(Who pretends to be horrified, sickened. But for sure Mr. Early keeps these Mementos of Adventure like any honest pre-vert.)
Front Street. See it, Daddy?
Of course. I’m not blind.
In the E-Z parking lot, Doll repairs her makeup. For an impatient spoiled girl she’s surprisingly deft at painting her face, the eyes especially. As Mr. X nervously strokes his flushed face, turns his head from side to side staring at himself in the mirror.
But is that me? Or some sicko who has dragged me here?
Mr. Early escorts Doll to room twenty-two (which is lighted within, shades drawn). But Mr. Early discreetly steps back into the shadows of a dumpster when Doll knocks on the door and the door swings open.
Silently mouthing the words God be with you, dear.
And your Daddy close by, standing watch.
(Should he have forced his moody prepubescent daughter to show him the contents of her handbag? Her jacket pockets? Her sexy leather boots? Damn, he’d meant to but forgot.)
The door is opened warily. Doll is invited inside. Biting her lower lip to stifle a nervous giggle. Why, Doll isn’t fearful of this individual she has never glimpsed before — is she?
Not Ira Early’s (step)daughter. Not Doll.
This guy reminds Doll of an upright radish. Mr. Radish!
He’s nervous of her, too. He’s excited. He’s just standing there. Fingers twitching and a sickly oily glow to his face. Like he has never seen anything like Doll before. Like he’s trying to decide what to make of her. But he has enough presence of mind to shut, lock, double-lock the door.
Trying to smile. Licking his wormy lips.
D-Doll. That’s your... actual name?
Doll shrugs. Maybe yes maybe no.
And you’re — Mr. Radish has a stammer? — elev-elev-ven years old?
Doll shrugs and mumbles what might be Yessir. She’s a fascinating mix of mute, shy, sly, naughty-girl, fluttery eyelashes, and something sullen beneath, like the beat of hard rock. Mr. Radish is enraptured, gaping and smiling and flexing his long fingers.
Saying, stumbling with the words, You l-look older than eleven I guess... but you’re v-very beautiful, Doll. Whoever you are.
Doll mumbles, Um, thanks mister. Shrugs off her purple leather jacket, lets it fall onto the bed like this is the most natural gesture in the world. Shakes out her bristly plaited pigtails seeing in the corner of her eye how ol’ Mr. Radish stares.
Long as the policy is Do Not Touch, what’s it matter?
Oh he’s feeling morose, melancholy.
Maybe this isn’t the right life; sometimes you wonder. The moon so vivid, like the eye of God. Seeing all and forgiving? Maybe not.
Ira Early has emptied the thermos of its contents, decides to drop by the Kismet Lounge he’d noticed a block from the E-Z on Front Street. Doll won’t know; be gone just a few minutes, sweetheart.
This Mr. X, junior high school teacher, Mr. Early has been assured wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t so much as touch, a flea.
Where’s the TV remote? Doll’s eyes scan the grungy room.
Mr. Radish just wants to talk. Well, fine. Except Doll can’t be expected to answer his meandering questions or even to listen. She’s done her part; she’s wound up like a mechanical doll, one-two-three-four, the usual. But it sure looks spontaneous! Facial movements, fluttering eyelashes, more of the smile, variants of the smile, sweet lowered gaze, snaky pink tongue moistening her lips, simulation of a blush, if Doll could blush. She’s a little pissed at this guy, saying she looks older than eleven. Fuck that. Obviously she looks older than eleven, but not that much older! Doll’s thinking she has been insulted; she’ll slash this asshole’s carotid artery, watch him bleed out like the last one. Except this time, for sure, Doll won’t get blood splatters. Bad enough on your clothes, but in your pigtailed hair it’s a bummer.
Bum night, sort of sad-making says the graying balding ponytailed bartender like he’s wanting to converse with Ira Early, the joint is so dead. Mr. Early runs his fingers through his white hair and beard like the rakings of conscience. Yes, says Mr. Early with biblical intonation, it is sad indeed. Mankind’s lot.
The ponytailed bartender, you can imagine was a flower child in the previous century, says eagerly, Tragic, d’you think?
Mr. Early gazes into his drink. Frank truth resides there.
Well, maybe just sad, my friend. Tragic is big league.
Mr. Radish manages a coughing sort of laugh. Bad as clearing his throat. Saying, like an upright corpse flirting, Doll you say you’re c-called Doll... meaning your name is something else?
Doll bounces on the bed, stinky old corduroy cover, softly squealing, giggling, in the manner of a six-year-old, since this is expected. Mr. Radish is an ideal audience, gaping and gazing with mouth slightly ajar as if he has fallen asleep on his feet.
Doll shrugs. Maybe yes maybe no.
You can tell me, Doll. Your name.
Doll has located the TV remote, half-hidden beneath USA Today on the bedside table. Graceful as a child ballerina she leaps from the bed to snatch it up.
My n-name is...
Doll isn’t listening. Doll sees this guy is no threat. Homely as a broken-down shoe, faded-red hair like an old brush, those blinking doggy eyes. Almost you’d feel sorry for this creep. (Almost.) He’s no age Doll could judge, but then Doll is no judge of adult ages: anyone not a kid is “old” — “old bag” — “old fart.” Mr. Radish she sees is wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms, but hairy in patches like he has the mange. Trousers that look like he’s been sleeping in them. Ugly old lace-up shoes. Mr. Radish is flabby, slope-shouldered, otherwise he’d be tall as Ira Early. But lacking what you’d call dignity, stature. And Mr. Radish smells.
Ugh. That boring odor of an excited male. Plus anxiety and shame. An odor Doll has been smelling in rooms like this for a long long time since leaving Mount Curve, Minneapolis.
It’s TV time. But Mr. Radish keeps pacing in nervous half circles around Doll, making asshole small talk in this hoarse crackling voice like something you’d want to mash beneath your stiletto heel.
Saying, D-Doll? Who are your people?
Ummm. Dunno.
Is that man who... that man who spoke with me on the phone... really your stepfather?
Doll drawls, Stepdaddy.
Why, that’s terrible!
Doll switches on the TV. Doll drawls some answer that sounds right.
Your own stepfather? Has done this to you?
(Fudge ripple is what Doll wants. Damn, she deserves it.)
(This guy. Not worth his throat cut; he’s just a sad jerk. Or the thing between his legs, assuming he has one, sawn off. Not tonight.)
But, dear... how has this... your life... happened?
Doll drawls, Dunno, sir. Just happened.
Do you go to school, Doll? I mean... are you being educated?
Mr. Radish has shoved his fidgety hands deep into his trouser pockets, stands staring at Doll on the bed and breathing like something wounded.
Doll says, a little sniff of pride, I’m homeschooled.
Homeschooled! Mr. Radish laughs like someone has grabbed him and squeezed between the legs.
In the mostly deserted dark of the Kismet Lounge, Mr. Early is nursing a second martini. Down-in-the-dumps, he’d better be careful he isn’t losing track of time; he’d meant to return to the E-Z after a ten-minute break, but more minutes have passed.
Frankly Ira Early has been hurt. His own (step)daughter he adores called him a wicked оl’ pre-vert. That’s unfair.
Wicked ol’ pre-vert, she’d said. And laughed.
Well, maybe there is something to this: Those mementos Doll has given Mr. Early — consequences of Doll’s mean mood in one or another E-Z motel — he has not discarded in haste like you’d expect. For some reason, he can’t. These goodies, as Doll calls them, are signs. Symbols. Hard to say what they mean. But they do mean something.