A Rain of Frogs

The dusty black sedan screeched to a halt near the of the queue. The woman who stepped out looked a little more worse for wear than she had when she first slipped into the seat of the car, a little more worn down. She had the patina of a hard day to her.

She slipped into the line, just in front of an obviously stoned woman dressed like a fairy and a very cute school-girl looking young woman who was just tucking the keys to her Volkswagen into her purse. All three of them were wide-eyed and awed to be standing here. They each smiled uncomfortably to each other, each wondered if the other could read the desperation behind their made-up eyes.

The club sparkled like a gem. It looked almost out of place here in New York, looking more like Las Vegas than anything the east coast had ever produced. But it was the hottest club in the world – the place where one was most likely to meet, greet and sleep with someone famous.

Later all three of the would tell the police it was as if time had slowed down to a fraction of its normal speed. The girl dressed as a fairy screamed first, so it was likely she had seen the future before the others could – before anyone in line could.

A silver Porsche careened around the corner about two blocks from the club and its line-up of beautiful hopefuls. It’s tires squealed like injured animals on the pavement and its engine screamed like an angry dragon. It’s high-beams were flicked on, nearly blinding those in the queue it was racing toward. Nobody had time to move, and the progress of now into then crystallized into a solid. It was almost over before it began.

The car first plowed through the queue a ahead of the three woman, cutting people down and apart, like careless scissors through a chain of paper dolls. Several were smashed through the wall as the bumper of the car tore brick from mortal and lives from bodies with the sickening dull crumpled sound only a car hitting the immobile can produce.

The driver’s door popped open and a woman covered in blood staggered out. Her left arm jutted at an odd angle from her shoulder, and her face was obviously disintegrated beneath the blood streaming from the gash across her forehead. She took two steps, tried to mouth something, then collapsed dead to the sidewalk.

The papers the next day made clear she had been out of her mind on drugs, that she had taken Valium to bring her down from the intense high of cocaine and a cocktail of pills she’d probably been experiencing. On Sunday a local church choir sang laments for the twelve dead and thirty injured in the accident.

Each of the women came back the next day to look upon the carnage of what could have been their lives. Each came at a separate time, none saw the others, but each left with a clear understanding that walking on the wild side would end in tragedy.

The girl staggered through the door, not so much falling as spilling into the street. She was high as a kite, evidenced by the way she giggled and staggered south past the queue of beautiful people.

“I’m hungry,” she said to nobody in particular. The effort required to focus on anything around her was visible on her face. Adjusting the tiara on her head, she resolutely marched into the Apollo Caf&eacute, the first store her drugged eyes happened upon.

It took her several attempts at digging money out of her purse before the realized she didn’t have enough money. The shop keeper, looking exasperated and tired, took the ham sandwich back.

“Listen sugar, why don’t you just get out of here? Take a walk or something.” he told her.

She sighed, still hungry but turned and wobbled on her heels out of the deli and onto the hood of the Beetle parked out front. The girl sitting in the car appeared unimpressed, but did nothing as the girl dressed like the Sugar Plum Fairy picked herself up and staggered down the street.

Jo stood with hip cocked on her corner, waving to and cavorting with the timid middle-class drivers stuck in traffic. It was a slow night, but warm, so she strolled up and down her patch of territory, looking for business.

A black car, beat up and dusty, slid out of the flow of traffic and screeched to a halt beside her. The window slipped down smoothly and a hand bedecked with rings and painted fingernails motioned for her to come closer. Her heels clicked sharply on the cement of the sidewalk.

She leaned against the car and lowered her head to talk to the occupants of the car. Indignation crossed her face as she argued with those inside. Finally she stood up and walked away in disgust.

“No way baby. Everybody has to pay.” she called over her shoulder.

The hand disappeared into the car, only to return a moment later holding several bills, but it was too late. Jo had found a John, she was doing business and had no time for them.

Dismissed, the black car nosed its way back into traffic.

She checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. Looking good was part of what she did – what she had to do. She was down to her last few dollars, and that had to make it all the way to New York. She’d have to resort to plan B. She put her blinker on and started to turn into the beat up looking Texaco, but a beat up old dinosaur of a car almost ran her off the road.

“Take a walk, jerk!” she screamed at the rapidly retreating tail-lights.

She pulled the car up to the gas island and took a deep breath to gather herself. She never understood what possessed people to drive like that. She’d driven all the way from the island and was amazed at the behavior of people when they were behind the wheel of a car.

She pumped four dollars of gas into the VW, far more than she had the ability to pay for – but then again, she didn’t plan on paying. Not with cash, anyway. She glanced over at the booth. It contained a young man, maybe eighteen and obviously a local. He looked simple. A dirty old man would have been easier, but this wasn’t beyond her skill. She tottered over to the window to speak to him

They talked for a few moments – the boy shook his head emphatically at first, but his resistance visibly faded as she leaned over to give him a better view. Eventually his defenses broke down and he escorted her through the employees door and into the back room of the booth.

Fifteen minutes later she was driving down the highway toward the lights of the big city, humming to herself as she reapplied her lipstick.

He glanced furtively to the left and right before slipping unnoticed through the door of the bathroom. Behind him, the forlorn lights swinging above the island of the ramshackle gas station cast eerie shadows over the pavement. Time marched on as it always had at the gas station.

Ages later, like some painfully slow magic trick, the door would open and a woman strolled out. She was tall and handsome with long graceful legs, and the big hair that was so popular at this end of the 1970s.

She walked purposefully across the gas station lot to the edge of the road and stuck out her thumb. Car after car passed, but nobody seemed interested in picking up the woman standing beneath the Texaco sign.

Eventually a beat up old Dodge creaked to a dusty halt on the side of the road.

“Hey babe.”

Her voice drifted across the lot, barely audible above the hissing rushing sounds of cars whizzing past on the highway. After a brief exchange, she slid into the passenger seat. The car spun its wheels on the gravel shoulder, eventually regaining traction and almost clipping a newer model VW before shooting off into traffic headed toward the big city.