The Hunger

By John Pender

I'm hungry. Bring me another.
The young woman across the boulevard regarded him with shy eyes; barely a woman, but a woman nonetheless. He ventured a guess at her age, pegging her between twenty-one and twenty-five, that part of his brain drowned in confusion as is the case these days; they dress so much older than they really are nowadays. As he waited for the Nine – the Provo city bus that actually ran at 9:05 – he watched her curiously, jingling his fare in his pocket and occasionally allowing a finger to wander.

The briefcase in his other hand grew heavy, and as heavy as the urge was to set it down, he dared not. Seventh Avenue wasn't a good place to be after dark; rumors abounded. Seventh is a place where drug deals go bad, robberies and muggings are commonplace, and people disappear. Besides, his work papers were in there, as was his new chromed Smith & Wesson, and he sure as hell didn't want anyone to get hold of that baby. It cost him nearly a grand and a good hit on his credit report to get it. Such was the case with nearly everything he’d bought the past few years, working below his previous pay rate in the years following the beginning of the recession.  

She turned to her left, pretending to observe something happening down the street. He noticed an old drunk half a block away walking slowly and crookedly toward her, dodging the bottles and other discards that littered the sidewalk; the sweeper hadn't been around in weeks. But it wasn't the drunk bum she was looking at, rather off into the night at the head and tail lights of the cars zipping by three blocks down on Anderson Avenue. Deep inside she wondered what life would be like living in Corporate America, but she made good money working the streets. Well, at least this street – she didn't have to work any other. And at seventeen, money is money and you don't really care how you get it.

She pulled a box of Camels from her handbag and a black Zippo with an engraved spider on its front from between her breasts and fired up a smoke. He could barely discern the tobacco's smoke from the fog her breath made in the cool night air. She returned his gaze and locked eyes with him, knowing good and well she had the power to make him cater to her every whim. Wrapping men around her little finger had become her specialty in recent months. He stared into her eyes from across the two lanes, his pocketed hand tickling …

Eyes locked, she blew smoke rings in his direction. The small O of her lips and the gentle throbbing of her throat as each ring left her mouth sent his imagination into overdrive.

He followed her into the alley marked by the gently buzzing and flashing red OPEN ALL NIGHT neon sign that proudly marked Allen's Quick Stop, so devoid of customers one could swear to hear the breeze blowing between the aisles, as if they were standing in a barren wasteland. She led him to a spot concealed in the shadows behind the garbage bin with HARRY'S printed across the front and BIG SMELLY DICK! scrawled below it in red spray paint, where he was none too surprised to find the damp, dirty concrete covered with a fresh double layer of cardboard and a box of Kleenex perched atop an old, cracked paint bucket.

At once she arched her back, heaving her chest forward and cracking a smile in his direction. Nervously, he bent slightly sideways (more of a perverse contortion) to read the time on the Movado on the wrist of the arm whose hand was still fooling around in his pocket.
8:50.

When he looked up she raised her arm, first holding up two fingers, then forming her hand into an O. She blew more smoke rings, her throat again throbbing, beckoning him, tantalizing. He quickly recalled the three twenties in his wallet; the week's spending money he’d gotten earlier that morning thanks to the handy-dandy miracle of cash-back at the grocery store. Modern technology – gotta love it. Great for a little lunch money and convincing some girl to blow you in a dark alley.

Nervously he looked both ways; no one to his left nor his right. The sidewalks on both sides of Seventh Avenue were queerly empty. Looking across the street, he noticed the old drunk had wandered off to places unknown. It was just him and her, standing on opposite ends of the street from one another, talking silently to each other through the looks in their eyes and the occasional movement of a body part.

Taking a deep breath and gathering his nerves – he had never in his life done anything remotely as daring as what he was about to do – he stepped into the street. She smiled.

When he reached the other side, she held out her hand to help him step up over the curb; more a formality than anything else. Who needs help stepping up a four-inch-high curb anyway? She signed “twenty” again – he nodded. She stepped closer to him, craning her neck till his lips met hers. Wow, more than I was bargaining for! They kissed a soft kiss and she took his hands in hers, like long-lost lovers again reunited before the setting sun.

She led him to the alleyway, hand in hand, the one with the gently buzzing and flashing red OPEN ALL NIGHT neon sign, marking Allen's Quick Stop. He stared feverishly at her ass as she led him past the big trash bin with

HARRY'S

BIG SMELLY DICK!

on it. He never noticed; he was too enthralled with the way her hindquarters swayed as she walked before him, ever so seductively. The sight of black lace thong peeking from beneath her red mini created an all-too-familiar heat between his legs.

Disappearing into the shadows, he found himself standing on a carpet of fresh-laid cardboard, a beat-up old paint bucket sitting upside down to his left with a Kleenex box on top. Holding onto his belt with both hands, she kissed him and pushed him back into wall. Only the wall wasn't a wall, but a door; a cold metal door with peeling paint and uncountable dents and scratches. They kissed with fervor, the passion mounting between them.

When he placed his hand on her head, signaling his desires, she hesitated. She gazed into his eyes and smiled a most seductive smile, her hands rubbing lightly over the denim below his belt. His hands wandered to her chest, caressing her seventeen-year-old breasts. His lungs released and a shiver rushed through his body.

She reached over his shoulder and knocked on the door three times. Thinking it a part of their game, he disregarded it. She brought her hand down, put her finger to her lips and

Sssshh …

Her smile slowly faded to a look of most seriousness, leaving him puzzled. He again placed a hand atop her head, this time applying a little pressure, and she slowly began to kneel.

In the blink of an eye, the door behind him opened inward. He stumbled backward into the dark, his arms flailing in a pitifully executed attempt to grab hold of the frame, and he landed on his rear with a hard thud that nearly knocked the breath from his body. Scrambling to his feet and twice slipping on the damp concrete floor and falling to his knees, he made for the safety of the alley.

A massive arm wrapped its way around his torso, pulling him back into the dark cave. Before he could turn to fight his abductor, he was pulled backward into the body of someone large who crushed his rib cage and lifted him effortlessly from the floor. A sharp pain ripped through his neck, the world in front of his eyes transforming into a brilliant display of fireworks and bright lights. Gazing down through the doorway through heavy and fading eyes, he saw his street queen staring back at him with the most sinister smile plastered across her young face. She reached inside and shut the door.

The minutes ticked by like hours, and as she stooped rearranging her cardboard flooring, the door opened again. Stepping out of the shadows within was a beast of a man, who himself had to stoop to exit the doorway. Once outside in the cool night air of the dark alleyway and standing fully erect, one could observe his true height – easily eight feet tall. He was dressed in rags, haphazardly sewn together with lengths of rope. A numberless Movado adorned his right thumb; his hands the size of dinner hams. His long, previously tied-back hair hung down in his face, modestly covering the drying red smear that covered his chin and the maroon bib across his chest.

Their eyes met and they regarded each other with an understanding: They needed each other. The giant held out his left hand, in it little white envelope. She wondered how such mighty hands could perform such a delicate task as stuffing and sealing a thing so small and fragile. As he handed it to her silently, she thought

Same time next week?

He returned a slow, simple nod in the affirmative and stroked her cheek with his massive forefinger. A tear fell from her eye and she began to sob.
Daddy, I wish you could come home.

He sighed a gentle sigh, his power of speech long since lost, and placed a hand across her back, pulling her close as he knelt before her. They embraced, each remembering what life was like but a year ago. She had been a happy-go-lucky, average tenth grader, nothing in the world to worry about but boys and how good her ass looked in whatever she covered it with. He, a networking specialist with a beautiful daughter on the honor roll headed for Harvard and a new red Porsche in the driveway. Officially, Stephen Ridley disappeared and was presumed dead after a fruitless two-month search in the areas surrounding Provo. Only young Kayley Ridley knew the real truth.

Wish I could, honey. But you know the world can't see me.

They'd kill you.

Yes.

She stuffed the envelope with the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into her bra and left the confines of the dark alley on Seventh Avenue with a briefcase in tow. The Nine slowly rolled by, its driver neglecting to stop for lack of a fare. She raised her hand in a friendly hello and went on her way.