The Trenchcoat Blues

A passing bus hit a puddle of melted black snow and sprayed Mark with the grime of the street. He shivered and cursed. What kind of a life was this for him to lead? The cold polluted air burned his lungs and he longed to be somewhere far far away.



1478 Sparrow Street. It was just a few more blocks. These trips were getting tedious, but Mark needed the money. He imagined himself two hours from now with money in his pocket, eating french fries and stack of pancakes. He knew it was wrong, but it was easy money. He didn't even care about the blood stains anymore. As Mark approached his destination, he whispered self-affirmations to himself, "You are a good person," he said quietly. "You deserve happiness." He wished he could believe it. It had been years since anyone who knew him had looked at him without that hint of concern on their brow. Those subtle indications of disdain. His reflection gave him the same reaction. The deep bags under his eyes, the hopelessly hanging expression. He looked to have lost his soul.



The house was modest, but pretty--the usual sort. Mark knocked and adjusted his trench self-consciously. He thought maybe no one would answer. He almost hoped no one would answer, but just like always a young, homely girl opened the door. Sometimes he could convince himself that he was doing them a favor. Sometimes he even told himself that he was a hero, a life-saver. No women wanted to be a virgin at twenty-one. Hell, these days no women wanted to be a virgin past seventeen. He was an angel, appearing like a shadow in the night, to steal--no not steal--to gracefully receive virginity.



She looked him over apprehensively. Before she could change her mind he went through the door anyway, he really needed the money. She licked her lips nervously and without saying a word she placed her hand on his flaccid crotch. He tried to hide his shutter. She was short and round and smelled not like a woman should smell. There was something sweetly sour about her aroma, something bad. She pulled him by his belt into the living room. There she flung open her bathrobe and bore to him her plump and folded virgin body. He tried to smile, but his face remained expressionless. He took off his wet boots and tried to imagine that his life wasn't spiraling out of control. "Rihanna," she said, "my name is Rihanna."



"What? You're name is not Rihanna," Mark blurted.



She looked embarrassed. "I wasn't sure if I should tell you my real name. I've never done this before...I mean, obviously I've never done this before."



Mark smiled despite himself. "Well, I'm Mark and you can be whoever you want." He wrapped her fuzzy robe back around her chubby body, and pointed to the bed. "Take it easy. We have two hours, right? It's not a race." She began to cry. Mark shrugged desperately. "Aww, come on. What is it? You want this don't you?"



"I don't know what I want," she cried. "This wasn't even my idea!"



This was a first. "What do you mean this wasn't your idea?" Mark asked. She sniffled and wiped her nose with her robe sleeve.



"My sister says no man will want me unless I pay. I'm just so lonely." She looked at him expectantly. She wanted him to negate all this, tell her it wasn't true. She continued to cry softly.



These visits were getting tedious. "Your sister is a bitch," Mark told her. She started to laugh a little, laughing a bit, then crying. "We don't have to do this," Mark said.



"Am I that disgusting? You can't even go through with it?" Mark kissed her rubbery lips with all the conviction he could muster.



"No," he said, "that's not it." Mark was lonely too. He had wished he could tell his smug friends about all this, but they would never understand. He needed someone to understand. "Hey, do you like pancakes?"



"I love pancakes."