THE
WALLET
by William Taylor Jr.

It was about 4 a.m. on a cold November morning in San Francisco. Frank had spent the evening in the downtown bars. He had succeeded in spending a fair amount of money and getting very drunk, but nothing had happened to dull his loneliness, which was what had driven him from his hotel room in the first place. After the bars he wandered the streets aimlessly until he finally decided to head back down Polk street towards his hotel. He passed by a convenience store a few blocks away from where he was staying. A woman stood on the corner in front of the store. She didn’t seem to be doing anything in particular, just standing, waiting. Beneath the yellow streetlamps she didn’t look too bad. Frank’s eyes met the woman’s as he passed and she gave him a wan and tired smile. Frank smiled back, mumbled some kind of greeting and kept walking.

Halfway between the convenience store and his hotel he paused. He stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute or more, as if trying to work something out in his head. He eventually turned around and headed back towards the store. The woman was still there, and her eyes followed him inside. The man behind the counter gave no greeting and offered no smile. He sat in a chair watching a hip hop video on the small television that sat upon the counter. Frank walked up and down the brightly lit aisles a few times and then picked out a large bag of nacho flavoured tortilla chips and a large purple flavoured Gatorade. He paid for his items, put them in a bag and stepped back out into the night.

The woman was still standing there, and Frank paused awkwardly in front of her. He said hello, and they exchanged some words. He wasn’t exactly sure why or how he ended up inviting her back to his room; he did it without thinking, without a particular motive in mind. It was as if his body was doing and saying things he had no control over and he had no choice but to watch it all from a distance.

Frank walked up the metal stairs to the second floor of the hotel with the woman shuffling along behind him. He pulled the key card out of his wallet and unlocked the door to his room. He wondered to himself when hotels started using these things instead of good old fashioned keys. Once inside Frank found the lights and set his bag of groceries on a small table by the door. The woman stood in the doorway looking nervously about the room. "Can I use the bathroom?" she asked.

"Sure, sure," Frank said. He studied the woman as she walked across the room. She had looked much better in the glow of the streetlamps. The bright, sterile light of the hotel room was not kind. The woman seemed to be in her mid to late thirties, perhaps a few years older than Frank himself. But her face was leathery and lined with deep creases, aged well beyond its actual years. Some of her teeth were missing, at least three that he noticed offhand. She was small and skinny with shoulder length mouse brown hair. Most of her figure still remained, and her jeans hugged her nicely. A few years ago she might’ve been really something.

Frank took a bottle of beer from the six pack that was chilling in the sink and lay down on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind all but blank. He heard the toilet flush and the woman momentarily emerged from the bathroom. Frank continued to lie on the bed and said nothing. The woman looked at him a bit questioningly and paced about the room. "So," she eventually said in a small voice, "what are you in the mood for tonight?"

Frank continued to look at the ceiling, which had begun to spin a bit. "I don’t know," he said after a moment. "Nothing much, really. Just wanted some company, I guess."

"Huh," the woman said in a voice that suggested she wasn’t exactly sure what to make of Frank’s reply.

"I mean," Frank started, sitting up on the bed, "do you have time to hang out a bit? I’ve got beer in the sink and some peppermint schnapps over there on the counter, and some 7-up, if you want it."

"Oh. Sure, I got some time," the woman said with some hesitation. She found the bottle of schnapps and poured a generous amount into a plastic cup. She took a few good sized drinks and walked around the room, looking at things. She picked up a paperback novel from the bedside table and studied it with a strained interest. "Hmmmm" she said, as if the book held some kind of meaning for her. She gave similar attention to other random items about the room.

Frank sat upon the bed with his beer and watched her. She still seemed uneasy, and her face twitched a bit from time to time. She’s probably on crack, Frank thought, or maybe heroin. Frank didn’t know much about drugs.

She eventually sat down at the table by the door. She drank schnapps from her plastic cup and ate from the bag of tortilla chips that Frank had bought at the store. Frank lay back down on the bed and turned his attention to the ceiling once more. A fair amount of time passed in this fashion. "What’s your name?" Frank eventually asked, mainly because he wanted to break the silence and could think of nothing else to say.

"Beth," was the answer the woman gave. A few more moments of silence passed between them before she made an attempt to continue the conversation. "Whatcha doing in the city?" she asked. "You live around here?"

"No, I’m from Sunnyvale," Frank replied, "I’m here for work stuff. Business convention of sorts. Really boring, but at least at night we get to do what we want, ya know?"

"Huh," was Beth’s vague reply, not even pretending to be slightly interested in Frank, his job, or what he was doing there.

She seemed to grow more uneasy as time passed, and it seemed to Frank that she was getting pretty anxious to leave. Frank was getting pretty tired himself. He wondered if he should ask her if she wanted to stay and sleep for awhile. He wasn’t really interested in sex with the woman, but just a body in the bed next to him would be better than being alone. He figured he would have to end up giving her some money anyway, sex or not. He pondered this while he got up from the bed to go to the bathroom.

One in the bathroom a vague feeling of unease crept into Frank’s mind. He wasn’t sure of the cause of it, it was just a feeling that something was somehow wrong. Wait. His wallet. He felt around in his pockets. It wasn’t there. Had he set it down somewhere? He couldn’t remember. He stepped out of the bathroom and looked around. It wasn’t on the night stand or on the table where Beth sat. It wasn’t on top of the TV or on the counter by the sink. A sinking feeling slowly came over him. "Shit," he finally said.

Beth had been watching him from her place at the table. "What?" she asked, sounding only mildly interested in learning what was wrong.

"My wallet," Frank said. "I can’t find it. It’s gone."

"Huh," said Beth.

"It should be here. It’s gotta be here somewhere." Frank stood in the middle of the room feeling suddenly helpless.

Beth stood up and glanced briefly about the room in a half-hearted attempt to help in the search. A moment later she was gathering up her things from the table and edging toward the door.

"Hey," Frank said. Beth looked at him blankly as she brushed tortilla chip crumbs from her jeans. "Hey," he repeated, not exactly sure what it was he wanted to say. He continued hesitantly. "You."

Beth looked at him.

"You don’t have my wallet, do you?"

Beth’s blank expression did not change. She continued to stare at him. "What?" she eventually said.

"My wallet, do you have it?" Now that Frank had actually posed the question it seemed to make perfect sense. The woman was a prostitute. Prostitutes were always desperate for money for drugs, or whatever else it was they spent their money on. Of course she took his wallet.

"Do I have your wallet?" Beth repeated the question out loud.

"I had it when we came in the room, now it’s gone. It can’t just have just disappeared. It doesn’t make any sense."

"Look, man, you’re drunk. It could be anywhere. I hope you find it and all, but I gotta go."

"No, I’ve looked. It’s not here. C’mon, I’m screwed without my wallet. It’s got my driver’s license, social security card, all that stuff. I’m not worried about the money. I’ll give you money. Twenty bucks. Fifty. I just need the wallet back."

Frank’s words didn’t have the effect on Beth that he had been hoping for. Her eyes shone with anger and indignation. "You’re drunk, man, and I don’t have your fucking wallet." She patted herself down in an attempt to show her innocence. "I don’t have time for this shit, I have things to do. I’ve wasted too much time with you already."

Beth made a move for the door. Frank stepped in her path. "Look," he said, "I’m sorry. But I can’t let you leave until I find my wallet."

At this Beth exploded with rage. "I already told you I don’t have your wallet, you fucking asshole. You wanna search me? Search me!" She tore off her jacket and threw it on the floor at Frank’s feet as some kind of challenge.

Frank picked the jacket up from the floor and searched through the pockets. Nothing. He looked at Beth. She stared back at him coldly. The jeans she wore were too tight to conceal much of anything.

"See? See?" She spat out.

Frank still wasn’t convinced. Beth eventually realized this from the fact that he made no move to step aside to unblock the path between her and the door. "What, do you think I shoved it up my ass, is that what you think?"

Frank figured it was possible. Had had no idea what to do now. Perhaps he should just cut his losses and let her go before things got any uglier. But the thought of being ripped off by some stupid whore angered him. He looked at the telephone on the bedside table. Beth followed his eyes and quickly guessed his intentions.

"You gonna call the cops? You go on ahead. They’ll throw your drunk ass in jail. You just go ahead and call the cops, asshole."

"We’ll see," Frank said, not as sure about things as he tried to sound. He picked up the phone. There wasn’t a dial signal. Frank fucking hated hotel room phones. He tried to read the instructions printed on the phone but they made no sense to him. He pushed buttons at random but nothing he did brought the sound of a dial tone. He put the receiver down, defeated. "Fuck," he said.

Beth and Frank stood there looking at each other. Beth had a fury in her eyes. It was a standoff of sorts, both of them waiting to see where things would go from here. Frank was the one to eventually break the silence. "Look," he said slowly and in a soft voice, "I just need my wallet."

That was all that was needed. "How many times do I gotta tell you I don’t have your wallet, man?" Beth was screeching now, wild. "You wanna see? You wanna see how I don’t have your wallet?"

Beth was tearing articles of clothing from her body. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and tore off her jeans. In a moment she was standing before Frank completely naked save for a pair of faded blue panties. "Is this what you want," she shrieked, "is this how you get your thrills? Well, here ya go, asshole, take a real good look!"

Frank took a good look. Beth’s body was skinny and looked brittle and frail as if it were easily broken. Her sickly white skin was covered in bruises. Bruises and scars. But the scars were nothing compared to the bruises. Ugly bruises of all shapes sizes and colours all over her body. Arms, legs and breasts. Everywhere. On the inside of her left thigh was the biggest, ugliest bruise Frank had ever seen. Bruises from needles, from beatings, Frank could only guess what else. Frank was suddenly overcome with a feeling of sickness; mentally and physically. He felt the need to vomit. He felt an overwhelming sense of disgust; with himself and with the woman and her bruises and her scars. With life and death and everything.

He lowered himself on the bed, suddenly drained of all energy and emotion. He didn’t care about the wallet anymore. "I’m sorry," he eventually said, his eyes upon the floor.

"Yeah, you’re sorry alright. You’re a real sorry motherfucker." Beth was gathering up her clothes from the floor. "I don’t need this. This shit is the last thing I need right now. I outta call the cops on you."

Frank didn’t reply, didn’t argue. He sat on the bed, looking at the floor, desiring only sleep. Beth was dressed again and opened the door to the room. Frank made no move to stop her. "You’ll get yours, asshole," she said before slamming the door. He listened to her stomping down the metal stairs.

It’s true, Frank was an asshole. And Beth was a whore. Assholes and whores, the world was full of them. There was nothing to be done. Frank sat on the bed and didn’t move for some time. Eventually he got up to use the bathroom. When he walked back out he saw something on the floor, half hidden under the bed. His wallet. He picked it up, opened it. It all seemed to be there. Money, credit cards, everything.

It was coming up on 6 a.m. now, and the morning sun began to seep through the thin gray drapes. Frank lay down on the bed once more and was almost instantly unconscious. He woke up four hours later with the worst hangover he’d had in years.

© William Taylor Jr.
Reproduced with permission

---

Your first name:	Your URL:
Use the box below to leave messages for William. Begin Message: For William Taylor Jr.

---

View My Guestbook
Sign My Guestbook

---

SITE
FORUM

---