Lighthouse Nights

16

jules knew the risks. big cities may be accustomed to the scabs and divots and bold headlines screaming “violence,” “rape,” “suicide,” and “crime,” but in tiny grand harbor, the scar that jules left would linger for months. maybe even years.

if she was caught—if the police had a photorealistic sketch of the trailer-trash siren who defiled their community—she would accept her punishment and gladly pay for her crimes.

jules adjusted her poise beside the bread shop’s HELP WANTED sign and prayed she looked better than she felt. her calves and thighs were like half-chewed turkey legs covered (barely) by dark-blue tights with runs and tears hiding beneath the boots. six earrings in her right ear, five in her left; makeup white and thicker than usual to hide the gaunt in her cheeks and weary on her brow. she triple-checked her reflection in the bread-shop window by ducking the glass-painted advertisements and stenciled loaves of bread to better view her wig’s crimps and holes.

miniature chimes announced her entrance. the shop smelled like honey.

“can i help you?” asked a heavyset woman with a burgundy apron and locked smile.

“i noticed the help-wanted sign in the window. i’d like to speak with the manager about a job?”

the woman wiped her palms on the apron, but didn’t extend a hand. “i’m rachel. i’m the manager.”

jules stepped forward and folded her hands on the glass counter between them. “i saw the sign outside...”

rachel scanned her empty store for backup, then realized she would have to face the girl alone. her wavering voice confirmed her trepidation. “well, ma’am, i’m afraid we’re already considering several other applicants. if you’d like to leave your name and number, maybe i—”

“i don’t have a phone,” jules said and sensed that her intensity was frightening the woman. she smiled and tried for a more sympathetic look.

“perhaps you could stop back in a week or two—”

“i really don’t have a week or two. i need a job today.”

“miss, i—”

“please.”

“i’m afraid that—”

jules ended the woman’s sentence by dropping her backpack on the counter. “everything i own is in this bag. last night i slept on a train-station bench. this morning i hitch-hiked to wal-mart to bathe in their sink. i spoke with the store manager and he said they’re not hiring. so i turned around and walked two miles to find the downtown strip. when i saw the sign in your window; it made my day. please miss, if you have a job opening, i would really like to discuss it with you.” the chime jangled behind her, but jules kept her eyes trained on the woman.

“i’m sorry, sweetheart,” rachel said. she moved toward the approaching customer to bypass the uncomfortable conversation. “we’re looking for someone with a slightly different... style. but i hope you find your way in life. and you’re welcome back anytime for a free sample of bread.” 

*  *  *

the whitewash veneer of gas-station bathroom walls peeled in clouds of scribbled graffiti that created the nightmare-ish atmosphere of the girl’s transformation. sink, mirror, toilet and condom dispenser were not spared the artful tags or scrawled innuendo.

standing five-foot-seven in a black bra and nothing else, jules stared at her half-naked body (sans makeup) through the marker-scribbled quip, “nietzsche is dead,” then pulled off the tattered hairpiece and shoved it to the bottom of a brand-new blue-jean backpack.

head in the sink, she burrowed ten angry fingers into her scalp and massaged the caramel strands of shoulder-length hair.

new scissors were a buck-fifty; so cheap that she nearly shoplifted them. but not today. not ever again. she ripped the package and started with the bangs. as clumps and shavings peppered the sink, jules remembered  how she learned to cut hair on her sister’s dishwater-blonde (creased at the scalp from endless pony-tails), “how short?” she asked and jesse replied with a nine-inch span of her little hands.

nail-polish: light-purple and only three bucks. from the toilet she applied paint to her cotton-less toes, then carefully slid them beneath the straps of six-dollar flip-flops to protect her feet from the grime.

back at the mirror, jules unclipped the plastic loop from her nose and dropped it in the can. the silver barbell in her eyebrow had been a facial fixture since jason-the-dealer poked the hole with a heated sewing needle four years ago, but today she removed the shrapnel and fed it to the drain with a dozen little clinks. a pair of two-dollar beaded earrings dangled from her lobes. she kept the cartilage piercings empty.

jules slipped into a new pink tee, cotton underwear with blue polkadots, and a jean skirt with buttons on the side. fifteen bucks for the cutesy outfit.

the new shade of blush was called “ballet slipper.” jules powdered it across her nose and cheekbones, but the color seemed to accentuate those damn freckles with every pass. lipgloss replaced lipstick; clear and sparkly instead of black. a clean line around both eyes and mascara curled her lashes.

she had two dollars left.

jules sealed her old makeup, gothic outfits, cellphone (with ninety-three unread texts), gucci backpack and leather wallet into a “son of a beach” plastic sack and, on her way out of the bathroom, shoved it in the trash.

on the sink’s rusty ledge, jules left two gifts for the bathroom’s next lucky patron: a pair of one-karat diamond earrings, and a bag of six pre-rolled joints.

*  *  *

with sun on her back and a bounce in her step, the chimes signaled her entrance for the second time today.

rachel glanced up from the register and her shiny cheeks rose to unveil a toothy smile. “what can i get for ya today, miss? our potato bread just came out of the oven! or if ya like, help yourself to a sample of cinnamon-raison.”

jules lifted an eye. “i just wanted to discuss the—”

“you’re here about the job.” rachel pulled out a clipboard and pranced around the counter. “ya know, i just put that sign out this morning. i guess with this state’s unemployment rate i shouldn’t be surprised that a pretty young girl would wander in so soon! my name’s rachel.” she extended her hand. 

jules was confused—curious even—but shook the woman’s powdery hand and replied with newfound spunk. “it’s so nice to meet you, rachel. my name is jules.”

“heavens, you’re a skinny thing! how ‘bout a free slice of cinnamon bread while we start the interview?”

“thanks,” jules said. “i’m starving!”

*  *  *

quarter to nine. the sand was cool beneath wiggling toes.

the sun abandoned jules moments ago to offer its light to a new part of the world. but in its wake remained a golden haze that illuminated the clouds and varnished the distant pier.

a crisp apron sat beside her on the bench. she touched the canvas fabric, then reached between its folds for her dinner. she opened the napkin to reveal a wedge of bread. she ate slowly, pinching off a piece at a time while watching the blinking red bulb atop the lighthouse. 

demons live beneath that catwalk, whispered her subconscious. 

screw the demons! she thought. when the time was right, she’d face them head-on.

baby steps, julesie. start with a place to sleep.

training would begin in the morning.