A day is a day is a day, and in the end, a girl needs to make money. That is what Micah was doing. Just making money.
You could see her in the parking lot in front of the gas station, or near the motel, or at a corner by the park. A car would pull up, a few words would be exchanged, and a transaction would either be made, or not.
The day when I noticed her was just a Thursday like many Thursdays before and many Thursdays to follow, but two things happened that I will remember for all eternity.
First, a group of Christian radicals were coming back from an anti-abortion protest and they saw Micah. They approached. The signs with drawings of emotionless foetuses were hanging down, useless now, but the brows were still furrowed with righteous indignation. “You should mend your ways for the Lord. He loves you, but He will accept no whore into His Holy Kingdom.” “Yeah? Whatever,” said Micah, and went right back to turning tricks.
The second thing that happened was that John approached her. He was wearing a business suit, his hair was slick, his face flawless, but he could not fool Micah. I bet she could smell the stale semen on him, the smell of misdirected lust, blown out of proportion by the years of self-deception. John was not a human being, he was an animal.
They agreed on a sum and went to Micah’s motel room. I had to attend to something else for a little while, so I did not see what transpired, but when I came back, John was gone, being pursued by Rodent, who was Micah’s human guardian angel. Micah herself was sitting on the floor in the motel room. Mascara was smeared all over her cheeks, but the tears had dried up. She had just finished writing on the mirror. Big desperate angry letters that I understand so well.
I HATE IT