Mama (Updates Thursday)

The Hitching P-st

I took the pickup to the bar near the factory where Mama worked. Neither of us usually went there; it was a sad, sketchy little building in the middle of an asphalt wasteland, with a couple of rusty pickups parked outside it. A humming neon sign across the top said "THE HITCHING P-ST".

Inside wasn't much better. The brightest lights in the dingy bar were from some VLTs in the corner, whizzing and chirping away, and a buzzing stampede of golden neon horses above the bar, bare-chested warriors riding on their backs. I guess it was supposed to look proud, but it just looked tacky.

Some listless guitar twanging floated through the bar, six or so small, round tables barely visible in the darkness. The place was empty, except for one young-looking guy nursing a beer at one of the tables near the bar. I couldn't be sure that was who Mama told me about, but there was an easy way to tell.

I walked behind him, near enough to brush past him, and sat at the bar. The bartender, an old white-haired guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, came towards me, but I waved him away, and he went back to the other side of the bar. It wasn't long before the guy got up and bought me a beer, without asking me what I was drinking. This had to be him.

I pretended to be bashful, grinning to myself and avoiding his gaze, like I couldn't believe someone like him would talk to someone like me. It was just the sort of thing he wanted to see, and he was moving pretty quickly with me. He asked me a few token questions, like asking how long I'd lived on the reserve ("not long," I answered), before talking about himself, with the kind of bravado that makes him sound like everything he does is part of some brilliant plan. I spoke as little as I could, for now; he needed to think he was in charge.

He sounded like a bona-fide asshole, but I did my best to listen to him. I had to be certain this guy was as bad as Mama said, if he was as worth punishing as she seemed to think. I couldn't let myself get too distracted, though; I had to pay close attention to how he spoke, and what he talked about, to be absolutely sure I should go through with it.

But the more he talked about himself, went on about his job at the factory like it was the best thing he could be doing, I could tell that I, and the other girls he must have talked to, were just parts of his plan. He didn't sound like he had much attachment or empathy with anything; he just cared if things were going his way, and was quick to get rid of anything that might challenge him.

The night went on, as it does, and by last call he was still hanging onto his every word. He suggested going back to his place; I suggested going to mine instead. He looked bothered about it, but when I said I would drive, he went along with it. He must have figured I was demure enough that I wanted to be somewhere familiar to go all the way with him. There was a slight twitch in his eye, though, that made me think he wasn't going to put up with any more little tweaks in his 'plan' for very long.

So we went out into the cold night air, the half-moon bright in the sky, and we got into my creaky old pickup. The guy remarked that he thought he had seen it before (Mama drove it to work occasionally), but it was too dark to be sure, so he quickly forgot about it. I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.