The Girl Who Sleeps With a Knife

It was the high peak of the 70's, literally: 1976, New York was the greatest and worst place to be. It was the boiling point of music, and the breaking point of drugs. Despite its downsides, New York City was the place to be: busy, intimidating, confident, and unapologetic, like the modern business woman. The day light was filled with progress, big business, and bodies flying around like honey bees on a tight schedule; the dark nights, though, is when the city would come alive: the stars hidden above the neon lights of the city, the shadows whispering secrets that the day was too frilly to tell.
Through Times Square, a young, fearless force of nature strutted to the bar in her cut off shorts and worn leather jacket. She entered the pub, as cool as a midnight's breeze, and smiled as she silenced and graced the men of the pub with her presence. As she made her way behind the counter, she removed her jacket to reveal a white t-shirt with the words "Sex Pistols" spray painted across her breasts.
"Hello boys," she said in her syrupy voice that she knew drove the men crazy, "What can I get ya?" As she predicted, they all ordered a beer; not unusual for an afternoon order. After a session of pet names and unwanted flattery, the pack of men dispersed, seemingly at the same time, leaving a sad looking man behind. This man interested her, not because he was the only man who didn't grope at her, but because every day for a year, he's bought the same thing, sat in the same chair at the counter, at the same time of the day.
"A shot of whiskey, please," he asked. He looked up at her and she nodded towards the table where the whiskey had already sat. He smiled, "I'm predictable huh?"
"Hm," she laughed, "You came here, everyday, at the same time, and sat in the same spot and order the same thing and you didn't expect me to catch on yet? I'm insult."
"I'm sorry to insult you Miss--?"
"Rockett, Joan Rockett. My friends call my Joan," she smiled, "well they would if I had any."
"Say, Joan, is it okay if I ask you somethin'?"
"Got right ahead," she fixed herself a shot of vodka.
"How come you let those pigs talk to you the way they do? I can tell you don't like it."
After the downed the shot, and made a face, she answered, "You're right, I don't like it. I mean, what kind of woman would like for a man to shout what they would do to you in bed, or try to grope at your ass when you're trying to work, or call you bunny? But you know what, I have to let it happen."
"How come?"
"Well, being a woman--a black woman at that, in this profession, I get a better tip if a stroke a man's ego. And what better way to do that than to just let him believe his own fantasy." she paused, "It's how I make my living, baby, that's why I'm not struggling."
"Well, not financially--"
"And that's the only way that matters."
She slid him another shot,"I didn't ask for a another."
"It's on the house," she coolly as she wiped out the glass she used. "Let me ask you question, Mister--?"
"Santino," he answered,"Rocko Santino."
"Okay, Rocko," she smiled,"what's with the mohawk? I've only ever seen them on cats who dig the white boy bands. And you don't like the type that into that."
At this, his smile faded, "Ms. Rockett, that's a lot more personal than you think. Ask me anything besides that."
"Well," she thought," why do you keep coming here? I mean, even my regulars aren't as regular as you."
He scoffed,"Ask me another."
"C'mon, man, you can't dodge my questions like that. That's just not fair, daddio," she pouted.
"Both questions have the same answer, Joan, and if it's all the same to you, I wouldn't like to talk about it."
She paused for a while, and got the nerve to ask him,"What's her name?"
"I'm sorry," he replied.
"Your girl, you gotta have one: you're handsome, tall, and you got a groovy hair cut," she pressed, "So come on, what's his or her name?"
He shook his,"There is no "his or her", just me."
She gave a sly smile,"Say, why don't we go grab a coffee or something besides whiskey?"
"Mmmm," he said reluctantly," I don't know."
"C'mon, Rock, aren't you tired of doing the same ol' thing everyday, I'm just asking for a coffee. Besides it won't kill you like this stuff will."
"Alcohol kills?" he asked flabbergasted.
"Ever heard alcohol poisoning?"
He nodded, "Yeah okay."
He watched her as she walked to the back room to talk to her boss.
"Yo, Steven," she told him calmly,"I'm going on my break."
"C'mon, Joan ya jus' go' 'ere," he complained in his strong Irish accent.
"There are no customers coming in, there are never any customers at four 'o clock, man," she put on her jacket, "Look, I'll stay late if I have to, just let me go on break."
"Fine," he said evilly,"come 'ere."
Slowly, nervously Joan walked towards her boss, and closed her eyes as he roughly groped her breast and felt up her thighs.
"You may leave," he said. As she turned to leave, he asked, "It's because of that bloke that's been comin' 'ere everyday isn't i'?"
"Oh shove it, Steven," she snapped.
"Watch it now, I'm still your boss."
As she walked out to meet Rocko, she was almost reluctant to speak, "Umm...let's go, daddio."
"What took you?" he asked.
"Boss man was being a prick."