BlueBy J.D. Riso

Murphy’s Law Press 2006

© J.D. Riso, 2006All rights reserved

Blue may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher.

ISBN 0-9754308-3-1

Cover Art by Stacy Taylor www.stacytaylor.comPrinted and bound in USA

Published 2006 byMurphy’s Law Press

www.murphyslawpress.com

In memory of Breezy Ryder

Prologue

In an industrial neighborhood of San Diego there is a lonely,

forgotten lot guarded by nothing more than a chain-link fence. Little

remains of the establishment that reigned here once, or of the painted

ladies who once graced its stage.

Stiletto heels protrude from the seared earth like tawdry tombstones.

Sunlight glints off a garden of broken mirrors and scattered rhinestones.

Sparkling apparitions flit about in the breeze. They are specters of the

dancers who have been scattered like some lost tribe of Babylon.

Amid the rubble one thing remains intact: a blue sequined mask.

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Chapter

1

When I was eleven years old, Christine told me the story of how I

came to be. I walked into the living room to find her sitting on the floor,

a faded pink boa around her neck, cabaret music blaring from the stereo.

Clippings, faded costumes, and photos were spread out around her. The

flotsam of a past life I never knew about.

I turned the music down and sat beside her. I wanted to reach out and

pluck the false eyelash that hung precariously from her swollen eyelid,

but I was afraid she’d slap my hand away.

“If irony were a color it would be blue,” she said as she gathered me

to herself. Tequila fumes wafted at me, but I didn’t look away.

I stiffened, unused to her affection. Something was wrong.

“A color so profound can only lead to melancholy,” she said as she

stroked my slumped shoulders. She took my face in her hands. “It’s time

you knew where you came from. You got a right to know. But don’t

never ask me about it again, you hear?”

She picked up a high school yearbook. Swaying a bit, she riffled

through the pages. “Here he is,” she said. “Kip Caruthers, your father.”

I looked at the black and white photo of the man who I was told had

died in Vietnam. He was not what I imagined. He looked like a poster

boy for the Aryan Nation. A frat boy. He wore an ascot in the

photograph, for crying out loud. Be a good boy, Kippy, and fetch mummy

another martini. This man never stepped one foot in Vietnam.

“It was all a lie,” Christine said. “I met him at a spring dance at a

country club in Scottsdale. He saw me dance and, supposedly, that’s

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what caused him to approach a girl he wouldn’t have otherwise spit on.

People threw money at me when I danced. That’s how good I was. Are

you surprised?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was going to be a Vegas showgirl after high school. My parents

hated this idea. But they knew better than to hold me back.”

She paused, and took a deep breath. “Kip got me drunk and ended up

forcing himself on me. I fought with everything I had, but it wasn’t

enough. I marched back to the dance all torn and dirty and caused a

scene. I expected help, but all I got were looks of disgust. Only sluts

dreamed of being showgirls. I got what I was asking for.”

I sat silent, stunned. I was the offspring of rape. A vile joke. I didn’t

deserve to live.

Christine took another swig of tequila, “When I started to show, I

stalked Kip. I went to his football practices. I strutted right by those

snotty cheerleaders and took a seat in the bleachers. I’d pat my fat belly

and call out, ‘Little Kippy says hi too’. After a couple of times Daddy

Kip got involved. He paid me to shut my mouth and go away. I had no

choice but to take the money. There was no longer any hope for me to be

a dancer. Abortion was illegal back then and damned if I was going to

ruin my body and give the child away. I know it’s not a pretty story, but

you need to learn how to take honesty if you’re going to survive in this

world,” she said. “Sugar-coated words aren’t worth shit, baby Blue. Look

where they got me.”

They got her saggy tits, stretch marks, and me. And I got Kip’s

blonde blandness. Every time she looked at me she saw him.

She stumbled down the hall to her room.

I sat amid the tattered remnants of her dream. I fished out a pair of

white gloves and a rhinestone choker. I modeled them in the mirror, but

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Blue

couldn’t bring myself to meet my own gaze. Why didn’t I somehow

abort myself and make it easier on everyone? Clenched within that

claustrophobic scarlet cocoon, I was toxic. That’s what she should have

named me: Scarlet. The color of blood boiling rage.

But some part of me knew that I was destined for great things. I

knew that someday someone would see the spark hidden inside me and

nurture it to flame. It made me want to live as revenge on her revenge,

but I was never able to muster up as much rage as she did. I was born

seeing scarlet, yet my tendencies deepened into blue.

I made it a point to disappear from Christine’s radar. We wandered

ghostly through each other’s lives like two phantoms trapped in adjacent

realities. Most of the memories from my youth are as faded as the desert

in the noonday sun. I know that I was an honor student. I won gold stars

for perfect attendance. I was unseen, not even interesting enough to be

picked on. I was a nice, quiet girl who didn’t make waves. The girl

nobody remembered.

I awoke one morning when I was seventeen to find a strange man

sitting at our kitchen table drinking coffee while Christine made

scrambled eggs and bacon. I stood in the doorway, unsure if I should

enter.

“Oh, hi honey,” Christine said. “I made you some breakfast, too.

George, this is my baby Blue.”

I slid into the seat opposite George. His eyes lit up when he saw me.

He had short black hair with a long, skinny braid that curled up under his

collar like a rat’s tail. I shuddered.

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J.D. Riso

“I’m what you’d call an optimistic fatalist,” he said and flashed a

crooked smile.

“George has a degree in Psychology,” Christine said as she set his

plate before him. She sat beside him, beaming at each mouthful he ate.

“I’m planning on going into Psychology,” I said, trying to make

conversation. “Right now we’re studying the philosophies of Freud. You

know, the Id, the Ego, and the Superego. It’s fascinating.”

His face was seized by panic, and then he brushed my words aside

with a sneer. “As if any of these theories make a difference in the grand

scheme of things.” He had no idea what I was talking about.

He wasn’t blatantly insulting, but I would have preferred that to his

self-righteous arrogance. It took all my will to be polite. If he stopped

coming around because of me, There’d be hell to pay.

I was in the final weeks of high school. Close to freedom from both

school and Christine.

“Once you’re eighteen you’re out the door,” she had said so many

times, as if she’d have to force me to leave.

I had a job as a waitress at a coffee shop. It was a dismal little place

on Main Street. The customers were year-round desert rats who had

nothing better to do than to blame me for their withering lives. I saved

every cent toward my escape. I was fed up with living in a place where

people came to die. All the trailer parks and wheezing geriatrics.

When Belinda Black walked into my life, I knew that my life was

about to dramatically change. One day, she was there at the counter, a

dazzling jewel amid the dusty fossils. Her green gaze was as direct and

piercing as a cobra’s. Her dark skin and those shimmering eyes paralyzed

me.

“My mother is Haitian,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “You

get some strange genetic combinations down there.”

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Blue

I stared at her, coffeepot poised in mid pour. She had spoken to me!

With a quick glance around at the other customers, I refilled her cup and

set the pot down. The dinner rush was over and I deserved a break.

“You go to my high school,” she continued. “I’ve seen you around. I

don’t talk to anyone there. They’re a bunch of flatliners, but you’ve got a

real spark in you. We should go out sometime.”

I nodded, dumbfounded. And there our friendship began.

“I haven’t lived at home in three years—since I was fifteen,” Belinda

said as she put the finishing touches on my makeup. We were going to a

high school party, something she would normally never do, but she

wanted me to try out the man catching skills that she had painstakingly

taught me. “Too many rules and not enough rewards. I’m out of here

after graduation. Off to LA. Why don’t you come along? We’ll make our

fortune in Hollywood.”

“Ok, I guess,” I said, trying to hide how thrilled I was. It wasn’t like

I had any other plans besides to get away from Mesa. I was sick to death

of looking at five hundred shades of brown. I wanted to be somewhere

green, where things blossomed. California sounded so full of

possibilities.

“Voilà, you’re finished, my dear,” she said as she turned me toward

the mirror. “See how good you look with just a light touch of makeup?

You don’t need a lot, but you do need a little help. You’re too plain

without it.” I nodded, grateful for her attention.

“I’m going to be a movie producer,” she said as we pulled up to the

party. Push It by Salt ’N’ Pepa blared out of the house. A boy barfed in

the front hedge as we approached the front door. “I know I’m beautiful

enough to be a star, but I want to work behind the scenes. I’m going to be

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J.D. Riso

the one that recognizes the talent hidden inside an unknown. I’m going to

nurture it and make it shine. And grow filthy rich.”

Belinda was the only female I knew who smoked cigars and drank

Armagnac. She conversed on topics such as stock options and world

dictatorships.

“An educated woman who can also fuck like a whore is a gem,” she

said as we made a circuit through the house. “She can name her price.”

I watched her work the room, scoping out the most promising

conquests. The jocks pretended not to notice her; they rough housed and

made fun of each other to hide their nervousness. What would it be like

being worshipped like that? Women like her always get what they want, I

thought. They’re all so sure of themselves too: Oh, I’m every guy’s type.

When I tried it, it came across as desperate.

“Over there,” Belinda said with a tilt of her chin. It was Brett Banks.

He was one of those boys who fit into every group and none at all. And

for that every girl wanted him.

“Can’t we try with someone less intimidating?” I begged.

“He’s looking over here. At you, not me,” Belinda insisted. “Go on.

Remember, just stare deep into his eyes and pretend that anything he

says is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever heard.” She gave me a

little push.

I did what she said and it was working. We had just begun to make

out when Belinda turned around and snatched him right from under my

nose.

“Almost, but not quite,” she said with a patronizing smile as she led

Brett away from me, toward a vacant back bedroom.

My heart wilted. I settled for the dorky friend, a boy with a face and

name I didn’t know. I willingly laid down for him as I had for so many

others. There was really no reason not to, and the boys all seemed to

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Blue

want it so badly. I didn’t see what the fuss was about. The contorted

faces and strangled moans. It was all I could do to keep from laughing.

But, at least someone got some satisfaction out of it. All I got out of

it was soreness and disappointment.

Boys were nothing more than amusement for Belinda. Diversions.

She always had at least two flings going at once, usually with rich old

men from the various country clubs in Scottsdale.

“You always gotta have at least two,” she said. “That way they sense

that something’s up. It keeps them interested.”

She knew about my father and thought it would be a hoot to nab him.

She never got a chance to penetrate Kip’s inner circle of cronies,

however. My home life shattered for good, and Belinda was there to

gather me up and whisk me away.

I should have paid heed to the unease that I felt whenever I was

alone with George.

I came home from work one night to find him on our couch, whisky

in hand, his flabby arm outstretched, inviting me to dance.

What the hell? I thought. Maybe I’d been too hard on the guy.

“Have a drink to celebrate your graduation,” he said. “Soon we

won’t get to see your pretty face around here anymore.”

He fixed me a drink. I downed it in one swallow.

“That’s a girl,” he laughed. He scratched his hairy belly and lurched

toward me.

I backed away, already feeling woozy. “Thanks for the drink. I’m

going to my room.”

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J.D. Riso

The last thing I remember is walking down the hall, George on my

heels, his clammy hand upon my arm. I tried to shrug it away as

everything faded.

I don’t know how long I was under. Sometimes I wish I had stayed

under forever. But consciousness gradually returned. When the shadows

came into focus George was on top of me, slick with sweat, pumping

away.

“Oh no!” I wailed. “Get off of me!”

“What, baby? You were digging it a minute ago. Let’s have some

good sex. Your mommy doesn’t need to find out.”

“Oh, oh God,” I sobbed. I got up and ran into the hall. Streaks and

sparks whizzed in front of my eyes. The Grateful Dead music that had

once sounded sensual now seemed sinister. I nearly passed out again. I

huddled on the floor of the bathroom sick with shame. How could I have

allowed this to happen to me? Especially after I knew what had happened

to Christine. I should have seen the signs.

Then Christine came home. Her harsh voice bounced up the stairs

and down the hall toward me, edgy as shattered glass.

I took off my window screen and climbed into the garden. She would

never believe me. It was best to just leave. I threw on my work clothes

that smelled of grease and sweat. Whatever drug he had given me wore

off and I felt like filth. I didn’t have time to grab my shoes.

I went to Belinda. There was no place else to go.

“God, nasty old George,” she said. “He must have slipped you that

date rape drug. Well, at least he didn’t come in you. Did he?”

“No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t. But you know what the worst thing

is? When I didn’t know it was him, it felt good.” I shuddered.

“You give him too much power. All he did was stick his dick in you.

Breaking your nose is worse. Think about it.”

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Blue

I could have sworn she looked secretly pleased that I had nowhere

else to go.

She continued, “Well, I guess we have no excuse to stick around

these parts anymore. First thing we gotta do is go get your stuff.”

My work shoes were on the front porch when we arrived. They were

lined up neatly, the toes pointed away from the door. Next to them a

suitcase, my clothes folded neatly inside. Christine had even put my

favorite stuffed animal, a pink bunny, next to the suitcase. That touch of

finality, most of all, made my heart wrench. I sat on the steps and

sobbed. It hadn’t been much of a home, but I could never again go back

to it.

One evening, soon after, Belinda set me up with one of her country

club connections. “You have to be practical. You have no money. You

have to use what God gave you to survive. Anyway, it’s just a couple of

times and then we can split for LA.”

The man, Alan, was seventy and made his fortune with high-quality

hair products. When I met him he was wearing spandex bike shorts and a

tank top.

“I was just making a protein smoothie. Want one?”

I nodded and settled back onto the couch. Pump up the Jams by

Technotronic blared from the speakers. He danced toward me, smoothies

in hand. His flabby, gray-haired breasts swayed. I sighed with

resignation and leaned my head against the back of the couch.

He made small talk, but I just wanted to get it over with. I took a

deep breath and gave him a kiss. His mouth was wet and soggy. As

appetizing as a fallen soufflé. I got up and walked into his bedroom. It

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J.D. Riso

was decorated like a lair. Animal prints, foliage, and in one corner there

were giant plumes in a floor vase.

He rubbed his stiff weenie against me and bleated, “Oh, Blue, please

hold me.”

I undressed and stretched out on the leopard-print sheets. He pumped

away on me, watching us in the wall mirrors, while I clenched my teeth

against the pain. Just a few more times, I thought. Just this one man. I

tried to remember what Belinda had told me: I gave the physical act too

much power. Nothing could defile me without my permission, and so on.

I ended up crying silently, wishing he’d just finish.

He mistook my sobs for shudders of ecstasy, “Oh yeah, you like that

don’t you baby? No young man can hold out as long as I can.”

As if that were something I should cherish: a whiny old man fucking

me until the end of time.

“Adios, all you losers,” Belinda sang as we drove away from Mesa

for the last time. The wad of cash from my visits with Alan was stuffed

into the bottom of my backpack.

As we left the desert behind I vowed to forget my past. All of it. My

life begins now, I thought.

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