The camera crew dons their gear and follows me as I make my way through the dilapidated house, stripped of all furniture and devoid of the remnants of occupation. My footsteps echo off the buckling wood floor and scarred walls.
Trudi asks, “So, tell us what you remember about this place, Buck.”
I stand in the doorway of what used to be my dad’s room. The black sheet he kept nailed over the window is gone, letting light into a place that was as dark and frightening as a dungeon to the five-year-old me.
I swallow hard and force open the hall closet’s door. “This was my hiding place. I kept a pillow in the corner, under my dad’s old duffle bag from when he was in the Army.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I hid only when dad got drunk and wanted to beat his frustrations out on someone—that someone being me, since I was the only one in close enough proximity to his fists.
The kitchen appliances have all been torn from their proper places. It also looks like someone’s torn out the sheetrock to get to the copper pipes that were probably in the walls, but are now missing. Not sure it renders this space any less useful than it was when I lived here. Dad wasn’t much of a cook. Shit; at six years old, I cooked more than he did. Mac and cheese was my specialty. Hell, I even learned to make it without milk or butter.
My fingers drag through my hair for the fifteenth time since I got off the bus. The words Trudi wants—the words that would tell my story—they just aren’t there. I can’t begin to explain how seeing this place affects me sixteen years after I last saw it. Last saw my dad.
I stop in front of the bathroom door. My stomach turns as, in my memory, the tile and walls are suddenly clean again.
I was barely five years old, and Mom was on the floor, her head lolled to the side. Blank eyes stared at me. A brown bottle lay next to her limp hand.
I turn from the scene in my mind. Trudi jumps out of my way as I bolt out of the house, almost tearing the back door from its rusty hinges. My racing heart sends a roar of blood through my ears as I lean forward, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
A palm lands on my back. I jump away.
Trudi twists her fingers in front of her. “Sorry—so sorry. I didn’t know you’d have such a strong reaction.”
I rub my face and wipe my stinging eyes. “Neither did I.”
When I raise my head, two cameras point in my direction.
Shit. All of that on film.
I stalk away. “Fuck this. I’m outta here.”
I wait it out on the bus with a tumbler of whiskey while the crew finishes whatever the fuck they’re doing. I’ve had enough of Memory Lane for the day. Time to do something else. Get out of my own head.
SIX
Job hunting in rural Louisiana is a fucking joke. The temp agency has exactly zero positions available right now. Fucking waste of time and gas money. Why the hell the woman couldn’t have said that before I came down, I don’t know. Of course, she told me they’d keep me on file. As if being on file will make a difference in the here and now.
Sadie flounces through the heavy wooden door of the lingerie shop as though she lives here. Hell, for all I know, she might.
Six feet into the store, I stop at a rack with some lacy things. I lift the hem of a see-through nightie.
Sadie dodges around a display of Porn-to-go videos and grabs my arm, yanking me along behind her. “Not those. You need the stuff back here.”
The dread in the pit of my stomach spreads into my chest and through my limbs.
No.
Suck it up and press on.
I can do this.
I mean, it’s not like it sits right around the corner from Aunt Delores’s place. It’s a good forty minute drive from my hometown and all these years later, I doubt I’ll see anyone I know, or anyone who’ll recognize me.
Besides, the pay sounds good—amazing actually. So much more than I’d make even at a good job. And Aunt Delores needs the money to fix all the shit going wrong with her house. Gold may not fall out of my pussy, but maybe a few dollar bills will—if I’m willing to show a little skin. A lot of skin.
Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ll have to show all the skin. That’s what strippers do—bare it all.
Sadie grabs three skimpy outfits off the rack, one of them a pair of camouflage shorts with Velcro at the side seams. “Oh, look! This is perfect.”
I fake a smile. “Nice. My color too.”
She pulls my hair up, holding it at the nape of my neck. “I bet all the guys were after you. Probably not too many Marines that look like you. Do you get a lot of dick?”
I close the door to the changing room. “Sadie. I appreciate the career advice. And if the money is half as good as you say it is I’ll be really be grateful for it. But I’m not telling you how much I get laid.”