Free Wasted Beauty by Eric Bogosian Page B

doesn’t see me out there. You OK? You need anything?”
    “I’m fine. I think. My brother’s going to show up pretty soon.”
    Jean makes her way to the avenue. As if she’s timed it, a car slows down and stops. Jean leans in to the driver, walks around the front of the car and gets in. The car drives off. Reba tucks her bag under her head and curls her legs up onto the bench.

A SCRAPING ECHOES THROUGH THE PARK AS A STOOPED figure in a frayed tuxedo drags something past the bench where Reba sleeps. A whoosh of fear and her eyes open. Billy has not found me. I am in the city, I am alone, as vulnerable as a deer being chased by coydogs. As vulnerable as…she completes the thought…as a girl alone in the city. In her pocket is a ten-dollar bill and a handful of change.
    The dawn’s silvery orange paints the buildings, cars, the worn asphalt and the street signs, even the few people propelling their way through the frigid air. The glowing street lamps hang in there, but it’s a new day and it can’t be stopped.
    The ad on the pay phone promises CALL ANYWHERE for twenty-five cents a minute. She picks up the receiver. She dials. The phone in the farmhouse rings. Once. Twice. It’ll be better if Billy yells at me on the phone. Gets it out of his system. Before it can ring a third time, Reba hangs up. If I don’t want to talk to Billy, why am I calling him? There’ll be plenty of time to take my knocks.
    The ache in her belly charges the lightness in her heart. Shouldn’t I savor this moment, not spoil it? Just pretend that Billy said it would be OK to spend a day on my own in the city? So here it is. The day. Hungry. Food.
    A poster on the plate glass window of the McDonald’s advertises a ninety-nine-cent egg-and-sausage breakfast. Reba goes in. In the restroom she scours her face. Someone has pasted a sticker onto the mirror and someone else has scraped it off, leaving a white circle in the corner. Someone else has scratched their initials into the glass. No paper towels, only hot air. It takes eight punches for Reba to dry her face.
    A large woman in a blond wig prances into the restroom, stops and stares at Reba. Reba thinks, I’ll fight you, sister, if I have to. But the woman looks away and Reba finds a stall two doors down, while the woman clacks around the washbasins. She’s obviously waiting for me to come out so she can stare at me some more. Magic Marker lettering is scrawled on the enameled divider, so twisted Reba can’t decipher it. This must be what it’s like to be in a foreign country. When Reba emerges, the woman is gone.
    Juggling a slippery plastic tray, Reba finds a seat along a wall. Including the city tax, breakfast has set Reba back two bucks. It’s good to get something warm into my gut, even if I have to eat it alone. Take-out coffee is better than no coffee. Any minute now, Dallas or Billy will walk in. I know it. I can feel it.
    As Reba shoves her pile of crumpled napkins and cardboard into the trash bin, a cherubic man calls out to her. “Excuse me? Miss? Miss?”
    “Are you talking to me?”
    “Yes. I, uh, I’m sorry. Paul Yorkin. I was wondering what agency you’re with?” He’s short and bald and his teeth aren’t so great. His smile looks forced. Kind of like the Lucky Charms guy. What is he? A leprechaun.
    Reba says, “Agency?”
    “Elite, right? They’re supposed to be sending over all the new girls, but I haven’t seen you yet. What’s your name?” He squints slightly and his smile grows.
    “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.” This guy thinks I’m one of those limousine prostitutes.
    “No I don’t. I’ve seen your stuff. I know I have. For bebe, no…Aldo? You’re on the billboard in SoHo.”
    “Uh, my stuff? No.” Through the plate glass, the world out on the street is accelerating.
    “Uh… Mademoiselle, last month, the piece on hand-knit sweaters. And, um, the Macy’s print ad last week, right?”
    “I don’t think so.” She towers