unzips the skirt, then pushes it down her legs. She unsnaps the garters on her thighs and does a very slow roll-down of the stockings. She can hear Speer’s breathing get heavier and she sees him shift slightly in his seat. She bunches up one stocking and throws it into Speer’s lap.

“I don’t want that,” he says, his voice a bit high, but there’s no conviction in the words and he leaves the stocking where it’s fallen.

Mina puts her hands on her hips, turns her waist slightly side to side, showing the customer all the vantages, letting him take in and cement the memories he’ll call up weeks and months from now.

Speer repositions his feet and stops the rocker from moving. The only sound in the musty room is the dry catch of his swallow over the low static of the radio.

“Lie down on the bed,” he says, and Mina smiles at him and stretches out on her side, her elbow bent and her arm propping her head as she looks at him.

“Lie on your back,” he whispers, and she obeys.

He continues to sit in the rocker staring at her as she stares up at the ceiling.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and she turns her head and glances at him, then heeds his request.

There’s nothing but static for a full minute, then Mina hears the creak of the chair as he stands, but she keeps her eyes closed. The ritual Johns will freak if you screw up the program at a crucial moment. But then they pay well when you follow the directions exactly. All in all, it balances out.

From across the room, she hears him say, “I’m very tired tonight, Margie. Do you have to hear the story again?”

She doesn’t know what to do. She’s not sure he wants her to speak. And if he does, she’s not sure what the answer should be. So she says nothing, stays prone with her eyes squeezed shut.

Then he whispers, “Please tell me the story,” the words muffled as if he were trying to keep his lips from moving, a bad ventriloquist or a kid cheating on a school exam.

“Please tell me the story,” she repeats, and can tell immediately she’s done the right thing, her instincts are on target.

She hears the sound of a zipper being opened.

“But Margie,” he says softly, “you have no idea the day I’ve had, the things I’ve witnessed out there.”

“I want to hear the story,” she demands, her voice bolder, more adamant.

And as if her tone has energized him, she hears the rapid fumbling of clothes being shed, coins falling from pockets and clanging on the linoleum floor.

“Please, Margie,” but his voice is already resigned, “I just want to lie down next to you. I just want to hold you and sleep.”

“You tell it to me right now,” she snaps, feeling in charge and liking it, sure he’ll capitulate to any request.

He comes to the side of the bed, strokes her cheek gently, takes her by the wrist. Then she feels the coolness of the metal and at the same time hears the ratcheted-click sound and opens her eyes in time to see him securing the other end of the handcuff to the frame of the bed.

“What the fuck,” she yells, and jerks her arm away, but she’s already locked in. With her free hand she takes a futile swing at him, but he sidesteps it and holds a finger up to his mouth, saying, “Quiet down, Margie. Right now.”

Mina shakes her head at him, controls herself enough to say, “I don’t do this shit, asshole. You want this shit, you go down Hip Sing Street. Everyone knows that.”

He’s naked from the waist down, but he’s still got his starched white shirt on and his tie is still pulled up to his throat. He’s smiling and nodding, saying, “Relax, Margie. You’ve done this before. This is not a problem.”