Girl Singer

3. Nobody's Baby Now

Lulu Martine

Alvin got me quieted down again by holding me and rubbing my back after we had parked in front of a place that looked like a boarding house run by Norman Bates. He kissed me on the eyelids, and I giggled at the absurdity.

I was beginning to have trouble telling my own reactions apart from those of my body. What difference did it make? I'm Bonnie Mae—I'm an illiterate, functionally mute prostitute on the run from the law. I've got the attention span of a sparrow and the emotional control of an infant. I sighed as Alvin got out of the car.

"Stay here," he told me. "I'll go in and get our stuff."

I whimpered. He was leaving me alone! I was devastated, and that scared me all over again.

"No," he said firmly. "You can't come in. You get near a bed, and you'll wanna fuck, and we just don't have the time." He smiled when he said that, but I wasn't sure he was kidding. What if he wasn't?

Oh, great, I'm a nymphomaniac, too. I squirmed. Some part of me enjoyed the idea that I couldn't control myself.

"We get to Kaycee, we'll stay in a nice hotel, buy a whole box of rubbers, and you can try to fuck my brains out, okay? I promise, honeypie."

Well, I said to myself as he walked away, except for the rubbers, that does sound nice. I was trying to be ironic, but I felt a thrill when I thought of it. My place of business, the one I sat on, felt warm and damp. I thought, son-of-a-bitch, I'm a horny little twat, ain't I?

I sat there for maybe a minute, trying to think my way through my situation. My mind had capabilities my brain did not seem to have room for. Plus, I was alone, and that scared me. I'm not supposed to be alone some voice inside me insisted. I was near panic in a very short time.

Is this going to be my life from now on? Meal ticket for a pimp who steals from dead guys. I quivered. I knew I would start crying again in a moment, and I wouldn't be able to stop until Alvin came back and hugged me, or kissed me, or… or spanked me!

That's what I needed, a good spanking. I squirmed thinking about his hand slapping my ass earlier. Now, I had the giggles. There's a word for girls like you, I scolded myself. Slut. Or maybe bimbo. Not sure I have the intellectual qualifications. Maybe I'm not smart enough for a bimbo; slut is more my speed.

The more I dissed myself internally, the hotter I got. You're a sick, sick girl, I told myself. "Uh-huh, uh-huh," I sang, "that's the way I like it. I like it." And then I sang the whole song, another that I didn't know I knew the words to. Even though I changed one line to "Tell me you're my lovin' man," I hit all the notes and had the rhythm perfect, dancing on my round new butt on the car seat.

I didn't feel nearly so lonely and scared while singing.

I'm a human jukebox, I thought. Why don't I stutter when I sing? "Put another nickel in, in the nickelodeon," I sang, finishing up with "Money, money, money," instead of "Music, music, music." When I started a song, I needed to sing it all the way through, apparently, but I could alter it.

What the hell?

If a new car costs only 700 dollars, neither of those songs has been written yet. Was I going to sing another? Uh-huh.

"Let's do the time warp again!" I sang. "It's just a step to the left, then a jump to the right!" All the way through, no mistakes that I could see or hear.

This was kind of cool.

*

By the time Alvin got back, I had sung another five or ten songs. I'd lost count. So sue me, I'm not a mathematician. Alvin was carrying several suitcases as he came down the walk, one in each hand and one under his arm. Three. I could count that high.

The Dodge had no backseat, just a cargo area behind the bench. He put the suitcases down and opened the driver's side door. I sang at him, "I got chills, they're multiplying," and he stood there while I did the whole song: "You're the one that I want!" complete with oo-oo-oos.

When I finished, I bit my tongue to keep from starting another song.

"Where the hell did you hear that one?" he asked. I just shrugged. How could I tell him? And he probably wouldn't believe it if I did.

He shook his head, laughing, while he put the suitcases away. "What kinda music is that? Some new kinda hot jazz?"

I had no way to answer his questions, so I just sat there wiggling in excitement. Would he get the idea I'd thought of while he was gone? He didn't have to sell my pussy if he could sell my voice.

*

He climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine up, watching me thoughtfully.

I noted that after all that singing I had done, I felt charged up still, but not—not as horny as I had been feeling. Well, good—singing was another outlet for all the sexual energy I seemed so full of.

"Scoot over here," he said, and I snuggled up against him. "Put your feet under you, like you usually do."

"Sh-sh-shoes?" I managed to ask. I was already doing it, lifting up to sit on my feet, but I couldn't just kick the shoes off, they were buckled-on dancing shoes, the kind Ginger Rogers probably wore in Hollywood.

"Your shoes are okay," he said. "We'll junk this fucker when we get to Kaycee." He pulled me even tighter to him. "So…so, I'm the one that you want?"

"Oo-oo-oo," I sang then giggled. Did I want him? Well, my body sure did, and I was sort of along for the ride. It was so weird that thinking about fucking a man was not freaking me out.

He laughed. He pulled me up to where I sort of stood on my knees so he could kiss me on the lips without looking away from the road for more than a few seconds. Then he let me sit on my heels again. I had my arms around his neck. It felt—nice.

It occurred to me that I was making a mess of my dress, all wadded up under me. It couldn't be good for the silk. But I didn't want to move.

He glanced at me sideways. "Can you sing something else?"

I nodded eagerly. This was the idea I was trying to get across.

"Do you know, 'Nobody's Baby Now'?"

I hadn't heard that song in probably sixty years, but yes, I did know it. It must have been a popular tune in the time we were in, whatever time that was. I sang, "I'm nobody's baby, I wonder why?" and all the rest of it, to the end.

He looked astonished. "That's …that's different! I never heard anyone sing it like that! It's great, but…did you just make that up? How to sing it like that?"

I shook my head. I must have heard a later version of the song, probably post-war.

Oh, fuck! The war!

I looked around. Cars rolling along, there was more traffic now but still not a lot. No military vehicles in sight. No young men in uniform but plenty of them about. Didn't the war change all that?

And I couldn't ask any questions that were more than one word long! I'm an idiot-savant, I can remember the words to any song I've ever heard, but I can't carry on an ordinary conversation. In the words of a famous fellow countryman of the future, Doh!

Judging by the weather, it must be summer, so Pearl Harbor was at least months away. And this might not be 1941 but some earlier year. I frowned. Numbers were slippery. The harder I tried to think about them, the murkier my thinking got. Oh, yeah, I'm an idiot.

Thinking about the problem another way, am I a time traveler? Can I alter the future? Do I know the future, or do I only think I know the future? And, as we already know, thinking is not what I'm good at. In fact, I'm pretty sure thinking this hard is not in my job description as an idiot.

*

I sighed and came back to being aware of riding in a car snuggled up next to Alvin. He was stroking my hair, petting me like a cat with one hand, while he drove with the other.

It occurred to me that there were no seatbelts in this car. Or probably in any others on the streets. These big heavy things were rolling death traps. I sighed again—nothing I could do about that either.

I had a strange thought. The idea of getting hurt scared me, but the thought of getting killed didn't. I'd been dead before. But a chill went down my spine and raised goosebumps on my arms, despite the heat. I wiggled against Alvin, seeking a bit of comfort.

His expression didn't change. Was he ignoring me? My arms were no longer around his neck, one of them stretched along the arm he was using to pet me, the other lying in my lap. Maybe I was too easy to ignore? I moved a bit to rub my breast up against his arm….

What the hell am I doing!? I gasped. It kept happening, my body had a mind of its own, and sometimes my mind and the other one didn't mesh.

Alvin turned toward me without taking his eyes off the road. "You say something, babycakes?" he asked.

That's pretty funny, ask the dummy if she said anything. I giggled and he smiled. "G-g-guh-go?" I said. I meant to ask where were we going, but he took it the wrong way.

"You need to go?" he asked.

I thought about that. Now that he'd mentioned it, I had drunk all that water in the bathroom. I nodded. All of my worries about time travel and world wars had evaporated when Alvin asked me a question.

"We'll stop and get some breakfast, honeypie, just lemme get outside the center of St Louie." He turned his attention back to driving.

Food sounded good, too. I knew for a fact that my stomach was empty. And just to confirm it, my middle made a noise like a kitten attacking a shoe.

Alvin glanced at me again, smiling. "Ten minutes," he promised.

I smiled at him, but a new worry surfaced a moment later. I'm losing my mind, I thought. I actually wondered for a moment whether ten minutes was longer or shorter than an hour. The longer I was in this body, and I may be in it for a long time, the easier it was to think of myself as Bonnie Mae.

And the easier it was to think like Bonnie Mae, the cheerful, sexy moron. Already the idea of ever having been anyone else seemed stupid. If I had been someone else, wouldn't that person have had a name? And I couldn't think of any names except Bonnie Mae and Alvin.

Well, maybe names in a song.

About that time, Alvin asked me. "Can you sing us another, honeypie?"

I nodded and right away started in on, "Bill Bailey." Which had a name right in the title, didn't it? I bounced and wiggled as I sang and put one hand on my hip like I was being sassy.

When I finished, he was laughing, and I giggled too, because if he thought something was funny, it must be so. Right?

"You messed up the lyrics on that last chorus, honeypie," he said. "You sang Al Porter instead of Bill Bailey. That's my name!"

It was? I hadn't known his last name or that he sometimes went by Al, had I? But, Bonnie Mae did…. Before I could think about how weird that was, he asked for another song.

So I gave him "Blueberry Hill," maybe because I thought it had something to do with St. Louis. He seemed to know it, so it must be an older song than I remembered. Or had Bonnie Mae picked it?

"Pancakes," he said. "You want some blueberry pancakes?" He turned off the street.

I nodded. That sounded great.

*

We pulled to a stop next to a diner, and he helped me out on his side. Then he reached behind the seat and pulled out the smallest suitcase. "This has got your stuff in it. You wanna go in the bathroom and fix yourself up?"

Would I know how? I wasn't sure, but maybe I could find something to take off my eye makeup and a comb for my hair. I nodded. He retrieved my purse too and handed that to me while he carried the suitcase. And he held the door for me. I realized I had been expecting him to.

The place was packed with men in work clothes. Booths along two walls, tables in a small open space, and a counter with stools. Three waitresses in white starched dresses. Alvin spoke to one of them, then led me through the crowd.

All of the people eating or waiting were men, and they were staring at me. My ass got patted and pinched as we made our way to the bathroom. I was excited by the attention I was getting. Bonnie Mae liked it, but I tried to be annoyed by the touching, at least. I knew that wasn't working by my giggles, and the little extra ass-twitch I worked into my walk.

*

There was only the one bathroom. Alvin helped me inside and propped the suitcase on the toilet seat before leaving. "I'll order us breakfast at the counter. Pancakes, scrambled and bacon, right?"

That was exactly what I wanted! I wiggled all over, he kissed me, and I giggled, then he left. He'd opened the case for me, too.

There was only one small mirror over the sink. I found the cold cream and removed the rest of my makeup with tissues. I decided not to risk trusting my ability to summon Bonnie Mae's memories of how to reapply and just got out a comb and brush and tried to repair my hair.

I had such a lot of it, wavy light brown locks, almost blond, down past the middle of my back. The tangles were fierce, but Bonnie's hands knew what to do, teasing them out with the comb, then building volume and curl back with the brush.

I put things away, the stockings and garter belt from my purse back in the suitcase along with the cold cream, tightly closed. I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror. The light here was much better than at the hotel in the middle of the night.

Daylight came in from a small, high, frosted window as well as a light bulb over the mirror. I looked at Bonnie Mae and told myself, this is you now. Because if it isn't, then you're dead of drugs and drink in a cheap hotel in Oakland. I shrugged off a question of where the hell was Oakland and considered my reflection.

Bonnie's best features may have been her mouth, hair, and eyes. Her lips were full and bow-shaped, her teeth regular and white. Her hair, after being combed and brushed, looked deep golden blond in the sunlight from the tiny window. Her eyes were clear—gray with enough gold and green flecks that they could be called hazel just as well. Her lashes were long and bright gold. Her brows were shaped but needing some pencil to darken them.

How did I know that? Sighing, I got a pencil out of a pocket in the purse and expertly colored in my too-light brows. Maybe I could handle putting on some makeup, after breakfast.

While putting the pencil away, a lipstick tube fell into my hand. I applied it quickly, blotted with a tissue, and reapplied. Realizing I'd just have to put it on again after breakfast, I shrugged and put the lipstick away. I do know how to do this, I marveled.

But I wouldn't be able to do anything about my pugged little button nose, my high forehead, chubby cheeks, or round little chin. In the face, I was pretty and cute, but not beautiful. Part of that was my too-dumb-to-live expression. I looked like a walking dumb-blonde joke, and I wasn't even really blond.

I gave up on trying to look smarter. In the body—I was something else. I looked down at myself, running my hands down my sides to straighten my dress. Generous breasts, wide soft hips, and a domed belly but a narrow waist when considered with my lush curves. Long legs, tiny hands, and feet. I looked like a pin-up girl.

I wondered how tall I was. Alvin must be nearly a giant since he towered over me, but pushing through the crowd, I noticed that with my two-inch heels, I was almost as tall as some of the men. Maybe taller than a few.

I tried to pick up the suitcase, the damn thing was heavy, and I only managed to move it to the floor, which was needed. I did some business sitting on the stool and finished drying things off down there, readjusting my dress when Alvin popped the door open.

"Food's ready, sugarbun," he said. He grabbed the case, and I took his other arm for him to lead me out to breakfast. Giggling, I turned my face up so he could kiss me. Bonnie, you are such a slut, I told myself, but that just made me giggle again.

*

We ate at the counter, and breakfast was yummy. Yummy? Yummy. I'm a girl, and I can say yummy. Alvin scolded me for holding my fork like a little kid but I adjusted my grip like he wanted and he was happy. "I keep having to show you this," he sighed. But he touched me on the nose and smiled.

I ate everything on the plate and drank a cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar. Alvin had ham and eggs over-easy with grits and biscuits and gravy. He ate 'most all of it, then ordered a small glass of orange juice which he let me sip. I didn't like it, it tasted like sour metal, but he drank all of it. I knew I had had better orange juice, but I couldn't remember where.

He left money by the plate, a bill and some change. I wondered how much it came to, but it occurred to me that it wasn't important. We had money and Alvin was in charge of it, so no need for me to worry. I never had to worry about money ever again—it wasn't my job now. I giggled, thinking of it that way made me feel giddy.

The sun was above the rooftops when we stepped outside, and the morning promised a hot, steamy day ahead. Alvin got us back into the car with the suitcase stowed away behind the seat, me curled up beside him, and the road open in front.

I felt safe and content, despite the lack of seatbelts and air conditioning. I snuggled up against Alvin, wondering vaguely how long it would take to get to Kaycee, and if anyone there would like to hear me sing. But I soon fell asleep to the rumbling music of stiff tires on rough pavement.

*