FOR A GOOD TIME, CALL TONYA: 938-2868

I made a quick buck-fifty on a job that was so random and boring, I won't go into details. All you need to know was that the whole thing was painfully dull, and by the end of the day, only an old Chinese man got hurt.
So there I was, cruising down the main drag of some god-forgotten tumbleweed town with this cash burning a hole in my otherwise good jeans. I immediately decided to spend a large portion of change on a decent breakfast, and pulled into the first greasy spoon I saw. I could only hope that some young, attractive waitress would bend over my table with sunny-side up eggs in hand. As it turned out, it was all I could do not to cream my own pancakes.
There is just something about those corn-fed Midwestern girls that make men like me sit straight up and pull out every single from our wallets. It's an honest fact that men have the ability to drool at the site of female perfection. Money becomes no object, even to the poorest slob, and every woman really does enjoy being propositioned to suck you off for twenty bucks. The more poor the town you're in, the better the chances of success; and there was no poorer a town than the one I had found myself in.
Again, my money-- among a couple other things, including, but not limited to, my hemorrhoids-- burned in my pants, and she was just pouring my first coffee. It was certainly starting to seem like a great day.
Just imagine, if you will, the typical faded pink dress worn by every television waitress since the dawn of time, wrapped tightly around the youthful perkiness of the most amazing tits this side of Saturn's rings. Try to see in your mind the small white buttons of her top pulling hard to rip themselves free of the opposing holes. Now top this off with a set of gams that simply would not quit, and add on the face of an 18-year-old angel. Yeah, just like the blonde from your daughter's cheerleading squad. You know damn well that's why your wife left you and took the kids; but, shit, man, what can a fella do? Pick out any name you want for this goddess of seduction, but in this particular geographical location, you'd be better off with something along the lines of "Tammy" or "Amanda", or maybe even something in the "Stephanie" variety. The name doesn't matter much except for the small talk that we all must go through to feel out the situation. In my story, her name was Tonya. At least that's what I'm telling the authorities.
"What can I get ya?" she said around the snapping of a small piece of pink gum. My mind spun with images of other small pink things, and I decided right then and there that I'd had enough of the cursory small talk.
"You can get your panties stuck in my teeth, if you'd like." I smiled my best smile and prepared for the worst, all while delusively hoping for the better.
For a few moments, she stood there looking quite stunned, and forgot about her gum. She rocked back and bumped her hip out to one side, which worked miracles for her already short hemline. I imagined smoke seeping from her ears, and thought I could hear the small squeaking of rusty gears spinning themselves about in her head. It was as if I had popped a breaker, and no one was sure where to find the utility box. Finally, she seemed to come out of it, and worked up a slow smile of her own.
"Did Marty tell you to say that to me?"
"If he did, would that help me out here?"
"Huh?" The smoke and squeaking was back.
"Pancakes, sweetheart. I'll have some pancakes."
I kept a close watch on Tonya as she bounced around the diner, and I ate my pancakes as slow as humanly possible. My coffee, on the other hand, was consumed faster than Tonya could bring it, and each time I moved my cup further and further from her edge of the table. The best part of this selfish act was that she knew what I was up to, and gave me a tightlipped smile and a short giggle every time she bent across me. It was all I could do not to reach over and smack her ass. She probably would've let me get away with it once, maybe twice.
Nature and too much coffee finally forced me to find the men's room. It was there, on the wall above the toilet, that I saw the handwriting of God himself: "For a good time, call Tonya: 938-2868." I wrote the number on the back of my hand, then took a long moment to consider the pros and cons of running a batch out on the bathroom floor. I decided against it, only because I was sure that Tonya's work chores extended only to the women's room, and where was the thrill in that? I stuffed the boys back in, and went out into the restaurant. I made my way to the counter to pay up, and Tonya came over to run the register. I was handing her my cash when she noticed the number on my hand. There was a moment of shock in her eyes which faded into simple curiosity.
"How did you get that number?" she asked.
"Marty gave it to me," I said, and turned for the door.
I was pushing it open when I heard her ask, "So, you going to call me?"
I was in full swing of opening the door as my head spun back to see if she was serious or not. This must have been why I hadn't noticed Mr. Moy as he approached. The door cracked the poor, old Chinese man square in the forehead, and he dropped like a sack of warm dog shit straight to the fucking ground, sliding face first into a puddle of muddy rainwater. What a piss-poor way to go out, man.
Tonya must have agreed with me that the events of Mr. Moy's death were unfair and tragic, because she never answered the phone when I called. I suppose she needed to take a few days to grieve for the loss. Perhaps they were close. Maybe even friends. He may have been the one man in her life that didn't try to fuck her in the diner's back storeroom.
I had only been passing through that town, and to this day I have no idea what became of Tonya. I feel, however, that I'm responsible for taking away one of the very few things that may have been important to her. And while there are some bastards who get off on jacked-up shit like that, I'm quite sad for what I've done. Maybe I should've just watched where I was going.