Free Rabbit Ears by Maggie De Vries

just come in on the bus or something?”
    “No,” you say. “I …”
    She interrupts, her voice grown darker, raspier. “Well, you can’t work here.”
    You blink hard against the tears that fill your eyes, back away, turn and start walking.
    Home, you think. You could go home right this minute. You could.
    As if in answer, a bus rumbles toward you. You watch it approach, roll to a stop, swallow three passengers, spit out two others and rumble away.
    Two of the tears manage to get onto your cheeks; you grit your teeth and rub at your face. No. You are not going home.
    Pushing your shoulders back, you collect your thoughts. You need a corner where no one will tell you to get lost. Allyou have to do is find one. And if you can get some money, you can get some drugs and you can feel good again, maybe not as good as that first time, but still. You can feel better, and you can get yourself a room of your own. You can get by without Jim. You can. On you walk, turning the next corner off Hastings, crossing Princess quickly when you come to it.
    Twenty minutes later, you think you have found a spot, a corner on Cordova; there’s traffic, but it’s away from houses and apartments. Factories or some such all around. A fine drizzle is falling, like always in Vancouver in March. Sickness rises in your belly, a mix of withdrawal and fear.
    You need money. You need a fix. You need a place to stay. You need a washing machine and a dryer. A shower. A meal.
    You need a friend.
    First order of business: cash. You hitch your skirt up high around your waist, nip your shirt in and tie a knot in it, sling your purse across your back and step up to the curb. The light on the next corner turns green and cars surge in your direction.
Shimmy
, you tell yourself, and you do. Just a bit. The cars roll on, and you have to leap back to avoid being splashed.
    Next light, more cars. This time, a window slides down. “Whore!” you hear, just as you see the faces—teenage boys—and feel the sting as the pennies they throw strike your hip and your leg. You stand for a moment, empty. Not even angry.
    The light changes again and you step up. You see the cars, leap once more out of the spray. You don’t see the car coming to a stop on the side street. The guy has to leanacross the passenger seat and shout out the open window at you. “Hey! Need a ride?”
    You almost call back no, before you realize what he means.
    Sliding into the passenger seat and pulling the door shut against the racket and the rain, you find yourself in an almost-silent space, heavy with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. You take one look at the man—grey-haired, glasses, eyes vague and sad, and maybe sort of kind; he’s dressed for an office job of some sort—and fix your eyes on your lap.
    The silence grows. Then, a little breath, a huff. Annoyance?
    “So,” he says, “where to and how much?”
    You shrink into the seat, shoulders rounding forward, and force your eyes up to meet his once again. He doesn’t look sad or vague now. And certainly not kind. He looks angry. And you, you have not one single idea what to say.
    “Wherever you usually go,” you mumble finally. “And thirty dollars.”
    The rest of the conversation, though it only lasts a few seconds, actually hurts, like it hacks off bloody chunks of you. But you get through it. He puts the car in drive. And off you go.
    He slows down half a block away, turns into an alley, stops and puts the car in park. Then he takes money out of his wallet, puts it in the cup-holder between you and unzips himself. He gives another impatient huffing breath as you sit, still frozen, looking at him sideways. Then his right hand comes up, grabs your head and pulls you toward him. With his other hand, he pulls his penis out of his pants.
    His is not your first, not at all. It’s not the first time you’vefelt an insistent hand in your hair. But something about this moment gathers all those other moments up in your mind.