After Hours
In the nicotine light of an early LA night, thirty-eight-year-old Rhea Porter sat by her front window, itching to get out. She popped the last bite of a still-warm mango churro into her mouth and checked the time. Nine-forty. A few guys would be out on Hollywood and Ivar, at the Donut King on Melrose and half a dozen other spots. But it was still too early. She checked the fridge. Not much. A squishy avocado, half a jar of Kimchee, a Corona. An iced coffee sounded good, but she was out of creamer. She couldn’t sit still. Hard to wait. She figured she could kill at least an hour at Denny’s.
Twenty minutes later, Denny’s counter waitress George poured Rhea a blond iced coffee then watched as she tore the ends off three packs of Sweet ‘n Low and stirred them into it.
“That stuff’ll rot your brain.” George commented.
“Unlike the last twenty years here?”
“You love LA.” George affirmed.
“It’s unrequited.” Rhea pointed out.
Three stools down, a twenty-something guy was working on a Grand Slamwich. She noticed him. Nice hair. Good arms. Hungry.
George tried to distract her. “Let me get you some onion rings.”
”No thanks.” Rhea brushed her off.
“Short stack?” George enticed.
“I’ll eat later.”
“That editor guy who comes in here still asks about you.” George carried on.
“Not my type.” Rhea said.
“What, too nice?”
“Yeah. Maybe I should just date you.”
“Dream on.” George smiled and walked away.
Rhea checked. It was 11:10. Outside it was getting darker. Time to head east.
Near the corner of Dolores and Cesar Chavez, Rhea parked her LeBaron behind a blue Buick with the trunk popped up. She exchanged money with an aging Mexican woman for a small brown paper bag. She got back in her car and headed back to a favorite haunt, the 24-hour Tommy’s Burgers on Hollywood Boulevard. It was almost one in the morning and about as dark as it gets in LA. Rhea slowed as she passed Tommy’s. A few late night boys were still out, hanging around the parking lot. One caught her eye. He watched as she turned up a side street, her car disappearing from view.
On the residential block, Rhea inched into a rare parking spot outside a faded ‘70’s apartment building. She turned off her car and waited. Ten minutes later, the guy from Tommy’s walked up the street. He was about twenty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, drinking a bottle of Virgil’s root beer. He spotted Rhea’s car and approached. He tapped lightly on the passenger side window. She leaned over and rolled it down a crack.
“You got something?” he asked.
“Yeah.” she nodded. She tried not to smile too much; he was beautiful, with his hazel eyes, young thighs and the way he mouthed the neck of that soda.
She unlocked the passenger door. He looked around, opened it and got in. Rhea looked him over. She could clearly see the black motorcycle logo on his dark gray T-Shirt.
“It’s too light here.” She realized.
“Yeah.” He agreed, thinking, “The alley behind the IHOP is kinda dark–”
She shook her head, “They closed it off. Construction.”
“The streets around Echo Park?” he suggested.
“There’s zero parking there.” Rhea reminded him.
“How about your place...” He asked, casually; a co-worker once told him she lived nearby.
“No.” Rhea told him. That wasn’t going to happen. She had made that mistake before. She started the car, “Let’s keep looking.” She maneuvered out of the spot and onto the street. They rode for a while in silence as she drove east, into Hollywood. Both were thinking of dark places to park. They looked past straggly hipsters leaving clubs without a score, past late-shift workers waiting for a bus, past the homeless sleeping on the sidewalks. They peered up side streets and between buildings. A dog wrestled with an empty Cheetos bag. Two bus boys took a smoking break outside a Thai restaurant.
“Hey...” he said after a minute, “You know the reservoir?”
“Silverlake?” she asked.
“No.” He shook his head, “The Hollywood one.”
She thought for a second then smiled at him, “Yeah...”
She turned west then cruised up into the Hollywood Hills. She eased up a twisty road past million dollar houses crammed against each other like gilded sardines. The road dead-ended in a little dirt parking lot outside the chained gate of the Hollywood reservoir. Rhea parked up against a dusty chaparral bush. It was quiet. The city lights spread out below like a blanket of stars. The sky above had none. She looked around. And though it wasn’t dark-dark — it never was in LA— they were alone. She reached onto the back seat and grabbed the small paper bag.
“What did you get?” he asked.
“Two chili cheese, a carne asada and a chicken.” She handed him the bag, “You pick.”
He pulled out a paper-wrapped tamale, the parchment was shiny with grease. He unwrapped it. As he broke open the pliant masa and revealed an ooze of cheese, Rhea leaned over and looked, eager for a taste. He snatched it away, teasing.
“Lean back.” He told her.
She did, watching as he slid a finger down the inside of the paper, gathering the red ancho-tinged oil. He turned to her and wiped it across her lips. She licked them.
“Good?” he asked.
She laughed, “Definitely.” He unbuckled his seat belt. He broke a big piece off the end of the tamale. The masa was firm. He leaned over her.
She opened her mouth; he eased it inside. It was good– thick and warm and flecked with smoky heat. But it was a little dry. “It needs some sauce–” she told him, trying to swallow.
He took a Styrofoam cup out of the bag. He pried off the lid, the cup was full of a dense red chili sauce. He plunged two fingers deep into it, scooping some up. He put his fingers in her mouth. His fingers lingered; she sucked them. He pulled them out.. She swallowed the sauce. “Better?” he asked. She nodded. Then he kissed her, tasting the sauce still on her lips. “That is good.”
“Lupita’s,” she told him, kissing him back, “On Chavez.”
“Oh yeah, I know her, she makes those fried jalapeno brownies.” He added as he broke off another hunk of tamale.
“You’re thinking of Estrella.” She corrected him, watching him dip the hunk into the thick liquid. She opened her mouth, ready for it.
“Estrella sells on York.” He corrected her back as he dipped again, coating the tamale.
“No, she’s on Yucca. And she does Serrano brownies–hey!” She freaked as he popped the piece into his own mouth.
“Oh wow…” The full taste of it hit him. He dipped another bit of the tamale, forgetting about her. She grabbed it from him and ate it, letting some sauce dribble down her chin, down her neck. He remembered why he was there.
He leaned over her and began to nibble the sauce off her skin, those soft young lips of his following the drizzle that slid down her chin. He moved down, kissing her neck, her shoulder, the hollow beneath her collar bone. He pulled her T-shirt down with his teeth then kissed her breast. He grabbed her legs behind her knees and turned her sideways, facing him. He slid her down a little, pulled her toward him.
He slipped his hands under her skirt and pulled down her boxers. He lifted her left leg and pushed it up around the side of the steering wheel. He held her right leg back against the seat, exposing all of her to him. He dipped the tamale again, letting the sauce drip on her thighs.
"Well hmmm…," she thought, "This could be good." As he kissed that sauce off too, she closed her eyes and slipped into a groove.
Suddenly, she jerked up, whacking his head into the steering wheel. “Ouch!” He yelped.
“Sorry. Some sauce just went down my–” She squirmed a little, adjusting her behind. “It’s okay now.”
He rubbed his head, a little annoyed. He shook it off then eased that sauce down the underside of each of her legs with his tongue and teased it around her center.
"Suck it off!" she pleaded, "Suck it all off." He did. Licking and sucking until she grabbed his head and held it there, trying to lose herself; trying to fill the night. Fill time. Fill the void. She tried hard. Too hard. She just couldn’t get there.
She forced her mind to go to her happy place, when she was sixteen, making out in the battered front seat of her boyfriend Javier’s old Toyota. They’d kiss until it hurt; then they’d stop. They were trying to “wait.” They’d eat cinnamon-sugar-dusted tortilla chips from Taco Tio’s, trying to cool down. She’d curl into his arm and kiss his neck until he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto his lap. His hands slid down her body, under her sweater, under her bra. With the feel of him then, big and warm underneath her, she didn't want to wait. She pulled his mouth back to her and closed her eyes. He slipped his hand inside her panties. It felt so good, so right.
She leaned back, into the steering wheel. The horn honked LOUD, scaring them both. They laughed, kissed; she hurried back into her house, knowing she would see him and kiss him tomorrow. But her life took a very dark turn the next day. She never saw Javier again. She never made it back to that joy, that heightened moment of first love; though she tries.
“Wait!” Rhea jerked away again from her tamale date; flush with an idea.
“What now?”
“Get up.” She told him, “Let me sit on top of you.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” She added a “Please.” He pushed himself up and sat back, in the passenger seat. She swung one leg over his lap and straddled him, away from the steering wheel. He held her ass as he eased her down. He fed her another bite. She bit down on the chunk of chili cheese and let it fill her mouth. As she swallowed, he slipped a finger into her. He moved slowly, in and out, in and out. He slid another finger in, moving faster while he lapped up a trail of sauce on her breast. She moved and grooved and tried. Man oh man she tried.
"Fuck!" She couldn't come.
He pulled back. She freaked, "Don't stop!"
“You gotta relax.” He told her.
“Just do your job.” She snapped, losing her groove.
“I’m trying to! Relax,” he said like a mantra, “Relax...”
She breathed deep. She leaned back, leaned into it. He reached down, unzipped with one hand, then slid inside her. He moved and licked and pulsed until she nearly screamed.
Deeper. Deeper, then– THWUMP! the whole car shook with a sudden impact, freaking them out.
“Jesus!” A coyote had jumped onto the hood of the car, using it as a booster to jump over the reservoir fence and saunter away.
“This isn’t working.” Rhea concluded.
“No kidding.” he agreed. Rhea lifted herself up. He moved back to the passenger seat and zipped up. “I can drop you off on Vine.” Rhea offered.
“That’s OK. I’ll Uber.” he said as he opened the car door. He turned back to her and held out his hand.
“What?” she asked, knowing what he wanted.
“It’s forty.”
“I don’t think so.” He kept his hand out. She found twenty bucks in a pocket and offered it to him. “Here. Totally not worth it but–”
As he took the money, he reached over and grabbed the bag of tamales.
“Those are mine—!” she tried to grab them back, but he held on. The bag tore and three tamales spilled out. They both scrambled for them. Rhea got one. He got two. And the cup of sauce. She grabbed his hand, “At least give me the sauce.”
“No way.”
“Wait!” she pleaded. “I got the carne asada one! That sauce goes best with the carne-” He shut the door and walked away. She started the car and drove after him. Man, she wanted that sauce. She rounded a curve, going down the hill, ready to box him in and plead again. But, like that coyote, he was already gone.