Jose Rodriguez: Snapshots of Modern Love

You know, if you want to come to Florida you can stay with me until you get your shit together. My trailer is small and I don' t have air, but you' re welcome to stay. I don' t know how you can stand those winters out there. Once you get used to this weather there is no turning back. How is your job bagging groceries going? I tell you, you could make better money around here shucking oysters.

Did you go to court yet? You haveto be fucking stupid to take on three cops at once. I suppose there is nothing better to do up there than beat on cops. If you see Pam, tell her that she can give you the fifty bucks I lent her the last time I was there. The bitch is playing dumb. You take care of your self.

Bye.

Ken

No doubt about it, the old man is a Yankee; he talks with that adenoidal accent, like a gangster from a black and white B movie. Fat gold rings peppered with jewels shine on his dried fingers dappled with liver spots. Debbie sits with her back to the passenger door, one leg bent under her body, the other stretched in front of her at an angle. The angle increases and her golden crotch flare sunder the strong sunlight. The old man almost loses control of his big car when he catches a glance of her genitalia. She giggles like a mischievous child caught stealing cookies would.

"What' s your name?" she asks knowing well he is going to give her a false one.

"Art. Name' s Art," the old man says while trying to both drive and look between her now closed legs, his bloodshot eyes nervously darting between the road and her groin.

"What you have in mind, Art?" She carefully pronounces Art , as if it were a super hero' s name, mocking the old man, but he doesn' t catch on. The old fart tries to speak but his Adam’ s apple get stuck in his wind pipe and words cannot come through his dried up lips. Debbie knows what he has in his mind but she asks just to see him choke in his own embarrassment. She finds delight in making her customers pay more than money for her services.

"I don' t know. You tell me," answers the old man, obviously nervous.

"What about half-and-half, you know, half head and half fuck," her voice rings as pleasant and natural as if she were talking about the weather.

The old man' s grip on the steering wheel tightens. His eyes are now fixed on the road and looking out of a drawn and blushing face. No words come out of his lips even though they quiver as if grasping for sounds.

"It' s gonna cost you," she continues in a relaxed voice. "Fifty bucks." She can do it for less, but it never hurts to ask for more.

"Fine," he manages to say.

"O.K. On the next block, hang a right," she says.

"Where' re we going?"

"I have a place; it' s safe," her legs open briefly, then close again; she enjoys making the old fart sweat. The big cart wists and turns through narrow streets inundated with sunshine while the old man silently follows her directions.

The cushy ride, the gentle and cool conditioned air and the isolation from the outside world relax her; smoothly gliding through reality with a well tuned suspension is such a fine feeling, and she enjoy sit while she can. Fifty bucks for screwing an old man with a pencil dick ain' t a bad deal, she thinks. She doesn' t see the man holding his wilting member in his sickly colored hand, his hairy back, sagging chest, and varicose veins. Seeing things is not good for business. She only sees fifty bucks, easy fifty bucks.

"Right there, that green building, you can park over there," she commands. The car slows down, pulls into a parking space and stops; its engine remains idle.

Debbie has no time to waste," Let' s go. Come on." She tries to get out but the electric locks are down. The old man stiffly grips the steering wheel and his stare into the distance turns void and far. The veins in his throat bulge, his lips quiver, and his voice roars," You whore! You damned whore!"

She is still trying to get out, her body leaning against the unyielding door," Of course I' m a whore! Who the fuck you think I am? Mother Teresa?"

"You whore, you will burn in hell! Repent from your sins or you will burn in eternal hell!" The old man' s voice roars with a raspy and trembling power. His angry eyes burn a path to hers and his face twitches as if electricity were flowing under his mottled skin.

She struggles with the door," Come on, man! Let me go, you asshole! Open this fucking door!" Her voice is angry but firm.

"Repent and He will save you!"

"Fuck you! Let me out!" She pounds with her fists on the window. "I' m gonna scream, you asshole! Open!"

"Your soul is lost! Pray with me and repent from your sins!"His eyes close in religious fervor. She screams as loud as her lungs allow. His eyes open. Passersby are looking into the car. She screams again, still pounding on the window. His trembling hands reach for the unlocking master button on his door. The lock snaps free with a click, and she bolts out of the car.

"Asshole!" She slams the door shut and speeds away from the car. "Fucking nut!"

The old man is gone. After a cigarette Debbie goes back on the street because she has to make rent money. The sun shines with pristine opulence; thunderstorm clouds simmer over the ocean line.

Our feet sink into the wet sand and foam bubbles between our toes. The surf is brownish and frothy. An aircraft' s laboring engine comes overhead. It' s Seven Two Papa, and Ron is probably flying it. The old Champ flies in a crab, fighting the stiff wind trying to push it inland. The banner behind it, Reggae at the Beach Pub, makes a sound of its own, like a plastic bag tied to a car' s door handle while speeding down the highway.

"You working tomorrow?" Debbie asks me.

"Yeah. Another long fucking day," my eyes are still fixed on Seven Two Papa. "I hope the wind is not so strong. Bucking the wind all day long is n' t fun."

"It must be pretty neat to fly up and down the beach,."Debbie says. Her eyes follows the little airplane that continues to fly north defying the wind and earning a living.

"At the beginning it is; later on, you get sick of it."

She walks into the surf, knee high, and the waves' crests kiss her dress' s hem. "This is fucking great, isn' t it?" Facing the ocean, she brings her arms high over her head and spreads her fingers as if trying to catch breeze and sunshine. I stand beside her. The rolling waves slap our legs; yes, it is great. The past and the future don' t matter; but right now it' s fucking great.

With the cops cracking down on prostitution – no good for family vacationers and business, preach the city leaders – things become difficult on the beach side. Now Debbie works Ridge wood Avenue. Glaring sunlight adds brightness to the scandalous and shabby storefronts of biker and tittie bars, and to the huge yellow, dirty movie theater. It is a subtropical colorfulness that masks the harshness of a life lived from day to day, from minute to minute, devoid of any plausible future, or expectant with such a sordid one that there is no point to think about it. She doesn' t think about hers.

Her eyes are half closed, in part due to the glare, in part to the downers she has taken. A sedated drowsiness has a hold on her body. Her gait is slow and at times staggering but she doesn' t know that. She stands by the corner, wrapped inside the Mandrax bubble she has created for herself. Outside the bubble things move at the speed of light, in a blur of intense light and motion; sounds are far distant and muffled, but she is happy inside her bubble where life exists at a more peaceful pace.

A beat up station wagon pulls in front of her and stops. Automatically, as if reacting to a surviving instinct, she approaches the passenger door window and leans her body through it. A small and dark young man smiles at her, his sharp teeth shining like ivory daggers.