Johnnie smiled at Jolene across the small, worn table. They were eating hot noodles, ramen noodles. For the first time, they weren’t eating them dry, choking them down with tepid water. Here in the tiny studio motel room, they had a microwave and running water. Warmth from the chill of the desert night. Jolene smiled back and slurped in a large mouthful of food. Her face was wrinkled and wind worn. Johnnie had bought her a jar of Vaseline, which they both applied to their hands and faces to help soothe the sting of the dry skin.
“They have a laundry room,” Johnnie said between bites.
“No,” Jolene said. “I will wash them in the sink.”
Johnnie nodded. All that they owned sat in a pile near the door. They guarded it like dogs because people were more than happy to walk off with their stuff. It was probably why Jolene didn’t want to use the public laundry.
“We have two nights,” Johnnie said. “We can get some good sleep.”
“Mm, that will be good.”
Sleep on the streets was never peaceful unless you were drunk. Johnnie and Jolene took turns keeping watch most nights. Even when they slept behind the beauty salon between the building and the chain link fence. It was quiet, no one bothered them, but still, they never felt totally safe.
Johnnie finished her noodles, placed the plastic bowl in the sink, and stretched. She lifted her Buck knife from the waist of her pants and placed it on the table. Jolene had one too, and they’d had to show them more than once to keep bad men at bay.
“You going to shower now?” Jolene asked.
“Yes.”
Johnnie walked to the bed and sat to peel off her boots. Then she headed to the bathroom. The image in the mirror shocked her, though she knew it would be bad. Her face was chapped and hollow, eyes sunken. Her hair was long and stringy, and she knew she couldn’t run her fingers through it. She had long ago stopped worrying about looking normal. When you had no money, no shelter, it grew tiring to care. And no matter how many times you tried, brushing your hair, brushing your teeth, wearing deodorant, people always knew. Homelessness had a stench one couldn’t hide. And people were like sharks; they picked up on it from great distances and treated you with disdain.
Johnnie took off her two sweatshirts and the T-shirt below. Her bra was no longer white, and it was basically threadbare and useless. But she wore it for warmth. She fingered her bony ribs and her sunken abdomen. She pulled her loose fitting pants down over her hips and kicked them away. When she went for her socks, she paused. Small black specks covered them. And they moved.
She tore them off and yanked open the bathroom door.
“Jolene.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve got fleas.”
“Okay.”
“Goddamn it.” Johnnie hugged herself, already itching. She walked to the bed and pulled back the covers. The sheets were clean. She checked the mattress. It looked okay.
“I think they’re just in the carpet.”
“I will call,” Jolene said, rising to deposit her bowl in the sink.
Johnnie returned to the bathroom and stepped into the hot shower. She scrubbed and scrubbed, washed and rewashed her hair. Then she saturated it with cheap conditioner. It was the only way she’d get a brush through it. Jolene knocked on the door as she rinsed.
“They brought a bug bomb.”
“Great.” She turned off the shower and dried herself. She pulled a brush through her tangled hair. She reentered the bedroom and found that Jolene had laid out an outfit for her. She was sitting on the bed and stroking her long braid which hung down her shoulder.
“We have to leave the room for an hour while the bomb works.”
Johnnie dressed. She was frustrated. “Can’t they give us a different room?”
“They are full.”
Johnnie put on her boots, and she and Jolene set off the bug bomb. They sat outside their door and waited, too afraid to leave their stuff. Dusk had fallen, and the motel was hopping. Prostitutes walked by, some leading johns by the hand. Kids screamed as they ran and played, raising hell without supervision. Two cop cars pulled in, lights on. The two officers emerged and leaned against the cruiser to talk.
“You thirsty?” Johnnie asked.
“Sure.”
Johnnie rose and headed for the stairs. As she walked down, she noticed a man slumped over near the bottom. When she reached him she said, “Excuse me.” But he didn’t budge. She said it again and got no response. She stepped over him carefully and bent to examine him. He held his empty wallet open in one hand with a single family picture inside. She pushed back on his shoulder to view his face. His eyes were open but unfocused. His mouth was slack.
She left him, unsure what was wrong and what she could do to help. She made her way to the soda machine and bought two Cokes. When she returned to the stairs, the man was weeping uncontrollably. He didn’t seem to mind when she bumped him to get by.
She returned to Jolene and they sat and watched darkness bleed in completely. More prostitutes brought more johns. Then the girls would stand at the rail and smoke, looking down on the parking lot. One walked up to them and asked them if they wanted any pills. Said she’d give them a good deal.
Johnnie thanked her but said no. She returned to her friends and they laughed and carried on, hollering at potential clients down in the parking lot. When Johnnie and Jolene returned to their room, it smelled like chemicals and stale cigarette smoke. Johnnie took off her shoes and walked the carpet in her socks. Numerous fleas hopped on.
“Didn’t work,” she said.
Jolene shook her head.
They would have to keep everything on the bed and on the table. Jolene went to shower, and Johnnie hung things in the closet and organized as best she could. Then she walked to the couch and placed a sock on her hand to run it across the cushions. No fleas.
Relieved, she sat and closed her eyes. Jolene emerged dressed in clean clothes and joined her. They didn’t bother with the television. They got enough of people and noise on the street. They preferred peace. But peace was not forthcoming. Beyond the thin walls, people shouted and laughed and cussed and banged things. Sirens wailed. Soon helicopters circled overhead. Johnnie stared at the flimsy lock on the door.
For forty hard-earned dollars, she thought they could feel safe for one night, maybe two. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Jolene turned on the television, hoping to drown it out. They watched PBS and Everybody Loves Raymond. They fell asleep leaning into each other with Johnnie’s knife in her lap. Around midnight, there was loud shouting and spotlights shining from helicopters, police calling out orders. Johnnie jerked when someone tried to barrel their way into their room. She stood and unsheathed her knife, heart pounding. They tried three times, physically moving the door. Then she heard them run and soon after more shouts and footsteps.
She remained standing, with her knife poised. She pushed back on the door and braced it with a kitchen chair. Jolene sat watching her.
“You won’t sleep tonight,” she said.
Johnnie shook her head. “You go ahead.”
“You should ask those girls for Xanax. It helps you.”
Johnnie stared out the window. “No, I need to be ready for anything.”
“In the morning, then,” Jolene said. “You will get Xanax and sleep while I keep watch.”
Johnnie knew better than to argue with her. She simply nodded.
Jolene went to bed and Johnnie returned to the couch. She watched the door and listened keenly. She held the knife tightly. Would she ever feel safe?
As she stared at the drone of the television, she knew the answer was most likely no.