Creative Writing from
Fairleigh Dickinson University

Bed

Tom Flannery

When she looked at the clock on her mantel and realized it was half past ten, Rhonda gulped down the rest of the dark red wine she had been sipping. It seemed the more she depended on a guy, the less likely he would be to show up.
        She stood up, and walked towards the mirror, situated over the top of the mantel, directly above the small, wooden clock. There was only a single light on in the room, she liked the way she looked in dim lighting. All she could hear was the ticking of the clock and the rush of the wind, making the windows shake. She stared at her eyes, at her mouth, her face. This time she hadn't even bothered to put makeup on. Just a dab of mascara, and even that was pretty sloppy. After pouring herself another glass, Rhonda stumbled up the stairs, absolved that she would just pretend it all never happened.
        It wasn't as if this was the first time she has been stood up. As she walked down the hallway to her bedroom door, she tried to number the nights she has gone through these same motions. After twenty-five years of existence, there had only been one boyfriend. If you could even consider the mess that was Cain a boyfriend.
        She opened the door to her bedroom. Nothing much to it. Bureau, television, window. In the center of the far wall stood a double-sized bed, Rhonda's one luxury. Growing up in the city, you couldn't fit a double bed into a bedroom. When she moved into the suburbs, it was the first thing she bought. Some people preferred sleeping pills to get to sleep the dramatic way, but all Rhonda needed was to sprawl out on a double-sized bed.
        It had been about four years since she had left the big city, and moved to the small town. Often she would laugh to herself, and proclaim that she lived in the middle of nowhere, even though she was only in Jersey, and really only about an hour and a half from New York. But it was enough to disconnect her, to keep her from travelling the distance…ever.
        When the bank she worked for asked her how she felt about transferring to Jersey, Rhonda didn't even consider the option at first. But as she sat awake that night, listening to the hustle and bustle of the city, she slowly came to the realization that this could be her ticket out. So, she bought a house with a backyard, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, kitchen, dining room, living room…most of it was bare and untouched, really. But the extra space was nice.
        Rhonda's mother didn't quite understand what had happened. The old woman (who was in her early fifties, but looked like she was thirty-six) had lived in Brooklyn her entire life, hadn't stepped foot outside of New York for at least twenty years, and had never driven a car in her life.
        Upon the old woman's first visit, she walked into her daughter's home, straight into the living room that opened up on her left, and crossed to the mantel on the far wall. There, she placed a picture of Rhonda's late father. She kissed the picture, and she was gone. The taxi that had brought her from the bus station was still waiting out front. Rhonda picked up the picture and threw it in the trash.
        When she had actually moved into the house, the first thing Rhonda bought was the bed. The men came and dropped it off, gave her some paper work to fill out, went on their way, and less than five minutes later she had plopped down on it, laughing hysterically at the way she almost drowned in the sea of cushioning. She felt like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” with her first taste of the good life. That night she set up the television and VCR in her bedroom, ordered Chinese food, and watched Julia's transformation while stuffing her face with dumplings.
        Oddly enough, right from the beginning she couldn't get herself to sleep on the bed very often. Usually she would toss around for an hour or two, trying to fall asleep, and then just concede to the living room couch, where she would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the rough material.
        Rhonda took another sip of her wine and sat on her bed. Even though this was her second glass, she was already feeling a bit tipsy, she was not a heavy drinker by any means. And she knew better than to lay down with her glass, no matter how good it would feel. Knew that she was way too clumsy and would spill the drink all over her expensive bed spread, knew that she would stay up all night, crying and sobbing to herself, just trying to remove the stain. The corner of the bed was fine for now, and she sat on it, taking another sip.
        It was just barely past ten on Saturday night. Rhonda hugged her arms in close to her, holding her glass tightly. The night she had broken up with Cain happened much this way. Yet again, he was over two hours late, and she had two too many glasses of wine. When he finally showed up, she threw her glass at him, barely even hitting his shoes. He didn't even say anything, just walked right back out the door. She never saw him again. They were together for about ten months, and the past nine had been pure agony. She was ninety percent positive that he has been just using her as a cover for his homosexuality.
        After Cain, time started moving slowly. She started going out less and less, and also began spending a lot more time on the computer.
        She could distinctly remember the very first time she had worked up the nerve to not only enter a chat room, but then talk to a complete stranger, tell him all about what kind of panties she was wearing, about how she liked them to be ripped off during sex…in its own way, Rhonda found the whole thing extremely romantic. Never one to believe the fairy tales, she refused to search for a knight on a white horse as romance. It wasn't real. Here, where she could say all the things she wanted, no matter how dirty, this was real, from right inside of her. And how much more romantic can it really get than being completely real with another human being?
        The very first time she met a man online, they met at an all night grocery store near her house, this way she could assure herself he wasn't crazy. When she got to the store, she parked right next to a big, black Bronco that she knew just had to be his. She walked in, and went immediately to the fruit section, where they intended to meet. He was there, biding his time by looking at the apples, as though he was searching for the perfect, un-bruised apple of the bunch. At first she couldn't see much of his face. He had long mangy hair, and wore extremely faded jeans and a stained plaid shirt. As she got closer, she realized he bore a striking resemblance to Jim Morrison.
        They stayed in the fruit section for no more than two minutes before they made their way to the door. He followed her to her house, parked his Bronco out front instead of following her into the driveway, and together they went right to the bedroom.
        There was surprisingly little awkwardness to the whole situation. She turned off the lights, took off her clothes as he removed his, and it started. He tasted like straight vodka, and every couple minutes he would reach over the side of the bed, and pick up a flask, take a gulp, and put it back without asking her if she wanted, or needed any. While they had sex, the stranger stayed very quiet, except when she was on top of him. He started moaning and mumbling, and she was almost positive that he was actually saying “Help me Rhonda, Help, Help me Rhonda.”
        He came inside her without even asking if she was on birth control, which she wasn't. Afterwards he simply left. As surely as he was there, he was gone. The next morning she went to the drug store and bought a pack of condoms, as well as a home pregnancy test. She put it on her bathroom sink, where she could see it every time she went to the bathroom, or took a shower, or brushed her teeth. A constant reminder of her own stupidity. After two weeks she took the test, and it was negative. She ordered a pizza and opened a bottle of wine.
        After that night, Rhonda never spoke to the man again. She wasn't sure if it was he that stopped speaking to her, or if she simply stopped returning his e-mails and instant messages. Every once in awhile when she masturbated, he would pop into her head and she would remember all the good things about him. He had smelled of Paco Rabanne, and to this day every time she smelled that particular cologne she could feel the stubble from his face cutting into her.
        After the first incident, she had her first no-show. This time she was meeting the man at an Italian restaurant that was ten minutes away from her house. After an hour of sitting by herself, she left, knowing she would never again attempt to meet a man in a restaurant. A few days later she met another man at the grocery store who was about three hundred pounds heavier than he told her online. She had wondered why they had to meet in the pastry section. Then, there was another no show. Now, here she was, with her second no show in a row. She didn't even bother meeting at the grocery store anymore, it just seemed to take too much of an effort.
The wine glass was almost empty, and she decided that before she did anything else, she would finish it, which she did in two big sips.
        The last time she had been stood up, Rhonda set about a task. Instead of just laying around, drinking and feeling even worse than she had before, she would get someone to come over. She went to her search engine, typed in “escort service.” Ten minutes later, she had a phone number, phone in hand, and a humbled enthusiasm for the idea. Before she was able to work up the nerve to make the call, she replaced the phone with a dry martini, put on a Dusty Springfield album, and sat up most of the night, “I just don't know what to do with myself.”
        She wasn't sure if it was determination, the wine, or simply being aroused that made her go find that phone number again, but she did. A man answered, exchanged words and particulars with Rhonda that she could barely even hear herself say, and that was it. Rhonda had just purchased an escort.
        Immediately after she hung up the phone, she went into the kitchen, and poured herself another glass of wine.
        He didn't really take that long to get there, an hour at most. Rhonda was worried that he would get there too late, and she would have already changed her mind, and have to send him back. She would still pay him of course, for making the trip over, but she would keep the latch locked on her door, passing the discreet white envelope through. But almost directly after the clock struck midnight, a white Mustang pulled into her driveway. It was older, not in very good condition, and a little too loud.
        Her heart started jumping. She felt her whole body shiver, though her heater was at full blast, because the winter air was slowly becoming more noticeable. He was out of his car. He was on the walk way. He was on the steps. He knocked on the door… and she stood right where she was. She waited three knocks, sitting still, as though she was just another piece of furniture. Then she jumped to life, and answered the door.
        “Rhonda?” The man asked. He was tall, at least 6'5”. He seemed very well put together, she couldn't detect any lines or bags under his eyes. When he smiled, which he appeared to do a lot of, his forehead wrinkled only slightly. She couldn't quite tell, but his eyes seemed to be a dark blue.
        “Yes, that's me. What's your name?”
        “I'm Lance. I was sent by the agency.”
        “Yes, of course. Come in.”
        “Thanks.” She moved out of the doorway to let him in and he walked through the door. Immediately, before she even got to shut the door, he kissed her on the lips.
She looked at him, slightly confused, not sure what to do. “Just wanted to let you know I won't bite you.” He smiled widely, and she thought to herself how perfect the bite mark would be with those things if indeed he did bite.
        She looked at him, seeing that his eyes were in fact brown, but almost green. “Do you want a drink.?”
        “No thanks, I don't like to drink when I'm….”
        “Working?”
        “I guess you could call it that. But while we're on the topic, you want to get all the business stuff out of the way?”
        “Okay. Give me one minute.” Rhonda went to the kitchen, reached on top of her refrigerator, took down a piggy bank shaped like a large piece of corn, and took out three folded hundred-dollar bills. She walked back to the living room, where Lance was sitting on her couch, looking at a painting she had on her wall. She handed him the money.
        “All right. Are you in anyway associated with a law enforcement agency?” The question was completely serious, but he smiled the whole time he said it.
        “Uh, no.”
        “Okay, then we're all good. Who is that in the picture?” he asked her. She went to sit on a chair opposite him, but he patted the couch he was sitting on, signaling for her to come next to him, which she did.
        “That is the Lady of Shallott.”
        “She doesn't seem very happy.”
        “Well, she was cursed to stay in a tower her whole life, and when she finally did get out, she died.”
        “Oh. Well, I guess she has good reason to be upset.”
        “I guess so.” There was a pause.
        Lance laughed loudly, startling her. Besides for the low drum of the heater, there was no other noise in the entire house, and his laughter echoed eerily.
        “Sweetheart you really know how to avoid a conversation, don't you?”
        “Well, I suppose I do. There's one good trait.”
        “What makes that a good trait? If we wanted to talk good traits, I would go for your eyes.”
        Now that attention was drawn to them, Rhonda blinked her eyes repeatedly, and blushed.
        “Gotcha.” He snickered at her.
        She wasn't really sure what to say. The man was staring directly at her, looking her in the eyes and she could hardly look up. “Should we go upstairs? Get started?”
        “Whenever you are ready.” Before he finished replying she was on her feet, walking towards the steps. He followed her into the bedroom, where she sat down on the bed.
        Lance stood in front of her. “You sure you want to go through with this?”
        “I hired you, didn't I?”
        “Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything.”
        “Why don't we just get this over with?” She was a little more nasty than she had wanted to be.
        Lance sat down on the bed and leaned towards her. His hands were on either side of her hips, so she was forced to look at him. Still, she focused on her hands.
        “Can I ask you a personal question?” He whispered into her ear.
        “I really don't care, whatever way you like to have it. As long as it's rough.”
        “That's not what I meant.”
        “Listen Lance, I really don't want to play this game. I'm not some god damn virgin that you have to open up like a rose.”
        “What made you call the company tonight?” Lance was obviously ignoring everything she said. He tried to pick up her head, to make her look him in the eyes, but she wouldn't meet his stare. The moon was shining through the window and made the whole room glow.
         “What kind of question is that?”
        “I want to understand what made you call.”
        “Do you do this to all your customers?”
        “Most of my customers are married women whose husbands can't satisfy them. Or old bags who lost their chance at love. I can understand that. A sexual need, or desire. Do you think you could even tell me what it is you desire?”
        “How do you know I'm not married?”
        “You're avoiding my question.”
        “But how do you know?” She looked up at him for the first time, and he stood up, still looking at her.
        “There are no pictures of you hanging up. A married woman would have her wedding portrait, or some picture of her with her husband hanging up somewhere. You don't. All you have is Miss Shallott down there, holding down the whole house. Besides, you're not wearing a ring. Now answer my question.”
        Rhonda shivered. “I told you, I like it rough.”
        “Just be upfront with me. You are paying me by the hour.”
        She looked at him with a blank expression and shrugged her shoulders, to let him know that she really had no answer.
        Lance walked back over to Rhonda, who looked up at him, still not sure what to do with herself. He brought his face right to hers and kissed her lightly on the lips. She closed her eyes, and felt his smooth face, his soft lips, his sweet tongue.
        Slowly, he moved to her ear, which he kissed, and whispered softly, “Rhonda, you are a beautiful woman.” He kissed her ear again. “I love you.”
        She knew it wasn't real, she wasn't that drunk. But as she laid down with Lance, he hugged her to his chest, stroking her hair.
        “I'm just…so lonely.” The word came out as though he could not possibly understand what she meant. To be alone was something he could never truly feel. Not like this. Not coming home to an empty, noiseless house in the middle of nowhere, with not a single person in the entire world to tell about it. But she told him anyway. She told him about Cain, and then the job offer, moving away, her mother, her father, and the void that had taken up her life. She tried her best to explain what it was like to stare into nothing, hoping your mind would just clear up, because it would be better to have nobody at all then just yourself.
        She wasn't sure how long she had been crying or talking for, but eventually it stopped. Lance continued to stroke her hair as he whispered, “I have to go now, sweetie.”
        “I know. Thanks for stopping by.” She wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand and smiled at her joke.
        “No problem, anytime.”
        He got out of the bed, and she followed him to the front door.
        “Will I be seeing you again?” he asked.
        “I don't think so.”
        “Good.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You have a lovely face.” And with that, he opened the door, and walked out.
        She heard the Mustang start back up, heard it race down the street. She wiped at her eyes, realized how badly her mascara was running, but didn't think about it again. She turned off all her house lights, and made her way to the bedroom. She got under the covers, and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the goose feather pillow.