A Separation of Beauty and State
by David LaBounty
She stands at his desk and starts telling him about it and he listens with a bored half-interest.
The state, she says, I need the state to help me fix my car or maybe buy me another one? And her scratchy alto voice rises with hope and he hears a million exhausted cigarettes and the ghosts of domestic quarrels in the toughness of her words.I see, he says, and he looks her up and down, she's wearing a tank top and a short denim skirt and her boobs are starting to sag and the paunch is stretching the front of her skirt. There are tattoos on both of her shoulders bearing different names in an unsteady script. She has red hair that is long, almost to her shoulders and prescription glasses that magnify a left and lazy eye but her face is almost pretty, prettier than most that approach his desk.
She is doable he says to himself, doable, definitely doable.
Sit, sit down, he says, and he waves his hand and she sits in his rickety government-issue chair that faces his desk and she crosses her leg but widely like a man and he can see a flash of her inner thighs and panties along with a tattoo on one of her ankles, a tattoo of something vague and red; maybe a blooming rose, maybe a bleeding heart.
She sits and starts digging through her purse for proof of her existence that she knows he's going to want to see and she lays out her social security card and driver's license on his desk like a veteran of many games of poker.
He ignores her legitimacy and leaves it on his desk. He pulls out a clipboard and attaches several sheets of paper and he asks her questions automatically.
How many kids?
Seven.
He raises his eyebrow, seven is a lot for anyone, especially someone as young as her and it must mean she likes sex, it must mean her pussy is smooth and almost malleable, like a piece of potter's clay shaped by many hands.
Age?
Thirty-four.
Married?
Yes, I think they call it common-law. We've been together 'bout two years. . .
And that answer doesn't surprise him, her kids are a family but the only common blood is hers.
And your husband, does he work?
No.
And you?
Yeah, a group home, thirty hours a week, eight bucks an hour. Part time. No benefits but I haven't been in almost a week 'cause of car trouble.
What kind of car?
Not a car, a minivan. An '87 Ford Aerostar.
Is your job okay with you missing so much work?
Kind of, they told me about you, about your office, told me to get my ass in here.
He smiles on her use of the word ass. Ass, he has her ass in his office along with her tits and full, full thighs.
Okay, well then, if your husband doesn't work, how do you survive?
Her answer is interrupted by her cell phone ringing loudly from her purse and the ringtone is set to some contemporary country song and he knows then that the husband must work if she can afford a cell phone. He assumes and suspects the husband works for cash under the table but he doesn't care.
The state only worries about what it knows.
She pulls the phone out of her enormous purse, pawing her way through cosmetics and cigarettes to find it. She looks at the phone to see who is calling and switches the phone off without answering.
Survive? How do we survive? Friends and family and help from the state, you know, we get four-hundred and eighty seven bucks a month in food stamps and the kids have that Michigan health insurance.
Okay, fine, he says, and her girth tells him she's not starving and she keeps herself clean enough.
I will tell you how this works, he says and her face leans towards him with expectation.
As you know, Michigan is going through hard times right now, unemployment is high and our revenues are down and there are budget cuts everywhere, including this department. I used to have a secretary and now I have to do everything myself. There are a lot of people in your situation these days, people who need help and there just isn't enough money to go around so. . .someone like you has to make sure they do what it takes to make sure they get taken care of. . . .
Okay, tell me she says and she bites her lower lip in anticipation.
If you give me a blowjob I will give you 1200 bucks towards fixing your car and if you fuck me I will give you three grand for a new car, a new used car sold by a certified mechanic who deems it road-worthy.
She looks at him confused, shocked that words like that could come from a man who looks kind of nerdy, wispy red hair on top of a puffy bespectacled face on top of a thin, thin body with no sign of muscle at all.
Hey, she says and the indignation rises instinctively, you can't say that to me, you can't make me do that. I could turn you into the state; I could call the governor or something, maybe the newspaper or one of the TV stations.
He laughs and leans back in his chair and waves his right hands as if her words are nothing more than a buzzing fly.
Go ahead, he says, I'll just deny it. I've been with the state for twenty years and my record is perfect. I'm a married man with children. I'm a deacon at my church. I coach little league and I volunteer at a soup kitchen every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I pay taxes and contribute to society; I don't try to feed off of it like you.
She glares at him.
I'll tell my husband.
He laughs again. What, is he going to kick my ass? I'll turn his ass in for working under the table doing landscaping or construction and don't lie to me because I have proof. . . And he taps an empty file folder on his desk to bolster his lie.
She glares at him, shocked that he knows about her husband's income.
She drops her feet to the floor, her flip flop sandals slap the thin carpet and she crosses her arms across her chest.
Can I think about it?
Sure, call your husband if you want. I'll give you five and he gets up from behind his desk and walks down the hall to the closet where the coffee pot and copy machine reside.
She measures him with her eyes as he gets up from the desk. She studies his khaki trousers and pale blue oxford shirt and red tie. He is nothing to look at but she realizes she's been with worse. A lot worse.
She doesn't need five minutes.
He comes back with a cup of steaming Styrofoam in his hand.
I'll do it, she says as he sits down. I'll do what I have to do to get a new car.
Great, he says and he thinks about springing for a hotel room but that is getting kind of expensive plus it leaves a trail of credit card slips and registrations. He leads her out of the office and into the basement of the government building where there are storerooms full of material left behind by laid-off employees.
He bends her over a stack of boxes in an otherwise empty room and drops his pants and he makes her hike up her skirt. He enters her and grabs her hair and calls her a stupid cunt and he comes rather quickly and nearly joylessly and she doesn't come at all but she decides it was all tolerable enough and not that bad.
He takes her back to the office and hands her a list of mechanics that the state recommends, mechanics with car dealer licenses who are wise to the ways of government and used to waiting ninety days to get paid. The girl thanks him and disappears back into the folds of Michigan and he knows that even with a new car she will be back again and he hopes he can be her caseworker. She will get a new used car, something a little newer than what she already has but the brakes and tires would be good but the motor and transmission will have a lot of miles, like a senior citizen who feels all right but is close to dying.
He goes home that afternoon, to his split level house with a partially refinished basement that has been mortgaged and re-mortgaged twice. His wife is standing at the stove making dinner out of cans and he finds himself irritated at the streaks of gray in her shoulder length brown and messy hair.
She reminds him that it is Tuesday and that he has to take out the trash.
David LaBounty lives in suburban Detroit. He has held jobs as a miner, a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. Hs poetry has appeared in several print and online journals and he is the author of two novels, "The Perfect Revolution" and "The Trinity". His third novel, "Affluenza", is under consideration.