Old South Trailer Court Ch. 07byJAMESBJOHNSON©
ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS.
Her first orgasm stunned her like a punch in the stomach, the next one was like a memory dump, and the third was the K.O. that closed her eyes, made Jello of her legs, caused her to speak word salad gibberish mixed with grunts and moans and sighs, and sent her empty mind to some pleasant place for a while.
Molly Walker awoke from her dream when lightning struck across the street and its thunder cracked like artillery fire. A dark corner in the Bay City Parking Garage had been her refuge till she was discovered and made to leave; now she slept behind the bar she cleaned at night. And as she recovered her senses the rain began falling, sounding like impatient fingers tapping a table top; she pulled a cigarette from the pack in her bag, and lit it. Within a few brief minutes her breath had fogged the windows. "Makes it harder to see in," she thought. "Ugh, I hate cheap cigarettes. Today's payday, I can rent a room and wash my hair."
Around nine a.m. knuckles knocking on the window awoke her, she looked at the person doing the knocking, it was the bar manager, Murray. "Come inside, I need to talk to you," he said. Molly followed him to his office.
He sat, unlocked a file cabinet, pulled out an envelope with her name on it. "Count it, I don't trust those guys," he warned her, "Molly you also need to find another place to sleep, I'm sorry," he said it plain. "Some asshole saw you, and word got back to the owner," he added.
"Murray? Is it okay if I wash up?" She asked, as she counted her pay and stuffed the envelope in her bag.
"Not a problem, Molly," he replied.
In the restroom Molly brushed her teeth, gargled, removed her clothes, swabbed her body with a washcloth, and was patting herself dry when Lavern, the cook, came in, looked Molly over and said, " Sugar, if you need some help with those hard to get to places, lemme know." Lavern Levy looked like 'Cookie' from Beetle Bailey, including the paper chef's hat and cigarette hanging from her lips.
Later Murray caught Molly coming in the door for work and steered her to the office, to see Barry Morris the owner. Barry looked to Molly like a tall, thin Mario dressed in paint-stained tee shirt, denim shorts, and Jesus sandals.
"Ready to go to work?" He said.
"In a few minutes," she replied.
"No! I mean a real job," he laughed.
"This is a real job," she looked at Murray, puzzled.
"Mr. Morris is a friend of the owner, and wants to offer you a position with one of his companies," Murray explained.
"Doing what?" She wondered.
"We'll find something for you to do; got a place to live?" Morris asked.
"Not really," she replied.
"Staying with friends?"
"Not really," she said.
"I'll take care of it," he pulled out his phone and pressed the speed dialer. "Hey! Its Barry, I got someone coming over for a place, fix her up with an employee account. What? Hang on; what's your name?"
"Molly Walker," she replied.
"Her name is Molly Walker, she'll be over in thirty minutes or so, take care of her," he hung up the phone. Barry pulled a card from his wallet and wrote something on the back, "Here's the address you go to, this other address is where you go in the morning at eight o'clock, okay?"
"Okay, thank you," she said.
"My sister, Carla, knows you're coming, so let the receptionist know you wanta see Carla," he said.
Murray handed Molly her pay for the night and said, "Good luck."
The Old South Trailer Court wasn't hard to find. Henry the manager was waiting for her when her old Cavalier stopped at his office. "Your place is this one," he said, pointing at an old Airstream trailer parked next to the office. "Let's check her out," he said, walking over to the door, unlocking it, and switching the kitchen light ON. All the lights worked, water flowed out the faucets, the toilet flushed, and the refrigerator hummed. The trailer reminded Molly of a motel room. Henry pulled a space heater from a cabinet and set it on the kitchen counter, "The central heat don't work."
At midnight the water was hot enough for a brief shower; Molly squeezed in a shampoo, too. It felt wicked and delicious. And lying between clean sheets overwhelmed her so that she cried herself to sleep, and slept until the din of loud door knocking aroused her awake. She stumbled to the door where Henry stuck a cell phone in her face. It was Carla, Barry's sister, and Molly wasn't at work. "Barry says for me to let you know that he'll be by to talk to you later, and he's not happy." Molly studied her watch, it was 10 o'clock. She sighed, felt her body tense up, and braced herself for the scolding to come, once her inner demons awoke and knew she had fucked up again.
Molly spent the day thinking about getting money now that she'd blown the cleaning job and whatever Barry Morris had in mind.
Barry's Mercedes parked in front of the trailer park office a few minutes after noon, he was dressed the same as the last time she saw him and had on sun-glasses. Her trailer door was unlocked and he came in without knocking. She was sitting at the kitchen table enduring her inner scolds. Barry removed his shades.
"You fucked up," he put it plainly. "But I'm gonna let it go if you do me a favor."
"Okay," she agreed.
"A guy I know is in town and needs a date for the evening, he's a vice president of the corporation I buy my steel warehouses from; think you can handle it?" He scowled at her.
"Do I have to..."
"You do whatever you need to do to make him enjoy his visit," Barry interrupted her. "If he has a pleasant evening life will look a lot better for you tomorrow. I'll send someone for you at seven." He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, peeled off five fifties, and handed them to Molly. "Oughta be enough here to cut that mop and buy some decent clothes for tonight. Figure on dinner and several hours at the Indian casino, if the evening goes beyond midnight, I won't expect you in tomorrow, but call Carla after you get up, any questions? Oh! Let the driver know what time to pick you up in the morning."
"No, and okay," she replied.
Barry looked at her, then gave her another fifty, "Get the nails done, too," he said. "If I was you I'd lock the door."
By six o'clock Molly was bathed and painted and dressed in a style she called 'Tastefully Trashy': Fuck me heels, mini-skirt, a thin panty, thin blouse and bra, and thigh-highs. The stylist cut her mane-mop into a modern bob. The total effect whispered, THIS COULD BE YOUR LUCKY NIGHT.
Walter Smith got that impression, and after a few drinks at the casino he tested his luck, laying a paw on Molly's leg; she smiled demurely, and left his hand where it was. He fell asleep in the car on the ride to the hotel. Molly and the driver put him to bed, and Molly went home.
"Do me a favor and let Barry know how the night ended," she appealed to the driver.