Fifteen Minutes

The pale girl with dewy eyes, dressed in a black frayed evening dress stood in the doorway, smiling weakly. The greasy-nosed man with grimy nails who had met her fifteen minutes ago stepped aside to let her in. She lowered her gaze and entered the strange yet familiar room. After all, it was just like all the other rooms; four walls, a roof, a window or two, scattered cheap furniture, all of it flavored with sickly orange-yellow light.

The man looked at the girl critically, and once satisfied with her natural beauty, sat down on a chair next to the bed and felt his wallet press against him in the back pocket of his pants. She seated herself gingerly on a corner of the bed and with her right hand smoothed a crease in the sheets out of habit, then turned her head up and addressed no one in particular.

“This is just a means to an end.” she said. The man’s face did not show any sign of having listened. She considered for a moment whether an explanation was even worth the effort, then realized that it always was; it always made her feel as if life were leading up to something more; as if there were some truth in what she thought and hoped for.

He noticed how her shapely fingers removed the crease then continued to draw random shapes on the bed sheet like a child does in the sand. Watching her graceful hand following a course laid down by another unseen hand excited the man. This was his life being observed by a silently vigilant, indifferent god, he thought. The woman would steal a glance, trying to get a good image of the man’s face in her head but did not stare at him directly. Sometimes it was not such a good idea to do so.

“A means to an end,” she repeated, “yes, someday, they will all know my name.” she said and noticed in the way he had suddenly blinked that at least some of what she had said had crossed over.

“They…?” questioned the man in a husky voice that was not really his own but a made-up one. His affected voice was for her, quite possibly, a good sign: he must be a man of family perhaps, she thought, or on the other hand, he could be some sunken man whose soul had buckled under the pressure of misguided morals and had driven him to this act of desperation; such men were more dangerous for they intended to come only once.

“‘They’…you know…the world!” She exclaimed with much animation. “The whole world will know my name and sing my songs and worship me like a goddess! I will be famous and I will be adored and loved by all.”

The man looked into her eyes and saw that they had already begun to lose their whites to yellow. This was perfect he thought. This was exactly what he had hoped for. The Lord works in mysterious ways he thought to himself and silently laughed the cruel laugh of a tired man.

“No.” he said, much pleased and almost reverting to his normal voice in his pleasure but checking himself instantly.

“No?” she asked, looking confused and worried.

“No one will ever know you; you will die, anonymous.” said the man with such prophetic finality that the girl’s eyes filled with tears that had long since been forgotten.

She had always known her dreams to be foolish and absurd but to have somebody state them to be so was somehow more coldly effective. The indifference in this disintegrating man’s voice made it seem inevitable. The greasy-nosed man with dirty nails who had no life behind or ahead of him had spoken the truth from experience and so she knew it. She saw her life end quietly, pointlessly and she knew fully and without the slightest hint of doubt that her grave, if she had one, would have no flowers placed on it. Her grave would be just as uncomfortable as life had been. And then suddenly she was all tears and smiles. The man, who had silently been watching her weep and then smile like a hysteric, stood up and proceeded to unbutton the collar of his threadbare shirt and as he did so, he quietly ordered her to take off her clothes.