Fields Where Lilacs Fade

By R.S. Morgan

R.S. Morgan is this month’s winner of $527.50 for a story about honest conversation.

Bio:  R.S. Morgan is an award-winning writer who has been publishing fiction and nonfiction nationally since 1983. He is also a retired UAW skilled tradesman and a retired first responder.

Without further ado, “Fields Where Lilacs Fade” by R.S. Morgan.

“You’re famous, young lady,” the driver said to the pretty woman with the silver pigtails as she swung into the passenger’s seat. “The bad girl of Cloud Nine.”

The driver, who called himself Doc, looked her up and down as she wedged her bulging backpack on the floor between her legs. Definitely a feast for the eyes. A ballpark twenty-five. A ballpark five-three and one-ten. A splash of freckles. Slightly chubby cheeks. Worked for her. As did her cargo pants, her plaid flannel shirt and zero makeup. Not putting herself out there. But still.

The girl, who called herself Brandy, unzipped the top pocket of her backpack and took out her phone. She was accustomed to men ogling her, often quite rudely. But her driver? And on a day that promised to have a very unhappy ending? Definitely not in the mood for a road trip with a horny man. She looked up and turned his way, searching for a polite way to ask him not to leer or get lewd, and swallowed a gasp. She didn’t expect her driver to look like that. Something else was also unexpected.

“Oh my goddess,” she said. “I know you.”

Doc said nothing and showed nothing and Brandy continued to study him as he drove away from Cloud Nine, which was on a short dead-end street in South Buffalo near the interstate.  Holey Moley, where did Vlad find this one? She shifted her eyes to the front shortly after he merged onto the westbound I-90. Hopefully, she’d eventually figure out why he looked familiar.  Whoever he was, he didn’t fit the profile of the other drivers.

Brandy felt him out with small talk. The annual St. Patrick’s Day blizzard. The soap opera known as the Buffalo Bills. That went fine. Better than expected, as he hadn’t tried to steer the conversation towards anything lecherous. She laughed, small and pleasant, at his off-kilter anecdotes, and while she couldn’t say her melodious laugh loosened him up, as he seemed quite loose already, she felt she had cast her usual spell. It seldom took long. Or much effort.

When the talk petered out, Brandy checked her messages. One from her kid sister. Worried. Two from steady customers, a CPA and a spoiled manchild from old money, looking for a “date.” She answered them. A unicorn riding into the sunset GIF and doing great to her sister and puckered red lips emojis and on vacation to the men. Vacation. Yeah, right. She put her phone into a cupholder, side-eyed Doc, and watched him talk to himself. Quite merrily. Having excellent back-and-forth banter with his imaginary BFF. Oh, he was a strange man. And while he wasn’t throwing off a sinister vibe, she had to remain alert. Maybe tease out some clues. Because sometimes oddballs were hazardous to one’s health. And another maybe. Maybe odd Doc was part of her punishment.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the side window. Assured herself Doc was harmless at seventy miles per hour on the mundane I-90. The silence stretched. Doc, as he had a pretend friend, had no problem with silence. She tried to doze. Nope. Tried to place Doc. Another nope. She daydreamed. Told herself she’d soon crawl out of the hole she had dug. Shake off the dirt and bury her past. On the back of her eyelids, she watched herself walk away and into the straight life. Finish up her elementary education degree. Teach kindergarten. Be Ms. Prim and Proper. Modest size six dresses on her size four body. Snag a poindexter principal. Pleasant thoughts and the quiet was nice. Yet it was a three-hour drive. Might as well put some minutes to good use. Perhaps he had an inkling about how nasty it was going to be for her at Cloud Ten, as she wasn’t quite ready for the straight life.  

“Okay, you win the quiet competition.” Brandy turned her head from the passenger’s window and turned towards him. “First question. What did Vlad say about me?”

Doc took his time with that. Eventually, he said, “Some obvious things. That not only are you the dream sweetie of Cloud Nine, but that you work hard at beauty. He said there’s an excellent workout room at Cloud Nine and when you’re not—you know—you’re keeping your hardbody hard. As for the mental side of your job, he said you’re quite good at reading men. A chameleon, he called you. Being the girl they want you to be. Most of the time, anyway. Vladimir also said you don’t have to change your act very often, as the girl you usually start out pretending to be is quite popular. Let’s see, what else? Ah, yes, you have a good heart but you’re also feisty. Sometimes more than feisty. Sometimes dangerous. A snapcase. He even told me what makes you snap. Finally, Vladimir said you’re an enchantress and you almost always try to make men fall in love with you. And not because you’re going to try to hustle them, although that might happen, but because it’s your favorite sport. Maybe your only sport.”

Although his eyes were on the road, she put on her enchantress smile, which was warm and glistening and showed off her ultra-white teeth.

“It’s not like that, Doc,” she whispered. “Yeah, I’m a spider spinning a web. But it’s catch-and-release with me. Not catch and eat. Plain and simple, I like men. Some men, anyway. Men like you. Interesting. Fun and funny. I’m looking forward to our time together. And worry not. No hustle. I’m off the clock.”

They passed the “Prison Area: Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers” signs and then the cellblocks and the big lazy rolls of razor-ribbon barbed wire of the Lakeview Shock Incarceration Facility, which was laughing distance from the interstate. Brandy nodded as they passed the prison. Prostitutes, especially thousand-dollar ones, she knew, usually were not put in a cage. Unless, that is, like her, they engaged in more serious illegal activities. That straightened her lips as she waited for Doc to reply.  

When no reply came, Brandy asked, “Vlad tell you why I’m going to Cleveland? You seem to know.”

“I know. The weatherman and the Whore of Babylon. By the way, the Whore of Babylon is my favorite New Testament tramp. Anyway, the weatherman was quite clueless when it came to reading you. Ouch.”

“Yeah, well, I hope he learned his lesson. Hope I saved some other girl some sleepless nights. Now what did he say about what’s waiting for me in Cleveland? About Rico. Aka The Bad Man. Aka Squirrely. Likes the former. Goes apespit if he thinks you’re calling him the latter. Vlad tell you much about him?”

“Vladmir told me Rico has a mean streak. He told me Rico disciplines problem girls like you.” 

“Is that all he told you? Vlad gets a few shots of Stoly in him, he runs his mouth. Did he tell you he’s worried about Rico—”

She stopped herself. Opted to keep it simple. If Vlad didn’t tell him, he probably didn’t want Doc to know. Yes, keep it simple. Unfortunately, her life was the opposite of simple. Brandy’s eyes drifted away from Doc’s profile and settled, unfocused, on the dashboard. She wanted to quit. Just couldn’t. Not yet. Vlad, who was the good pimp, said being a high-end escort was like being an NFL running back. A short career. And while she knew she hadn’t lost a step, knew she was at the top of her game, like a running back, competition lurked. Fresh and eager—and less troublesome—young ladies were out there, perfecting their whispers and smiles. Maybe she wouldn’t have to quit. Maybe, before she was ready to wave good-bye, Vlad would kick her to the curb. And that was a scarier fate than Cleveland.

Silence again. Doc kept rolling, mostly in the right-hand lane. His hands at ten and two. Driving like the old man he was. Old yet tall and strong. The body fat of a brick. Brandy raised her eyes and faced forward and watched a jacked-up pickup speed past. It was tailgated by an SUV the size of a small bus. They were doing about ninety. The SUV tried to accelerate around the pickup in the right-hand lane and the pickup slid over and blocked him. Both laying on their horns and not letting up. Brakes lights flashing as they weaved back and forth, glued together. Two sticks of dynamite perhaps finding their spark. Much of the USA in the raging twenty-twenties in a foul mood. Troubling days. And Brandy feeling right at home. Adrift in trouble. The sun, which was getting low in the sky and dead ahead, staring her down like the sullen eye of a one-eyed god.

 The road ragers disappeared into the sun. Doc put on old-school Ray Bans. Brandy put on cheap blue sunglasses. She glanced at Doc again. She was certain he had never done this before. The other girls would have definitely mentioned someone like him. Yeah, this was his virgin ride. Hers too. Two virgins. Sort of.

Vladimir and Rico rotated the girls. All except her had “done time” in Cleveland. Princesses Brandy. That’s what the other girls called her, both to her face and behind her back. She had a large and steady clientele in Buffalo and was Vlad’s number one money maker. He also liked her. They talked. Joked back and forth. Made each other laugh. Sure, she was playing him. But just a little. And maybe he was playing her. But she didn’t think so. She had, she believed, snagged him in her fragrant web. Nevertheless, rules are rules and when you break one as flagrantly as she had, he couldn’t let it slide.

She put her head against the headrest, scrunched shut her eyes, tightened her lips. Surprised herself by letting out a low groan. She opened her eyes. She stared a stone-faced hole in the windshield.

“You okay?” Doc asked.

“Not okay,” she murmured.

“If you’d like, tell me your real first name and I’ll call you that. Might make it easier to talk.”

“Ah, no.”

“Anyway, it can’t be that bad,” Doc said. “For starters, you don’t have to go to Cleveland. And, hey, wherever you go, wherever you are, you’ll be you. Not a bad deal at all, as you’re the best kind of beautiful. Naturally pretty, inside and out. You’re like the freaky girl next door. Maybe a twenty-first-century hippie chick. Hope that’s not a strange thing to say.”

“Not at all. I try to keep it real, body and soul. Yeah, sure, I’m an actress. Part of the job. But I’m not a total phony. An evil bitch isn’t lurking behind my sugar smile. And I’m honest. Once this tech nerd didn’t even want to do me, wanted to wait until the third date. ‘This is fantasy,’ I told him.” Brandy loosened her face a bit. “Hey, sweet talker, are you hustling me?”

“I’m also off the clock.”

“Funny.”

“Anyway, I bet your men like your hair. I do. The silver pigtails with red tips on one side, blue on the other.”

“Harley Quinn,” she said.

“That’s something, you gave me your first and last name. Thanks. We’re really talking for real now. Nice to meet you, Harley. Or do you prefer Ms. Quinn?”

Brandy put the fingertips of both hands on her forehead and slowly shook her head. Almost smiled.

“Tell you want,” Brandy said. “How about if we stick with Brandy for now?”

Doc nodded. Silence followed. After a mile of silence, Doc said, “‘Brandy, you’re a fine girl, what a good wife you’d be.’ Did you pick your working-girl name because of that song? I like the song, but it’s not very true to life. You know, a barmaid who chastely waits forever for her sailor to come home from the sea. In real life, barmaids give it up quite often on the backroom pool table.”

Brandy looked out her side window. Counted cows as they passed a dairy farm. Made a small wet sound with her lips. Rolled up her red and green tartan sleeves. Eventually, she said, “Okay. Brandy giving it up on the felt. That is a strange thing to say. As is joking around about the Whore of Babylon. You should not talk about Biblical sluts. Or any sluts. Most young ladies in these fragile times would find both of those comments either insulting or disturbing or both. You do understand that, right? I mean, not me. I’m no snowflake. Anyway, sometimes you’re normal and serious. Sometimes you’re goofy. And, oh yeah, you talk to yourself. Now, what I’m going to ask you, I’m not asking to be mean. I’d just like to know. Because I’m missing something. Something about you isn’t adding up. Hey, I’ll roll with your answer. I don’t have much of a choice. Either stick with you to Cleveland or get dropped off in Erie, where I could buy Roman candles and…that’s it. So here goes. The other girls said all the drivers are trainwrecks, ex-cons or lechers or both. And broke, driving broke-ass F-150’s. Yeah, trainwrecks chauffeuring trainwrecks. I don’t think you’re an ex-con, a lecher or broke. Or a trainwreck. Yeah, you have me stumped. And, yeah, a little worried. Give me some peace of mind, as I’m in dire need of some. There’s wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly weird. Then there’s the other kind. So what are you?”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Brandy.”

“Yeah, that’s what hurters say before they hurt you.” Brandy smirked as God’s eye touched the asphalt. “One more question. I see golden bachelors like you at Home Depot rocking the orange apron or bent over a mop in a hotel lobby and I think old man still humping for minimum wage, how’d he screw up?” Thing is, I don’t think you’re a screw up. Nor do I think you’re doing this for the Benjamins.”

“I’m different and I’ve led a peculiar life. But you’re right. I’m no screw up. As for the money…I like money. And I like staying busy. As for you worrying about me, I think you think too much.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventy-six.”

She laughed. A Santa-like ho-ho-ho. But with a girly lilt. “Wow, I’d never get a job at the county fair guessing age. I had you pegged at about sixty-five. Lordy, lordy, I’m being carted to Cleveland by a dude in Depends.”

His face didn’t change, but his voice stiffened and slowed. “I don’t appreciate the disrespect, especially that crack about diapers.”

“Huh. I got under your skin, but not in my usual way.” She glanced at his profile, slid her voice to soft and sweet. “Sorry. You like to joke around. Thought you could take some teasing in return. And sorry for the snark. That was rude. No, you’re not ready for Depends. You’re in shape. A seventy-six-year-old rock, rocking a black t-shirt. You obviously eat right. Work out like a fiend. Which is also strange, but a good weird. Now if I could just figure out where I know you from and what I’m missing about you.”

Brandy continued to stare. Good teeth, nicely groomed, a new SUV. Said loony things but wasn’t hitting on her like a drooling letch. Didn’t look or act like an ex-con. Maybe, like he said, he liked money and liked to stay busy. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos weren’t in beach chairs drinking Corona. And maybe she did think too much. Yet…there was something mysterious about him. She had teased some truth out of him, but other than learning that he had a dark and controlled angry side she hadn’t previously seen, the puzzle of Doc still had many missing pieces. She’d keep on trying, as maybe Doc was a hurter and she was in even more jeopardy than a “vacation” with Rico. But the clock was ticking. Two hours to Cleveland.

They were approaching the Pennsylvania state line. No traffic ahead. One RV fading fast in the rear-view mirror. The last slice of sun had sizzled into the blacktop. Doc took off his Wayfarers. Brandy took off her dollar store shades. He glanced at her. Her eyes were waiting. Also waiting was her warm smile. He went back to the road and the purple afterglow of the sunset. She kept her eyes on him.

“Call a truce? Just talk? Be kind to each other?”

“Yeah, I’d like that very much,” he said.

“Kindness has its limits, however. I’m not changing your diaper.”

He glanced over. She had amped up her prom queen smile. Dimples popped. Peace and love sparkled. No snapcase lights flashed. He answered with what he hoped was his laid-back, cool-old-dude smile then went back to the I-90. He knew what made her snap, and he wasn’t going to do anything like that. Otherwise, she seemed mostly calm and hard to rattle. He hoped so. He didn’t want her screaming. That would complicate everything. He was approaching the Ripley exit. They were getting off there but Doc kept that to himself.  

#

Brandy’s smile faded as she considered what had put her on a road trip to learn how to take abuse. While she was pleasant to pleasant men, she was curt with belligerent jerks. Usually told them to hit the road. Vlad gave her “the talk.” Told her she had to put up with some of it. And she did. But when a line was crossed? Nope.

She turned and pressed her forehead against the side window and counted the “no hunting, no trespassing” signs for a while. After she counted to a hundred, she considered the weatherman. He was jolly on the screen. Smiled happily when he said salubrious, smiled with sympathy when he warned of seven feet of snow. Not so jolly in the flesh. He’d been at Cloud Nine before. Never with her. Not until the evening she strolled towards his wide eyes at the dim mahogany bar in what used to be the living room. She wore a curve-hugging black Lycra minidress with a spider web print. Her silver, blue and red hair bounced and glistened. Kayali Vanilla simmered on her pulse points. Blood-red nail polish shined on her finger and toenails. Her stilettoes tapped a languid rhythm on the hardwood floor. Worth the wait. She had opted for her go-to role. The no-longer-so-innocent ingénue. A handful of ex-lovers. One broken heart. Only recently posting barely-there bikini photos. She smiled at him as Steve Tyrell’s version of “Give Me the Simple Life” leaked out of the speakers. Worked her eyes. Sat next to him. Showed off her sleek Stairmaster legs. The other girls said he was a mean drunk. But they put up with him. Her turn.

Once she lit the jasmine-scented candles and closed the door to her room, he started flipping her around like a sex doll. Brandy told him to stop. Leave. She’d give him his money back. Then he bounced her off a wall and said, “Shut up, Whore of Babylon.” Brandy came off the wall, swinging. Her favorite exercise was throwing haymakers at the heavy bag. She bent his big nose, blackened both eyes. Then she sliced his fleshy face with her blood red acrylics. Kept him off-camera for three weeks.

“Irish temper,” she said to Vlad.

The silence stretched. The private trees gave way to public trees. Doc momentarily took his eyes off the road and glanced at the back of Brandy’s silver head. On her neck between her high pigtails, she had a red, white and blue pentagram tattoo on the back of her neck. The All-American enchantress. He soberly considered her vivid ink for a moment as he eased into the Ripley exit lane.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” Brandy turned from her window to him. “All the other girls told me it’s always a straight drive through. Rest stops at best. Dinner at the vending machines. Get back on the interstate.”

 He continued to exit. She lunged over and tried to grab the steering wheel. He spread the fingers of his right hand, centered his palm on her nose, and pushed her away.

“What are you doing, young lady? Trying to get us killed, is what. I don’t do vending machines and I’m buying you dinner. There’s a place called Mom’s a few miles up the road.”

She didn’t try for the steering wheel again. Probably wouldn’t die if she did. Probably crash or roll over. Then she’d have to hang out, middle of nowhere, with a perplexing geezer, waiting for a tow truck. She had another idea. Better? Huh. She looked around. There was no Shell or Subway at the exit intersection. There was nothing but two lanes of asphalt and trees and a sign pointing to the right to Holyweed and Uncle Desi’s Porno Superstore and a faded handmade sign pointing left to a Bates Motel. The sign pointing left should have said nothing. Or, worse, nothing good.

No surprise, Doc took a left and slow rolled on the two-laner. It was dusk. A few minutes from dark. Deer eyes shined from both sides of the road. That slowed him even more. Hardly moving. Brandy picked up her phone, put her hand on the door lever and psyched herself up to flinging it open and rolling onto the shoulder. Most likely, at such slow speed, she wouldn’t break her shoulder. Yet even if she nailed it like a stunt woman—extremely unlikely—and came away with nothing worse than road rash, then what? Run into the woods and bond with the critters? Call for a ride? But who? She had emptied her favor bank.

A better plan lit up her brain.

“Hey, Doc,” she said, her voice calm, her heart beat up. Yet not racing. Maybe there was a Mom’s. “How about pulling over?”

He did. Turned off the engine. Put on the flashers.

Brandy tapped away on her phone. Hmm. She showed her screen to Doc.

“No Mom’s, Doc. What’s going on?”

“No website, Brandy.”

She leaned the back of her head against the headrest and closed her eyes.

“What I do,” Doc said. “Is drive around on blue highways most of the year. Sometimes I crash in mom-and-pop motels. Sometimes I camp. Sometimes I go to town and buy the bar a drink. Sometimes I find things that aren’t plastic. Like you. You’re real and I’m taking you somewhere real.” He paused. Watched her eyes slightly gap. “I know the places that aren’t Applebee’s, as I’m gone maybe nine months every year.”

She kept her eyes slitted. Remained silent for a while. When she spoke, it was a whisper. “Surreal, is what. You’re Doc, you’re different, way different, we’re—maybe—going to a restaurant named Mom’s. But all I see is trees. And what is wrong with you? You don’t just pull off without saying, ‘How’s dinner sound, Brandy?’ I’m not an infant, not your prisoner. And we just met and I’m not looking for any surprises. Especially today. I’m trying to hide it, but I’m having a bad day with more bad days in my future. All I want is to get to Cleveland, as quickly as possible, and get started on my bad days. But tell you what, here’s how you can make my bad day a little less skin crawly. Tell me you’re not going to kill me.”

“Why would I kill you?”

“Because that’s what off-the-wall men sometimes do. And drifters, like you…yikes. Drifters are off-the-chain deadly. Now, let’s try this again. Are you going to kill me? Because ‘Why would I kill you?’ is not an answer.”

“I’m not going to kill you, not going to hurt you, Brandy.”