Down in the Zero

'I liked your look.'

'My face? My body? What?'

'Not your looks. Your look. Understand?'

'No. Tell me. Please tell me,' she hastily amended, like she'd made a fatal slip.

'You looked like a…merry girl. Bouncy. Sweet. A true–hearted girl.'

'And I…showed you how I play. So you don't like me anymore?'

'I don't care how you play. I just don't have people playing with me.'

'Are you scared?'

'Of what?'

'That you'd like it.'

'I like a lot of things— the only things that scare me are the ones I need.'

'And you don't need much?'

'I've had a lot of practice.'

'Because you were poor?'

'I was born broke,' I told her. That's the best way to lie to strangers— tell them the true truth.

She got up, walked over to a big–screen TV facing the couch. She bent over at the waist, cued a VCR, ran her finger down a stack of cassettes. When she found the one she wanted, she shoved it into the slot. Then she plucked a remote from the top of the TV set, came back over to the couch holding it in her hand.

'You want a cigarette?' she asked.

'Sure,' I said, waiting.

'I don't have any,' she said. 'I just meant it was okay to smoke here. That's an ashtray,' pointing to a flat silver dish on the top of a black lacquered coffee table.

I took the pack from my jacket pocket, shook one out, put it in my mouth. I opened the little box of wooden matches, the one with the name of the nightclub in Chicago I'd never been to. I leave them places, throw trackers off the scent. She put her hand on mine, said 'Let me do it.' I handed her the matches. She pulled the cigarette from my mouth, put it between her lips, struck the match. When she got it going, she handed it to me.

'Thanks.'

'You didn't say anything about the taste this time,' she said, soft–voiced. 'I really liked it when you did that. Flirting. It's sweet fun. People don't do it much anymore. What you said…that was a line, right?'

'No. I never said that before in my life. It just happened.'

'I bet.'

'Don't bet. You haven't learned to tell the truth when you hear it by now, all you'll ever be able to do is play— you'll never be for real.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, dropping her eyes. 'Did you mean the other stuff, what you said before? About me looking like a merry girl?'

'Yes.'

She shifted her body so she was facing the TV set. 'I don't just play— I work too,' she said. 'Watch.'

She hit the remote. Chamber music came from the speakers. The screen background was a neon blue. Black letters popped up: A LESSON FOR MELISSA. Credits rolled over the music. CANE PRODUCTIONS, trick lettering— the 'P' in 'PRODUCTIONS' formed a stylized cane. Some other stuff. The camera dissolved to…Fancy. In a high– necked, long–sleeved, dark velvet dress with a gathering of white lace at the throat, tight bodice, full skirt. She was seated on a flat bench, both hands in her lap. 'Get in here, young lady!' her voice cracked out from the speakers.

'Yes, mistress,' said the woman walking on screen. A young woman, medium–height and slender, with long straight hair. She was wearing a schoolgirl outfit— dark plaid jumper over a white blouse, long white socks almost to her knees, flat–heeled shoes with Mary Jane straps.

'It's a standard script,' Fancy said, pushing a button on the remote. MUTE appeared in yellow letters at the bottom of the screen.

There was some exchange of conversation between the two women, then the slender girl lay across Fancy's lap. Fancy pulled up the other girl's skirt and spanked her for a long time, occasionally stopping to say something. The camera shifted, zooming in from screen left to display the other woman's underpants. Back to a close–up of the woman's face, contorted in mock pain. Pulling away to a long shot: Fancy pulling down the other woman's panties, now smacking her with a hairbrush. The cameras danced around the show— at least three of them, an expensive setup.

The scene seemed to go on and on, with the slender woman turning her head once in a while to say something. The camera lensed lovingly over her bottom, now a bright red. Finally, in response to something Fancy said, the woman slid off Fancy's lap, Fancy hooking a thumb into the panties so they slid off the other girl's legs as she stood up. Fancy pointed screen right. The other girl walked off. The closing shot was of the other girl, standing in a corner, her face to the wall.

There were no actors' credits at the end. Just the Cane Productions sign and a P.O. box in Atlanta where you could order a catalog.

Fancy hit the remote and the screen went dark.

'That's me,' she said.