A Step UP -2- Although gifted at arguing for other people, Kelley was unable to do the same for herself. She turned the Honda around and drove back to Grüdchen’s. She parked away from the line of trucks, some still grunting from the haul. Fuller swung his legs out of the car and stretched, his muscles cracking from under-use, misuse or circuit tension. She waved him to go on while she rummaged in the trunk for a sweatshirt. She glanced behind to check if he’d locked his door. Across the road, a bird sat on top of a telephone pole. It was dark, raining; it was too damned cold for any bird to be out. But there it sat, hunched over; a squat blob of misery. It was going to get drenched in the storm or it would fall off, wings frozen against its body, hitting the ground like a split sandbag. She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away. She looked at Grüdchen’s, where yellow light seeped around the door. Inside, the smell of cooked food and smoke competed. Fuller was already seated, two, red, plastic-topped tables away from the juke-box, looking at a paper menu. Kelley thought of laughing at the spelling mistakes, but they were too many, too boring. On eg and friess, two egg, biscit and grave. Fuller looked like he felt right at home. He’d got a sense for a place where he could stretch out his long legs, cross his cowboy boots and stick his fingers in his waistband. He had a one-sided, bartender smile, and he did that snapping and smacking thing with his fingers and fists which looked so cute after a couple or three drinks. He was twenty-seven. They’d been dating for five weeks. She wondered how long he’d be around. He nodded at the Neil Diamond song which was slowly running down. Someone said, “You could play that again.” Fuller stepped across and slotted a coin. The song began again and Kelley opened her mouth to stop herself from grinding her teeth. Fuller slouched back. “You tired or hungry or what?” “Let’s eat.” At 9:00 p.m. Alex was still in the office. It was his wife’s Conversational Spanish evening; he wasn’t expected home. He’d read over his opening statement prepared by Greyluff, his junior associate. Greyluff hadn’t recovered from the fact that he graduated from Yale. “I like that sweater,” he’d say, “It reminds me of a sweater I used to have at Yale.” But Alex knew Greyluff didn’t really bother him. The irritation worm threaded back to Kelley. What was it about her hair-length, her skirt-length, her tendency to date younger men, the way she walked around his office, diminishing the space? He slid the files back in his trial briefcase and put the case next to the door. He took the elevator down. At the fourteenth floor a woman got on. He was tired of the fluorescent light in the elevator, tired of himself. He needed to go home and watch mindless television. Laura was always late home from her lesson. It seemed she and the other students couldn’t tear themselves away from the opportunity to recite the names of fruit or prepositions of place. The woman moved across as though she was getting ready to get out of the elevator. She turned around, opened her coat and looked down at him. Her green eyes were dead. She was nearly 6 feet. She looked straight through to the back of his skull. Was she crazy? Was she going to attack him? She said, “Are you looking for me?” A burnt maple syrup voice. As the elevator arrived at the ground floor she stumbled and almost fell out. He wanted to get away, step over her, kick her ankle so that she’d fall. Big Frank, the weekend porter, was there. “Come on, Miss Anhurst. I’ll get you a taxi.” He nodded at Alex. “Cramer and Upland. Their party for baby attorneys.” He took Miss Anhurst by the arm. “She’s the second this evening. Someone should tell college kids they’re on their own when they get out into the big world.” Alex admired Miss Anhurst’s shoulder-length red hair as it swung; a glossy, inviting arc. Kelley watched Fuller carry two more beer glasses to the table. They were both for him. She had stopped drinking at the third beer. The men, they were all men, had finished eating. They sat back, nodded to the music, drank more beer; a religious ritual washing their sins away. They looked over at Fuller, at her. They were waiting. Someone called, “Cantcha dance?” Kelley said, “Go ahead. Look like an idiot.” Fuller leaned across and took her hand. “That call’s for you, sweet’art.” Sweet tart. He pulled her upright. It was a slow song. Art Garfunkel was crying over you. Kelley allowed Fuller to stumble her around in a circle.  As soon as the music ended, she’d grab her purse and he’d be off balance enough for her to haul him out. He wanted sex, so that would be incentive enough. But at the end of the dance, he gripped her tighter. He whispered alcoholic tendernesses into her neck. The men clapped softly as she and Fuller rocked back and forth. There was a chorus of “Aayyy.” as though there wasn’t enough energy for a real cheer. Fuller had a hand under her sweatshirt, trying to pinch open the hooks on her bra. She pushed him backwards. He recovered, stood by their table, and stared at her. She looked around at the other nodding heads. Old red, tired faces. They were waiting for her to scream at them, at Fuller, and stomp out. They were freeway prisoners slowing down for the car-wreck. They were priests giving her their blessing anyway. There was nothing for them after this moment except another infinity of dark road. The heads nodded, hands on the belts, thumbs hooked, fingers spread, a slow, sad Busby Berkeley. Someone took his hat off. Someone pushed his sleeves up. Someone had to take the stage. She pulled a table onto the floor in front of the juke box, kicked off her Easy Spirit shoes, and climbed up. She swayed slowly and lifted her arms above her head. A hillbilly song came on and there was a low growl of disapproval. Someone in a blue, wool shirt kicked the jukebox. The needle skidded off the record and he plugged in Dancing in the Dark. He shoved his hands in his pockets, as though hiding the evidence, and twisted a half-bow at Kelly. Dolly Parton, Franki Valli, the Ronettes, Lucinda Williams, Sly and the Family Stone, Roy Orbison. There was something worshipful in the air. Kelley removed her sweatshirt. A chair scraped as someone got up for another drink. She took her t-shirt off and threw it at Fuller. He caught it, folded it neatly and put it on her bag. Now she knew he could do laundry. There was slow clapping and a respectful, low-pitched whistling. She took off her jeans and rotated in her green Miracle Bra, and white panties with shamrocks around the waistband. The panties were an old pair, a little baggy around the seat and not really appropriate for table-dancing. She hoped they weren’t inside out. The man with the blue wool shirt was the first. He approached her table and lifted the dollar bill without raising his head. She bent a little and he tucked it into her waistband and walked away. Slowly, the others followed. One man with a second red beard flaming out of his brown shirt, gave her $5.00. He looked up into her face as if she were a holy vision. He whispered, “Thank you.” Her eyes filled with tears. The dollars kept coming. Her hula skirt of money shed at each movement, cascading crumpled bills across the table, under her bare feet. Someone said, “Better than Las Vegas.” She looked out at them through her hair. She was rotating in her underwear and they loved her. Her thighs were trembling and she had run out of arm movements. She felt respect for the professionals and a longing for a beer. At the end of Mission Chapel Memories, she let herself down; wobbling, nervous. She felt as though she might fall and smash open. She pulled the dollars from her waistband and put them on the table. She put her jeans and sweatshirt on and pushed her hot feet into her shoes. There was murmuring. She wasn’t sure but it sounded like everyone was saying “amen.” The man with two beards handed her a plastic Vons bag and scooped the money into it. She stood with her bag of dollars. What was the correct protocol? Should she thank everyone? A couple of bills fluttered out. He took the bag from her, picked up the bills and stuffed them in, tied the handles firmly in a double knot and handed it back. She walked back to the table where Fuller held his hand out. She seemed to need his help to sit down. A tall woman, with black, waist-length hair, came over with a double shot of bourbon. “I’m Stacey. You could probably use a drink. On the house.” The air changed. There was a stirring as though someone had opened a door. Conversation; the men turned back to their drinks. Emmylou Harris sang Michaelangelo. “You go on home now.” Stacey looked like she was telling a young pup to find its mother. “I like to keep this place nice. I see you had something you had to do, and it’s done. You drink up and go on home. Who knows, maybe you got a career choice ahead of you.” Between Stacey’s clear, grey eyes was a single, deep line. There was understanding and humor and something else, sympathy? Kelley gripped the shot glass and swallowed the bourbon in two. She handed the glass to Stacey. “Thank you.” Kelley collected her t-shirt and purse. The Vons bag shuffled against her leg, whispering as she walked out. Fuller followed at a respectful three paces behind. The lot was flood-lit with pools of water reflecting the orange street-light. At the car, Fuller said, “You were fuckin’ awesome.” It was too dark to see the telephone pole across the road. She sent a silent wish to the bird. Be safe. Be home. Alex watched Miss Anhurst slither across the taxi’s backseat. He jingled his keys. He told Frank he’d follow behind and make sure Miss Anhurst got out of the cab and into her house. He exuded resignation and a rich, amused tolerance of the young. He thought, Hancock Park. It’s not far. He’d never been attracted to anyone taller than himself. He listened to the lazy sweep and thud of the windshield wipers, wondering if any hands had searched under her skirt that evening. The cab driver pulled through the gates into the driveway. There were carriage lights along the drive. Alex wondered if there would be a waterfall of light throughout the house, if the mother would suddenly open the door. He was ready to give a responsible, tolerant explanation of why he was also there in the graveled driveway. He walked up to the cab and opened the passenger door. She said, “My parents are away.” He didn’t look at her legs. “Get your money out.” She handed him her purse. He wanted to haul her out and push her into the ornamental pond where she and the stone mermaid could spout at each other. He pulled out her wallet and paid the driver, including a large tip. Irritatingly, the driver winked at him and drove off. She carefully navigated the steps to the front door. He had to follow her to return her wallet. She dropped the keys and stumbled, trying to retrieve them. She finally opened the door. “Well, thanks.” She turned away, half-hitched, as though trying to scratch her ear with her shoulder. She didn’t sound drunk. He hesitated, stepped back. She turned to face him. She had thick, dark eyebrows which bunched and bunched as she tried to control the tears. She’d probably flirted with several men, maybe even a partner, had said things she was regretting. She leaned her head against the doorjamb and cried with her mouth open, one foot in and one foot out of the doorway. She cried hard, bumping her forehead against the wood. He took her arm and led her into the house. He would find a chair for her, say a few calming words and leave. He wanted to go home and shower her off. He found a light switch and guided her into the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, pulled off a kitchen towel and blew her nose. He said, “This is a beginning. You have your life ahead of you.” “Insurance defense? I’d rather suck Cramer’s dick. My father’s his tax attorney. I barely made it through law school.” She nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Just another spoilt brat.” She pulled him by the hand along a corridor. His hand was almost enclosed by hers. They entered a room smelling of incense with something bitter behind it. On the floor, there were green, velvet cushions decorated with beads and fragments of mirror. She lit a fat, orange candle and kicked off her shoes, took off her skirt. Close up, he could see her legs were muscled. He tried out phrases in his mind, Listen, this isn’t such a good idea. I have to get home. How tall are you? “I’m a runner. I do those ultra-marathons. I ran the Death Valley one. Hundred and fifty miles.” He could see her staggering and sweating in 100 degrees, plodding and stumbling through the night. If you could do that, you could do anything. He wanted to know more. How did she eat? Did she have sleep breaks? Special training? How much could she bench? She knelt in front of him. “Let me take care of you.” She was sweet for a big person. She had long feet and the little toenail on her right foot was black. Her fingers were thick, despite the nails painted along the center to give the illusion of length. She eased him out of his pants, shook back her thick hair, kissed his thighs.  “Oh Christ.” She took the wig off. What there was of her own hair was short and dark brown. There were bald patches. Her head looked small, an ornament for a Christmas tree. He stood and pulled his pants up. “I can’t do this.” “It’s growing back. I’m ok now.” Maybe it was a side-effect of ultra-marathons. He couldn’t ask. The sweet-bitter smell in the room made him think of National Geographic pictures of maggots squirming in sores. He left her kneeling by the bed like a wrestler about to pin her man. The rain had stopped by the time he got home. He went into his office and switched on the desk lamp. The small cup of light poured over the desk, glancing off a brass pen in a marble holder. He lifted the pen; a thick shaft with an eagle attached to the end, its wings outspread. A sheet of paper lay on the blotter. He wrote Unbearably lonely. He stopped. He wrote again, not even your face between my hands can calm this. His heart accelerated out of a small parking space. Alex put his pen down. He saw Miss Anhurst running through the desert, step after step, her small tufted head upraised, the wrists and strong fingers loose, and the clenching lumps of muscle above her knees. He turned the sheet over. It was a note from Laura. She would be home late. He pushed his chair back and stepped up onto the desk. He looked down. He was standing on his wife’s note. His shoes were incandescent. He could stand straight, both arms uplifted, without touching the ceiling. He swayed. He felt like a runner, a dancer. Tonight he nearly got laid. Beneath his feet he felt something give, separate. He saw the eagle had broken away from the pen. It leaned on one wing, brilliant as bullion, as though the sun had caught it turning in flight.             Kelley pulled into the lot at the Pink Sands Motel. Fuller’s hand squeezed her thigh like a blood cuff. The wind needled the rain into her face and eyes, forcing tears. The Indian clerk said, “Nice room, madam. Two queens.” He gave her a key. She thanked him without making eye-contact. She let Fuller open the door to Room 118 and tug her inside. As he pulled and pummeled her, swearing and panting as though he was trying to fix a faucet, she wondered if the bag of dollars was okay or if, somehow, the wind had broken into the car and was swirling them around and around, a smudgy blur of green and dirt-grey. When Fuller was asleep, she went out to the car to put the plastic dollar bag into the trunk. She pulled the knot open, hoping the wind would blow them out, make them dance like ghosts across the parking lot, get rained into sludge. When the hair at the back of her neck was soaked, she got into the car, the bag on her lap, and started the engine. She’d drive along the highway. It seemed as though the car was moving quickly although she barely touched the accelerator. Something had its hand on her back, urging her through Morongo Valley. Well, hell. I’m a dancer. Somewhere in her chest, a bubble of air, maybe heartache, released. She was breathing longer, deeper, since she’d got up on that table. She even felt good about dumping Fuller in Yucca Valley. Let him suck the bones out of that. And on Monday, Alex DeGrace would get a memo with a fare-thee-well date. Let him stick that in his telescope. Let someone else take on the complaints, the four-day weeks, the Christmas bonus. She rolled the window down and let the bills fly out, a flimsy straggle of half-dead birds, bumping each other, catching at the roadside weeds. Technically, she wasn’t littering. She was distributing alms. One disappeared under a truck; one flew across the painted Pete’s Engine sign; one stuck against the window of The Tourist Trap. As the bag emptied, she scooped them up, helping them out. She drove faster. They would be gone by the time she hit the freeway.