BB HARDCORE WANTS CHRISTMAZ
BB HARDCORE WANTS CHRISTMAZ
BY JOHN TUFT
BB HARDCORE is a lot lizard at some of the big truck stops outside the city. BB HARDCORE is her professional name. Her first name is Bri and if you are unfamiliar with the job title, she sells sexual favors, or acts, to the male truck drivers for cash. At the age of 44, she’s getting well out to the edges of what the drivers will pay for. If that sort of thing is outside your comfort zone you might want to re-examine hanging out with the Christmas Child. I was driving from Philadelphia out into the mountains when a bad snowstorm blew up. As any sensible driver would do, I got behind a line of trailer trucks and followed them into the truck stop lot when visibility got too bad for even those intrepid trekkers. If you’re looking for hot coffee and cheap grub on a cold Christmas Eve, follow the 18 wheelers. If you are seeking comfort in loneliness…I will leave you in your imagination. But a weary world awaits.
I first spotted Bri sitting in a corner booth sizing up the travelers with tense bloodshot eyes. She chewed on a pitted pencil and doodled on the placemats as she took stock. Although the window corners were frosted over and the wind howled outside, she wore tight cut off jean shorts and went braless under a form fitting sweater. Her straw-colored hair looked brittle and angry at what it’s endured over the years. As the tinny speakers in the ceiling creaked with the strains of “Little Drummer Boy” by Elvis for the umpteenth time, she played with a delicate gold chain necklace that gave her an almost childlike sense of lost wonder. I summoned courage and took my white ceramic mug of coffee to the booth and nodded toward the empty seat across from her. “Baby boy, it’s 25, 50 and 100. Cash up front.” I won’t delineate for you what those numbers indicate. Or how I know. But her unexpected term of endearment touched me.
“I’m not here for…that.” I tried not to stare, being a red-blooded male, and all. “I just wanted to know if we could talk.” She looked me over, pudgy face and white beard and all. “Who are you? Santa’s little helper?” I managed to find her eyes and looked into them. “No. I tell stories. Nothing more and nothing less. I wanted to ask you about your necklace.” I don’t know why I felt so seen, my face flushing, as we two human beings shared a winter’s night in the middle of nowhere. “You’re not here to save me?” her question was half anger, half plea, and it still hangs in my mind to this day. She saw me looking at her doodling on the placemat. Snowmen, the basic swoops of a Christmas tree, a small house on the edge of a clearing. At the top was printed in block letters, “I want Christmaz.”
“My daddy gave it to me,” her voice was suddenly shy. “For my birthday. The last one before he…before he passed.” The lower lip threatened, but never delivered. Customers don’t pay for tears. Then a sad, half smile. “Today. Today is my birthday.” I leaned across the table, aware of truckers around pausing in their meals. “Happy birthday,” I whispered. She brightened. “Thanks. I’m Bri.” She held out her hand and the formality of taking her hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze felt like receiving the gift of the magi. “Thank you for the Baby Boy. It’s been a long time…” my voice trailed off. I swallowed hard. “Trying to get through this mess to see my kids this Christmas.” She looked out the window for a long moment. “It’s only a mess if you look at it like it’s a mess.” Her breath steamed the window.
“Hey HARDCORE. You gonna gab all day? It’s Christmas Eve and I got needs.” A trucker shouted from the counter and others laughed. I’m the only one who saw her mouth the words, “So do I.” She looked at me, at the drawings on the paper, back to me. “Baby boy, will you wait for me?” I assured her that I would. She flashed a brief look of gratitude and then headed toward the door. A blast of cold, snowy wind greeted us all as she stepped through and disappeared. The truckers gave themselves self-congratulatory looks and one by one headed out the door where huge diesel engines idled in the storm. I sat and waited, tracing the lines of Bri’s drawing with my finger. And the lettering: I want Christmaz. I was still doing so when I became aware of loud rumbling. I looked out the window. It was dawn and the trucks were pulling out.
I threw on my winter gear and headed out the door. I found Bri huddling behind my car, shivering in a cheap, worn pea coat. She had frozen tears on her cheeks. “He took it,” she sobbed. “I asked if I could have a coat, and he made me give him my necklace for his girlfriend for Christmas.” I took off my down fill parka and traded it for the pea coat. We headed back inside. She saw her drawing over on my side of the booth. “Let me buy you breakfast, Baby Boy.” While she ordered, I called my family to tell them I would be delayed. I spent Christmas morning having breakfast with a friend. Who cherished Christmaz…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.