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The Video Store Girl

The store was not particularly stylish, at least compared to the other video rental chains in town, but it had a charm of it's own.
This specific store was called Video Choice, a simple name, really, for a local store, established by someone from the area. One thing this establishment offered that the other stores couldn't was selection; while the other locales were merely distribution points from some head office thousands of kilometers away, Video Choice was truly representative of the local tastes of the community. Or at least it was truly representative of the tastes of the owner.
This was a Monday afternoon, and Pamela did one of her many typical duties as employee; she placed the rating stickers on each and every video box that arrived for display on the Tuesday of each week. Each sticker represented a rating decided on by a few select people; people Pamela intuited were much better paid, and more strongly connected to power than she. Obviously, these select individuals knew what was suitable and was was moral for the nation at large; few poor suckers who had to work long and hard months to produce their work could sway them to another opinion on who ought to to allowed to see their works of art.
Maybe, Pamela thought as she tried not to receive sticky goo from the backs of the stickers over her fingertips, somebody ought to create a different sort of ratings system. The kind of system based on intellect rather than arbitrary notions of "age" and "maturity". Line up a thousand 18 year olds and they will not all react in the same fashion to any film. A better, if more bureaucratic and expansive, way, would be to test every single person. The highest grade would mean that the successful applicant would be permitted to see anything in the store, since such an individual would be able to handle the peculiarities of, say, an Ingmar Bergman film, the old-fashioned glamour of an old Hollywood picture, and any stupid action film on the market, without any overexertion of the brain. The lower grade you received, the fewer choices you had -- if all your brain were good for was, say, Flubber, then you were not permitted to rent any other type of film until you proved that your brain grew up. This wasn't as offensive as it sounded, Pamela would reason. Most people who rent such movies would be pleased to have been warned about potential stress upon the cranium. Such a system would also lessen the chance of some redneck and his fluffy girlfriend coming back to the store complaining that their video contained subtitles, which would also lessen the chance of stress upon Pamela's cranium.
Such were the thoughts she entertained while suffering from meager and unchallenging work.



*



Vacuuming the floors again. Every evening before close she had to sweep the floor and then vacuum. Frequently, she would cheat, sweeping the floor thoroughly enough to make it appear as though it were vacuumed, but tonight she felt that people would soon notice the cut corners of her work. The carpet's shade of icky green was becoming too icky to ignore.
Pamela's position at this moment was such that she had a clear view of most of this maze of a layout. The store was fairly quiet; about a handful of people were gingerly searching for something to fill their nights with.
Pamela recognized one particular customer. The customer was not carrying any videos, but she had helped herself to the bags of popcorn at the entrance to the store Pamela wasn't sure on her name -- there were too many customers on the database to even attempt recalling -- but this customer was easily spotted. It was hard to say why. Perhaps it was her bright pink winter jacket, which she seemed to keep in circulation until the tail end of the spring. Maybe it was just her facial features that stuck to Pamela's memory. Maybe this stranger wasn't the prettiest girl around, but her look might have been enough to vault her into the top five.
But looking at pretty girls wasn't exactly Pamela's specialty, of course. Looking at dirty floors was her most beautiful occupation. Each thread of the carpet held thousands, possibly millions, of bacteria and germs, from the shoes of every single individual who set foot upon this dated floor. Yes, different sorts of people visited the store: Teenage boys would go through the comedy section, looking for the most recent vulgarity, or the action and horror section, looking for a different sort of gross-out. Teenage girls, on the other hand, would follow the boys for a time, if they even were with the boys, before going to the drama section, filled with titles that the boys would scoff at in public, and turn away in fear privately, lest the looks of those couples in love turn them to stone. the artsy types went to the independent and foreign sections, while rarely venturing through the rest of the store, except perhaps to make fun of it. Parents and their children fought over what to rent; the kids either wanted everything, or wanted the one thing that sensible parents would not give them, since the children haven't quite reached the intelligence and sophistication of the teenage boys.
But each and every one of those people were the same when it came to the soles of their footwear, and the ugly mass of slop and dirt that the footwear took a fancy to, at least until it met the carpet. And then the mud and the pebbles and the rainwater and the snow were left behind for somebody else to rescue.
And then there was the popcorn. Four pieces that Pamela didn't notice during her last roundabout. Obviously, the stranger was a careless one. Was she like this in her house. Pamela struck that thought, knowing that she herself wasn't exactly squeaky clean in that department.



*



The pink jacket girl approached the counter and handed Pamela the video. She took a quick glance, all that was needed for someone who knew virtually every product in the store, and that quick glance told her the film was Nosferatu, a German film directed by Werner Herzog. A version of Dracula far removed from Bela Lugosi, or even Gary Oldman.
"This movie is subtitled......? ", Pamela asked by rote. Her brilliant idea for testing customers didn't come to pass, but secretly she was thinking the pink jacket girl was intelligent enough to withstand such a fact. She didn't have the demeanor of the ordinary.
"Hmm, subtitled? ", the pink jacket queried. As her face contorted into an expression of mystery, the woman began slowly wiping her hand across the edge of her jacket, as if brushing off some dirt.
"Where did you pick this up at?", Pamela asked.
"I just found it by the horror section, how could it be subtitled? ", she snarls. "This is Nosferatu... isn't that supposed to be Dracula? Where's the foreign in that!?"
"Things get tossed about, mixed up.", Pamela responded, stifling any urge she had to lecture her on the origins of some of these stories. "Nothing major, I assure you. I apologize."
"You better apologize! ", Pink Jacket freaked. "The last thing I want to have happen is to take home a pornographic tape to my family. " She continued wiping her hands against the sides of her jacket, as her face frowned at the direction of the cassette.
"Ummm, this is not even 18-rated, it's not considered... "pornographic"." Pamela's smile brightened, expecting the customer to deliver a choice punch line. "..... and it's by the independent and foreign film section.... "
"Tomato, to-mat-o, it's all the same. ", said with utter self importance. "Sure, it might not be 18-rated, but all those films have something depraved in them.... it's in their nature!"
Huh? "It's just beside the adult room, it's not... "
"Duh! ", she blurted, breaking Pamela's belief that this stranger was a totally elegant individual. She was beginning to sound like one of the teenage girls, but with more clearly Fascist tendencies. "Why do you think the owners put that in their building plan. It's one small step from a "saucy" French film to, umm, Naughty Nurses, or whatever those films are called! "
"Literally. ", book-ending the customer's statement. "So I take it you're not going to rent this one then.....?"
"Nah!", the stranger dismissed. "I'll just take this one." The video was Erin Brockovich, not foreign, but definitely more foul-mouthed than a lot of those near-porno movies the stranger claimed was in the foreign section. Breath deeply, Pamela.
She processed the rental for the customer, and stumbled upon an interesting fact from that person's account.
"I might as well tell you that you have a late charge for..... " Pause. Questionable squinting. .....umm...... Showgirls." Pamela looked up at the customer with a curious grin.
"Alright.", mocking a show of frustration. "I'll pay it...", digging for change in her deep pockets.
"Explain that one to me, please!", Pamela's eyes touched with a wicked spark.
Pink Jacket's dark eyes were piercing, yet the expression accompanying those slits of darkness seemed more mocking than upset.
"There's nothing wrong with Showgirls,",she claimed. "If it weren't for all that nudity... it'd be a pretty good film."
Pamela grinned, in amused amazement.
"...that stuff happens in real life, you know.", Pink Jacket concluded, before exiting this den of twisted fantasy into the foreboding mystery of the real world.
Pamela shook her head in amusement. Pink Jacket was quite the lady; a very opinionated one, for sure. Pamela always had the impression that, by her demeanor, Pink Jacket was a high-minded individual, so her comments toward such a trashy film were rather an amusing letdown.....
But that would have to wait. Another customer was ready to pay for his evening fix. The two exchanged the usual pleasantries between staff and customer, before the customer handed over the video. Afterwards, the customer decided to engage in aimless chitchat.
"Hey, you must be new here.", the customer said, apparently not recognizing this redhead at the counter.
"A few months, yea. ", she smiled.
"How are you liking it..... here, I mean. ", he stumbles, awkward when addressing a complete stranger.
"Okay! ", giggling warmly, finding this questioning intrusive, yet amusingly so. "Do you have your card with you?"
"Yes, somewhere..... ", pulling out his wallet. ".... within this mass array of plastic.... "
Cards slid from the pouch inside the wallet.
"Over the years, one develops a large list of associations look at the bank cards, credit cards, etc. " The pile scattered across the counter.
"Opps ", as the only card needed for this transaction gave off a noticeable glare.
"There it is....", she smiled, her voice dry.
The card said his name, Jim. Pamela scanned the card to check his account.
"Hmmm.... this is strange.", although not as strange as the prude customer who rented Showgirls. "This card doesn't work anymore... from the looks of this, you haven't rented anything with this card in over six months."
"Ummm....", stunned. "I guess it's been a long time!"
"Considering that you have two or three other video memberships, I'd say so!", teasing him.
"Well, I like to get around.", he says.
"Not known for sticking to one thing, are you?", she grinned playfully. "You like to scope out the competition before you can make a firm decision, and yet you're willing to give anything a second chance, if something intrigues you."
"Hmm... never thought about it in that way, before.", he responded quizzically.
"Well, you'll have to pay 7.35 for your wavering in any case.", she smiled.
"You must like to tease everybody --", passing a ten dollar bill to her. "Don't you?"
Pamela's face crinkled in pleasure again, amused while growing ever more conscious that she was flirting with a stranger. "Some people say I'm a mite derogatory, but it's entirely unintentional."
"Well, whatever you said, I'm not upset."
"Here's your new card.", passing him a much more attractive piece of plastic.
"Thanks. I guess I'll see you...." He looks at the return sticker on the video as a prompt for the end of his sentence. "... in seven days!"
"I'll see you surely... I'm always here, poor me!", she said, with a mock sob.
"Bye."
Pamela felt a twinge of happiness at this amusing interlude. Then she cringed. What a silly woman she was! What was that all about? She might as well have went to the bars and picked up a guy, she might have had more luck!



*


It was a week later, and Pamela was doing her usual routine at the store. No change. Even the faces of the customers were the same, give or take a few. How repetitive it was.
She was restocking the video shelves, returning videos to their rightful spaces, only to be taken away again eventually. As she turned away, she noticed that guy again. She wondered.... maybe she could be the one to come up to him and say hi. It would be no big deal. After all, retail is all about creating a pleasant atmosphere, showing a smile to tell the customer that he or she is welcome, is appreciated.
She casually strode (well, she tried to look casual) to his general location.
"Hi.", she said. Suddenly she was stuck for words, although she tried not to show it.
"Oh, hello.", Jim said. "How are you?"
"Pretty good.", she answered. "You actually decided to come back to the store, huh? I thought that you only came here every six months."
"Well..... umm, there's some interesting selections at this store... I think I'll spend some time here after all!"
"Good, good!", she smiled. "That's some more commission for me! Ha ha!"
Jim was no longer intrigued by the video packages. "So....", fumbling for a good subject for small talk. "... is this the biggest thing that happens in your life, or are there other things that are equally exciting?"
Whoa, that was quite the statement. Pamela snickered intensely. "Well, actually, right now this is as exciting as it gets!"
"Ahh, well, I didn't mean to bring up any painful memories!", he said, with an amused smirk.
"Oh, it's okay... I did have a more interesting life before this. I finished university a year ago -- graduated in History, but I would love to be able to pretend that I had graduated in Theater! Then perhaps I could get more acting work! Problem is that this pathetic excuse for a university doesn't have degrees in such things.", she lamented.
"So you're a brilliant actress, then!", he joked.
"A few productions at the campus, that's about it.", she said forlornly. "I always wanted to do more, but never had the chance, unfortunately. I needed to pay the bills, you know.....stuck in a rut."
"So you came here!", he said. "Good career move!"
Pamela broke out a smile, either that or feel like sobbing. "I know! I've been stuck in this rut for so long that my mind seems so preoccupied with work... laundry.... groceries.....argghhh!!!!"
"Ah, it ain't so bad.", he said. "I work on a delivery truck -- about the same, you wake up everyday knowing that you're going to be working seven, eight hours at least, and a few hours more just keeping your house in order. You just have to find some time to make that life good."
"Oh, I know.... I like to keep up with the productions that I used to be involved in. Every year the university has two productions, and I always go see them, and some of the people I knew are still there. So it's pretty cool....."
Jim looked at this woman as she spoke. Late 20's, she appeared to be. Her face was nice, in a pretty librarian sort of way, what with the glasses and short hair. But that red hair, what a terrific addition.....
"Hey,", Jim spoke. "did you ever want to....go out sometime." What an impulsive request...... possibly a bit too bold.
Pamela smiled at him, in gentle disbelief. "Really! You're pretty daring, aren't you!"
Jim thought perhaps he had created an embarrassment. "Well, what else should I be."
"Oh, I don't know... I don't know you well enough yet!", she smiled. In reality, Pamela felt somewhat relieved. She didn't feel like an idiot for chatting him up now.
"Well.... if you don't think that was a stupid idea, then do you think that would be a good idea??"
"Yea... it is a good idea....", she said, with confidence. "When do you like to go out?"
"Whenever it's good for you... for me it's usually the weekend."
"Hmmm... my schedule's all over the map... but Friday's okay... after about five or so."
"I can do that...."
"So what did you want to do?", she murmured, thinking that she ought to get a piece of paper, and write down a phone number.
"Well.... we'll figure it out. I'm not THAT spontaneous!", as his mouth curled.
"Anyway,", finding a paper and pen. "This... is... my number." She gives the shred of paper to him. "So call me when you're ready to go."
"Terrific. Anyway, I'll see you later, I don't want to get you fired!", he laughs.
"Sure! See you later."
Jim turns away and walks out of the store. Pamela was amused. She didn't expect this to happen, but it was nice. She was amused again when she realized that he just left, and never even rented a video. She was to be his entertainment this weekend, apparently. The simple charms of a cheap video weren't going to do it this time.....

*

The date. Not what she's used to. This wasn't a play, but a movie. But not just any movie, and not just at any typical theater. She's been to many movies, and in many locations, but it's been so long since she found herself here, in this sort of place.
The stereotype of the drive-in theater seemed to be that it played only the cheap knockoffs, the grade B Roger Corman wannabes. But that hasn't been true for a lot of years. Video killed the low-rent B-movie star. Now the drive-in was a novelty act, so tourists can come here and say they relived their childhood, or something of that nature.
This drive-in was the only one in existence in this province, tucked away behind a row of trees near the northern shore. Of course, this drive-in only played the current hits -- the latest silly romantic comedy or the thuggish action drama. These really weren't much less worse than the sorts of things they used to play so many years ago. But nobody went to the drive-in expecting art. In fact, most people probably didn't even go to the drive-in to watch any movies, if those tales of making out in the front seat of the car were accurate.
Pamela wasn't in the throes of passion, however. She was too busy being attacked by a case of guffaws and snickering.
"Wow -- this is so...so... cheap!", she squealed, in delight.
The movie was one of those martial arts flicks, dubbed horrendously into English, adding a new, unexpected layer of interest to certain viewers.
Jim turned to her, unsure of how to take her comment. "Yea.. it's kind of silly, sure.", chuckling lightly.
"...oh, but, don't get me wrong! I haven't been to a drive-in in years, possibly decades! When I was a kid there were actually quite a lot of them... Cavendish, North River, Summerside.... they all had one. I've probably been to most of them, I would imagine. Although I suppose I probably shouldn't have been, at my tender age. Eight year olds shouldn't watch anything unless it involves Mickey Mouse or similar characters!", laughing.
"Yea....", lethargically glancing at the screen, "I suppose I've been here before, but I don't really remember...."
The conversation moved slowly, each exchange of words interrupted by a new excitement on the screen. Yet every few moments the conversation would erupt again.
"... what I don't remember is the mini-putt course.", Pamela recalls. "What's next, a roller coaster!"
".... all I remember was being here on dates --- but that was not long ago.", he said, before abruptly and gently gritting his teeth. Why did he say that to her!
Pamela turned to him, with a wicked grin. "How long ago was that! Do you have a different woman every day, with a different movie as a distraction."
Jim grinned nervously, desperately hoping for a witty, and shallow verbal return. "I'm a player, didn't you know! Or did I forget to mention that!"
"Oh, men!", she scoffed. "You're all alike! You just like to mess around all the time!"
Pamela was amused, while Jim was nervous. They remained that way, during the picture, while mostly in silence, except for the occasional sound bite to each other, to keep them awake in this darkened environment.

*


"Well, would it be okay....", Jim began as he pulled up to Pamela's apartment, ".... if I rang you up anytime... just for the hell of it, that's all." He was trying to sound less than assertive.
"Sure, as long as I'm home --", she answered. "A video store girl's life is a busy one!"
"It... was nice....", he said, looking at her face, hoping for something a little less verbal from her.
"Yea, it was....", she said softly, before leaning closer to him, a wicked glint in her eye. "Well.... what do you often do when you drop off all these other dates!"
"What do I do!", he asked. "Well... I suppose I say good bye to them, I would hope!"
"No... you'd probably do more, wouldn't you!", she grinned, still in her leaning position.
The two people were in very close proximity, and Jim felt almost obliged to kiss her good night, rather than merely say it. Pamela didn't exactly express verbally a desire to have her mouth kissed, but her expression seemed to be willing. Nevertheless, he had little problem in fulfilling this potential obligation.
He leaned over, and drank ever so lightly at her lips. Pamela didn't seem to object, and responded in turn.
"So....", he said, his forehead against hers, ".. was that what you were expecting!"
"Works for me.....", she said, joyfully, in a swoon.
"Well...", he said, returning to his former position, "... I guess I'll see you later, then."
"Sure.", she replied. She continued looking at him, softly, as she exited the car.
She walked to her apartment, and unlocked the security door. She thought of Jim's comment, about the dates he's taken to the drive-in. Ought to have been a concern, perhaps. Clearly, he was the more outgoing, fun-loving type. The sort who went out a lot, on frivolous dates and the like. Quantity more than quality, apparently.
She laughed in her mind. What did it matter? Pamela's life wasn't nearly as routine as that. Dates and friends were hard to come by for her. This was an addition to her social life, and she ought to take it in that spirit.

*

"How are things between you and Jim?", asked Laura, as she held that coveted pair of broom and dustpan.
"Pretty good....", Pamela started. Pamela and Jim had been hanging out for a couple of weeks, and, naturally, were seen together at the store enough times that her coworkers had to discuss it, whether she liked it or not.
"Kind of funny that you guys hooked up here. Never thought of this place as a meeting area. Everyone else just wants to rent videos, not rent out one of the employees as a side order!"
Laura giggled, while Pamela frowned in a thoughtless reaction. She felt a twinge of shame at hearing that last remark.
"What can you do?", recovering. "He was smitten with me and my charms -- and my extensive knowledge of cinema!", she sighed falsely.
"At least you two have something to do. But.... do you guys have the same taste in films?"
Pamela stammered. "Ummm....no...not..really!", she smiled nervously. "Wh...what does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, it's peculiar....", Laura began. "....how relationships break off. People have the idea that relationships are almost like some sort of spiritual bond; well, they can be, but most of the time, it's just a lark. But we all act otherwise. We think that affairs are broken off over really important things, when really it all boils down to mannerisms and habits... and how much the other person is willing to tolerate them. If one person has issues about another person's choice of socks, then the whole relationship could go down the toilet! Isn't that simply diabolical??", her face painted with scheming emotion.
Pamela's nerves pinched her soul, gripping her concentration to things she did not want to reflect upon. "Well, how about I take that broom and dustpan; they don't seem to be agreeing with you."
She carried the two objects along the long corridors of the store. On either side, thousands of boxes and thousands of movies that were picked up by thousands of couples, whose relationships were either maintained or doomed under the flickering indifference of the television set.



*

"Anything that struck you as interesting tonight?", Jim asked to his guest at his apartment.
"We should go somewhere really interesting tonight.....", Pamela answered. "How about this... ", she said, moments later, looking at the newspaper. "There's a play going on at the university tonight... you know one of those productions I told you about. Julie was one of the people I used to work with in these plays, and she's starring in it....."
Jim looked away from the TV in a glib fashion. "I don't know about that.", he scoffed lightly. "I don't really want to go to a play."
"The play is called Extremities. It's supposed to be quite good... it's not like Shakespeare, with all that archaic language or anything... it was once a Farrah Fawcett movie..."
"A who?"
"Farrah Fawcett. She was sort of a star in the eighties.", Pamela informed him, uselessly.
"Naw!", dismissive. "That's not really my cup of tea, shall I say?"
He continued to flip the channels, until he landed on that Canadian favorite, the hockey game.
"Hey, Toronto vs. Boston. Ever thought of sitting here on the couch... beside me... and watching a hockey game -- just so you can see how fun it actually is?" He talked in a mocking version of those sorts who think their ideas really are passionately seductive, in hopes that he could get a laugh out of Pamela, before she complained.
Pamela didn't complain. She looked to the raucous visions of the screen instead. An impulse jabbed into her brain, suggesting to her that neither of them were going to seen anywhere together tonight except three feet in front of the television.
She could have growled. She could have clenched her fists and tore the newspaper to shreds. She could have said get off your ass and get out of the house, and experience something besides a hockey game. She could have just left the apartment herself, saying that she cared about the play, it was something she always went to, every year. But she didn't do any of these things. Her instincts were untrustworthy, she believed. They were apt to backfire, she justified to herself. She was going to have to compromise, before making a complete fool of herself.
"Move over!", she said, masking the disappointment. "Let's see if this 'sport' is all it's cracked up to be....."

*

The two did make themselves seen to the world eventually; the very next evening, to be precise. The play was a no-go; it turned out that the previous evening was it's last performance. That didn't seem to bother Jim, who asked her if she would like to go to one of the clubs, and perhaps play pool or something. God, the club; Pamela didn't do that too often, except for the days that she went to the more quiet pubs with her university companions.
But this club was different. This club was unfamiliar to her. It was the local post-teenager hangout, where the women wore tight fitting outfits like they did on the music videos, while the men spent their time bragging and boasting to each other about real or imagined situations with those women, that's if they weren't merely hitting on them.
She didn't care for this place. She knew that in the maddeningly pessimistic portion of her brain that often was in a fog, obscured by other concerns, of optimism, of hope, of tolerance. Her survey of the room resulted in scorn and pity in equal measures -- it's not as if Pamela avoided alcohol in all cases, but it was never to the degree that these poor suckers fell into. They seemed like the sorts of people who disregarded rules, who disregarded politeness -- who'd love to have a wild drunken party with only casual regard for property or the sanity of others.
"Hey, Pamela, you look like you've got hit in the stomach.", Jim snickered.
Was it that obvious? She didn't mean it that way.
"Oh, it's...it's just the smoke. I have to squint. Sorry."
They walked past the dancing floor, filled with the refuges of adolescence. They skimmed past the bar. Pamela was somewhat surprised that Jim didn't go right up and order anything. That would probably be for later.
"Pool's usually my thing around here.", Jim said. "Did you want to play."
"Hmmm.... I'm not so good.", she said, smiling.
"Great! I'm broke, I need somebody who'd be an easy target.", he laughed.
"You're terrible!", she sputtered in amusement. As Pamela replied to his comment, Jim noticed some familiar faces nearby.
"Hey, buddy!", Jim bellowed to a few guys across the pool table.
"Hey, Jimbo.", came a voice which approached him. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"No, I was otherwise involved....", he breezed. Pamela wondered if that was code amongst men or if he was secretive about who or what he was involved in, even with his friends.
"Would you like to shoot some darts with us?", the man said.
"Ahh, sounds like a good idea.", his voice certain, until he recalled that, yes, he had a guest with him, whose darting ability was probably about as good as her pool.
"Oh... ah Pamela, would you like to join us for a little game of darts, and show us your skills of accuracy?", he jibed.
"Gee, I hope I'll be able to manage -- I've not played darts before....", she wavered, feeling embarrassed.
"well.... it could be fun anyway...."



*



Pamela confronted the eye of the board. The red lifeless center stared at her in defiance. It goaded her to try and slay it with the silver bullet. It seemed to know, in its unblinking cruelty, that she wouldn't have a chance against it.
Nevertheless, she was willing to at least make a valiant attempt. She flung the first dart -- it hit the 7. Good. Second dart -- embedded in the 12. Well, maybe she won't totally embarrass herself. She tossed the final dart, which only managed the ten. So that would be... 29 points. Reasonable enough.
She turned around to face Jim, who had a grin even as he rolled his eyes. What for?
"Pamela...", he said after approaching her, "I guess I forgot to tell you... you're supposed to double in to start the game."
She glanced back at the dart board. Damn red eye, it cursed me.
"You're supposed to hit the sections beside any of those numbers before the points can count."
"Ah, shit!", she growled in jest. "But... how am I going to do that? You might as well walk right up there and stab that board point blank on its double if you're ever going to get one of those before...."
Thump!
Pamela turned and noticed a dart jammed inside the red coloring of a double 14, before throwing the other two darts in less precise locations. Thump! Thump!
"I'm leading you ... at this moment.", he smirked. "It's your turn again...."
Pamela squinted at him. Her eyes were much more lively and fiery than that red eye of the dart board, but vainly she hoped she could put a curse on her partner at least as strongly as that red eye seemed to have done on her.



*



The night had settled in for the long haul. Streetlights illuminated the city streets, and the only businesses open were places where you can imbibe in either food or drink, or both.
Pamela was surprised at how many people were around. She rarely handled the nightlife that these average joes and janes dealt with frequently. Varying groups of people, who were in varying states of drunkenness, seemed to continue on with their own private reverie.
Pamela and Jim seemed more like casual observers than participants of this weekly tradition. This was a good sign on Pamela's part -- she was worried that Jim was going to be one of those happy people out on the street, and she would be left alone, at least intellectually.
"Good dart game.", Jim said, smirking.
"It took us about forty minutes, I don't' see what was so good about it.", Pamela rolled her eyes.
"Well, I won, that was good."
"Oh, it was just a lucky shot -- you took a long time before you could win, so what are you talking about?", she jibed.
"I just wanted to give you a fighting chance.", he said, laughing nervously.
"I bet, I bet....", she frowned, before betraying it with a smile.
"Well, it was fun anyway.", he said. "Ah well, I shouldn't say too much.... I'm not exactly a sports person, per se. Sure, I played hockey back in the good old days of being a teenager. It was great; although you always managed to either piss off your parents or scare them because of all the checking. But that's what makes a man out of you!", he laughed.
Pamela let her eyes trail the sidewalk, lest she be compelled to roll them in jest at his flimsy machismo.
"What sports do you play?", Jim questioned, not expecting a similar answer.
"The only sport I play is life. Every day involves another tough match, but as usual, I win at the end of the day.", she said drily. "Compared to that, all other sports seem pretty silly if you ask me."
"Silly?", Jim scoffed. "How could you say that? Sports are what makes our society stay sane. Hockey makes us Canadian, you know!"
"You mean, hitting a rubber disk during those moments when you're not hitting someone upside the head with the athletic equivalent of a wooden mallet? God keep our land glorious and free, by arming every man woman and child with a hockey stick!"
Jim scrunched his face, a mixture of bafflement and genuine thought. "Well, I never thought about that.... sounds like a good plan to give to the army though!", he said with a toothy grin.
"Well, I don't want to sign up.", she said, removing her twisted humor for a brief span of time. "I really don't get interested in all that stuff. People just get too fanatical about these overpaid people. And even just the sports themselves... I don't get excited by them. They don't stimulate me.... I'd rather be touched by thoughts, than by a 200 pound hulking weight crushing me to the cold cold ice."
"Well, maybe I can stimulate the mind with the rules of the game. Maybe if you actually knew about these sports, you'd care about them a lot more..." He began to smile wickedly. "... or maybe it's just a guy thing!"
"Hey, stop it right there, Spencer!", Pamela started, thinking to herself that he, like Spencer Tracy's character in Woman of the Year, assumed that women were stupid about sports, and that he thought she was Katherine Hepburn's character, clueless about baseball. "I know what the games are. I know that baseball involves running around the bases to get a run for the team. I know that there are nine innings for each team in a game, unless there is a tie at the bottom of the ninth, of course. I know that a team can keep going up to bat until it receives three outs, and, no, I don't think that the point is that the team wants to get three outs; I know the point is that the team wants to score!" She pauses, with a joking smile. "I'm not that stupid."
"Well...", laughing. "Sorry then, I'll just go back to my sports and you go back to your plays -- and we'll forget the whole thing."
Pamela studied that last comment. What a demonstration of class ignorance, if that indeed what she and Jim represented. Never the twain shall meet, right! She felt amazed that she and him actually managed to have two dates, and a number of conversations. That ought to be a good sign; at least they have something together. Something. That thing was particularly abstract and undefinable, like a wispy fog that was within seconds of complete evaporation. Concerned, she was. Was all of this worth the trouble.
"What do you think about relationships?", Pamela asked casually.
Jim didn't know how to translate this query. So many TV comics have warned about this. Women asking about where this was going? Let's talk about us!
"Whose relationship do you mean?,", he settled upon this line of questioning.
"Ah....nothing. Someone at work asked me about this. She claimed that people don't break up over huge calamities, but that they break up over petty things -- like music, or what color socks the other likes....", embellishing the original quite well. "...stuff like that. You always hear about people yo know breaking up and you feel naturally as if something enormous has occurred, and everyone acts as if it is as serious as a funeral or a disease. But I bet if I could be a fly on the wall during most private break ups, I'd find out that it was based on something really stupid!"
"Some people just.... have to grow up.", said he. "People shouldn't fight over stupid things."
"Yes.", said she, sensing that maybe there was some hope.
"Well, am I on your level?", he asked, attempting to disguise that question with a bit of flippancy.
She looked at him, squinting her eyes as if hoping to discover a hidden secret, something that would reveal to all the compatibility of these two people.
"Gee, Jim, I don't' know!", she adds sarcastically. "Well, um, what was the last foreign film you saw?"
"Well, something where all the actors are dubbed by bad voices in to English, and where the plot involved martial arts and cheesy adventure."
"When you think of movies, do you think of them as background noise, or do you take them seriously?"
"I watch things that make me laugh, or are fun. What else would I see? I don't waste my time with things I can't understand right away."
"When you read books, do you read them and think about them, or are they just squishy words on a page?"
"Actually, I'm lucky to get thru the sports section of the newspaper every day. That's enough ink to be smeared over my fingers for one day."
Pamela's face softened, her lips smile as if in a warm pity, and her eyes focus on him almost lovingly.
"No, Jim.... you're not on my level....". The fog was still wrapped around these two.
Jim looked at her carefully, guessing at what lay beneath this detached exterior of hers.
"Well... I won't scream and yell at you if you decide to run for your well-being right now.", he said, not cruelly.
"Nah..... not in the mood right now.", she laughed.
By this time they approached Pamela's residence. Jim had never been there before; she had always visited him. The sidewalk was relatively empty, not nearly as chaotic as the streets near the bars. Only a few people wandered about, most likely returning home.
"Are you in the mood for me to run away, then?", he laughed, while his insides churned in paranoia.
"No, I think I can use you for a while longer -- come on...", she said, flippantly. The two were near the front door. She grabbed his arm by the elbow as she spoke.
"So it's not too late for you?", he asked.
"Oh no--- I don't have to work until three pm tomorrow.", she replied.
"So only one of us will be tired early in the morning then.... you're so cruel!", he said, nuzzling his face in in hair. Pamela turned her head, kissing him rather quickly and sloppily.
"Well, I wouldn't go that far!", she said. "Depends. If you're good, we'll both be tired!", licking at his ear.
"Oh God!", he laughed, stunned. "I... didn't bring anything."
"I've got the Pill....", she said confidently. "....so don't worry about anything. But it's not a real bed.....it's a couch. Not very romantic, I know....... not like what you have at your place."
By this time, Pamela was unlocking the security door to the apartment building.
"No silk blankets, then.", he said, squeezing her closely.
"No...... just a fuzzy Winnie the Pooh blanket that might make you itchy, I'm afraid....."


*



They wasted little time in tossing out the formalities, and just breezily entering a more physical state of being. The two sat on the would-be bed, and began kissing hungrily. Jim awkwardly embraced her; one of his arms was wrapped around her back, supporting her, allowing her to relax; the hand of his other arm played with her fiery red hair. He felt Pamela's breath against the warming skin of his face, as he kissed her. Her glasses were a distraction. He took them off slowly, as if afraid of breaking them.
His hand rubbed her shoulders, as if he tried loosening the obvious tension they both were feeling at this moment.
"Jim...", Pamela spoke. "Touch me... it's no problem."
He lowered his hand from her hair to her side. "You feel... good.....", he whispered.
They slowly went to rest upon the bed. Their limbs moved like branches from neighboring trees, crashing awkwardly together in the wind, as they loosened their clothes, reaching for closeness. Their hearts were ready to escape, to ooze out from their formerly secure frames. Their skin chilled from the grip of cold air, and the grip of their emotion.
Moments seemed to slow down, as Pamela and Jim absorbed each other's presence. Their eyes observed each other's nakedness; their sense surveyed the closeness. Jim moved his hand across Pamela's shuddering terrain.
"You have a nice touch...", she whispered, her breathing deep and excited.
"You're nice to touch....", he responded, his stomach fluttering.
His fingertips graced the curve of her upper thigh, and across her pubic hair. He moved his touch aimlessly, unsure about whether he had her authority to enter the most private portion of her physical being.
"....what are you waiting for?", she whispered. "I want you... to make love to me...."
He cupped her sex in his hand, before introducing two fingers, plunging them deep within her pool of sensuality. Pamela smiled when she noticed that her cheeks had flushed.
"So....", she murmured,"....did you ever think you'd sleep with a video store chick?"
"I've always wanted to date a girl who knew how to handle Return in Seven Days stickers.....", he grinned.
"I'm much better..... than any of those movies.... don't you say??, she purred, her face melting in to the heat of the moment.
"You're better than any story, babe....", he said, kissing her even more strongly than before.
Pamela felt more intense within her frame, and rolled over until she was above him; her stomach relaxed over his, her breasts resting upon his chest. Their bodies became one now, no longer just two forms looking for each other. Pamela began riding him slowly, cumbersomely, but still able to stir her partner and herself.
Jim clutched Pamela's bottom, feeling the tension within her muscles, and feeling the holding of his sex, swimming deep within her fierce ocean. Tossed about like a drowning creature, he nevertheless felt secure in his passion. He didn't need rescuing.
Pamela adjusted her body until she was sitting on him, her legs bent as if kneeling, her body facing him. She continued riding him. The curls of her orange hair swung as her body moved. Her body itself enjoyed this event. Her nipples were so erect she thought she would break. Her sex was liquid from her joy and arousal. Her heart ached for this spontaneous moment to continue.
Pamela was in a haze, the sort that could only be formulated by a complete devotion to the carnal. Her memory was playing funny tricks on her -- suddenly the frames of mental celluloid flickering in her mind's eye were Susan Sarandon and James Spader in White Palace. It was an infamous moment where Susan, as an obviously sexual character, seduced James, and the high point was when she went on top, riding him vigorously.
She felt like her at this moment, as the curls of her red hair breezed against her forehead and eyes. Her hair wasn't exactly the proper shade of red, or the proper length but certainly at this moment she was at least as in the passionate moment as that character was. Then more jagged memories swirled in the chaos of her head; those two-dimensional figures on the screen were drunk, and not in full possession of their senses. They were also far apart in terms of age, and were far apart in terms of background and interest. Pamela and Jim were allegedly sober, or at least sober enough to make proper decisions. But beyond the bedroom, their differences clashed, and at this moment, they were possibly rewriting the movie, for their own time and situation.
"I don't ...... think I "ll last much longer...",Jim gasped.
"I'm almost there too..... ", Pamela exhaled, thrusting wantonly,feeling like a block of ice tortured by an attack of the noon sun.
Jim sat up, wrapping his arms around her lower back, securing himself as well as her. He felt her force upon him, her sex trembling over his. He saw Pamela's mouth, proud in its emotion,as she bit gently on her own lower lip. He felt above this earth; his mind was no longer within rational thought.
"Shit!", she spat out, with passion, not fury. Her eyes broke open, stunned at her word choice...... she thought of nothing else but sex at this moment. The sounds of her breathing were more intense, more uncontrollable.
She gently tugged at Jim's hair, and watched his eyes closing tightly, knowing that he was about to climax. Jim buried his face within her bosom, and stirred her nipples with his tongue.
"Yes...... it "s good. ", she cried. "Ahh.... keep down what....ooooh... you're doing." feeling his tongue playing with her nipple.
As he played more with her nipple, nipping at its tip, sliding his tongue around the edge, he reached his final physical point. He had no choice but to bury his face within Pamela's bosom again, as he panted nosily.
"Oh, Jim....", she panted. "I'm coming!" She was nearly spent; her orgasm rippled across her frame. "Ahhhh, yes, yes, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... "
She fell back onto the bed, her body relaxed, her demeanor fully pleased. Jim looked at her, through his own erotic stupor, and for one moment, they saw eye to eye, their agreement, on at least one subject.


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