She was pretty. Vibrant. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She was sitting close enough I could smell her shampoo, something fruity and floral. All the shampoos were then. And when I spoke to the people sitting around me on the tiled box on the Red Line platform, she was the first to respond.
“Anyone know what stop I get off at for Morton’s?” I said.
“Morton’s? What’s that?” the waif said,
“A steakhouse,” I replied.
The waif twisted in her seat, laid her back across my legs, and looking up at me, she said, “Steak? Do you need a date?”
Did I need a date? Needing a date wasn’t just in bloom, it was flourishing, and promising a record harvest. And here’s this chick, lying across my lap. Warming it. Her shoulder-length curls splayed over my thighs. Her flat stomach peeked out from between low-cut denim and a babydoll t-shirt.
“Sure,” I said. And like that, I had a date for an occasion that didn’t call for one.
It took only a few minutes of the half-hour subway ride to downtown Los Angeles for me to realize why this cute, perky, energetic, and braless chick was free that night. She was nuts. The kind of crazy some guys could work with for a while.
According to her, she had been on her way to the Greyhound station to go back to Las Vegas. Back to her ex-fiancé. Or was it her fiancé, or was it… He was something to her. What exactly remained unclear for the rest of the night. One thing was certain: he was the son of Steve Wynn. The guy who built the Mirage, the Bellagio, and a third of everything else in Vegas. At one point in the ride, Steve Wynn was not happy his son was engaged to the waif. At another point, he adored her. Maybe he’d even like her for himself. He might’ve even made a play for her. And that’s why she was… I gave up trying to track it all.
I arrived at Morton’s with the waif hanging on my arm like we were a fresh couple. I knew the apple had a razor blade in it but I still kind of wanted a bite. The waif charmed Michael and Eric, the friends I was meeting. Then she excused herself to go change. She only had a small backpack, so I didn’t expect a drastic difference.
“I didn’t know we were bringing dates,” Michael said. Eric probably had the same thought but he went with the flow.
“I didn’t either,” I said, “I just met her and she’s bananas. You’ll see.”
With their curiosities piqued, I bought myself a little forgiveness.
The waif reappeared transformed. She looked like she belonged in the joint far more than any of us. She looked good enough to serve. Good enough for all three courses. Her black skirt opened eyes and her silver top kept them glued. She spun around, making sure we had a chance to stare. And I stared. The tissue-thin top dangled loose and low, leaving only enough to the imagination to keep it active. It sparkled silver in the moody light. The back swooped down, showing plenty of clear skin. You don’t hear a lot said about a woman’s back, but a good one is worth writing about. Worth looking at.
The waif didn’t completely monopolize the conversation at dinner, but she put in the effort. She gave a truncated rundown of the Steve Wynn situation that roughly matched one of the versions she laid out on the subway. She added the curious detail that she had planned on panhandling for the sixty-five bucks for bus fare. But now she was having steak and a drink and a goddamn good time.
At that point in my life I was a recovering chickenshit when it came to girls. I was in my head a lot, and to put a crude point on it, I didn’t think with my dick enough for a man wrapping up his twenties. You’re supposed to take chances in that decade, and I didn’t. I was like a chess player who could imagine fifty moves ahead, and my imagination always landed on me flicking my king over in defeat. But I took a chance on that subway platform, ready to move my first pawn and the chick had loaded up her squares with the contraption from Mouse Trap.
But then there was that skin. Skin you could imagine under your fingertips. Surely I should at least entertain the idea of my first one-night stand.
But dinner came to a close and I came to my senses. Something told me to get away. “Sayonara, sweet waif. I’m going to ignore my instinct to protect and leave you to panhandle in downtown LA on a Saturday night. Good luck. And I’ll ignore my desire to taste the other two courses of the meal in slinky silver.”
Before I could say any of that, Michael said, “We have to go to The Standard.” Michael wanted someone to speak the word vermouth near a glass of vodka, and apparently The Standard had the softest whisper. Extending the evening thrilled the waif. But the Standard would not let us in. Too packed. It always was.
My chance came again. “Sayonara, sweet waif. I’m going to ignore my—”
“Let’s go to the one on Sunset,” Michael said. So we drove in his Jaguar, the waif hanging on me the whole way, and laughing. We were a couple. The waif and Chris, two thirty-ish adults who’d just discovered each other, still in that phase for clinging. That was her view. I was trying to work out how to flat-out ditch her. I’d excuse myself to go to the bathroom and run through the kitchen and out the back. Like they did in the pictures.
The Standard—Sunset Edition—was also packed. An hour plus for a table.
“Sayonara, sweet—”
“Let’s go to my place,” Michael said.
Why the hell did he suggest that? I wanted to tell him about my ditching scheme. Wanted to keep the waif from knowing where any of us lived. But the waif was always there. Never farther than an elbow looped around an arm.
Michael had a big Beverly Hills apartment with sparse furniture and plenty of booze. Just what the night wanted. The waif installed herself on the couch, launching into a fresh round of dubious claims. I got my first free minute when Michael ran to the kitchen for a drink.
“Man, I didn’t want to bring her to your apartment.”
Michael shrugged.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of this chick,” I said.
“When you do. Make sure to tell me, because I bet it’s gonna be funny,” Michael said, too entertained by my predicament to help in any way.
The night got long, threatening to call itself morning. I called a cab for me and the waif. Geographically, the most logical route was to drop me at home and send the cab on to the Greyhound station. The waif began suggesting she stay with me, offering to clean. Offering other benefits. She would only stay a couple weeks. Sure, just those two weeks and she’d move on. She had gone from crazy you could sink your teeth into to being stepped-on gum on a hot day. I wanted her gone. Out of my life and far away. But each attempt to remove her just got her stuck to something else. There was no goddamned way I could let her see my apartment. See where I lived or know anything more about me.
“Was it your intention to get on a bus tonight and go to Vegas?” I said. I’d engaged problem-solving Chris. The Chris who fixed things at work. But I had presence of mind enough to sprinkle some tenderness on my tone.
“Yes. I was going to panhandle—”
“I’m going to buy your ticket for you,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
I told the cabbie to take us downtown. And he did. Along the way the waif made a couple more coquettish attempts to steer us back to my place. I simply said no or didn’t respond. The air was leaking out of the night and she felt it. The liveliness that had been so appealing came only in spurts now.
The Greyhound station is not the famous Union Station. It’s not an art deco masterpiece. It’s not beautiful and it’s not a place for romantic goodbyes. It’s a place for heading back home after your dreams spoiled and you couldn’t stand the sight of anything that hinted you even had them.
Bureaucratic beige and rust colored the hall. Beige walls wore rust-colored terrazzo pants pulled to their nose hairs. The floor was beige and cream terrazzo tiles divided with thin metal strips polished to mirrors by shuffling feet. A lot of people in that dreary institution waited to flee LA in the cheapest way possible.
We arrived around 5 AM and the ticket office wasn’t open. That gave the waif a chance to go to the bathroom to change out of that delicious silver top. She hesitated, worried I’d leave. For the first time in hours, I wasn’t looking to ditch her. I had no intention of wavering from my mission to see her get on a bus and drive away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said reassuringly. She hugged me and took a hesitant step toward the bathroom, then took the rest of the steps. I kept my word. She came back dressed as she had when she first laid across my lap. She was still a fine-looking automobile. She looked fun to drive if you ignored the rusted floorboards and clacking valves.
The bus stop cafe opened, ready to punish anyone who committed the crime of eating there. I bought us each a tray of lifeless scrambled eggs, bereft pancakes, and a stone-dead sausage. I was hungry enough to endure the whole thing but vowed to go to Fred 62 later for pancake redemption.
The ticket office opened and everyone with a duffel bag full of broken dreams beat us to the line. As we wound our way between the ropes, the waif hung on me like we were still a couple and I wasn’t buying her passage out of my life. She wasn’t still. Her hands explored me and I pretended to be a statue. I wasn’t a statue. I am a red-blooded man and the touch of a woman has an effect. An effect she noticed.
“You sure you don’t want me to come home with you?” she said. Looking up at me, she started to grind her crotch against my thigh. “We could cuddle.”
“No. You’re getting on that bus,” I said, but not without a little effort.
Cool air drifted into the hall, carrying a whiff of diesel exhaust. Her bus idled, doors open, letting passengers on. The waif waited with me until they shouted last call. We had hardly said a word. She said her goodbyes and skipped toward the Greyhound. It was a cute skip.
She stopped, spun around, the little backpack that hid the thin silver top swinging, and she ran back.
“Thank you,” she said, and kissed me. I kissed her back, slipping an arm around her slender waist and pulling her close. And just for a moment, the Greyhound station was a place for a romantic goodbye. I was Rick sending Ilsa away for her own good.
She pulled away and held up a piece of paper. “I got your number. I’m going to call you,” the waif said like she’d pulled a trick, and hurried to the waiting bus. She must’ve heard me give the number to the cab company. Ah, what did it matter?
I watched her get on the bus. Got one last look at the swing of her hips, and the little slice of smooth skin peeking out between the belt line and babydoll t-shirt.
Once the bus drove away, I waited for the Red Line to reopen and went home to a cold shower and an empty bed.
She never called.
All this really happened around 23 years ago. I only took license where I couldn’t remember the details, and with the turning point of when I knew I had to ditch the waif. It was really about about ten minutes into the night. Maybe I dodged a bullet or maybe I was just too self-aware to let myself have fun.
This song has been in my head while writing the above piece because of one line, “She climbs up like a vine.” The song has a great vibe with clever lyrics.
Did you know I have a novel coming out soon? Visit my author page at https://alexguybooks.com/
FAIRYLAND MURDERS combines the snappy dialogue and atmospheric tension of Raymond Chandler with the imaginative world-building of Jim Butcher, creating a truly original fantasy noir that asks: What happens when "happily ever after" is just another lie the powerful tell?
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