It never ceases to amaze me the kind of feedback one warrants from writing something about a feeling in a moment. I could never have said it better. Thank you for taking the time.
Flash Fiction / "C'mon Baby"
“C’mon Baby”
It falls off her tongue, a want, an urgent plea that is almost musical, almost inspiring. She only meets my eyes briefly, I meet hers briefer still. If my embarrassment for her escapes she will become angry, she will hold me responsible. The one that she has cornered, her potential, may have time for second thoughts, he may leave her standing in the hot sun, left palm extended; frantic.
She takes both hands to her breasts holding herself their, causing them to bounce erratically. This was once a sure thing, an action performed in her earlier years when less drugs lived inside of her. An action that would’ve guaranteed a reaction; possibly a moan, now just silence, sadness. She is accustomed to offering her body for money, pesos, dolares, shekels.
Her dirty skirt rides up just enough to be enticing; her thick mottled thighs will rub together when she walks away. She goes quickly from one to another, the harder men dismissing her with grunts and loathing. She is always keeping her eye on the soft quiet man she’d approached earlier. I bask in the uncertainty that escapes him. He wants to concede to her but something makes him hesitate as she dances and sways as if this is exactly where she chooses to be. One could imagine that if offered Egypt, China or Rome, she would choose to stand on Central Avenue at the Chevron station begging for change, begging for money.
Her color is the same as mine and though I am not dancing, I hear the song as well. Her full asymmetrical hips tell me she has a child at home, one with long black lashes and a tooth missing in front. Her tone announces that she doesn’t care about such things; neither she nor I believe it. The nice man decides to allow her to hold the pump handle and guide the nozzle into the small circular blackness. Her entirety softens, becomes even more feminine, a vixen watching the numbers ascend as they make the sound that only a gas station pump can make.
A bearded man twitches while sitting on the curb. He is trying not to watch, trying to appear as if they are not together. He doesn’t want the men to see that her thick dance is for him as well. That he too will be able to kiss the needle once the sound stops, the sound that only ascending numbers from a gas station pump can make.
I never saw money exchange hands but I saw her glow, blaze with contentment. I saw the man that had been sitting on the curb begin to stand roughly, the smile on his face making his tangled beard seem alive. They begin walking away in the direction of Central that I dare not take. In the direction of darkness even though the sun shines brightly. The man and I exchange a glance that lasts no longer than mine did with the dancing woman. His stare informs me that I belong on the other side of the city. The L.A. where school boys in starched white shirts, dark pants and helmets ride motorized skate boards and moderately muscled men walk dogs the size of mosquitoes.
I have not fooled them. I belong on wide streets with pristine landscaping…so do they. I don’t suspect I’ll ever see her again, or maybe I’ll see her every time I pump gas at this station. Her hair will still be tangled and twisted, smelly though I will not stand close enough to smell it. Her companion will still ignore her until she has done what he can not do. She will still not be wearing a bra though her hands will find there way up to her breasts to begin the siren’s song once again.
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the_venus_in_isis reviewed Version 3 -
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Aten2727 reviewed Version 3 -
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shannygoat reviewed Version 2 -
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That was beautiful. It’s so sad what people’s vices can reduce them to doing. And what’s even sadder is the effect it has on the rest of us…to help or enable? That’s the question.
I love how the narrator feels in sync with the woman, even though they’re not close enough to smell, hear or feel anything that she’s going through. The empathy is beautiful. I especially love the fact that you don’t belong there, and neither do they. Something in their lives must have happened to put the couple there, I’m sure that wasn’t their life dream to be panhandling for change at the Chevron station.
“Sirens song” should be siren’s song. But besides that I didn’t notice any other grammatical errors.
Wonderful job!
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Aten2727 reviewed Version 2 -
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jenbabe4198 reviewed Version 2 -
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titanicbrittanic reviewed Version 2 -
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Fresh_Fish reviewed Version 2 -
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This is an excellent look at the sadder side of life lived by an aging prostitute and her pimp. I love the way the setting can act as a metaphor for the task at hand; the pumping of gas seen as grotesquely sexual.
DCAllen reviewed Version 2 -
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Mikkosgirl reviewed Version 2 -
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This is interesting. Maybe you should add a bit, make it more of a short story than flash fiction, I just couldn’t get into it the way I have other pieces. Your description of your female character is interesting, and I like the others as well, but the man on the curb confuses me. Beyond that and some typos, you have a promising piece here.
codycooper reviewed Version 2 -
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Being able to make such an observation while pumping gas is what good writing should be. The most mundane detail about a person expanded upon can yield a wealth of story. When we see a stranger I think all us might ask ourselves, “How does that person do it? Live their life day to day?”
This story is a great example of peering into the unknown life of another and expanding on what is visible to create a persona that is probably closer to the real thing than they would want to admit.
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Version 3
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