18 Years + 1 Month..

One month after my eighteenth birthday, I got married for my very first time. I was the last of my girlfriends to do so. In fact, sometimes we would all hang out, when their husbands were away on maneuvers. We'd drink Coors light and diet RC's, while listening to Pat Benetar, Heart and a little bit of AC/DC. They always teased me, and referred to me, as the old maid.


Six months after going in front of the Justice of the Peace, it ended with me face down, in the kitchen, on dirty old worn linoleum. I'm not saying time stood still, as the young G.I., who was now my husband, let his tantrum play out upon me. Although, I do recall having enough of it to think, "Well, this is the second time, so he ain't ever going to quit." I also knew at that moment, I would never clean that floor again. The thought of that, made me smile. He took it as defiance.

I left the next morning. I had to. The first time he hit me, I had given him a pass. It was cold outside, the sun had sat, and our ride wouldn't start. I was trying real hard to be pleasing, even though I was super pissed. He had dragged me out to a trailer park, to try some Staff Sergeant's hash, on a motorcycle, he was only supposed to be taking for a test ride. I swear, I never saw the fist coming. But, I sure as hell felt it leaving, as he pulled it from me, sticking it back in his pocket, in the quiet darkness of the night.

I moved in with a girl I knew from high school. I don't remember much about her, other than she was heavy-set, real earnest and already a nurse's assistant, from having taken additional classes at the JC in the afternoons, after regular school let out. I felt ashamed around her, because she had already kick-started her life plan, and I was just trying to survive to the next day.

She showed me how to make a fake resume, and how to look through the want ads, even lending me a pen to circle a few of the promising. It had a little troll doll eraser taped to the end of it. I called around, filled out some fast food applications and even went cross-town on the bus, to answer an ad for a receptionist. Minimum skills required, it said, no appointment necessary. I would soon know why.

I found myself sitting in a vanilla colored office, in a bland business building, situated on the less active side of our town's only Mall. A beautiful woman was talking at me. "Can you type?"

I try to answer, "No, but I'm a quick learner."

She ignores me and continues into what starts to seam like a pitch, it's almost well rehearsed. She's engaging, even though she talks to fast, I have a hard time following. She stops abruptly, and smiles. Her left canine catching the light of the fluorescent desk lamp that's cocked eyed and sitting between us. It gives the illusion that her grin is momentarily sparkling. "The only thing, we would have for you, is that of a waitress, at a night club property we own." She puts her hand on mine. I like the feeling of it, for no other reason then she just has the vibe of possibility about her. "The problem is, sweetie. You're not old enough to serve drinks."

My heart nose dives. She probably sees the bruise on the side of my face. I thought I had hidden it away, quite cleverly.

"But, you could work as a hostess?" She asks more then says, "Let me clarify, it's actually hosting and dancing.."

"Dancing..." I repeat, copying her cadence, "What kind of dancing?" But I already knew. There's only one place in town where girls made money dancing. It was at the Peppermint Lounge, which just so happened to be, two blocks north and on the left, of the ratty four-plex, I just moved in to.

I stand up, not in a huff or anything. I just know I needed to get out of there as fast as I could. I needed room to think. I bet that fucking earnest girl is not going to go for having a stripper as a roommate, at all..