At Your Service

I am 20 years old. I am perched on a stool staring out across rolling greens, straining to see incoming dots on the horizon. Golf carts are buzzing along the paved path toward my outpost for the day – a halfway house nestled in the hardwood forests and carpets of grass, lily pad ponds with the croak of frogs and heron calls. I am bored with flipping burgers and moving sausages from warming pot to grill face, freshening them up, bringing them back to life for the next customer.

I hear the cart approach before I see it. Four golfers stroll up and peer through the open window. Men. Always men. I get down from my perch and stand there as they size me up. Eyes scan my body, tip of my head to tennis shoes. They move from shock of blonde, blue eyes and matching polo, khaki shorts mid-thigh. I shift my weight from left to right, smile, ask what I can get for them.

Everyone orders and I turn to work the grill, assemble their lunches, reach into the cooler to bag their beers. “Lots of ice” they tell me.

“More.”

“More.”

“Keep going.”

“Don’t stop.”

They jab back and forth at each other, drag me into casual conversation. Am I from here? Do I go to college? Where to eat tonight?

Yes. Yes. I rattle off a list of restaurants in this northern town.

More friendly questions. More friendly answers. Then they pause and I hear them whisper as I turn to grab hot meat off metal grates. I can’t make out the words, but I know what’s coming and my spine stiffens. I brace.

“Why don’t you show us your tits?” the short one asks. Was he the loser or the winner of the whispered bet? It’s never clear.

I laugh and ignore their question, turn back to the stainless steel counter behind me. My eyes glaze. My throat constricts. I grab chips and napkins, hastily pull everything together, pull myself together.

I face them again and they press on. I must not have heard them.

“C’mon. No one will know. We won’t get you in trouble. Just flash us those tits and we’ll take good care of you.”

I laugh again because what is there to do in this lonely food stand buried in the woods?

“Sorry, guys. I really can’t.” Can’t or won’t? My mind orders “won’t,” my lips say “can’t.” What is the right word here?

“Just a quick peek. Just up and down.” He takes his calloused hands and moves them quickly from his waist to his shoulders, then back again. His ring flashes in the noon sun.

“That’s it. Seriously, we’ll fill up that tip jar,” he promises. The one with the beard nods his head to further assure me, set me at ease.

“Really, guys. I can’t do it.” I hand them their baskets of food, plastic bags of Budweiser, spilling over with ice, water running down my arms, flattening the goosebumps, cooling the boiling blood racing back to my heart, away from their eager faces. They take their beer, stand waiting. We are not done here.

“Come on…” the ring-leader drags this last word out into a whine and the wolf pack joins in, howling out their simple request. I smile again, my laughter falls flat but it’s all I have. My mouth hurts. I’ve been smiling for days, years. My lips, my red cheeks, are exhausted. I shake my head “no” but my mouth does not break smile.

Inside, I rage. “Go now!” my mind growls and lips say, “Have a good time, guys!” Please just go back to your game and wagers for longest ball, closest to the pin. You’ve mistaken me for part of the fun, like the cigarettes you hide from your wife, the airplane bottles of vodka stuffed in your pockets. I am not part of the package. Why do you always think that I am?

They aren’t finished yet and have gained bravado from one another, their howled plea communal, strengthening their resolve. More begging. More whining. I am frozen in place, smiling and shaking my head, looking from the floor to faces, floor to faces, wishing my throat would just close completely and silence the laughter that I can no longer control.

Frustrated, they head away from my counter and back to their carts. A voice shouts over a shoulder, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get the next one!”

I climb back on the stool and stare at thick-trunked trees, watch their carts bounce off into the afternoon. The outlines blur and white carts melt into grey bark into leaves into limbs into lawn as my vision clouds and the wave of embarrassment lets loose, washes over me, and I finally stop smiling.

– Ashley, Woman of a Certain Rage