The Red Spot and The Dragon
Elizabeth flipped through Fashion Weekly with hungry eyes. It was her one indulgence. She didn’t drink or smoke to ease the pain of her impoverished existence like most of her neighbors did. Or do drugs like the rest. She read Fashion Weekly cover to cover, usually several times during the week. Her trailer walls were plastered with models, outfits, bags, shoes, and jewelry she’d cut out of the magazines. She scoured thrift stores for anything even remotely a designer brand. Her trailer was sparsely furnished with designer things on final clearance, sold at a damage discount, or bought at yard sales in the richer parts of town.
Midway through the magazine she flipped to an article about the hottest bags for the spring season. There was an entire page of Tory Burch bags. Elizabeth loved Tory Burch, an entrepreneur who empowered women through her foundation, which she’d learned all about in an article in one of the January issues of Fashion Weekly. Elizabeth wanted the new Tory Burch bag centered on the magazine page. Its soft black velvet shone like a beacon of need. It was a small crossbody bag with a gold chain strap and Tory Burch’s signature double T logo closure, $459. She could afford it if she skipped the next seventy-eight issues of Fashion Weekly. But by then it would be out of style, an embarrassing thing to own. Prada bags never went out of style, but Tory Burch wasn’t there yet. Elisabeth wished she could buy everything Tory designed and help boost her to Prada fame. Of course, Elizabeth also wished she could buy Prada, lots of Prada. So beautiful and timeless.
Rain pounded on the trailer roof, water dripped into the pan at the end of the bed with a steady plop, plop, plop. The leak hadn’t spread yet, but the guy who owned the trailer had promised to come fix it before it did. That was two weeks ago and it had rained nearly every day since. The room had started to smell a little musty, her cutouts lining the walls were starting to warp. Elizabeth blocked out the noise and the smell and pulled her scissors out from between the mattress and floor. She cut out the photo of the black velvet bag and taped it to the wall above her pillow. She would memorize every detail, every stitch, she’d know how many links were in the gold chain strap, each and every pocket inside. She would know everything about it. And she would never own it.
But first she had to read the rest of the magazine. She turned her back to the drip in the ceiling and sat crosslegged facing the black velvet bag on the wall. The next article was about vegan leather. Would it catch on? Was it high quality enough? Was it even better for the environment, being synthetic and all?
Boom!
Elizabeth screeched and dropped the magazine.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
She took a deep breath.
“Asshole,” she muttered, swinging her legs off the bed and onto the threadbare carpet. She walked through the short hallway and into the kitchen and living area as the pounding on the trailer door continued. Facing the door she ran her hands through her shoulder-length, graying red hair and took a deep breath. With a twist of her fingers the door unlocked and swung open. A tall man in his forties wearing a t-shirt and dirty jeans with a soaked windbreaker stood on the top step, mid knock.
“Oh, you decided to answer? Took you long enough.” He pushed his way past her and inside, tracking water and mud across the clean floor. “Reading your stupid magazine again?”
“At least I can read.”
“You better have some beer money stashed away somewhere.” The man stalked into the kitchen and began opening drawers and cabinets, slamming them closed when he didn’t find what he wanted.
“I’ve told you a million times, Jeff, I don’t ever have beer money. I barely have food money. Go shakedown someone else.” Elizabeth still stood by the open door.
“And I’ve told you a million times,” Jeff said, rounding on her with his finger pointed at her chest, “I expect you to have beer money when I come by.”
“We ain’t even dating anymore!” Elizabeth barely contained the scream rising in her chest.
“Don’t matter,” Jeff shoved her lightly and she stumbled backwards. “I expect beer money. And it better be here next Friday.”
“I don’t get paid next Friday.”
“Bitch, I’ve had it with your attitude.” Jeff grabbed her arm and shoved her up against the wall. His tanned face a feral sneer. “Figure out how to get extra money by next Friday. I come by next Friday. Do you understand?”
Elizabeth wilted, her eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah, of course. I understand.”
Jeff pulled her away from the wall and shoved her across the room. She stumbled but stayed on her feet. When she looked back up, he was gone, the trailer door hung open to the darkening evening. Rain pattered on the ground outside. She pulled the door shut and locked it, flipping off the porch light before running back to her room and sliding the flimsy pocket door shut behind her. She kicked the pan full of rain water, sloshing it all over the carpet and growled in frustration.
“Stupid leak!” She threw herself onto her bed, tears threatening to fall. “I hate this fucking place!” Her magazine slipped to the floor and she snatched it up, finding her place again quickly and picking up where she left off, reading quickly, feverishly, and fighting off thoughts of Jeff or her leaky roof. Before long her breathing had slowed and her heart stopped pounding. Her eyes drifted back up to the picture of the black velvet bag taped to her wall.
“It would fix everything, if I had it. I’d look so good. Everyone would treat me better. Jeff would be too afraid of me to come around. I’d look like a powerful woman. Not like I do now. Like a poor old idiot.” Her thoughts came in jumbled, scrambled fragments. She pressed her nose to the glossy piece of magazine paper, inhaling the inky scent. “I can see me now. Shining like a star. Jeff scared, falling down the steps like a clown as I emerge. My bag. Asshole repellent. Power. I need power.” With her soul vibrating, she slipped to her odd blue, clearance but still designer, bedspread with mismatched sheets, flipped off the single lamp in the room, and fell into a deep sleep. Dreaming about shopping sprees and her very own home in gentle suburbia where the trees swayed and the men never stopped smiling. The women had everything they wanted. Children giggled and played with puppies.
She woke with a pain in her stomach. She’d gone to bed without dinner, of course. Too upset to eat. Her eyes drifted to the wall, to the picture. So beautiful. The pain in her stomach throbbed. It wasn’t her entire stomach, just a spot, maybe the size of a quarter. She didn’t remember Jeff hitting her the night before. But then, she’d blocked it out many times. She pulled up her shirt and looked at her lean abdomen, finding the spot where the pain emanated from. No bruise. It wasn’t even red.