ROXIE

Roxie was wrapped up like a burrito in a smelly beige carpet remnant. She didn’t know where she was but she thought she smelled beach through the cat piss stink of the rug.
Roxie got out of fixes, it’s what she did, with God’s help of course, so she said a quick prayer--to remind the Lord that regardless of present circumstances she was a good Christian girl—and started rolling back and forth
It was not easy, and took all her residual strength, but eventually the rug unfurled and spit her out onto the pavement. She wobbled to her feet. She was on the parkway, near the volleyball courts.
“Thanks for the help” she said to a bum on a bench.

She heard music and looked for the source. It was the Dixie Chicks, she liked country music and started a slow line dance. A large van posing as a ghetto blaster was parked on the grass behind her. The music came from within giant fake speakers.
She tried the doors, and found them all locked. She sat on the steps and took inventory. Her tube top was inside out and she’d lost a flip flop. She looked at her reflection in the side of the van so she could check the state of her face. Her eyes were dark holes and her mouth a colorless slit.
She knew already her bridge was gone, she could feel its absence. She always took it out for blow jobs—it was her signature—but she’d never misplaced it. She checked her pockets with no luck. It could be in the carpet.