Saturday, September 26, 2009
After Hours At The Auto Spa
One light glows from somewhere in the back, illuminating the box of money that sits on the owner’s lap. Business is business. His eyes seem dull, but his fingers contradict him; working swiftly over the bills, collecting large notes, tearing off tickets, and handing out change. Not far from the owner, the bartender is leaning over the counter. She is almost spilling out of a black bustier and looks bored. She is quite possibly bored, for she is no novice at her art. And she sees all of this action regularly. She makes no effort at hospitality. The venue does not require it. From across the room, she could see Diamond spread over one of the rented plastic chairs like clothes after an undressing. Diamond is unclothed. She sends her toes to each corner of the equator. Her guest is thrilled in some kind of stoned-faced way. Barefaced. He releases a flash of bills in her direction and slides lower in his seat. Diamond reaches down to the wet concrete to retrieve her money. She resumes her entertainment of the spectator. Skillfully. They sit across from each other like opponents or a young couple on a date. It’s a symbiosis, a mutual understanding. No love is lost between the two, no love found.