Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

“I went to the stores,” Daphney said, “but the cartons had all different kids.”

Her voice then became quiet, cracking as she whispered, “I couldn't find me no more.”

A lopsided plastic fun cup emerged from her lap. Shaking away the memory, Daphney reached for passing tourists. “Please spare some change for some low-grade ketamine.”

“Punk's way over,” came as one reply.

Then: “You cannot self-destruct without being complicit.”

And, “Get a fucking job.”

Daphney had been waiting for another girl for so long, and now here one was so, Come on, let's go, yeah, no, no time for exposition, just help me up. And Lestat saw this and went Oooh. And a bunch of other dickwads saw and went Aaaawww. And Lestat yelled Ooh again, and then the dickwads did the same thing, Ahh. Faster and faster they kept at it, Ooh ah ooh ah, and despite their grunts, feeling the slightest bit emboldened, flickering with power and pride, bidding adieu with a good and proper Italian salute, Daphney and the girl with the shaved head stumbled and leaned on each other and helped each other upright, which the mongrel dog noticed. Shedding its lackadaisical façade, the dog turned eager, bouncing alongside them, grin wide, tongue lapping. And while the dickwads called out Where ya going ladies? and Munch that carpet and Can I watch? Come on, let me watch, the makeshift trio turned a short corner, with Daphney's waddle strained, ginger, her every movement hampered by the backpack she insisted on lugging — a tattered and overstuffed sack, far too large and heavy for Daphney, especially in her condition. They started down the alleyway and Daphney leaned into the girl with the shaved head, using the girl's body as a crutch, and insisted, with perturbed affection, I'm fine, I got it, just slow up, please.

The girl wondered what was she getting herself into. She had an instinct to confide in Daphney about not having her period for the past four months. Daphney should know about that, it seemed to the girl. She intuited there were questions she should have been asking, things she should have been saying out loud. Like about the baby's due date? And the dad? And would Daphney stay on the street when the baby was born? One by one the interrogatives trickled, a Chinese water torture through the girl's brain. She wanted to ask Daphney what sex felt like, wanted to know if it hurt. Did the baby have anything to do with the Danger-Prone Daphney nickname? Did Daphney have any idea of how they abused the cows to get the milk for those cartons? How was the girl going to get back to Ponyboy? If only she could feel her tongue.

Lordy loo, she was soooo drunk.

Doubling as the sides of the two casinos, the alley walls ran high and long, and were covered by shadows of varying heights and densities. All sorts of bizarre lights and colors split the shadows and bisected one another, and to the girl with the shaved head it felt a little bit like traveling down some sort of psychedelic tunnel, like she was traveling deeper into the unknown, this bizarre adventure she was on, to where, who only knew. She almost buckled under Daphney's weight, tripped over Daphney's inside leg, then was steadied by her new friend, and the pair continued, giggling and stumbling along. The girl's arm ran around Daphney's lower back and she held Daphney by the side of her stomach, and it was kind of creeping the girl out, what was in there. At the same time, it was kind of lovely, too. Only this was not the time for loveliness, no, loveliness was being preempted, canceled by deep and alarmed barking — the mongrel going berserk, chasing some unseen rat or roach. Daphney cursed the dog and yanked on the knotted jump rope she used for its leash, and now the mutt picked up some other scent, tracked some other marginal fiend.

Good shit if you get there at the right time, Daphney said, nodding toward a series of dumpsters the girl would not have otherwise noticed. By now, though, they've been scavenged like eight zillion times. The real place to go for leftovers was behind the groceries and restaurants, said Daphney, long as you didn't mind fighting with the bums. She leaned further onto the girl with the shaved head, relied on her more and more with every step, pawing, clawing, her backpack swinging down and banging the girl's knee. Daphney was oblivious to this, however, staggering atop a wave of cough syrup and who knew what, drifting toward then teetering on the brink of consciousness. Too clean, she called the girl with the shaved head, a pavement virgin, looks like to me. The girl was doing Daphney a big one here so Daphney was gonna help her out, let her know the way it was, out on the street, on the cold concrete, I got your back, you got mine.

Tit for tit, Daphney wasn't going to lie. Any chiquita getting involved with this shit had to think long and hard. It wasn't easy. Like, not only were you flying under the radar with the cops, but you're kind of alone and unprotected, too. You know, it's a man's place, the streets, and guys are always hounding. You're kinda this blank sheet to them, right? It's like they project all their shit on you, telling you their secrets. One minute you're their mother, the next you're their girlfriend, and really all they want to do is get in your pants or turn you out, you know, you're just a fucking big target. So always you have to watch your ass.

Night began to open, spreading beyond the center of the alleyway, a series of small circular lights coming into view, distant flashing red and blue shapes, streetlights and traffic signals, signs advertising construction rig rentals and pool decking. Soreness spread through the girl's shoulders and upper back, and alcohol and dope oozed from her every pore, and she was momentarily unable to carry Daphney's weight, she had to regroup, adjusting her body and grip. The girl almost tripped, then regained her balance, and continued onward, with Daphney leaning on her a little more, confiding in the girl with the shaved head as if she were a big sister explaining the ways of the world to her dearest younger. Really, it wasn't so bad, Daphney said. At night, all kinds of stuff was going down, what with the parties and the gigs out in the desert and all that, so really you just had to worry about getting out of the sun in the day. Like, you could cop change from inside the casino wading pools, spare a few bucks from people on the street. And the public library system had really great air-conditioning, although on Flamingo this one librarian was always looking to call juvie. And oh, there was this faggot at Underground Records who let you sleep in the storage room, long as you didn't filch the inventory. And if things got slow, needle jockeys let you hang at that twenty-four-hour piercing and tatt place.

It was a tour de force, a mixture of guerilla theater and performance art, with sprinklings of pheromonal territorialism thrown in for good measure, Daphney's every gesture simultaneously kind, combative, self-important, and self-congratulatory, her every word delivered as if she were some telemarketer needing to fill an employment quota on the last day of the month.

She told the girl she did not want word to get out, did not want it becoming trendy and what have you, but she was sort of surprised that more streeters did not end up here. “Really,” she said, “when you look at it, Vegas is a good place to run to.”

A frost of solitary white light came weakly from behind a grille-covered pay window. Daphney made sure they stayed out of it, away from any potential sightings, and the small group moved in a wide arc around the side of the service station. The mongrel dog stopped every five yards to mark its territory. Wasn't cute anymore. How much piss could a dog hold, anyway?