Surrogate (MF Petite)

[psiberzerker]

Author

Thanks to Wayne2318 for reminding me that a little girl can be an adult, and little girls seem to be what the readers want.  So, here's my best attempt.

;

Noah (MF Bar Talk)

Liz came in looking messed up.  Hair frazzed, and makeup smudged, she just put her purse down, and ordered "Whiskey and a Chaser."

"We got Bourbon, and a Scotch blend in the well."  I set up a cocktail glass with a couple Ice-cubes.  

She shook her head, "Bourbon, straight up."  Put her head down in her hands, running her hair through it, which explains what happened to that.  As for the makeup, there was enough wiped off off from her eyes, and cheeks to tell that she'd been crying.

So, I knocked the ice back in the freezer, and poured a shot glass of Evan Williams.  You ask me, it's too good for the well, but there's what sells, and what just sits up on the shelf.  So, I poured some for myself.  Going to have to wash out the glass anyway.

"Coke?"

"Sure."  I added a spritz to wash it down, so she grunted, and took a sip of cola.

"Kah!  Huh."

"New job?"

"No?  Huh!"    She took the bottle, and poured another.  So, I kept track.  "That asshole, Mr. Martin."  She rubbed the arm of her business suit.  "I got a bad vibe out of him in the interview, but he confirmed it for me.  So,"  She shot it back, and didn't even wince.

Honestly, I never thought she was that young.  Last weekend, she came in and acted surprized that I didn't ask to see her ID.  I remembered she ordered a beer, because it was like the whiskey.  She doesn't care, whatever's cheap, but if she was as young as she looks, then the guy at the door would have spotted the fake ID.  He used to be a cop, and worked at the DMV before he retired.  

"Huh!"  She set the shot glass down, and took a breath, a sip from the coke, and I checked on the regulars real quick.  

"So," she came over to the end, to talk to me.  "It turns out the only reason he hired me was my looks, and he doesn't even trust me with the books."  23, MBA, hired as a low level manager for some firm, which was the whole reason why she moved here in the first place.  Celebrating her new job she staggered back to her hotel room, but the old guys, and the woman.  They came here to be left alone, just keep their drinks topped off, if they wanted company, they would have gotten a table together.

Too early to really start picking up, I moved back down to the bottle, and her glasses.  Shot in some more coke, and eyed the level of Bourbon in the bottle.  Harlan smiled at me, and nodded.  Happy that I headed that off at the pass, he just put his head down, and went back to the Trivia game.  "He said maybe he could find something else to do, to earn my salary, and."  She shook her head, squeezing her eyes to shut out some nasty image, or other.

"Another?"  She nodded, so.  "How much have you had to eat?"

"Oh yeah.  Good thinking.  Um."  I shoved a menu over, while she bit her lip.  Sipping from the shot glass, but I wasn't exactly amazed how well she could hold her liquor.  I'm a bartender, I know the equation.  She looks like maybe 100 lbs, soaking wet, with a lot of change in her pockets, but the other night.  A Saturday night, she got lots of drinks bought for her, and while I kept track.  That was several days ago, and I didn't expect to see her again.

"Just heat up a burrito, or something."  She pushed the menu back, and sipped her coke.  Eyeing the bottle, but I had the mirror to keep track with.  "Huh!"  One eye half blinked, with a heavy breath, but it only took 44 seconds to heat up the burrito, and maybe that would soak some of it up.  I started a tab for her, as soon as it started to get too complicated in my head.  "So, long story short, I quit rather than get molested, and play out his sick.  Pedophilic fantasy.  I guess sending a picture along with my resume was a mistake."

"He didn't assault you?"  I wasn't sure.

"No, he never touched me, or threatened to fire me.  I just didn't want to work for a sick pervert like him, but."  She poked the tortilla with her fingers, to see if it cooled off enough to eat.  "Huh!"    "He had a."  She lowered her voice, and talked to her chest.  "A, boner."

"Sick!"

"I know, right?"  She finally tore off the end, and started eating it like that.  So, I got her a knife and a fork, but it was getting late.  We usually get some corporate liquid lunches from the businesses nearby, and I have to count out, but she obviously had to think.  

;

Liz (MF Drunk)

"Huh!"  The burritos turned out to be really good.  I mean super good, too good for bar food, unless you're talking about Taos, or Santa Fe.  They get them from a Mexican family, who also brings in tamales in a pot, but hand made tortillas, red chile, and pork, I think.  It didn't taste like chicken, I don't know, but it was practically comfort food as miserable as I was.

So, let me get the FAQs out of the way:  No, I'm not a gymnast, I never was one, I never even thought about it.  I'm not a model, obviously.  I'm not tall enough, and I'm not a dancer, neither.  I don't have a "Condition," if I did I guess I'd call it Tina Fey syndrome, but I started early, okay?

I started filling out in the chest, in 2nd grade, and I pretty much stopped growing when I was 13.  So, I'm petite, I look busty, because my C-cups look oversized on my skinny little body, and I guess I'm cute.  I don't know, I get that a lot, and talked to like a kindergartner by women who mean well, but honestly, it sucks being treated like a child all the time.  Getting carded for cigarettes got old right away, it's not flattering, and that's when it isn't gross, like that asshole.

"Huh!"  I had enough, more than enough whiskey, but I want more, so I can crawl back to my hotel room, and forget about how I'm going to pay for it, but it's a Company room.  They payed for the plane ticket too, I'm probably wasting what little I have left on booze, and I've got enough to not think about with that creepy sick fat old married balding.  Pedophile.

"Huh!"  He showed me a picture of his family, and the way he pointed out, that I remind him of his daughter, all grown up.  "HhuhHuh!"  Ew, just ew.  It makes my skin crawl, and I don't want to throw up, but what a waste of liquor.  So, I went out, and smoked a few cigarettes.  Got some fresh air, and looked up at the Hotel.

Nice place, I mean really nice place, and I'm going to clean out the mini airplane bottles when I get back, because they can't cancel the reservation until check-out, tomorrow.  It's already payed for, but I didn't just come in to get drunk enough to stomach all that Vodka.  They've got OJ, and coke to wash that down with, but honestly I needed the company.

Noah, Noel?  No, Noah, I think.  "I'm drunk."  Of course, that was the idea, right?  

It's not just the beer goggles, but he's so good at this.  So easy to talk to, and makes me feel so much better about my problems, even though I know it doesn't do anything about them, and they're still gonna be there in the morning, with a massive headache.  I should probably drink a lot of water, and I know I won't, because I've got an empty hotel room, and a full mini bar, that's mostly Vodka.  Mixers and shit, no margarita mix, teh Tequila's already gone, and at least I don't have to stagger down to get 20 feet away from the entrance, because they don't have that law here.  

Sure, you can pickle your liver, but you can't risk anybody getting secondhand smoke.  Standing here, on the sidewalk, with tailpipes driving by, and traffic picking up from the people that have jobs taking off for early lunch.  "You can't hang out here."

"Huh?"  Dyke.  Sorry, no that's.  "Sorry, what?"  

"This is a Bar, you can't just hang out out front."

"Oh, let me settle up my tab, and."  I'm blocking the door.  "Sorry."

At least she didn't talk to me like a kindergartner.  She talked to me like a teenager, hanging out in front of a bar, and chain smoking, but I coughed, and stubbed out.  6, and a half cigarettes.  That's how long I was out there, not dealing with my problems, but I owe him for the drinks, and the burrito.

"Twenty three seventy five."  I pulled out a $20, and a 5, then dug down for the 10, and put the 5 back.  Pretty good prices here, even if it is whiskey from the well, and a particularly damned good buritto.  "Here's your change."

The dyke strapped on an apron, which explains why she got so territorial about me blocking the door.

"I'm sorry, keep it."  I tip, even if I can't afford it, if that were an issue, I would have gone up to my room, and gotten drunk on free screwdrivers, then probably found something to cut my wrists in the bathtub.

"You need it more than I."  Even gave me back the quarter.  "Come on, can you make it across the street, and to the elevator?"

"Probably."  He felt so warm, and strong with his arm around me.  "Not."

"Come on, let me help you with the door."

"Okay..."

;

Author

I know, it's confusing, but he had to juggle playing amateur therapist with his job, and keep an eye on the regulars, so he was all over the place.  She's drunk, traumatized, worried about her future, stranded in a strange city, and trying to avoid her problems.  So, that's why she's all over the place.  Sorry if it's difficult to understand.

[psiberzerker]

"Ulp!"  I stepped back when the elevator lurched, but she just belched.  Giggle, "Chile!"

I sat through the difference between Chili with an I, and Chile with an E, but she was all over the place.  

"It was good, but a little too late."  Shaking her head, carefully braced in the corners with a couple of flat steel bands to hang onto.

"We have a spare room."  I finally offered, when she didn't throw up.

"Who's we?"  DING!  No elevator music, but worrying about her wasn't helping the situation.

"I called my wife, and since you have no place else to go..."  I'm a married man, and though I don't even want to take advantage of her, especially considering what she's been through, I can't help remembering what all I heard from the suits that were there that night.  The first night, a Saturday night, and who got invited back to her hotel room.

I just helped her to the door, and took the key-card to get it open for her, before she passed out.  I have to wonder, how much she was conscious for, and it made me a little sick.  I don't care if they're more regular patrons, and how much money they spend on the weekends, it's not like I get payed commission for the number of drinks I sell, and money shouldn't be an excuse to exploit a young woman just because she's celebrating her new career.

Now, that's destroyed, and I thought she was passed out on the single bed.  So, on the way out, I decided to believe their story about her being a wildcat, or a firecracker in bed, instead of so drunk she was passing out in the middle of a gangbang.

"Noel?"

"Noah."  I stopped, and let the door swing shut.

"Thanks," she flopped over and reached for the trashcan.  Missed it, and tried to pull her hair out of her face, but she needed a little help with that, too.  She spat first, cradling it like a lifeline, but I knew that she was ready to let it all out.

My problem isn't how young she looks.  I know full well what she was talking about, when she opened up about what it's like.  Living in a world that's build for 6' tall men, and having a choice between being treated like a little girl that doesn't have a point in her pretty little head, or finding a pedophile that's willing to overlook her age to get his hands on her petite body, squint a little, and demand she shave so she's more attractive to him.

"Hrugthpht!  Huh, snh?"  She shook her head, so I let her hair go.  Took the bucket back to the toilet to flush.  Hoping she'd pass out, because I'm not leaving until I know she's safe, but thinking about my wife.

How does she feel about this, every time I have to work late, to give a lush a ride home.  My problem is she's a wounded bird, so I just want to tuck her under my wing.  Keep her warm, until she's ready to stand up on her own two feet, stretch her wings, and fly off into the real world.  It's not my wife, I'm blaming her for my problems again, when the truth is, it's fucking offensive for a young woman who resents her looks holding her back.

She looks like a little girl, so they won't let her grow up.

Make that a buxom little girl, leaning back against the pillow, with her jacket off.  Her blouse unbuttoned to the bra, and wide afuckingwake.  "Huh," deep busty breath, and sigh.  "You think you could put on a pot of coffee to me?"  She shook her head, without puking, and went on;  "I know, you've done so much, already."

I dropped the trashcan, fresh rinsed in the bathtub, and tried to figure out the coffee maker.

I didn't even feel trapped.  Not for a second...

[psiberzerker]

He had to work again, the next day.  Weird that a bar is open, so early it needs a morning bartender.  Incredible burittos notwithstanding, but I managed to pack anyway.  Just left the trash can/barf bucket, and tried to remember what we talked about all night.

I feel a little guilty, keeping him up all night when he had to work in the morning, and away from his family?  No, he mentioned that he didn't have kids, and his wife would come to pick me up, but she's also self-conscious about the way she looks.  So, long before checkout, I rolled my bags down the hall to the elevator, and through the lobby.

It felt like a walk of shame, even though I stuck to my guns, and even reported Mr. Martin for calling me in.  On a sunday, to refuse to give me work, and treat me like his own personal whore.  Remember that, Beth.  It's not my failure, I was tricked, and trapped, and if it wasn't for Noah's kindness, I'd be out on the street.  

Trying to figure out a way to save up for a plain ticket, or somehow worse.  Having to call mom, and dad, crawl back home like a failure, and go back to my room.  "Hm."  A pang of homesickness, for a moment there.  It doesn't seem so bad, once I swallow my pride, but then the light changed, so I could take the crosswalk.

In the middle of the block, I was lucky to have a bar across the street, and honestly, I'm not a bar girl.  A party girl, and I really shouldn't drink so much.  Paying the price this morning, and speaking of which.  It's [11:17Am] according to my watch, and there's already someone there, drinking a screwdriver?

"Oh, there you are.  Kathlene, this is Elizabeth."

"Liz."  Don't stare, but when he mentioned that she's self conscious of her looks.  He just said it in passing, and even that she was short like me, but she's not.  Like me, at all.

She's a Dwarf?  I don't know, she's not that short, but compared to my 4'7".  She's even shorter, and doesn't look childlike, she looks like a dwarf.  A fantasy dwarf, without the beard, or the battleax, but her neck is so thick, she might as well not even have one, her top is stretched wide open, her broad shoulders, and she walks funny.  Waddling like a frog?  

It's surreal, but the she shook my hand, and the pain in my head, I'm not dreaming that.  "Come on," she downed her orange juice.  "Have you eaten?"

"No," I barely even had any coffee, since the OJ was gone, and I didn't want to even look in the fridge, but I was wired all night from the cokes, and the coffees, and I feel like I'm having a panic attack, because I don't know what to say to this strange creature offering me a ride, and a place to stay.

"Here we are."  She popped the trunk on a hatchback, and helped me throw the bags in.  So, I didn't have to unstrap the carry-on from the handle, then she hit a button so the sides hissed, and the hatch came down.  I think it was the pistons on the side.  "Neat feature, um."  I'm nervous to even speak, "How it closes all on it's own."  

She pushed down, so it latched.  "Thanks, I just had to add some valves, and an accumulator."

"What's that?"

"The accumulator?  It's a small tank, the engine fills up off the air compressor."  She started it, and I noticed how far forward her seat was.  

"So, that's how you compensate.  For;"

"Huh!"  She nodded, "You don't have to talk around it," She shrugged, "So, to get the unasked question out of the way, I have Turner's syndrome."

"Oh, what's that?"

"It's a chromosome disorder, it's complicated, but the main cause is I'm missing a chromosome.  I only have 45, and one X chromosome."

"Oh, that's the sex chromosome."

"Right, but it's not really understood how having just one affected my growth.  Normaly, take you for instance.  One X is used over the other, which is walled off by enzymes to stay dormant.  Except for like Calicoes, or women with 2 different eye colors?"  She nodded, "That's caused by different chromosomes being active, or dormant, and sex linked colors like green or blue, being selected in one eye, or another."

She shrugged.  "You're not a geneticist?"

"No, just a tinkerer, mostly.  I always was, my favorite toys were legos, and Mechano, because I could make different toys out of them, and my folks got them for me, to keep me from taking everything apart."

"To see how it worked?"

She shook her head, "It turns out, it was to see where everything goes."  She twirled her finger by her head, then went back to the steering wheel.  "Spacial reasoning, I can't really imagine things, in 3 dimension.  So, I tried to explore 3 dimensional things like clocks, to compensate."

"Oh, weird."  I was starting to relax.  "I don't suppose I'm very good at 3d, either.  It's a lot easier to think in 2, or draw stuff on a computer screen than sculpt it in the real world?"  She nodded, eyes on the road.  "As far as I know, I've got the regular 2, X chromosomes, though."  I've never been tested, but both my eyes are brown, so maybe.  If they're both brown, would you even be able to tell?  I never really thought about it before, but I feel so much better about my problems.

Joking about Tina Fey Syndrome was a joke, when there's real people, with real conditions, and real consequences like Kathlene here.

Their building was close bye, so I had to switch gears, and get my bearings.  Unfortunately a walk-up, so I unstrapped my bag from the cart-case, and Kathlene was nice enough to carry it.  So, I could focus on pulling the case up the steps to the landings, then wheel around to the next one, but at least it wasn't the old fashioned brownstone style, where you have to go past the steps on every floor.

Instead, it was just a regular stairwell, I guess.  With a landing halfway up, every floor, so I could turn around, and just drag it up the next set of steps, but I had to stop, and catch my breath.  "They should put in an Elevator," I joked.

"Oh, I forgot about that.  Speaking of which, I would appreciate it if you could try not to move anything, for me?  I know it's cluttered, but."  She did that crazy head sigh beside her ear again, "I have a problem with object impermanence."

"Oh yeah?"  I took my bag, so she could get out her keys.

"Yeah, out of sight, out of mind?  If I can't see it in front of me, I might forget it exists."

"Like the elevator."

"That's in back."  She pointed down the hall, opposite the stairwell, but it just looks like regular double doors.  "Mostly for heavy furniture, and bulky loads, you can't just carry up the stairs, but you have to get the keys for it.  The manager helps with the loading and unloading if he's around."

"Nice."  She wasn't kidding about the clutter.  "It's modern, and.  I like your furniture?"

"You can put your stuff in here."  She opened a door, next to the bathroom.  The toilet seat was down, but then I was surprised to see a bedroom, with a crib, and nothing else.

"Your husband mentioned, you don't have kids?"

"I can't."  She pulled out a dresser drawer, "But sometimes we have our brothers, and sisters over with their families, so it's nice for them to have the crib for the babies, or the bed for their children."

She's somewhat hard to follow, but I'm getting used to it.  Like the way she looks, but all the pieces of stuff, and things taken apart on the tables.  All of the tables, the coffee table, the low one in the kitchen where I'd think to put a center island, but it's just a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, and the rest is basically all one room.  Kitchen on one side, with a low table, and crates stacked up under it like shelves.

Also full of junk, or spare parts, and whatever she'd taken them out of.  It's funny how she said it, "I can't."  Have children, just like that.  She didn't even shake her head, just mentioned it like saying it's cluttered, which is the understatement of the century, but it's dusty in here.

Other than that, it's empty, but I had to shake the dust off the comforter, on the bed.  Other than that, there was nothing.  A bed, a crib, dresser, mirror, and a closet with nothing but hangers, and dust.  A lot of dust.

"I better clean up all this dust, out of sight, out of mind, right?"

"Hm?"  I turned around, but she was just sitting on the toilet.  "Oh yes."  She got up, and pulled up her pants.  "Let me help you with that."

She didn't wash her hands, or wipe.  She didn't even flush, just got up, and switched gears.  I hate to even think the R word, but there it is.  "There's a dust mop in the pantry here, and I think I've got a swiffer on top.  I'm sorry, I really should take better care of the place, but let me start clearing the parts, while you make yourself at home."

"Thanks."