Parish, Frank
JOURNAL ENTRY 01

They said to maybe start with the day everything changed. I leave work early after firing some losers, and boom! I'm hanging around outside of a ladies' boutique scamming for women with an unlit cigarette and this young piece of tail comes out empty-handed, which usually means she ain't shopping, just bored, and where there's boredom there's loneliness and horny housewives. I ask her for a light, gripping the lighter in my coat pocket, and give her the eye. She wants this. She wants this so bad. I figure she'll be screaming my name within the hour, but turns out this one is all conflicted and has to drag things out before she dashes all those wedding vows to pieces.

I have to sit through an hour-and-a-half lunch while this whore is moving her salad fork all dainty through her bowl like she's painting a picture. She never takes a bite of the stupid thing, only sips at a glass of water that never seems to empty, and I'm already getting cranky because my move to pick up the check seems like a waste if she won't take a bite of her ridiculous little salad. I figure she'll open up, tell me all about how the husband can't give her the good stuff no more, and that'll be my cue and down come the trousers baby. But not this one. She likes lying to herself, so she never mentions the guy despite the rock on her finger, and I start to think maybe this is a waste of my time when she stares at the table for a while and then looks up at me and asks, "What are you doing after this?" and I just smile sideways and hit her with the bombshell that we both knew was coming: "You."

Not a smart lady, letting a strange man ride in her car with her back to her upscale apartment. And she's a frail little thing. I could rape her all to everywhere or just break her in half, but she's lucky that ain't me. Not the only reason she's lucky, 'cause I can tell she's ready for big Frank by the way her skin goes all bumpy when I grab her thigh on the drive over. Half-hour later I've got her bent over the coffee table screaming and I'm thinking good grief what an awesome weekday so far and it ain't even dark out, and then this twerp, who I assume is the husband, comes walking right in. I'd have just as easily kept going, but she jumps across the room like I'm on fire and is trying to cover herself like this guy ain't never seen her goods before and screaming at his back as he heads out the door.

And how pathetic is this? She crumples on the floor and starts bawling like some kid that just got kicked around, and I consider coming in to sweep her up and maybe eventually finish things up, but seeing her all snotty and dribbling makes me slouch and I'm just as ready to take off. Then, just like that, as I'm walking out the door, she starts talking again.

"I guess he really cares..." she snorts sarcastically. "Just walks away..."

I know she's putting up that guard and maybe she was one of those "cry for attention" cheaters, and I think well why not, let's get that twerp's attention. But the work is no easy going. Good God she's talking about more than I've ever thought about with some dull emotionless voice, and honestly I'm kind of creeped out, but she's still naked as all get out, so I hang in there. Put a blanket over her shoulders, rub her back, tell her she deserves more, and what am I even saying? I don't know the first thing about this whore or what she deserves, but I know she's breathing and that's all anyone wants to hear is something about themselves and how much they deserve, so I feed her that garbage.

While she's blubbering, I give her another once over and think maybe I was too hasty almost walking out like that 'cause this chick is stacked and was pretty down right off the grip. I think maybe if I put a little work into this I can have me a little something going until it gets old. With her body I'm thinking weeks or even a month might haul out before it's old news, maybe more if she's adventurous and ever shuts up.

Ironically enough, like she's reading my mind, she shuts up right then and we're back to tongue wrestling. Probably what she's doing is pushing things down, ignoring the truth, burying her emotions, coping. I say more power to her because that means time to get back to work baby.

All this goes on, and when I'm all finished and she's asleep on the couch I think man what a day and contemplate making a run for it, but then my plan comes back and I turn on her husband's awesome big screen TV. First thing I notice is that the news is on more channels than the news is usually on. Every station mentioning Nevada and having reporters standing in the desert and saying the victim arrived dead at the hospital or something. I think oh God is there some rag-head down in a cave in Nevada firing a bazooka at some old tourist who wandered too far from the bus? I'm about to just turn the stupid TV off, and then they roll that tape that blew everyone's mind, and I feel like I'm in a science fiction movie. I had no idea what had been happening all day—I had been knee-deep in the blonde since work—but it was the day everything changed, I guess, or started to anyway.