By Jill Adams

I’d been running this little mountain town tavern for nearly a year. Mostly fishermen, loggers and mill workers drank there, chatting and sparring with me, a twenty-four-year-old city-bred chick, pulling drafts behind the bar. They weren’t always easy to control, but we’d fallen into a comfortable enough routine. I was renting a little cabin nearby, taking a break from the city after having just completed my studies at the exact time the lease expired on my apartment. The provincialism of the place rankled at times, but I kept my urban airs in check and went about the job.

One of the regulars who often sat at the bar was an obese woman whom the locals called retarded back then, though she was simply a bit off. She lived with her mother down the road in a single-wide and would come in alone to drink a few beers, sitting by herself at the end of the bar. They appeared about ten years ago, the guys figured. No one knew from where. I tried to engage her in conversation at first, but she didn’t want that. She just sat and drank. Still, I considered her a friend and if she was short of change, I always covered the tab. Her name was Baby Ruth, and I’d have put her in her early thirties.

Baby Ruth had a big round face with a couple of chins and thin, wispy hair cut short that sat on her head like the fuzzy nubs of pussy willows. She didn’t fit onto the bar stool, which always threatened to cave under her, with large dollops of hip and thigh commanding space to the left and right, preventing anyone from sitting next to her. Mostly the guys left her alone, though I’d thought I caught a few hushed slurs which I wasn’t meant to hear. If I’d been certain of it, I would have jumped on them because I felt protective of Baby Ruth.

Then one night the keg went dry and I had to go to the cooler to retrieve another one. As I rolled it out, I noticed the bar was nearly empty. “Where the hell is everybody?” I asked an old-timer.

“Out back,” he said. “With Baby Ruth.”

I didn’t even hook up the keg. I marched out the back door and confronted the scene. There was a patch of yard full of weeds before the forest line. I’d seen deer grazing there in the early morning. Now, around midnight, a bright moon illuminated a circle of men surrounding Baby Ruth, who stood in the middle, topless. Her breasts, freed from all restraint, hung below her waist, resting on her belly. It was hard to take in at first, so extraordinary was the sight, with plate-sized areola like the soft brown center of a sunflower.

“Now take off your pants,” said one of the guys.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Stop it!” 

But Baby Ruth had already removed her shoes and was pulling down her pants. As if they’d done it all before, the guys each placed a five-dollar bill in her shoes, then returned to the circle.

“Stop it!” I yelled again.

“Butt out,” Baby Ruth said.

And now she was standing naked before us all. Her stomach was of gigantic proportion with a fold from the weight of it covering her pubic area. “Pull it up,” one of the guys instructed. The meaning was clear to Baby Ruth. She lifted her stomach and revealed a bush like a broom shrub that spread to mid-thigh, glorious in its abundance. And those thighs! Ripples and indents covered every inch, with the top jutting out proudly from the body’s core. The markings, like intricately wrought tin, extended to her knees, as big as balloons. Though curiously the lower leg narrowed, showing only the immense knot of an over-sized calf. 

Some of the guys were smoking, the red glow of the tips defining the circle as the smoke wafted around, giving off a whiff of dope as they liked to mix their tobacco with a bit of homegrown. No one spoke except for commands. I tried yet again to put a stop to it, but this was clearly an established ritual and the pull of it was fierce.

“Turn around,” they now ordered, so those with the front view could now get the back and vice versa. Into scrutiny now came the buttocks. Glossy white stretch marks streaked over the whole of her hips and bottom, as though someone had once taken a scalpel to her skin. Though viewed from a slightly different angle, with the cut of a moon ray, it looked as if an artist’s brush had flicked light silver paint on the body canvas.

Baby Ruth twirled around and around, with her arms extended, hanging baskets of underarm dangling below. So much fearless flesh! Then, knowing her routine, she bent over and pulled apart the mammoth cheeks of her rear end exposing an anus surrounded by a little forest of hairs before lying down, knees up, and parting the folds of her labia for a clear view of the inner parts as the circle rotated to take it in. All done very methodically, with little time for viewing, but sufficient for all to see.

“Good show, honey,” said one of the guys, as the others offered similar remarks. Then they began to peel off and stroll back inside. I was already debating the best tactic of how to address them. We’d always gotten along so it wouldn’t be easy, but this sordid, backwoods business demanded a harsh rebuke. It was abusive, cruel.

An owl hooted somewhere among the spruce as the back door slammed shut, then slammed shut again, leaving Creedence Clearwater to shoot out from the jukebox inside.

“Get up and get dressed, Baby Ruth,” I said. She took her time but complied. 

“Get on inside,” I said. “I’ll buy you a beer.” I didn’t really know what else to say. 

“OK,” she said, “but you owe me five dollars.”

“What?” I said.

“You watched,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, as a rush of blood inflamed my cheeks. “I came out to help. I—”

“You watched,” Baby Ruth said, then walked back towards the tavern. “That’s five dollars.”

The words didn’t register. Some hidden defense blocked them, even as they fought to surface.

You watched.

I stood alone in the patch of moonlit yard. I knew I had to get back in to serve the guys, but I couldn’t move. “Baby Ruth!” I yelled, as I spun round to face her, but she’d already gone back inside. 

You watched.

It suddenly seemed I had been standing there a long time. I had to get back in. No one to tend the bar but me. I had to return. That keg wasn’t even hooked up. But I had something to work out, something to make right. “Get back in,” I told myself. “Just get to work.” But it wasn’t happening. I was trapped in the circle, waiting for some release that was in no hurry to come.

The back door flew open then and one of the guys shouted, “Hey, show’s over. You gonna hook up this keg? We’re getting mighty thirsty in here.”

“OK.” I said. “Yeah, OK.” OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK OK….

~~~

Originally from Southern Indiana, and long-time resident of Oregon, Jill Adams is currently an English language and literature teacher in Barcelona where she also edits and publishes The Barcelona Review—www.barcelonareview.com. Previous short fiction has appeared The Rumpus, Gargoyle, The Del Sol Review, Rabble Lit, Aethlon Journal of Sports Literature, Defenestration, and Camas, among others.