dolls by nick sansone page two
r.kv.r.y. quarterly summer 2008 fiction
r.kv.r.y. quarterly summer 2008 fiction
Management lectures me. "I'm going to need you to come in tomorrow, too. If
you can. I haven't gotten hold of Sarah yet, but she's scheduled for tomorrow
morning, so it'll be you and her and me. One of you is going to need to pull a
double with me." Management reads my face for a reaction. I betray none.
"Anyways, I went through some of the old apps and made some calls, left some
messages, so hopefully we can get some fresh people in. Welcome to Fantasy
Adult," Management says, a conditioned response to the sound of the
security-sensor, and it stops the conversation dead. A youngish-looking woman
scampers in with her boyfriend or husband or cousin (who can tell?) lagging
several steps behind. "IDs?" Management asks. The couple reaches into their
wallets, presents their licenses, and Management, the grand centurion of smut,
allows them to pass. "Let me know if I can help you find anything," he says as
they head off towards the novelties, brushing past a few other customers,
including Mr. Davis, who is still loitering in the New Release section.
"Now what was I saying?" asks Management.
"I have no weekend."
"No need to be so dour, this is OT. And I really appreciate your help. So thank
you." An immature giggle erupts from somewhere in the region of the anal beads
and butt plugs. "If there's anything I can do to help you out, you know, let me
know."
"How about a raise?"
Management chortles.
"Ban Mr. Davis. That guy is a freak, and he's been hitting on Sarah."
"No," Management says, and the finality with which he says it stuns me.
"You've only been working here, what, two, two and a half years? I've been here
for eight. And Mr. Davis has been coming here even longer. You don't know him.
He's a good customer. And a good person."
"He gave that one girl rape tape."
"An ugly rumor."
"Fine. Whatever. But he gave Sarah a bra, and that is a fact."
Management shakes his head and closes his eyes. "I'm going to have a smoke.
I'm telling you to let it go."
It is 9:47 p.m., two hours since he arrived, when Mr. Davis, the creepy old
sleaze, finally comes to the register to checkout. He palms a stack of four DVDs
in one hand and carries a Melinda Muse blow-up doll with his other. Winded from
the weight of the doll, he plops the items on the countertop. "Find everything
you need?" I ask.
"This ought to do it."
I grab his movies and scan their barcodes with the pricing wand. The titles pop
up on the monitor accompanied with a perky boop.
Mr. Davis cracks open his wallet. "I'm disappointed Sarah wasn't here tonight.
I brought this for her." He removes a folded slip of paper and slides it across the
counter. "Take a look." I had planned to let it go. Management said to let it go,
and he was right. Mr. Davis isn't going to steal Sarah away from me; she's mine.
But, no, this is too far. Enough.
I push the paper back at him, and I unleash: "I don't know what this is, and I
don't really care, but I'm damn sick of you screwing around with my girlfriend. I
know Sarah took that bra from you, but only to be polite. That's just really
weird. And for the record, she threw that thing away once she got home." Mr.
Davis winces. I neglect to mention that Sarah trashed the undergarment at my
insistence. She needed the bra she said. It was nice, had good support, good
for her back, and did I know how impossible it was for her to find a bra in her
cup-size? I won't go anywhere near you if you wear that thing around me, I said.
So don't even bother. "And I'm not about to let you pass her notes like you're
in middle school. I won't." I pull the blow-up doll over to the pricing wand and
ask, "And what's with these dolls? That's just really weird, too." I finalize the
invoice. "Total's going to be $314.29, sir."
Through my whole reproof, Mr. Davis stood there, staring at me, motioning to
speak, but I kept stomping on his protests. It had to be said.
He picks up the paper from the counter and tucks it back into his wallet. "I
didn't know she was your girlfriend. I didn't mean anything by it. I just like her is
all. She reminds me of my wife."
"You're married? And you're flirting with my girlfriend? What the hell?"
"My wife is dead."
The words pin me in place, like a note to a corkboard.
Mr. Davis removes three hundred dollar bills and a twenty. He lays them on the
counter individually, as though he were dealing a hand of cards. "She was
murdered," he says, placing the final bill in front of me. "Six years ago a man
named Richard Marketis broke into our house and killed her." He seems reluctant
to continue, his words mouthing air like a goldfish in a tank, but when he speaks
again the story spills from him with the scripted familiarity of song lyrics. "I was
at a Magic game," he says. "I had season tickets. Never missed a game.
Marketis, that evil son of a bitch, broke into our house sometime during the
fourth quarter. Bethany was sleeping on the couch. She never slept in our bed
without me. Said it was too lonely. I know what she means." He scratches at his
face trying to dab away moisture covertly. "She was asleep on the couch and this
miserable fuck woke her up while he was digging through our drawers. 'Greggy'
she called him. That's what the bastard said at the trial. The last word my wife
spoke was my name, and I wasn't there to answer her. I was at a goddamn
game." He sniffles and swallows and shifts his weight from one foot to the next.
"He panicked and he strangled her." Mr. Davis is no longer looking at me, seems
to have forgotten I am here, because when I say I'm sorry, he says, "What?" as if
he were rousted from a daydream, as if he were back home watching, unable to
defend his wife as her murderer forced out her last breath.
In the months after Monica died, I often found myself standing on the shore of
Daytona Beach, the hoots and taunts of children at play mixing in my ears with
the faint scream sailing from a fleck offshore, only to have someone speak and
find myself holding up the checkout line at the grocery store, or parked at a green
light.
"I'm sorry," I repeat. "I didn't know."
"I know."
I peel $5.71 from the register and give him his change.
"Keep it," he says.
The gesture nearly cripples me. "Thank you," I say, taking his money, knowing
guilt will only prevent me from spending it until I'm low on beer. I want to
apologize more, but felt a third would be insulting and gratuitous. I detested the
meaningless condolences from friends and relatives who had never met Monica,
but felt bad for me, because that's all they gave me: the obligatory sympathy,
and then they left for the spread of free food, unwilling to let me share why I
cared for Monica. "Do you have any pictures with you?" I ask Mr. Davis.
"Of course," he says, brightening. He reopens his wallet, pulls out a
photograph with furry, worn edges, and passes it to me. In the photo, Bethany
sits on a red porch swing in front of a flower box filled with azaleas outside a big
window with wooden shutters, a crape myrtle in bloom behind her. "I took this
picture when she wasn't expecting it. I never could catch a genuine smile any
other way." Bethany stares at something out of frame, resting her slender arm
across the back of the porch swing, baring a large smile that displays her crooked
teeth, and the rings with familiarity. I know that snaggle-toothed grin: Melinda
Muse.
"She's beautiful," I say.
"She was."
As I return the photo and bag his items-the doll, the skin flicks-I tell Mr. Davis,
"I made Sarah throw the bra away. She wanted to keep it."
"Thanks," he says.
I slip the receipt inside one of his bags. "Have a good evening," I say, though I
know he won't. With a grunt, he shoulders the burden of the doll and pushes
open the door. The security sensor beeps so long I think he's just flat-lined.
And I watch as the night claims him.
you can. I haven't gotten hold of Sarah yet, but she's scheduled for tomorrow
morning, so it'll be you and her and me. One of you is going to need to pull a
double with me." Management reads my face for a reaction. I betray none.
"Anyways, I went through some of the old apps and made some calls, left some
messages, so hopefully we can get some fresh people in. Welcome to Fantasy
Adult," Management says, a conditioned response to the sound of the
security-sensor, and it stops the conversation dead. A youngish-looking woman
scampers in with her boyfriend or husband or cousin (who can tell?) lagging
several steps behind. "IDs?" Management asks. The couple reaches into their
wallets, presents their licenses, and Management, the grand centurion of smut,
allows them to pass. "Let me know if I can help you find anything," he says as
they head off towards the novelties, brushing past a few other customers,
including Mr. Davis, who is still loitering in the New Release section.
"Now what was I saying?" asks Management.
"I have no weekend."
"No need to be so dour, this is OT. And I really appreciate your help. So thank
you." An immature giggle erupts from somewhere in the region of the anal beads
and butt plugs. "If there's anything I can do to help you out, you know, let me
know."
"How about a raise?"
Management chortles.
"Ban Mr. Davis. That guy is a freak, and he's been hitting on Sarah."
"No," Management says, and the finality with which he says it stuns me.
"You've only been working here, what, two, two and a half years? I've been here
for eight. And Mr. Davis has been coming here even longer. You don't know him.
He's a good customer. And a good person."
"He gave that one girl rape tape."
"An ugly rumor."
"Fine. Whatever. But he gave Sarah a bra, and that is a fact."
Management shakes his head and closes his eyes. "I'm going to have a smoke.
I'm telling you to let it go."
It is 9:47 p.m., two hours since he arrived, when Mr. Davis, the creepy old
sleaze, finally comes to the register to checkout. He palms a stack of four DVDs
in one hand and carries a Melinda Muse blow-up doll with his other. Winded from
the weight of the doll, he plops the items on the countertop. "Find everything
you need?" I ask.
"This ought to do it."
I grab his movies and scan their barcodes with the pricing wand. The titles pop
up on the monitor accompanied with a perky boop.
Mr. Davis cracks open his wallet. "I'm disappointed Sarah wasn't here tonight.
I brought this for her." He removes a folded slip of paper and slides it across the
counter. "Take a look." I had planned to let it go. Management said to let it go,
and he was right. Mr. Davis isn't going to steal Sarah away from me; she's mine.
But, no, this is too far. Enough.
I push the paper back at him, and I unleash: "I don't know what this is, and I
don't really care, but I'm damn sick of you screwing around with my girlfriend. I
know Sarah took that bra from you, but only to be polite. That's just really
weird. And for the record, she threw that thing away once she got home." Mr.
Davis winces. I neglect to mention that Sarah trashed the undergarment at my
insistence. She needed the bra she said. It was nice, had good support, good
for her back, and did I know how impossible it was for her to find a bra in her
cup-size? I won't go anywhere near you if you wear that thing around me, I said.
So don't even bother. "And I'm not about to let you pass her notes like you're
in middle school. I won't." I pull the blow-up doll over to the pricing wand and
ask, "And what's with these dolls? That's just really weird, too." I finalize the
invoice. "Total's going to be $314.29, sir."
Through my whole reproof, Mr. Davis stood there, staring at me, motioning to
speak, but I kept stomping on his protests. It had to be said.
He picks up the paper from the counter and tucks it back into his wallet. "I
didn't know she was your girlfriend. I didn't mean anything by it. I just like her is
all. She reminds me of my wife."
"You're married? And you're flirting with my girlfriend? What the hell?"
"My wife is dead."
The words pin me in place, like a note to a corkboard.
Mr. Davis removes three hundred dollar bills and a twenty. He lays them on the
counter individually, as though he were dealing a hand of cards. "She was
murdered," he says, placing the final bill in front of me. "Six years ago a man
named Richard Marketis broke into our house and killed her." He seems reluctant
to continue, his words mouthing air like a goldfish in a tank, but when he speaks
again the story spills from him with the scripted familiarity of song lyrics. "I was
at a Magic game," he says. "I had season tickets. Never missed a game.
Marketis, that evil son of a bitch, broke into our house sometime during the
fourth quarter. Bethany was sleeping on the couch. She never slept in our bed
without me. Said it was too lonely. I know what she means." He scratches at his
face trying to dab away moisture covertly. "She was asleep on the couch and this
miserable fuck woke her up while he was digging through our drawers. 'Greggy'
she called him. That's what the bastard said at the trial. The last word my wife
spoke was my name, and I wasn't there to answer her. I was at a goddamn
game." He sniffles and swallows and shifts his weight from one foot to the next.
"He panicked and he strangled her." Mr. Davis is no longer looking at me, seems
to have forgotten I am here, because when I say I'm sorry, he says, "What?" as if
he were rousted from a daydream, as if he were back home watching, unable to
defend his wife as her murderer forced out her last breath.
In the months after Monica died, I often found myself standing on the shore of
Daytona Beach, the hoots and taunts of children at play mixing in my ears with
the faint scream sailing from a fleck offshore, only to have someone speak and
find myself holding up the checkout line at the grocery store, or parked at a green
light.
"I'm sorry," I repeat. "I didn't know."
"I know."
I peel $5.71 from the register and give him his change.
"Keep it," he says.
The gesture nearly cripples me. "Thank you," I say, taking his money, knowing
guilt will only prevent me from spending it until I'm low on beer. I want to
apologize more, but felt a third would be insulting and gratuitous. I detested the
meaningless condolences from friends and relatives who had never met Monica,
but felt bad for me, because that's all they gave me: the obligatory sympathy,
and then they left for the spread of free food, unwilling to let me share why I
cared for Monica. "Do you have any pictures with you?" I ask Mr. Davis.
"Of course," he says, brightening. He reopens his wallet, pulls out a
photograph with furry, worn edges, and passes it to me. In the photo, Bethany
sits on a red porch swing in front of a flower box filled with azaleas outside a big
window with wooden shutters, a crape myrtle in bloom behind her. "I took this
picture when she wasn't expecting it. I never could catch a genuine smile any
other way." Bethany stares at something out of frame, resting her slender arm
across the back of the porch swing, baring a large smile that displays her crooked
teeth, and the rings with familiarity. I know that snaggle-toothed grin: Melinda
Muse.
"She's beautiful," I say.
"She was."
As I return the photo and bag his items-the doll, the skin flicks-I tell Mr. Davis,
"I made Sarah throw the bra away. She wanted to keep it."
"Thanks," he says.
I slip the receipt inside one of his bags. "Have a good evening," I say, though I
know he won't. With a grunt, he shoulders the burden of the doll and pushes
open the door. The security sensor beeps so long I think he's just flat-lined.
And I watch as the night claims him.