 The
Ad by
Jessica
Dainty Johns
The first time he saw the
ad, he thought it was a
joke. A black and white
photo of a woman from
shoulders to knees took up
the entire right side. She
wore short cut-offs and a
shirt showing her stomach. A
sparkly chain hung loosely
around the curves of her
hips and attached to a belly
button ring. The words were
a grayish white, in a plain
font that curved slightly
only on certain letters.
Lonely? Need the loving
touch of a woman? The
y and f flowing
like the lines of the
woman’s stretched-out body.
He ripped out the ad and
taped it to his locker at
the plant. He opened the
metal door extra wide when
Joe or Bill walked by,
inviting their crude
comments.
“What you need
the loving touch of a woman
for, Bert, when you got them
manly hands of yours?” Bill
slapped him on the back and
laughed. Joking around was
what they did, the
occasional drink together
after work, but Bert
wouldn’t call them his
friends. He’d worked with
them for twenty-three years,
had seen their kids grow up,
even babysat a couple times
back in the beginning, when
he first started there. Now,
he was the only one without
a wife, without a family of
his own to watch anymore.
They didn’t talk about
things, about whether he
actually was lonely, or
about how long it had really
been since he’d known the
touch of anyone.
****
His days at work took on a
new routine in the weeks
after he hung up the ad. He
came in fifteen minutes
early so that he could read
it over with no one else
around. The joke of the ad
had run out, but Bert didn’t
want to take it down. His
coworkers looked away when
he lingered with his locker
door open. When someone came
up behind him, he closed his
locker and went out to the
floor.
“Dude, just call
already. You don’t need our
approval,” Joe hollered
after him one morning.
He took the ad
down that day and put it in
his wallet.
****
Bert worked
twelve hours a day at the
plant, hadn’t taken a
vacation in seventeen years.
The last time he went
anywhere was to his father’s
funeral in Albuquerque,
twelve years ago. That was
the last time he’d worn a
tie, a pair of pants with no
oil stains. His daughter
Sarah had been there. Her
mother dropped her off in
his faded old Gremlin, the
rusted green looking almost
offensive amidst the line of
dark vehicles. He hadn’t
seen Sarah since the
divorce, either of them in
fact. He met them at the car
and tapped on the window,
Sarah and Elaine, his
ex-wife, whispering to each
other inside, to take his
daughter’s hand and lead her
across the street.
Bert knew what Sarah looked
like sleeping, the way her
nose twitched when he blew
lightly on her cheek. And
she knew his only soft spot,
the way she could grab both
sides of his face and nuzzle
her nose against his. But
when he asked Sarah what her
mother had said to her, she
looked at him so fiercely,
with the same familiar
glaring eyes and tint of
lavender that her mother’s
held, that he knew, right
then in that moment, that he
had lost her. That he was no
longer someone she shared
her secrets with, whispered
words to in fun or in
confidence, or in any way at
all.
****
Even without the
ad taped to the inside of
his locker, Bert continued
to show up early. This
morning Joe was already
there pulling up his
coveralls, tightening up his
boots. Bert was disappointed
not to have a quiet room to
himself before going out
into the constant buzz of
the factory. On the floor,
even with his earplugs in,
he felt as though he stood
inside a tin container with
someone banging on the
outside, his ears and entire
body humming, vibrating.
“Morning, Joe.”
Bert let his locker swallow
him up as he pulled out his
work clothes.
“Bert.” Joe
stood and stretched his
back, puffing out his chest.
“Hey, man, what do you say
we grab some drinks tonight?
Just you and me. It’ll be
fun.”
“Thanks, but I
think I’m just gonna get a
head start on my weekend.”
“How ’bout
dinner then? At my place.
Marcia’s making fettuccini.”
“I can’t. I have
plans.”
“Come on man,
what plans?”
“I have a date.”
The room was
quiet, and Bert wondered if
Joe had left. He zipped up
his coveralls and turned to
face Joe still standing
behind him.
“I see you took
your lady down.”
Bert glanced at
his empty locker panel. He
pushed his earplugs into his
ears and walked past Joe out
on to the floor.
****
Bert got home at
six. In his mail was another
returned letter to his
daughter. They’d been coming
back for six months now,
address unknown. She’d lived
in only two places: his old
home, where he lived when
he’d been a part of her
family, and her own place
when she’d started college,
an apartment he’d imagined
was nice, but never saw.
He sent her a check every
month, extra money, with
little notes, saying things
like, buy yourself
something nice or go
have fun. She never
responded, but he kept
writing them anyway. She was
in her twenties now. He was
no longer obligated to send
her money of any kind, but
it made him feel better. And
she’d taken the money up
until now. The handout must
not have been necessary, he
thought, or she’d have sent
him her new address. He put
the letter in a drawer with
the others.
He unfolded the
ad from his wallet and
smoothed it on the kitchen
table. He rubbed the stubble
around his chin and pressed
his hand against the side of
his face.
The voice on the
other end of the line wasn’t
trying very hard. She spoke
to him in short staccato
tones. She was the business
side of things, the
middle-man. Someone would be
coming at eight-thirty. If
she wasn’t there by nine, he
shouldn’t expect her. She
would only take cash. Three
hundred would get him two
hours. If he wanted more,
he’d have to work that out
with her. He could call her
Bridgett.
Bert gave his address, and
the call was over. He leaned
back in his chair, the wood
creaking against his weight,
and raised his hand to his
cheek again. He went to the
bathroom mirror and
slathered his face with
shaving cream. Bert never
grew a full beard, but he
hadn’t been clean-shaven in
years. When he wiped the
excess cream away, the
ruggedness was gone, and he
wished he’d left the
stubble, the hint of shadow
that masked his wrinkles and
uneven tones.
He showered,
brushed his teeth, and
dressed in the same clothes
he wore to his father’s
funeral, minus the jacket.
The knot on his tie was
clumsy, his fingers no
longer used to the finesse
of small motions. At the
plant, he lifted heavy
barrels. If he did anything
small, it was flip a switch
or flick a gauge. He parted
his hair and brushed it back
with water. He trimmed his
nose hair. He flossed. It
was still only eight
o’clock.
He opened a
bottle of wine. A 1964
Chateau Haut Brion, a
wedding gift that never saw
the agreed upon opening day
of a fiftieth anniversary.
It never even saw a fifth.
The wine was smooth, mellow,
and teased him at the back
of his throat with a hint of
tobacco. He exhaled as
though from a cigar, blowing
the warmth of the wine back
out.
He finished his
first glass by eight-thirty.
His second by eight
forty-five. By nine o’clock
he swayed back to the
kitchen with the two wine
glasses, one stained faintly
at the bottom with a pool of
red, that final sip that
forever slips back down. The
other glass remained unused,
a finger smudge on one side
from his clumsy hands.
He returned to
the couch and was about to
drink straight from the
bottle when the doorbell
rang. He rocked himself
forward and was able to
stand on the third attempt.
He smoothed his hair and
shirt, no longer stain free,
a tiny splotch of red on the
left side of his chest.
He opened the
door to find a young woman
in a tight black dress and
bright blue heels. Her hair
was a couple shades too dark
and made her look too pale
to be considered pretty. But
her face had nice lines, and
Bert was happy that it
wasn’t overwhelmed with
makeup. The colors she chose
didn’t suit her age – a too
blue smudge on the eyes and
a shade of red on the lips
that he could only remember
seeing on women over sixty –
but they were faint enough.
“Well, are you
going to invite me in,
handsome?” She cocked her
head to one side and twirled
a strand of her hair around
a finger, like a black snake
around a bleached bone. Her
voice was sweet. She
couldn’t have been more than
twenty-five, about Sarah’s
age.
They sunk into
his couch, an old ratty
thing not used to the weight
of two.
“Wine?” he
asked, offering her the
bottle.
She took a swig
without hesitation and
swallowed it as though it
were a twelve-dollar
selection off the bottom
shelf.
“Mmm. Yummy.”
She giggled and leaned into
him.
“You’re about
the same age as my daughter,
I’d say.” Bert kept his body
facing forward.
“Daughter, huh?
If you want me to call you
‘Daddy’ I might have to
charge extra.” She blew on
his ear. He could feel her
tongue on his neck.
“Do your parents
know what you do, where you
are?” Bert asked.
“Why, you want
them to watch?” With that,
she climbed over his lap and
straddled him. She grabbed
the bottle of wine and took
another swig before pressing
it to Bert’s lips. “Mmm.
Tastes good.”
Bridgett
unbuttoned his shirt and
kissed her way down his
chest. Bert drank from the
bottle, his head leaned back
on the couch. The room was
dim, blurred. His bookshelf
held no specifics through
his hazy eyes, but he
spotted the outline of his
photo album. He envisioned
the few pictures he kept,
pictures of his daughter,
from before they stopped
talking to each other. He
didn’t know where she was.
What she looked like. For
all he knew, Bridgett could
be Sarah. Sarah, Bridgett.
He struggled to
stand up, pushing Bridgett
off him.
“What are you
doing? You want to move to
the bedroom?”
“No. I just want
to sit here. To talk. Or not
talk. Just to have someone
to sit with. You hungry?”
“Are you still
going to pay me?” she said.
Bert nodded. “Then I could
eat.”
They sat at the
kitchen table. Bridgett made
herself a sandwich, stuffing
giant bites into her mouth.
He blinked her back into
clarity when his eyes
blurred. The wine bottle was
empty. He’d drunk it all,
except for those few sips
Bridgett took.
“So why’d you
call if you didn’t want to
get laid?” She talked with
her mouth full, making only
a haphazard attempt to cover
her mouth with her hand.
“The ad only
asked if I was lonely, not
if I wanted to get laid.”
Bert was drunk now. He
swayed standing and fell
into the wall.
“You okay?”
“I’m gonna go
lay down. You can stay as
long as you like.”
“Here I’ll help
you.”
Bridgett propped
Bert up and pulled his arm
over her shoulder. She was
more steady on her high
heels, even with his weight
on her, than he was on his
wobbly legs. She plopped him
down onto his bed, pulled
his shoes and socks off, his
already unbuttoned shirt.
He felt her hands on him,
the gentleness with which
she unclothed him. He
wondered what type of lover
she would have been without
having to play the part she
played. He let where her
fingers touched him tingle,
and he thought he could feel
a burning. A nice, gentle
burning all through his
body.
“Your money’s on
the counter.” He tried to
sit up and point, but he
realized he was alone, so he
fell back into his haze. He
could hear cabinets opening,
his desk drawers. He knew
he’d wake up to find his
watch missing, probably the
tin can under his kitchen
sink, as well, with the
seven hundred dollars
rubber-banded inside.
He wondered if the letters
would be gone, the envelopes
ripped open and the checks
taken out. They’d all been
returned, he thought. She
could be anywhere. The
inside of his body felt like
it was bobbing in the ocean.
His bed was swirling in the
darkness of the room. He
heard something crash and
the door slam.
The sound echoed in his
ears. For a second he
thought he was at the
factory, his body humming.
He moved to push his ear
plugs in, to seal himself
off. The places where
Bridgett had touched him now
buzzed, and he reached for
the switch, to silence the
machines.
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