He parks at the dead end of a dirt road. Ranch houses and double wides line the street. He lives in a ranch that looks like a gust of wind could smash it to smithereens. The front steps are decaying. The outside light is busted. The only light in the driveway comes from his neighbor’s house.
He’s already out of his car and opening the front door when I park. I bring my guitar and my purse with me. I never leave them in my car if I can help it.
“Come on in,” he says.
He has four guitars, a futon, a glass-topped coffee table, and a television in his living room. The TV is one of those ancient ones with dials on the front, and it has rabbit ears tipped with aluminum foil.
His house smells like old tires. Just this hint of it at the end of breathing in. I wonder how close we are to the highway. I listen, but I can’t hear road noise. I leave my guitar and my purse by the door.
“Okay,” he says, “you have to play the Martin first. That’s my favorite. That’s the one you should get if you have a windfall. I got it in trade a few years ago. Swear it sounds better the more you play it. It’ll cost you, but the tone is unreal.”
He checks that it’s in tune and hands it over to me. It’s much heavier than my guitar.
While I’m playing, he dumps a small baggie of coke on the coffee table and cuts it into lines with a guitar pick.
I try to ignore it and just keep playing. It’s not like I’ve never seen people do coke before, it’s just that I’ve never been so close to it. It was something I glanced from the other room at a party, or I saw people come out of the bathroom at a bar with white powder ringing their nostrils. I try to pay attention to my fingers and the way the stiff strings press into my calluses, but it’s so close. I feel like the dust will get everywhere. Tiny particles will cover my lips and get in my eyes.
He rolls up a five and snorts one of the lines and then another. It’s hollow and loud like his nose is a deep cavern. He shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and snorts again. His face is red.
“Oh, you know,” I say when he tries to hand me the rolled-up five, “I’m kind of tired. And I should hit the road early. I’ll just crash. I’m good right here.” I pat the couch.
“We haven’t fucked yet.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I know what this is.”
My whole body shakes. “You don’t even know me.”
“You’re all the same. Aren’t you?” he says, straightening his next line with the guitar pick. “You fuck for drugs. You’ll be gone in the morning. You’ll take the rest of my bag while I’m sleeping. I have to get mine now, so at least it’s a fair trade.”
I stand up and rest his guitar on the couch.
“I’m gonna go,” I say. I start walking to the door. He gets up and grabs my wrist so quickly.
“Don’t play games with me, April. You know how this works.”
His grip is tight. I twist my wrist to try to find a weak spot, but he squeezes harder and gets so close that I feel like he’s taking all the air away.
I back toward the door. He grabs my other arm.
“You look so young.” He tries to kiss me. I turn my head away. My back hits the wall. I can see my guitar and my bag by the door. I think it through. Picture it all in my head. It has to be quick.
“This could be so dirty,” he says. His breath smells like booze and burnt plastic. “I get the feeling you like it that way, don’t you, April?”
“You know what?” I say sweetly to throw him off guard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “You’re right. I like it dirty.” I take a deep breath, like the extra air will make me bigger and stronger, and then I knee him in the groin as hard as I possibly can. My kneecap feels like it could crack in two. He lets go of my wrists and reaches for his crotch. I push him over while he’s off balance. Grab my guitar and my bag, open the door, and run as hard and as fast as I can. By the time I’m at my car, I have my keys out of my bag. He’s in the doorway. He’s hobbling out to me.
“Get away,” I scream, hoping neighbors will hear. “Get the fuck away from me!”
I unlock my car, throw my guitar and bag on the passenger seat, and climb in, closing the door just in time. He smacks my window. His face is right there. His glasses magnify his eyes, big and bulging.
I start the engine. Lean on the horn. Flash my lights. I hope someone will notice, that one of his neighbors will come help me. No one does.