The Dirty End Of The Stick, by Melanie Wilber
“DEDICATED TO LAURIA LONGSTREET”
The rusty old pick-up truck choked while Gert idled for a while. With folded arms, work laid behind her back. She sat unoccupied, almost lethargic.
Under a cloud she dawdled through the watery earth to the concession stand. Crouched over the stool sat her boss, defeated eyes and untidy hair. Gert cowered next to her like a stick in the throat, awaiting the crowd to come.
Two hours later the drab ditch of the dirt paved track roared with the scent of gas and Redman. There was much excitement at the Afton raceway that night. The once wet sediment now dried danced over the cheering crowd and filtered out over the neon lights above. The cars growled and grunted in perfect synchronicity around the track while the tires spun drunk over the dirt. The crowd, crammed into the grandstand, swaggered and sung their praises to the entertainment.
Four beers and six hotdogs in the whole, Gert, the chubby faced cherub, descended from the grandstand with an empty cart. She made her way back to the concession stand for a pickup. Mud caked shoes made it hard to walk and slowed her pace even more. She was $42.00 short for the night and she had only started working two hours ago. She needed to really push if she was going to go home with some cash.
Her feet tripped and slipped while she pushed the cart over to the far end of the jeering crowded grandstand. Five or six customers later, a reeky old man came up for a Budweiser and a burger. In his inebriated best, he asked her how much. She came back with “How’s $75 sound? It took him a minute to understand what was going on. They descended into the bowels of the grandstand.
In his moth eaten flannel, he handed her a wad of cash. They stood limp in an awkward embrace. Knee deep in garbage, there was much confusion with their tongs. Crude fondling of an ungraceful caress. Musty tainted briefs below his knees, the vulgar smacking of their love making was drowned out by the polluted crowd. They were blind to the world as he dismantled her.
Inebrious kisses, he had a drop too much, for his orgasm never came. He finally gave up and fumbled with his zipper. She hobbled from the dark to have another beer and wash the rancid taste from her mouth and mind. Her clothes were not so lucky. They were oiled up with his abomination.
She had her money, some. Though the night was young, and rent was due. She gulped down another beer and crammed in two more hotdogs.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, work dragged on.
“DEDICATED TO LAURIA LONGSTREET”
The rusty old pick-up truck choked while Gert idled for a while. With folded arms, work laid behind her back. She sat unoccupied, almost lethargic.
Under a cloud she dawdled through the watery earth to the concession stand. Crouched over the stool sat her boss, defeated eyes and untidy hair. Gert cowered next to her like a stick in the throat, awaiting the crowd to come.
Two hours later the drab ditch of the dirt paved track roared with the scent of gas and Redman. There was much excitement at the Afton raceway that night. The once wet sediment now dried danced over the cheering crowd and filtered out over the neon lights above. The cars growled and grunted in perfect synchronicity around the track while the tires spun drunk over the dirt. The crowd, crammed into the grandstand, swaggered and sung their praises to the entertainment.
Four beers and six hotdogs in the whole, Gert, the chubby faced cherub, descended from the grandstand with an empty cart. She made her way back to the concession stand for a pickup. Mud caked shoes made it hard to walk and slowed her pace even more. She was $42.00 short for the night and she had only started working two hours ago. She needed to really push if she was going to go home with some cash.
Her feet tripped and slipped while she pushed the cart over to the far end of the jeering crowded grandstand. Five or six customers later, a reeky old man came up for a Budweiser and a burger. In his inebriated best, he asked her how much. She came back with “How’s $75 sound? It took him a minute to understand what was going on. They descended into the bowels of the grandstand.
In his moth eaten flannel, he handed her a wad of cash. They stood limp in an awkward embrace. Knee deep in garbage, there was much confusion with their tongs. Crude fondling of an ungraceful caress. Musty tainted briefs below his knees, the vulgar smacking of their love making was drowned out by the polluted crowd. They were blind to the world as he dismantled her.
Inebrious kisses, he had a drop too much, for his orgasm never came. He finally gave up and fumbled with his zipper. She hobbled from the dark to have another beer and wash the rancid taste from her mouth and mind. Her clothes were not so lucky. They were oiled up with his abomination.
She had her money, some. Though the night was young, and rent was due. She gulped down another beer and crammed in two more hotdogs.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, work dragged on.
