Way to Hustle

(continued)

By Wes Prussing

Mark’s houses and hotels are all neatly arranged at the top of each square. His pile of cash is so thick he’s weighed it down with a first baseman’s mitt. I stand and stretch and try to walk off a cramp that has migrated down my right hamstring. I brush past the bundle of clothes hanging on the door. I flatten out the wrinkles and see a wash of blue-tinted hues: pinks, whites, yellows — even black. I lift the plastic. My eyes sweep over the lingerie: bras, panties, teddys, slips. Other stuff I’ve seen only in catalogs: garters with pearl snaps and tiny bows, a corset laced with velvety rope. I run a finger down the side of a black nightgown. The fabric is so sheer it looks like vapor. I lift a pair of flesh-colored stockings off a hanger and rub the fabric between my thumb and middle finger. It’s nearly weightless and slides through my fingers more liquid then solid. I smell perfume. My head feels light. My heart hammers in my chest.

“Gimme a break,” Mark barks from behind me. “Fuckin’ pervert. Don’t go touching that stuff.”

I let the plastic drop and try to act casual. “I was just checking it out.”

“Yeah, right.” He sets the sodas down next to the board. “Wait till I tell everyone about this. You jerking off with my sister’s honeymoon stuff.”

“I wasn’t... What are you talking about, honeymoon stuff?”

“Joan’s. All that Frederick’s of Hollywood crap she bought in the city.”

“She’s getting married?”

“That usually comes before the honeymoon, don’t it?”

I am shipwrecked.

“I didn’t know she was getting married. Who is it, that restaurant guy?”

“You don’t know him,” he tells me, waving away the question. “Hey, maybe I’ll call him up and let him know what you were doing. He’d probably kick you ass just for touching that stuff.”

“I was just...”

“Look, I know what I saw, slimeball.”

“Just don’t say anything to Joan. Okay?”

“Hey Joan,” he shouts, a defiant grin spreading across his face. “Come 'ere for a minute, will ya?”

“Don’t,” I say again, trying to shove my hand over his mouth.

He knocks it away easily and calls her again.

Joan hollers,“Stop screaming. I’m right down the hall.” We hear a drawer slam shut. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Wait’ll she hears about this,” he continues. “She’ll probably want to get everything dry-cleaned. You should at least offer to pay for it.”

“I didn’t do any...”

The door swings in and Joan looks down at Mark. “Okay, you two, what’s all the commotion about?”

Mark is counting a stack of bills. He doesn’t even look up. “Just thought you might be interested in knowing what Leslie was doing while I was getting some soda from...”

I react so quickly I forget to make a fist. I smash the palm of my hand into his nose with all my might. I hear a muffled crunch and immediately blood spurts from his nose and shoots down his shirt.

“What the fuck!” He screams in disbelief.

I jump to my feet and leap across the board.

Joan is shouting: “Oh my God. Tilt your head back! Mark, tilt your head back like this.”

I brush past Joan and bound down the stairs. I fly past Mark’s mother, who is already on her way up.

“Leslie,” she calls after me. “Are you all right? What’s going on up there?”

I’m out the front door and into the street. I can hear Mark’s mother shouting something as she climbs the stairs.

My shirttails flap wildly in the wind. The frozen rain beats against my face and bare arms. If only I’d remembered to grab my jacket.

From where I’m standing I can see Mark’s bedroom window. Shadows play against the small patch of white wall visible beneath the half-drawn shades.

I stiffen as a shiver slides down my back and I glance down at my new Addias cross-trainers. Sixty-five bucks. They are barely visible in the ribs of filthy slush crisscrossing the street. The salesman said they’d improve my vertical leap, make me faster, make me better. None of it was true, of course. I just wanted to believe it.

The icy water soaks my socks and seeps in between my toes. I start running next to the curb and soak my feet even more in the half-frozen puddles clogging the gutters. There is hardly any traffic, so I move back out into the street. The cold grips me, makes it hard to breathe, makes my legs feel like lead, makes my feet burn.

I feel so lost and alone. I push on anyway, my head down, ignoring the pain — just as I always have. And by the time the freezing rain turns to snow, I feel nothing at all.