Tinkerbell Gets Made (Tinkerbell #3)

This is fiction.

Content notification for fat shaming/appearance shaming, mention of gun violence, graphic drug use.

I met the guy in a patch of rutted dirt next to an onion farm. The hand-off took less than thirty seconds, then I watched through narrowed eyes as his little Honda tore back onto the empty road like he was late for his wedding.

I squeezed the little sausage-shaped package he’d given me. It was wrapped in baby blue latex party balloon, and it felt lumpy and poky, not like squishy black tar.

I tore it open and confirmed my fears. Pretty good weed, but still…weed.

When I got home, I called my contact. “This isn’t what it was supposed to be, and I’m not risking my ass for a forty-dollar bag.”

“Yeah, they didn’t want to give you the other stuff yet, not until you’d proven yourself.”

I twisted the phone cord between my fingers. “I’m not running this in there. No fucking way.”

There was a short pause on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay, it’s cool. I understand. Let me make some calls.”

First thing next morning, I met a different guy in the empty parking lot of a hamburger stand. He smiled at me shyly as he slipped the stuff into my palm, his eyes wandering over my face and tits, coming to rest on the track marks on my arms. He leered, but there was a touch of pity in it. “You okay? You got everything you need?” 

He had a tear tattooed on his cheek, the mark of a killer, but his brown eyes were warm with a spark of teasing humor. I imagined for a moment telling him no, that I didn’t have anything I needed. I’d get in his car, he’d get me blasted and fuck me in the backseat. Maybe he’d discover I’m funny, that I’m good company, and he’d take me with him on his next run down to Juarez. We’d turn up the stereo and tell jokes the whole way, we’d eat asada tacos at all the best food trucks and he’d help wean me off the dope because Thou Shalt Not Shoot the Stash is one of the commandments of running.

We’d save our money and retire before we lost the game. We’d buy a farm in Michoacán and grow old together.

I smiled. “Yeah, I’ve got everything I need.”

 He lifted an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”

I shifted on my feet, but for some reason I told him. “Gracie.”

This made him laugh. “Your haircut is cute, you look like Tinkerbell.”  He turned away, walked back to his car. “I’ll see you later, Tink.”

I watched him drive off, wondering if I’d just been given my gangster name.

I did a shot to calm my nerves, my hands shaking so badly that I missed the vein twice, giving myself stinging lumps on my arms. Then I started the car and drove eastward, sticking my hand out the window to cup the cool morning air. I sang along with Miguel Aceves Mejia on the stereo as the sun spread golden over the desert hills, the dope tickling my spine with warm fingers.

The prison was a slab of concrete amidst wheat fields, the guard tower standing out against the midsummer sky like a curse in church. In the parking lot I put my hand down my shorts and stashed the package. It was more uncomfortable than I’d been expecting, and when I got out and made the long trek to the entrance, I was sure I was walking funny. I could feel phantom eyes crawling over my skin, but I took a deep breath, let it out. Everything’s cool. No one knows.

Truly, it was another thought that sustained me, settling warm into my stomach with the dope and banishing my fear: I didn’t care if I got busted, because prison would be an improvement over my current situation.

By the time I got to the security desk, I was smiling and chatting with the guards. They checked my ID, patted me down, searched my shoes and pockets, and passed me through a metal detector. I was in.

Masa was waiting for me in the visitors’ room, and he smiled when he saw me. He gave me a hug. “You got it, guerita? I hear you had some trouble.”

My gaze darted around the room. “I got it.”

We sat in plastic chairs, which were arranged in a circle in the middle of the windowless concrete room. It wasn’t a normal visitors’ day, it was a powwow, a sacred Native American ceremony. Masa had thought the noise and chaos would provide more distraction than a regular visitors’ day. I pushed down my guilt, wondering if you could make it in this business with a social conscience.

A man walked around the circle with a bowl of burning sage cupped in his hands. He poured the smoke over each of us and said a blessing. His face was hard and carved up by suffering, but when he got to me he smiled, his eyes kind, almost tender. Masa nudged me as the guy moved on. “That’s Daniel. He’s serving life ‘cause he shot a dude execution style, right in front of his mom while she begged him not to.”

I blinked. “Jesus.”

Masa and I sat talking as the dancing and singing began. My foot tapped the threadbare carpet in a rapid staccato and every time I shifted in my seat the package poked me like some sort of joke-shop clown tampon. I tried not to sweat, tried not to stare at the guards standing along the walls. The one closest to us was a woman with mousy hair, and it seemed like her gaze was resting on me more than it should. “That big bitch has her eye on me,” I whispered, and Masa snickered.

“Who, the Rhino?  She probably just has a crush on you.”

 “If she sat on my face, you’d probably never see me again.”

Masa hunched over his knees, laughing.

I straightened my shoulders and stood. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

His laughter died and he cleared his throat. “Have fun.”

Sweat beaded on my upper lip as I approached the Rhino. “I need to use the restroom.”

She looked me over with tiny brown eyes, her stern expression softened by the dimples in her cheeks. I followed her out through double blast doors, noticing how the fabric of her khakis stretched taut over her meaty ass, thinking she had a lot of nooks and crannies in which she could smuggle things, if she wanted.

She patted me down, running her hands along my sides, my legs. Then she let me into the bathroom.

I locked the door and pulled down my shorts, sitting on the stainless-steel toilet to extract the package. I stuffed it in the heel of my boot and flushed the toilet, my heart galloping. Would she check my shoes before I went back?  I ran water at the sink, staring at my reflection in the polished steel mirror and sending up a prayer: Please don’t let her check my shoes.

 In my mind, Jesus sat on a red velvet couch in a white linen suit. He looked up from his copy of Popular Science and smiled wryly. “Go forth and deliver thy drugs in peace, blessed child.” 

I took a deep breath and shut off the water.

The Rhino was waiting for me outside the door, and I smiled. Sweat trickled down my spine. Please don’t check my shoes. Please please please.

She told me to lift my arms. My shirt stuck to my sweaty skin as she ran her hands down my ribs and caressed me under my breasts. Then she checked the pockets of my shorts, her thick fingers pinching the creases in the denim. I held my breath, the drab walls pressing in closer.

“Okay, you’re good,” she said.

I was dizzy with relief as she let me back in the visitor’s room.

Masa was trying to look cool, but his eyes were a little wide. “You get it out?”

I nodded.

He let out a breath and grinned lopsidedly. “Which place were you keeping it in?”

I blushed. It was ridiculous.

He grinned wider. “Your pussy?” When I nodded again, he laughed. “It’s gonna bring a good price in here. Where you have it now?” My eyes darted to my boot, and he glanced down and winced. There was a bulge in the side where the dope was. “Everyone’s gonna see that, guerita.”

I leaned down and pretended I was itching my foot, trying to pull it out, but it was wedged in tight against my heel. I tugged harder. “Tssst!” Masa hissed. “The Rhino!” I glanced up to find her gaze on me and had to gulp down the acid that foamed into my throat. I sat up again.

“You’re not smooth at all, girl,” Masa said, and I hissed at him to shut up, wiping sweat from my upper lip. The Rhino looked away, and I bent down again.

I yanked hard, stretching the latex, but the fucking thing still wouldn’t come out. I cursed. The lady sitting next to me was watching me with a horrified expression, but I ignored her. The Rhino was talking to the guard next to her, her dimples showing, and I tugged desperately. Please don’t let the guards look over at me. Please please please.

Jesus looked up from his magazine and shot me a smirk. The dope pulled loose.

I palmed it, passing it to Masa. He sucked in his breath as he took it.

The lady next to me looked disgusted. A couple of the prisoners across from us were laughing openly. But the guards kept on chatting along the walls, and I leaned back in my chair, the tension draining out of me. It was Masa’s problem now.

“I’ve gotta go get this thing up my ass,” he announced quietly, and got up to go to the bathroom.

They were serving frybread and stew, and I went to get some, my body light and giddy. The guy in front of me in line smiled. “You Masa’s girl?”  He had a swastika tattooed on his neck and his eyes were loose in their sockets.

“Naw, we’re just friends.”

He grinned wider. “What’s your name?”

 “Tinkerbell.”

“Tinkerbell!  That’s cute.” 

I got some food for Masa, too, and handed it to him when he came back. He had a weird look on his face as he sat down.

“I know, it’s big, right?” I said, and he laughed.

“Tasted really good, though.”

“Fuck you, Masa.”

“Just teasing you.”  But he probably wasn’t.

“It’s not going to bring such a good price after where you put it now.”

“Don’t be so sure,” he said, and I snorted into my stew.

After we all finished eating, Daniel stood up and explained that part of the potlatch tradition was to give gifts, and he came around handing out little trinkets the prisoners had made. When he got to me, he handed me a pair of tiny, beaded moccasins on a leather cord. “Thank you for coming.” He sounded truly sincere, as if I’d done a heroic deed today.

When I got back to my car, I rested my forehead on my steering wheel, an uncontrollable laugh bubbling through me. “I just did that shit. Oh, my god.”

I did another shot, then started the drive home, giggling as I imagined myself with “Tinkerbell” tattooed on my neck in sprawling script.