Free Fake House by Linh Dinh Page A

Deborah.
    Around midnight, when I was already in bed but not yet asleep, the doorbell rang.
    She came in, carrying two bags, looking flustered and apologetic. “Sorry I’m late.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “I brought some beer.”
    I smiled.
    “Were you sleeping?”
    “I was lying down, yes.”
    “Can we drink in the bedroom?”
    “Sure.”
    I could never recall her looking this haggard. She had a history of working one weird job after another, at the Rite Aid or something—when she was working at all—and the last time I had heard about her, she was going out with some drywaller from Port Richmond.
    We stripped to our underwear and tucked ourselves quickly under the blankets. The heater in my apartment didn’t put out very much, and it was extremely cold outside.
    “This beer tastes good!” I exclaimed after downing the first can.
    “It’s Rolling Rock!” Deborah said.
    “Anything is good if you haven’t had it for a while.”
    “Are you broke?”
    “I’ve been selling practically all my books,” I gestured toward the nearly empty shelves. Deborah’s features, even in the dim light, looked worn out and forlorn.
You are like a sister to me
, I mused,
we’ve known each other forever
.
    “I’m down to ten bucks,” she said as we both burst out laughing. I bent over the side of the bed to reach into the brown bag for another beer.
    “Who’s that guy who answered the phone this morning?”
    “That’s Walter.”
    “Who’s Walter?”
    “Walter’s seventy-two.”
    “Seventy-two!”
    “I’ve been staying with him.”
    “Why?”
    “I was evicted from my apartment.”
    I pondered this information for a few seconds, then said, “Were you two, uh, lovers?”
    “He would try to touch my butt when he passed by behind me, and every now and then he would try to kiss me.”
    “And that’s all?”
    “I wouldn’t let him do anything else.”
    Deborah, I had noticed by this point, smelled unwashed, and there was a strong odor of tobacco issuing from her mouth.
How come
, I wondered,
some men get to sleep with virgins and I get to lie next to a bag lady?
    I opened another beer and wrapped my leg across her midsection, as I’m wont to do when I’m with someone.
    “Let’s turn off the light,” Deborah said.
    “Are you ready to sleep?”
    “Soon.”
    “Okay.”
    “You mind if I take my bra off?” she said after the light was off.
    “Go ahead.”
    We shifted positions a few times, found a comfortablearrangement, lay still for a while, and said nothing. The three beers I’d had, on an empty stomach, were making me drowsy.
In a few weeks
, I thought,
the money will be coming in again, and this entire period will be but a bad memory
.
    “You want to hear something funny?” Deborah said, breaking my train of thought.
    “Tell me.”
    “But you must promise not to tell anyone.”
    “I won’t.”
    “I almost became a prostitute!”
    “No way,” I said as I put a hand on her breast.
    “I tried to get work at this escort service, but I was fired after only one day.”
    She turned her body sideways, nudged her nipples toward my face, and as I slipped my hand inside her panties, peeled her underwear off.
    “I was sent to this hotel,” she continued, “and I was really nervous, and this Japanese business guy answered the door, and he looked at me, and he slammed the door in my face!”
    Her vagina was all dry, but she guided my hand back inside her as I tried to pull it away.
    “That reminded me of something I read once,” I said, “Have you ever heard of Arthur Koestler?”
    “No,” she answered, still arid.
    “There’s this story of him traveling through Azerbaijan. He was on a train, and the conductor opened the door to his compartment, and there was a peasant girl sitting there who wasn’t supposed to be there, and the conductor was about to send the girl away when Koestler said, ‘That’s all right. She can stay.’ ” I paused at this point, propped myself up on an