#10:
Sell it with skin.
I
felt as though someone had stuck a turkey baster down my throat and sucked all the
air out of my lungs. Busted, five feet from freedom. I crawled out from under
the bench, sprang out of the van, knocked Moose Cap sideways, and took off
running.
That’s what happened in my mind’s eye.
Here’s what actually happened: my cramped legs accordioned on me and I crashed
to the pavement. Moose Cap grabbed me under the armpits, heaved me to my feet,
and propelled me along the sidewalk. Ordinarily a man hauling a woman in
manure-stained clothes along a public street would attract attention, but this
was the lower east side of Milwaukee; among the kids scoring drugs, the street
people sifting through dumpsters, the drunks staggering out of Hoolihan’s, and
the Goths spilling out of The Rocky Horror matinee , Moose and I
were just street theater.
I
couldn’t yell at someone to call the police. The price on my head was enough to
keep a crackhead in product for six months. Moose manhandled me around a
corner, into a building, and up a flight of stairs. Easily sidestepping my
kicks, he fished a key out of his jeans, unlocked a door, and shoved me inside.
This
was his apartment, I assumed. It wasn’t the milk crate and pizza box décor
suggested by his overall grunge, but a high-ceilinged place with hardwood
floors, comfortable-looking furniture, and walls hung with photos. Through an
arched doorway I glimpsed a kitchen with a porcelain sink and old-fashioned
glass-fronted cabinets.
“Bob
was right,” Moose said. “You do smell like cow shit. It hit me like a
ton of bricks when we got back in the van.” He let go of me, but didn’t take
his eyes off me. “Get those clothes off.”
“Go
screw yourself!”
Being
raped by this creep would only be one notch above being molested by Norbert
Lautenbacher while hanging from a pipe, but it wasn’t going to happen. I lunged
toward a lamp on an end table, snatched it up, and swung it at the guy with all
my strength. Unfortunately, he was too tall and I only managed to whack his
shoulder. Reacting as though I’d swatted him with a newspaper, Moose wrenched
the lamp out of my hand.
“I don’t find
manure a big turn-on. Your virtue is safe with me. Come on—bath time.”
He
dragged me into his bathroom and locked both of us inside. This bathroom wasn’t
going to make the starting lineup at the Vonnerjohn Design Center. Its floor
was laid with those nickel-sized tiles all old bathrooms have, made of some
substance that will be here long after the rest of the planet is a big cinder
in space. There was a radiator under the window currently being used to dry wet
socks, an old, plain white toilet, and a claw-footed tub the size of an ice
rink. A jock strap hung jauntily from a towel bar.
“Shower
stopped working a year ago,” Moose shared as he tidied up, tucking the jock
strap and socks underneath the sink. “So I started taking baths. Got so I liked
’em. I read halfway through War and Peace in that tub, until I got so
bored I didn’t care which side won the damn war. Now get your clothes off.”
“All
right,” I said, stalling, trying to keep my gaze away from the window. “But
I’ll need some privacy.”
He
looked at me. “You’re a scary woman, you know that? You survived a tornado, a
wall of exploding toilets, and a four-story leap out of a barn. For all I know,
you can turn into a bat and fly out a ventilation duct. So. You think I look
dumb enough to leave you alone in here?”
No,
actually—I didn’t think he looked dumb at all. His eyes stayed on me,
unblinking. Eyes the color of Hershey Kisses, but not as warm and sweet, and
they didn’t
Sell it with skin.
I
felt as though someone had stuck a turkey baster down my throat and sucked all the
air out of my lungs. Busted, five feet from freedom. I crawled out from under
the bench, sprang out of the van, knocked Moose Cap sideways, and took off
running.
That’s what happened in my mind’s eye.
Here’s what actually happened: my cramped legs accordioned on me and I crashed
to the pavement. Moose Cap grabbed me under the armpits, heaved me to my feet,
and propelled me along the sidewalk. Ordinarily a man hauling a woman in
manure-stained clothes along a public street would attract attention, but this
was the lower east side of Milwaukee; among the kids scoring drugs, the street
people sifting through dumpsters, the drunks staggering out of Hoolihan’s, and
the Goths spilling out of The Rocky Horror matinee , Moose and I
were just street theater.
I
couldn’t yell at someone to call the police. The price on my head was enough to
keep a crackhead in product for six months. Moose manhandled me around a
corner, into a building, and up a flight of stairs. Easily sidestepping my
kicks, he fished a key out of his jeans, unlocked a door, and shoved me inside.
This
was his apartment, I assumed. It wasn’t the milk crate and pizza box décor
suggested by his overall grunge, but a high-ceilinged place with hardwood
floors, comfortable-looking furniture, and walls hung with photos. Through an
arched doorway I glimpsed a kitchen with a porcelain sink and old-fashioned
glass-fronted cabinets.
“Bob
was right,” Moose said. “You do smell like cow shit. It hit me like a
ton of bricks when we got back in the van.” He let go of me, but didn’t take
his eyes off me. “Get those clothes off.”
“Go
screw yourself!”
Being
raped by this creep would only be one notch above being molested by Norbert
Lautenbacher while hanging from a pipe, but it wasn’t going to happen. I lunged
toward a lamp on an end table, snatched it up, and swung it at the guy with all
my strength. Unfortunately, he was too tall and I only managed to whack his
shoulder. Reacting as though I’d swatted him with a newspaper, Moose wrenched
the lamp out of my hand.
“I don’t find
manure a big turn-on. Your virtue is safe with me. Come on—bath time.”
He
dragged me into his bathroom and locked both of us inside. This bathroom wasn’t
going to make the starting lineup at the Vonnerjohn Design Center. Its floor
was laid with those nickel-sized tiles all old bathrooms have, made of some
substance that will be here long after the rest of the planet is a big cinder
in space. There was a radiator under the window currently being used to dry wet
socks, an old, plain white toilet, and a claw-footed tub the size of an ice
rink. A jock strap hung jauntily from a towel bar.
“Shower
stopped working a year ago,” Moose shared as he tidied up, tucking the jock
strap and socks underneath the sink. “So I started taking baths. Got so I liked
’em. I read halfway through War and Peace in that tub, until I got so
bored I didn’t care which side won the damn war. Now get your clothes off.”
“All
right,” I said, stalling, trying to keep my gaze away from the window. “But
I’ll need some privacy.”
He
looked at me. “You’re a scary woman, you know that? You survived a tornado, a
wall of exploding toilets, and a four-story leap out of a barn. For all I know,
you can turn into a bat and fly out a ventilation duct. So. You think I look
dumb enough to leave you alone in here?”
No,
actually—I didn’t think he looked dumb at all. His eyes stayed on me,
unblinking. Eyes the color of Hershey Kisses, but not as warm and sweet, and
they didn’t
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