tanley comes home last night. I’m watching my programs. He says, “Um, unh, Rhonda, sweetie, things are a little tight. Money-wise.” He’s all mumble jumbly, like he’s afraid to talk. “Rhonda? Baby? I had to lay off the girl. I hate to ask you, but would you mind comin’ in and lendin’ me a hand? Just for a week or so?”

Christ. Half the nights Stan don’t make it home at all, pulling double shifts. Which is fine by me, cuz his fat saliva-drippin’ cigars only stink up my Carpet Freshed rugs. I swear! Last June, I took from the savings and put this brand new shag in the den. Hundred percent acrylic, but Gary, the blond manager at Carpeteria - nice guy, looks like he works out – gave me a break so I wouldn’t have to compromise and get some cheaper stuff. I love the name of the color: Key Lime. Makes the place feel like Florida, which is nice come wintertime. Kind of cozy and tropical. I don’t think Stanley ever noticed the damned thing. He’s just happy to blow his smoke all over it. Remember those commercials with them little smelly guys running around in the carpets, Ugly Household Monsters? Well, that’s Stanley, except he’s giant sized. All fat and hairy, except his bug-eyed bald head. Fat Stanley, lousing up the carpets and the drapes and the whole place. “Peee-yoooo!” I says when he walks in the door, “Stanley’s back.”

You know my underwear used to pick it up? What do you think of that? How’s a woman supposed to feel feminine when her panties smell like she’s been sitting in an ashtray? That was the end. September. When I noticed my underwear stunk. I says, “Stanley, you don’t have no respect for a woman. Get your lardy-ass and your cigar-smelling clothes down the hall to the guest suite.”

For a month, I sprayed a can of Lysol every day and I Carpet Freshed and I put them pine forest Stick-Ups all over the place. And finally, the room started to smell like a lady’s room. Nice and proper. I bought this new pillow, just for me. G’head, hon, feel it. Uh-huh. How about that. Fluffy, ain’t it? No foam rubber. Genuine goose droppings.

Now every night, I treat myself real gentle and read my romance and this room ain’t Stanley and Rhonda’s no more. It’s all mine. My boodwah. Mmmmm. Sometimes, when I’m in bed, I treat myself to a gourmet yogurt. I take little teeny spoonfuls. It’s the expensive kind. Yoplait. It comes from Paris, France.

Now, since Stanley ain’t been grunting and drooling and sticking his tiny little thing in me since September, I was surprised he laid off the girl. I ain’t stupid. I know he was probably laying on the girl. So this makes me realize that things must be real tough, and I thinks to myself, Why the hell not? I’d love to get out of this crappy shack for a few days.

So I turns to Stanley and I says, “Stanley, you stinkin’ tub! Can’t you see I’m in the middle of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?”

He snorts like a pig and goes to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Then he comes back in and sits on the La-Z-Boy, staring at me with these desperate eyes. I think, How pathetic. Business must be going down the tubes. And I says, “Stanley. You got mustard at the corner of your mouth.”

“Champagne wishes and caviar dreams!” goes Robin Leach. I zap him off with the remote.

“Rhonda. Doll. I don’t want to make you work, but I’m in trouble.”

It was disgusting. Looked like he might cry.

“Ok Stan.” I says. “Ain’t no problem. I can start tomorrow.”

“No. I mean, wait. You don’t have to start so soon.”

“You said you wanted help.”

“But. Maybe I can find…”

“No buts. I’m working tomorrow. Now gimme half that Pop-Tart.”

“Thanks, Baby.” Stanley busts it in two. Gives me the small half, of course. He keeps staring at me. I swear. I thought he was gonna try and kiss me.

“Quit lookin’ at me. Cosby’s on. Look at Cosby.”

“I’m tired. One of the night men quit again. I been working 24.”

“Right Stanley. And how’s little Lolita.”

“Rhonda. You know I ain’t interested in the girls at work. I told you a million times. Gimme a break.”

“Watch Cosby. He smokes a fat cigar, too.”

“Rhonda.”

“Shhhhsh!”

“Rhonda.”

“What is it Stanley? I’m watching my program!”

“Rhonda. I don’t smoke cigars no more. Not since September, when you asked me to stop. You don’t notice any changes around here.”

He shakes his head and wanders off to the guest room. I take a whiff of the air. No way. He ain’t done that. I can smell the smoke. You can smell it, right? I can smell it. Hundred percent. At least Cosby is kind to his wife. Nothin’s changin’.

 

o this morning, Stanley’s driving us in. We take the Black Horse Pike. Most interesting road in Jersey. Pine trees and flea markets and all your little towns: Smithdale, Buena, Millville. Lot of restaurants, too. On just one road they’ve got McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s and Taco Bell’s; you can be choosy. I figured I could make Stanley take me out for supper tonight, since I was bailing him out and all. I was thinking about Wendy’s, because they put in that Healthy Salad Buffet.

Stanley goes, “Listen sweetheart. I really appreciate your pitching in. Would you like to get some breakfast?”

“Christ, Stan! You tell me we’re halfway into the poorhouse and you want to eat a restaurant breakfast?”

“I’m sorry,” he sulks. “I don’t care. I bought doughnuts yesterday and there’s still some sitting on my desk. I just thought you might like to…”

“Well, you might as well pull over.” I pointed to Burger King. Stanley drank black coffee and stared at me, all gloomy-like. I had the Croissanwich. ‘Sweetheart,’ he calls me. What a crock of shit.

Stan’s place is a little white building. Used to be a garage. He’s between a liquor store and a motel. Free cable in all the rooms. He’s got one of them white signs with black plastic stick-on letters at the side of the road.

PEEP SHOWS * ADULT BOOKS * XXX RATED
*LOLITA – TOTALLY NUDE EXOTIC DANCER *

Actually it says PEE SHOWS. A letter fell off. It's getting run over by trucks.

 

tanley reads the sports page. The room is dark and smells like spilt beer. I know nothin’ much happens until lunchtime, which is when the first Lolita show goes on. Drivers come in, ask Stan for change. I watch ‘em squeeze into the little wooden booths. They can pick MILKMAID, BIKE-GALS, LONG JOHN & THE TREASURE CHEST, or BI-BI BIRDY. I can hear them panting and kicking their feet against the walls of the booths.

“Who cleans up in there?” I ask Stanley. I been there plenty of times, but I never thought about it.

“The night man. Or me on the nights I ain’t got a night man.”

“You don’t clean up Stanley. When was the last time you cleaned up at home?”

He don’t even hear me. Ain’t paying attention to me. “I know it’s disgusting,” he says. “I’m sorry I had to bring you here.”

“They’re lonely men,” I says. “What’s so disgusting? You’d rather they become sex-killers or rapists?”

“I’d rather they not be lonely. I’d rather not be here myself.”

A pimple-faced kid gives me ten dollars for a giant rubber thingy. Must be cutting school. Roach crawls into the box of chocolate doughnuts.

The place is one long room, but three quarters of the way down, there’s a thick black curtain hanging across. On the other side are like fifteen folding chairs facing this sheet of plasti-glass. It’s blurry where they press against it. Behind the glass is a little stage, with a dressing room back of that. So quarter of noon, I’m changing. It don’t matter how old I am. The guys come in here, they want to see Lolita the sexpot, so that’s what they see. I’m 47, and hardly no Krystle Carrington, but I can dance just fine. In the dresser drawer are garters and pasties and panties. They’re pretty. Smell like baby powder.

Stanley knocks on the door.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just gonna cancel the shows. You don’t have to do this, Rhonda. You don’t need to be here.”

“It’s time, Stanley. Why don’t you go watch?”

I put the tape in and strut out onto the stage, shakin’ my ass.

‘Hot Stuff’. Donna Summer. Same record I used when Stanley first saw my act at Bill’s joint two years ago. Our Song, you could say. When he bought me a drink that night, I figured he wanted to hire me away to dance at his place. But all’s he wanted was a date…

So now I’m swinging it around on the stage, sticking my tits out at the six or seven guys standing on the other side of the glass…

And when I say he wanted a date, you know, I mean a date-date. Like dinner and a movie and all that. And I say what the hell. And then at the end of the night, he says he likes me. Wants to go out more. Says he can see something special in me. He seems different. Don’t even try to touch me. And then it's another date, and another, and then he says he wants me to marry him. I don’t need to do this work no more. Says I don’t need to do this kind of thing…

I’m down to my G. This UPS guy’s got his fly undone. He’s flicking his tongue at the glass…

I can stay at home, he says. Live like a goddamn queen. But when Stanley gets home, he wants it just like every other man. I don’t need to work no more. Right! He wants me working just for him exclusive. And keep house, too! Fuck him and clean his house.

‘Hot stuff baby tonight!’ I sing along, licking my lips. The men sit there, silent, but looking at me so hard it's like noise. I can see their eyes spark, lit cigarettes reaching toward me.

Shit! I catch my bare foot on a rusty nail. But I bear down. Keep smiling. Pinch my nips so the sonsofbitches practically cream in their pants. I moan for ‘em. And there’s Stanley. Back against the curtain. No hot orange light in his eyes. Just staring, dead. Looks like he’s gonna puke. Now the song’s coming to an end, so I arch my back, whip away the G, and give ‘em one fast spread.

And then I’m off.

I walk out of the light, into the back room. An hour ‘til I’m on again.

’m sitting there in a bathrobe and Stan knocks. He’s looking all depressed and moody again.

“What’s the matter with you Stanley? They loved me. They loved Little Lo-leee-ta! And you? You just stared at me like I wasn’t even there. You better start smiling Stanley. I’m gonna make you a ton of money.”

“No you’re not, Rhonda. I can’t make you do this. I feel ashamed for asking. Go on home, baby. Take the car. I’ll do something. Find another girl. Burn the place down. I don’t know. Just go home. It’s ok. Please.”

“You gotta be kidding Stanley. I ain’t going nowhere. You don’t know a good thing when you see it. I never heard you talk to me like those guys do.” I drop my robe off of one shoulder. “Hey Big Man, don’t you want some of Little Lolita? Don’t I turn you on?”

Stanley’s tightening up, pulling his shoulders in around his neck and trying not to look. But I’ll make him see.

“C’mon Stud,” I growl. I put my hands against the wall on either side of him. He’s trapped now. “Don’cha like what you see?” He’s squeezin’ himself tighter and tighter, like he don’t want me to touch him. The bastard hates my guts. I throw back my shoulders and the robe drops. I’ve got him pinned against the wall, tassels and a sparkling silver G-string. “What’s wrong with you, Stanley? Ain’t you got no taste? C’mon now. Eat this fuckin’ dish. Little Lolita is all yours.”

He grabs hold of my arm and pushes me away. His face is all red. “Are you crying you big fat baby? Be a man!”

He runs out of the room, shouting as he slams the door. “Little Lolita ain’t mine!”

t eight o’clock, the night man comes in.

“Think I found a new girl for the late shows , Stanley. I’ll bring her in tomorrow.”

“Terrific,” says Stan. “Just terrific.”

“This the new Lolita?” He points at me.

“Yes siree boy.” I wink.

“She’s joking,” says Stanley. “This is Rhonda. My wife.”

“Oh! Pardon me.”

“No apologies needed,” I sigh.

Stanley cringes, tugs my arm.

“I’m coming. Don’t rush me.”

We don’t say nothing the whole ride home. I stare at the golden arches. Denny’s. Friendly’s. It's dark and cold and I’m still afraid that Stanley’s gonna start crying. I don’t want to see that. He’s ugly and fat, but at least he could be tough. And soon we’re home. We’re at the house.

s soon as we’re through the front door, he’s all “Rhonda, Rhonda, Rhonda. I love you baby, I love you so much.” He’s trying to hug me tight.

“Get off me Stanley. You had your chance today.”

“Not with you. Not with my wife.”

“You ain’t gonna fuck me here Stanley. This is my house. I’m a lady goddamit.”

“But – ”

“But nothing Stan. Get your mitts off of me. You’re all screwed up in the head.”

On my way to bed, I pass Stanley’s little room. The door is shut, but I hear his noises. He’s panting and kicking his feet against the bed.

“Rhonda baby,” he’s whispering. “I love you, I love you.”

I walk on by. In the morning, I’ll be Lolita again. Now I’ll eat my yogurt and imagine Paris, France.

 

[END]

© 2003 Jim Gladstone - Contributor's Bio