"Whores Ain't Allowed to Say No" by Brian Longacre

Brian Longacre is many things, but the letters of “Brian Longacre,” even the big ones, have little to do with who he is. He is rather short and soft in the middle, but that's not really who he is. He is a husband, father, brother, and son, and that explains the historical bits. His mother said he was smart (once), and his wife said he was handsome. He is a teacher, writer, coach, and artist, but those have only ever mattered to hiring committees. He rarely speaks about himself in third person. Right now, he is considering how he can be more kind, more loving, and more helpful towards those around him and those farther away, and that, after all, is where identity lives. We are not the reflection in the window, but rather we are the everything beyond it.

Whores Ain’t Allowed to Say No

Why they always sound like they irritated?

“911, what’s your emergency?”

When anybody be calling them, they always in some sorta way, actin’ like you bothering them just cuz they have to answer the phone and shit.

“I ain’t really got an emergency.”

“Why are you calling, Sir?”

“I just killed my manager, but it ain’t no emergency.”

That woke her up, I guess. Cuz after that, she was all business, asking me my address, was I armed, am I sure he’s dead.

“Liberte Bistro. On Pickett’s Drive. I don’t know! Listen, you asking too much. I’ll be waiting outside. I ain’t goin nowhere.”

I hung up.

The worst part is that they going to call it a crime of passion. But it wasn’t. I didn’t mean to do it. I just wanted it to stop. I liked Craig, not like that, but he was chill. He didn't deserve it. I slammed his head into the corner of the dish machine, we call the beast, because I am sick of everybody fucking with me, every family member, every job I’ve ever had. There’s a fuckingnline of people going out the front door of my sorry ass life, out into the future, of people just waitin to fuck me over, just ‘cause I keep to myself and don’t want no drama.

His head, though, damn.

I’m sitting here on the curb, still wearin’ this goddamn plastic apron, smoking a cigarette because when they get here all ramped up on adrenaline, probably happy to get a good call finally instead of another bullshit call about an alarm or someone’s cat or some suspicious guy in a parking lot, which is code in this fuckin racist town for a black man taking a walk, I need tom be low, as low as I can get. When they come flying up in here, opening their doors before their cars stop, their heads full of scenes from movies and cop shows and shit, I want to be as close to the ground as possible so they don’t shoot my ass. They’ll scream, probably shout orders that don’t make sense, but I know the drill.

That sound. His head crunched. His eye. Why his eye gotta look at me like that?

It's cold out here. This cigarette though is nice. It’ll be my last for a while I s’pose, makes it taste so damn sweet. I musta bit my lip.

I should never have worked here. Just another shitty job. I carry every shit job I’ve ever had. Too many dumbass bosses flexin they management on me. These motherfuckers have stressed me out, cracked my teeth, greyed my hair, made my back hurt ‘fore I even get outta bed.

Shit jobs have sucked my spirit right outta my soul the way a tree gets sucked into the river in a flood and carried off until it hits a bridge and snaps and disappears underwater. Trees, even them big oaks, look like panicked bitches flailing in the water as they float away, leaves shaking, roots and branches sticking up like they don’t know where they go.

Out here quiet now. Just me and there’s Old Vera, scavenging. She’s been on this street for weeks. She wears everything she got, looks like a turtle on two legs. Her head’s gotta be so noisy in there.

She gonna tell me about Jesus. She always do. “Hey Ms. Vera? You good?”

“You better get right, young man. Jesus comin. White horses.” She squints like she’s lookin at a light and her lip pushes up against her nose between words. “Jesus comin. And he mad, young man. He mad. Jesus, he mad. You fucked him in his heart, young man, blood and water. Fucked his heart. He maaaaaad. Jesus, he mad. And he comin.”

“I understand, Ms. Vera. Goodnight, Ms. Vera. Hey Ms. Vera! Police comin, and they mad too, Ms. Vera.” I knew she’d get goin once she heard me say ‘police’. She waddles away, her head sweepin left and right like she still talkin to people who don’t listen.

I am so sick of smelling like food. I’ll be lying in the bed, showered and changed, and I can smell the food, the pre-shit I call it, buttered shrimp, beef tips, asparagas. I can smell it on my hands, caked up in my nose. The oils, the grease.

My first job, as a kid, was swimming in the landing pool at Fun City, at the bottom of the water slides, after it closed. Mr. Patel said that I could keep any coins I found, but he wanted me to turn in everything else, especially paper money and jewelry. I was like 12, so that seemed okmto me. I ended up with enough money to buy stupid shit, which is what most 12 year olds want anyhow, and Mr. Patel ended up with a lot of single earrings, hearing aids, dollar bills, and an occasional partial or retainer. One time, I gave him what I thought was a used balloon, but he reacted like I had just given him a dead mouse. I turned in a roll of bills once. He about shit himself with happy when he saw it and gave me a dollar when he felt confident that I didn’t take any before giving it to him. Mr. Patel said he’d never seen a black boy swim like me, said I was a seal.

Soon after I quit. My mama said that she didn’t want me working anywhere for awhile, so I started cutting grass for neighbors. Old Lady Lu used to pay me extra if I cut her grass shirtless, which I would’ve done anyhow, but that was only one summer. She had the shakes real bad or something because I’d see her on the porch having seizures. One day, her son told me that they hired a lawn service and that she was living in an old folks’ home somewhere. I washed his cars, waxed ‘em, helped his wife with odd jobs, even hung Christmas lights for ‘em one Christmas.

My mama wanted me to start paying her for expenses because she could see that I was making money. I’d hide the money I brought home, but my baby sister knew where I kept it and started taking some, giving it to Mama for her “juice.”

When I graduated high school, I worked at Feingold’s Music Warehouse. I worked with two white boys there, and one day, I heard Josh tell Mark that he got a raise and was finally over $20 an hour like him. I was making $12 an hour, doing the same fucking job. When I went to Mrs. Feingold to complain, she said that she paid me fairly and that I could earn extra if I stayed late on Friday nights sometimes, and I knew what that ugly ass woman was trying to say, so I did. I stayed late one time. After Josh and Mark went home, I went to her office to see what she wanted me to do. She told me to come around her side of the desk, and I did it, felt like a bitch the whole time, but I did it. I never got any extra money because I never went back. That nast white bitch smelled like fish, and she wanted me to hit her, which I knew was going to come back around and bite me in the ass if I did.

I’ve worked Micky D’s, Big J’s Haul Away, Grocery Outlet, and Javi’s Pawn. I’ve been a security guard at the mall, and I worked in the cafeteria at Mosaic Baptist School. I was also a custodian there, which meant I drove the van sometimes. Those were some bad kids, talked to me like I was a stray dog.

Damn, them police taking long. They muss not know that Craig’ s white.

I got this job at Liberte last year. When I interviewed, they said I was going to be a prep chef, but that was just another bullshit line that I ate like a dumbass catfish sittin’ on the bottom of a creek. I applied because I figured a fancy place like this would get big tips. It was here that I met Tonna. Tonna was the first girl that I could see myself being married to. She’s a server, and she was nice to me from the beginning. I am older than her. She like 27 or something, but she seemed really into me. We would take our breaks together, smoke out back by the dumpster. She was cool. The first time we fucked was by that dumpster.

I think I hear ‘em comin. Sirens.

Anyhow, two days ago, she broke up with me. I had a ring to give her. It’s in my clothes box where I’m stayin. Oh well. She said that she was breaking up with me, not because of me or anything I did, but she had fallin in love with someone else. I found out yesterday that her “someone else” was Macy, another server. I couldn’t believe that shit. She broke up with me for a girl. When I asked her if it was true, she said “yes” and when I asked her if she was a lesbian the whole time we was together, she said she didn’t know. I told her that I thought she liked sucking my dick, which Craig overheard me say. He covered his mouth and walked away, chirpin’ “Oh my God!”

Oh, here they come. Why they gotta run all them damn lights and sirens and shit? I’m the one who fuckin called them.

“Freeze! Don’t move! Put your hands on your head!”

See what I mean? These assholes don’t make no sense. You’d think they’d rehearse the shit they’re gonna say when they get a call.

“Which is it? Don’t move or hands up?”

“Put your fucking hands on your head, smart ass, and lay down and don’t fuckin move a muscle unless you wanna get shot.”

I can’t with these people. Anyhow, the reason I killed Craig really isn’t his fault. Craig was older than me, and he was about as gay as they get, and his boyfriend-fiance had dumped him too. Tonight, after Tyrese left me to finish up and the front-of-house had already clocked out, it was just me and Craig, and I was running the last of the cups and glasses through the beast.

Craig came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders, started massaging them a little, and I ain’t gonna lie, it felt good. People don't much touch me. I stopped what I was doing and leaned my head back, exhaled and stretched my neck each way. Maybe Craig took that as a go sign, but I didn’t mean it that way.

Next thing I know, he was reaching around my waist, under the plastic apron, and started loosening my belt. Now, this is where I fucked up because I didn’t stop him. I looked down, and I started thinking about all my shit jobs, about my little sister stealing money from me, about my mama asking her to do it. I thought about Mrs. Feingold and the way that white people have a way of fuckin you even when you think you’re doin the fuckin. I thought of Mr. Patel taking that roll of bills from me when I was the one who found it. All while Craig loosened the top button of my jeans, unzipped my pants. Then, he slipped his hand under the elastic of my underwear, and that’s when I snapped.

I spun around, put my hand around the back of Craig’s head, cupped the indentation at his neck the way I would’ve kissed Tonna. He inhaled sharply, widened then half closed his eyes. He had that look like someone was finally meeting him halfway. He looked peaceful, and as he was starting to kneel down, I saw Liberte scripted on his shirt, so I stepped to the side, and then my arm, like a sprung mousetrap, slammed his head into the corner of the beast. His forehead imploded as the stainless steel corner split his eyebrows, and before any real blood started gushing, he crumpled to the floor, vibrating like Old Lady Lu on the porch. I watched him until he stopped shaking while blood, like bad food, vomited from his face, his head nodding yes to death as it pumped and heaved into slowing spasms. Once he stopped, he looked peaceful, his eyes wide but his face relaxed like he was looking at something I wish I could see.

I zipped my pants, buckled my belt, and stepped through the growing pool pushing out across the filthy tile towards the drain, moving and picking up small pieces of broccoli and smashed cherry tomatoes along its surge.

Then, I called these assholes, who bring so much scared with ‘em it’s no wonder people get shot for sneezing. I know I ain't gonna make it locked up ‘cause sooner or later somebody’s gonna try to fuck with me in there, and I'm gonna spring on ‘em, and instead of police, it’ll be some swole up Arian motherfucker.

Now they got me lying on the ground, on my belly, handcuffed, this world’s nasty litter-shit stuck to my face, and they're still shouting orders that don’t make sense, barking like dogs in a kennel, squeezing my pockets and my crotch, running their gloved hands inside my underwear, calling me names like “Loverboy,” which means it don’t matter how sick I am of this life, these jobs. I can’t quit. I can’t ever quit. Life is just one big shitty job, and whores like me ain’t allowed to say no.

My face pressed against the backseat glass, lookin out through smudges and smears, maybe mine, maybe not. This cop car stinks like out there. Everywhere the same shit. Maybe it’s me. There’s Vera, looking my way from the shadowed alley, still shaking her head. Turns out her crazy ass is the only one tellin the truth.