SEVENTEEN
“Fiftieth between Park and Madison,” I say, climbing into the black Lincoln gypsy cab with tinted windows. The round-faced driver looks at me blankly in the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t speak English.
“Manhattan,” I explain impatiently. “Park Avenue.”
“Ohhhh… twenty-fi’ dollah,” answers the driver. He knows enough English to say that. I shudder with exasperation. I hope the bastard is a better driver than he is a linguist, because I’m going to be late. As usual.
About half an hour later, I emerge in front of Maloney and Porcelli. I don’t tip. The driver and I both know it doesn’t cost twenty-five dollars to get into Manhattan from where I live.
As I climb onto the sidewalk, my stiletto heels nearly give way. Christ… I hate these things. It’s bad enough that I have to wear them to work.
I don’t own any shoes I can wear when I go out. The choices were stilettos, thigh-high boots or sneakers. Lately I’ve been spending my money on drugs, not street clothes. Strippers are notoriously cheap, and I think we have good reason to be. Every single dollar signifies some compromise made. An act. A word. A facial expression, put on for someone else’s benefit. Anything I can swallow or put up my nose that will buy me a moment’s peace is well worth my hard-earned cash. New shoes, on the other hand, are a luxury.
I walk into the restaurant, feeling much more naked than I ever do at the club. I pretend not to notice the hostess staring at my feet. I curl my lip defiantly, and tell her that I’m meeting some people here. She points me in my party’s direction. She doesn’t bother leading me to them. Fucking snob.
Lou is already at the table. Next to him is a blonde with extraordinarily large breasts and a man who looks about sixty-five years old. He’s balding, a short white fringe of hair above his ears. He’s also got a big head and one of those long noses that always makes me think of an eagle’s beak.
“Glad you could join us on time,” Lou welcomes me, pulling out my chair as I look at my watch and shrug. “This is Danielle.”
Danielle smiles, but it looks like a grimace.
“And this,” Lou continues, “Is… Charlie?” He glances at the bald man to check whether he’s gotten the name correct.
“Charlie. That’s right,” says the bald man. There’s a hint of disdain there. I can’t tell whether Lou has offended him or this is simply his voice.
“Charlie’s a billionaire, right, Danielle?” Lou says. “Danielle has done well for herself since I used to know her,” he explains, turning to look at me. “We met when she was working at Peek-a-boo Palace. What are you doing now, Danielle?”
Danielle wrinkles her nose at the mention of the words “Peek-a-boo Palace,” glaring at Lou.
“She’s a Lancome girl,” Charlie says. “Works the makeup counter at Bloomingdales.”
“I’m worth eight hundred thousand dollars,” Danielle announces defensively.
Lou squeezes my hand under the table. He likes to talk about money.
Lou’s visiting New York this weekend on business. He lives in Chicago, and has a wife he barely speaks to. He’s in his late fifties, I think. It’s hard to tell a person’s age sometimes under the low lights of a strip club, though. He looked older to me when I met him a few weeks ago at Angels. I could have sworn that his hair was silver that night. Maybe he’s dyed it since then.
I don’t know a lot about him. When he bragged that some of his family in Chicago was involved with the mob, I didn’t want to hear any more. Angels is owned by one of the New York families. Almost every club I’ve everworked in has had some ties. The first lesson I learned was how to look the other way, play dumb, and never get involved.
Going out tonight was Lou’s idea. I played to his lesbian fantasies to relieve him of his cash. That bit is a favorite of mine. It presents the mark with a challenge. Lou spent better than a thousand dollars in the VIP room trying to convince me that I prefer men to women. During our encounter, he told me about Danielle.
Danielle is a former stripper. According to Lou, the two of them once had an “arrangement.” Whenever he visited New York, he’d look her up. They’d get together and she’d pick up girls for them to play with. This had gone on until she met Charlie, who took her out of the strip clubs and made her into a legitimate… well, into a mistress.
Lou had spoken of her wistfully. She had “spirit,” he said. I reminded him of her. He wanted the two of us to meet.
Looking across the table at Danielle, though, I can see that we actually have little in common. I would never align myself with this girl at work. I can’t picture myself leaning on the wall next to her, gossiping about customers or complaining about boyfriends. Danielle is too aloof for that. She doesn’t seem to have a sense of humor. She strikes me as being bitter, brazen, and overall a very unhappy person.
The men make small talk over the drinks that have just arrived. Danielle and I are both quiet, sizing each other up. The tension between all four of us is mounting. I try to remember how I came to the conclusion that this would be a good idea.
“Come on, let’s go to the bathroom,” Danielle says suddenly, tapping me on the shoulder. Who, me?
I get up and follow her because I’m curious. This is the first time she’s spoken to me or otherwise acknowledged me at all since nodding hello when I walked into the restaurant. Does she want to talk to me about Lou? She can have him back if she likes – I’m almost ready to go home anyway. I have a bad feeling about tonight that I can’t quite shake.
Maloney and Porcelli is large inside, with slick, marble floors. Danielle shoots me a look of disgust while we’re walking down the lavish staircase to the ladies’ room.
“You need to get some decent shoes,” she comments. “Those whore shoes are ruining your outfit.”
“I like them,” I say mildly.
“No, you don’t,” she replies.
I decide to drop it. Who cares if she doesn’t like my shoes? At least my tits are real. All the same, she’s made me uncomfortable. I’m thinking that she’s probably doing it on purpose.
In the bathroom, Danielle enters a stall, and I enter the one next to her. I’m squatting over the seat, peeing, when she passes a small vial to me underneath the stall. I’m momentarily surprised. But I take it from her. Now, at least, her attitude makes more sense.
I open the vial and pour some powder out onto the back of my hand. It’s fine-ground. Softer than any I’ve ever seen. I snort the pinch I’ve just taken. It tastes smooth. It’s great coke. Much better than the baby-laxative laced, lighter fluid bullshit I’ve been buying in Harlem from what’s-his-name. I guess I now know why it pays to be a billionaire.
Maybe I’ll stick around tonight. See what else the evening has to offer.
I hand the vial back to Danielle under the stall, and we walk back upstairs. Our dinner arrived while we were in the bathroom. I’m not really hungry anymore, but this is quality food from a very prestigious steak house. Who knows when I might eat this way again? I force myself to swallow half of what’s on my plate, and I sip my wine.
Very little is said over dinner. I tune Lou and Charlie out. I’m focusing on Danielle, whose attitude has improved immensely. She finishes what’s on her plate. We don’t order dessert, but Danielle and I take another trip to the bathroom before we leave the restaurant. The vial comes out again. I’m greedy this time. I do several more large bumps before handing her back her stash.
Outside of the restroom my whole body suddenly heaves. Before I can stop myself, I throw up all over the elegant marble staircase.
I begin shaking. Did someone see? Will they call the cops?
Danielle takes my hand and leads me firmly back up the stairs. “Just pretend you didn’t do it – you know nothing about it,” she hisses in my ear.
So that’s exactly what I do, and she turns out to be right – nobody in the restaurant says a word to us as we’re leaving.
We all climb into a yellow cab together. It takes us to the Waldorf, where Lou is staying.
Up in the room, Lou takes bottles of champagne from the mini bar and passes them around.
The four of us sit down on the bed. We drink. Danielle, Charlie and I snort more coke. Lou makes jokes about girls that like girls.
“There’s no such thing as a lesbian!” Lou booms. He’s drunk. “There’s not a woman alive who can live without men!”
“So, Lou, tell me more about what it is that you do,” Charlie says. He’s still got powder under his nose.
Danielle she gets up and announces that she’s going to take a bath.
Lou hoots. “Go get in the tub with her.”
“Don’t you guys want to watch?” I ask. Danielle grabs my hand.
“No, it’s okay. We’re gonna talk business,” answers Lou. “Man talk.”
Charlie nods at me. Our eyes meet. He’s strikingly sober. “Go ahead,” he says. I don’t think I like him. I don’t know why.
I also don’t know what “business” these men could possibly have to talk about. All night long, Charlie’s attitude has made it abundantly clear that he considers Lou to be beneath him. Is Lou aware of this? It’s right there in the subtleties whenever the two men speak. It’s tone of voice, level of eye contact. I’m high off my ass and there’s still no mistaking it.
Then again, I make my living watching for stuff like this. The way people interact with each other is absolutely key in my line of work, which is really nothing more than a con game skating on the edges of questionable legality.
I climb into the tub with Danielle. She’s poured a bubble solution into the lukewarm water. She looks like she’s modeling a perfume ad. Her cleavage peeks out from beneath the bubbles. She smiles, holding out the champagne in welcome. I take a swig straight from the bottle. She grabs the bottle back from me, sips from it, and pulls me close to her. Stroking my hair, she whispers, “We don’t need those men.”
I look up at her, hypnotized. She traces a wet finger across my face, stopping at my lips. Then she plays with my lips.
“I’ve done well. So can you. But guys like Lou are a waste of time,” she continues, slipping her finger into my mouth.
I suck on her finger, and she brings her face closer to me. We slowly start to kiss. Her tongue tastes like champagne. She pushes it deeply into my mouth, where it does a little dance with mine. She strokes my back.
“Lou’s a loser,” she says, breaking away. “These men are all the same. Might as well find yourself a rich one. None of them knows how to please a woman.” She gently fondles one of my breasts. “Come home with me.”
Why is she being so sweet? I never think to ask. The combination of champagne and blow has me in a stupor. Danielle’s soft touch and her cajoling tone are finishing me off. I want to lean my head against her hard breasts and let her keep stroking my back all night. I do want to be away from these men… from their stupid games and their ridiculous fetishes… from being treated like an object with no feelings… and from having to play along with whatever they think of me.
I’m sick to death of giggling when what I really feel like doing is correcting them as they spout their ridiculous ideas about women, night after empty fucking night. And Danielle knows. She told me in the bathroom of the restaurant that she’d stripped for eight years.
She has passed right through my reserve and found a button that can be easily pushed.
I hesitate, but looking earnestly into her eyes, I finally whisper back. “Let’s go.”
We slip out of the tub. She wraps a bath towel around me. “We’re gonna have a good time,” she tells me, smiling and pulling on her blouse. “Don’t say anything to Lou. I’ll tell Charlie to get us some more blow.” She indicates her vial, which is nearly empty.
I’m getting changed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. My makeup is ruined from the bath. I try to wipe the mascara smudges from under my eyes. Danielle grabs my arm.
“Come on. You can do that at my house,” she says, suddenly impatient again. Did I miss something? She’s in an awful hurry. It’s got to be the coke.
I can understand that. I want more, too.
I follow her as she announces breathlessly to Lou that we’re leaving. He seems surprised. Disappointed. But he doesn’t protest. He eyes me questioningly. I shrug and look away.
Charlie, in contrast, does not seem surprised. He stands up, says he’s had a good time, and shakes Lou’s hand at the door.
Lou doesn’t accompany us down to the lobby. I don’t think he’s too thrilled that I’m leaving with them.
The doorman finds a cab for Charlie in less than two minutes.
In the taxi, Danielle is all bravado. Her arm rests tightly and possessively around my shoulders. She keeps pulling me closer to her, hard, while she talks a mile a minute. She boasts loudly to Charlie about the hot sex she and I are going to have. Charlie doesn’t say much in response. From what I can tell, he’s humoring her. He and I don’t address each other at all.
A few hours ago, I’d never laid eyes on this chick. Now apparently I’m about to fuck her. I look past her armpit out the window as we head uptown. People are wrong, I think. This city is asleep plenty of the time. We’re passing all these doorman buildings and high-rise condominiums. They whiz by in a blur, as if they are moving and we are still. We, in our shared decadence, are awake and alive, while the entire Upper East Side is stuck in its quiet, proper lull. I am so fucking high…
Charlie pays the cab driver. I don’t recognize this street. I’d have no reason to ever come here. We walk up several flights of stairs. I wonder out loud why there’s no elevator.
“Because Charlie’s too cheap to put me in an elevator building,” Danielle tells me in her brassy, coked-out voice. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Danielle’s lucky she has a place to live,” Charlie answers, directing the words at me, his voice laced heavily with sarcasm.
I get it. Danielle lives here by herself, so that she can be at her sugar daddy’s beck and call. Charlie’s probably married to some dried up old broad who goes shopping a lot and hasn’t slept with him in years. I’ll bet they have separate bedrooms. I’m finding that I like him less with each passing minute – doesn’t he have somewhere else to be? I thought we were getting the coke first, and then coming back here.
Danielle pulls a key from her purse and opens the door onto her living room. The place is small and modern. There’s a Formica kitchenette in the center of the apartment between this front room and a back room, which I assume is where she sleeps. I can see home from here. There’s a view of Queens and the Triborough.
Charlie walks into the apartment behind us and slams the door. Danielle immediately empties the remaining contents of her vial onto a plate, and puts the plate on the glass coffee table that sits in front of her white leather couch. We sit on the couch and snort the last three lines.
Charlie hands me a cold Budweiser he’s taken from the fridge, handing another one to Danielle. “Why do you girls still have your clothes on?” he asks us brashly. I am shocked. What is he still doing here?
Danielle is taking off her top.
I start to walk away, towards her bathroom because I can’t think of anyplace else to go. Danielle follows me, half-naked. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I thought it was just supposed to be the two of us,” I whisper.
“I know,” she says. “He’s leaving soon. He doesn’t usually stay here. You want him to get us more coke, don’t you? It’s his dealer.”
“Well… okay,” I concede. “But I’m not fucking him.”
“No, of course not,” Danielle says. “You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. But stay with me. Please?”
All of her attitude is missing now. She stares at me pleadingly. I can see her lonely, miserable life as this guy’s mistress behind her gaze. She probably doesn’t have a single real friend in the whole world. I sigh my consent, and we start back towards the living room together.
“I won’t let him lay a hand on you,” she promises, pulling my top over my head.
But now the coke is all gone. We’ve done the last lines, and they were thin ones, too. Now I’m standing in Danielle’s living room, topless with no shoes on, licking the plate that we just used to snort coke off. It tastes like lighter fluid in the back of my throat. My tongue, my gums – good Christ, even my teeth are numb. And I’m shaking. Not exactly my finest moment. I reach for the bottle of beer, and wince as the bitter taste washes away the numbness in my mouth.
Danielle is naked on her knees in front of the couch servicing Charlie, whose beady little eyes are glued to my body. He actually smacks his lips, like a greedy little fat kid at a pie-eating contest. With his left hand, he manhandles Danielle’s head around on his crotch. The gesture implies to me that he could snap it right off her neck if he felt like it. Then he looks down at her and grunts, “Get in the bedroom. You can bring your little friend.”
She lifts her head. The old fucker is, of course, still flaccid.
“Danielle…” I say.
“We’re just gonna do a show for Charlie, okay? Please?” She looks at me like a little girl.
What is she trying to tell me? Does this son of a bitch hit her or something? Suddenly I’m really angry. I set my teeth, but neither of them notices this.
“Come on!” She grabs my arm and pulls me into the room behind him. I’m trapped now. I should have left while I had the chance. Fuck – fuck – I’m like a deer in the headlights, my coke-addled brain stuttering along behind my body, which doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t protest at all.
Danielle and Charlie are on the bed now, with her on all fours. He pushes himself inside her. He grabs her by the hair on the back of her head, pulling her body backwards. “Danielle’s a whore,” he growls. “Aren’t you?”
“Charlie, stop,” she whispers, her eyes heavy with pain.
But Charlie doesn’t stop. “Tell your friend how many niggers you’ve fucked,” he says. “Fucking whore. Danielle has fucked a thousand niggers.”
“Charlie, stop it,” Danielle says, her face crumpling. “Please.”
That’s it – I snap to attention.
“It would really turn me on,” I say softly, “To watch you two fuck in missionary. It’s my favorite position.”
Charlie stops, surprised. I’m still holding that bottle of Bud, and I take a sip of it, licking my lips.
“It’s my favorite,” I repeat, looking directly into his eyes, trying to conjure all of that fake lust I use at work. “It turns me on a lot.”
Danielle is turning and getting onto her back. Does she know what I’m about to do? To my surprise, Charlie fits his fat body on top of hers, and they continue in short thrusts. I stand still for half a second, contemplating the things that have come out of this man’s mouth.
Danielle’s eyes are closed. She never sees me bring the bottle down full force against Charlie’s skull.
This is where it’s supposed to end – with me pushing Charlie’s unconscious body off the poor girl he’s been abusing. Then we run out of the apartment together, she comes to my house, and I hide her from him. The two of us are empowered. We never let another man work us over. We have each other’s backs for life.
Only that’s not what happens.
“What was that?” Danielle cries out as Charlie slowly climbs off her, dazed but conscious.
The first thing that comes to mind is the image of a bull pawing the ground with its hoof in the moments before chasing the matador’s red scarf. The second thing, as Charlie lifts his hand to the back of his skull and brings it down dripping with his own blood, is RUN.
“Oh my God, baby,” Danielle gasps. She’s talking to Charlie, not to me. She’s not going anywhere with me. “Baby, are you okay?”
“You. Little. Bitch.” Charlie sputters at me as I’m scooping up my shoes and my shirt. “You little bitch, I’ll fucking kill you!”
Of that, I have no doubt, and I’m making my way out the front door now, my shoes and my shirt in my hand. Danielle jumps in front of Charlie, though, holding him back. “No, baby,” she begs him. “Charlie, no.” She pushes him backwards. “Stay here, baby. I’ll be right back.”
She follows me out the door and into the stairwell, closing the door behind her, holding it shut. “You have to get out of here now,” she’s saying as I’m pulling on my top.
I start to run down the stairs, leaving her at her front door, and I’m still barefoot, my shoes in my hand.
“Why did you do it? Why?” she calls to me from about five flights up.
I can hear Charlie open the door, and I run faster.
“Because neither one of us is a whore, Danielle,” I call back, not caring if her neighbors hear me, and I run out onto the street.
When I walk into my apartment sweating, Barry can tell something’s wrong, and he wants to know what it is. I don’t want to tell him. But we smoke a joint, I calm down, and eventually I relay the whole story. He listens to me carefully. He doesn’t speak at all until I’m done.
“I still don’t know how it happened,” I finish.
“You need to be more careful. You’re not good on heavy drugs,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I protest. I shift my body away from him, curling up into a fetal position on the end of the couch. I hug my legs defensively.
“You are not fine, and you know it. That asshole could have killed you.”
“Yeah, and he didn’t.” I lean forward and grab a Marlboro. It takes me three tries with the lighter to spark the damned thing up. Barry gives me his knowing look.
“Baby.” He blows out some smoke. “Princess. Angel. You are not a street chick. You never will be. You’re a middle class girl with middle class values. These are real players you’re fucking around with. These are my kind of people, not yours.”
“Oh, there you go again with that street cred shit.”
“I’ve hung out with gangsters, strippers, and whores all my life,” Barry says.
“Strippers and whores are two entirely different classes of people! Why do you have to lump strippers right in there with whores?”
Barry exhales slowly. “Because it is the same thing, whether you want to admit it or not.”
I’m furious. “No, it isn’t! And if people would just stop thinking that, my job would be a lot easier.”
“Oh, yeah?” Barry’s eyes flash. “What were you out there doing tonight?”
“I didn’t fuck anyone for money. Hell, I didn’t even wind up getting paid. I was just… meeting new people. Living fucking life.”
He’s not buying it. “You need to control this, set your boundaries, and keep them where you’ve set them.”
“Says the toothless crone,” I mutter, because he’s hit a nerve, and he happens to be right.
“Go to bed,” Barry dismisses me.
“I’m not a whore,” I hiss, gazing at him intently. “And that girl wasn’t a whore. She didn’t deserve the shit he said about her.”
“That girl? Of course she was a whore! What the fuck do you think most of these girls are doing?”
I don’t answer him.
“You need to leave people like this in their own shit. They made themselves into what they are. You can’t change anyone.”
I glower at him. “If I don’t, then who will?”
“Maybe nobody. Leave these bitches where they put themselves. All I’m worried about is you. You know that.”
I give him another sullen look.
“Strippers and whores are not the same thing,” I repeat. “Strippers do not need to turn tricks.”
“You know what? It would be okay with me if you did turn tricks. There’s nothing wrong with turning tricks. Some of the best people I’ve known turned tricks.”
“That’s all well and good, Barry. But I don’t turn tricks!”
“You know…” He pauses, apparently deciding whether to continue. “You’re moving pretty close to the line and you’re hanging out with people that do. I just want you to deal with that, and quit having illusions about the way you want things to be. This life you’re living? It is what it is. That’s all I’m saying.”
I’m silent for a few seconds.
“You know, I’m pretty sure most of the girls at the club do turn tricks,” I say quietly.
“I’d bet my right arm on it.”
“I could make a lot more money if I did. Sometimes I think about that.”
“What stops you?” he wants to know.
“I don’t know anymore,” I admit.
“You need to make a decision about that, so that you can be the one to control the deals, hon,” Barry tells me. “You understand? You can’t just let it take charge of you.” He takes a deep breath, coughs, and recovers. “You have to know who you are, what you’ll accept, and then be proud of whatever you choose. But choose it yourself. Don’t let circumstance choose it for you.”
This is why I keep him around. Barry royally pisses me off. He gets on my nerves in the most creative ways I’ve ever come across. But I can say absolutely anything to him, and he won’t ever judge me. He’s a lousy boyfriend and a worse roommate. All that considered, I think he’s still probably the best friend I’ve ever had.
“Barry, I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know about anything sometimes. I definitely don’t know how come all of this always gets so fucked up.”
“It doesn’t get fucked up, sweetheart. It is fucked up. It’s all fucked up. You think anyone else has a fucking clue, either?”
“I hope they do.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to believe that we’re all running around completely unconscious of everything,” I reply.
“Angel?”
“Yeah?”
“Believe it. That’s your first giant step to being free.”
I crawl back over to Barry, and he wraps his arms around me. We stay like that on the couch for a long time, me in his lap and him rocking me softly. Eventually I fall asleep in his arms.
Continue reading:
| « Previous: SIXTEEN | Next: EIGHTEEN » |
Subscribe via RSS
Subscribe via email
December 22nd, 2008 at 11:48 pm
Best. Chapter. Yet.