“Can’t say I have,” Victoria said, chuckling.
“Ask Rover, he’ll be happy to show you one of his freak shows.” Jonee’s shrill laugh seemed a bit much.
“But truthfully,” she continued. “I don’t know whether or not he’s gay. I know he’s fascinated with the subject, and that makes you wonder.” Jonee looked at her watch. “Damn, I wish some more money would come through. What happened to the rush we had earlier? Everything’s slowed the hell down.” She leaned in. “And that’s another thing you need to be aware of…this is the most unpredictable business in the world. You can’t count on shit around here.”
Many girls arrived at work dressed down in jeans or sweats and without make-up. They looked plain and often, downright unattractive but within minutes could morph into utterly glamorous beings. Jonee on the other hand, had walked through the door in full costume: make-up, wig, cleavage showing, skin-tight clothing. Victoria wondered how Jonee was regarded out in public as she shamelessly flaunted her profession. Despite Jonee’s wit and good sense, Victoria knew she’d never feel that certain kinship one feels for a person of like mind. Jonee was cut from a different cloth.
An hour elapsed and the women continued their vigil. During that tense time, the women changed outfits, touched up hair, nails and make-up. They stumbled among one another in an awkward dance of dressing and undressing. Boots, high-heels, stockings, garter belts, curling irons, make-up, hand mirrors, and toiletries were strewn about.
A musky aroma, a mixture of cigarette smoke, cheap body spray, and sex permeated the air at Pandora’s. It clung to everything—hair, clothing—and the upholstery of the furniture. Contained inside her workbag, the assaulting odor went home with Victoria and unfortunately was released inside her bedroom—her sanctuary—when she unpacked the bag, transporting thoughts and images that were best kept in Pandora’s Box.
Thankfully, the bell announced the arrival of the next caller. There was a stampede to the door. Not wanting to appear greedy or desperate, Victoria deliberately lagged behind.
Jonee led the pack and gave the familiar spiel: “Have you been here before? It costs one hundred dollars for an hour and you get a full-service body massage.”
There were so many women in front of her, Victoria could hardly see the customer. She stood on her toes and was able to discern that he had very white, pasty skin against dark clothing. He was wearing a black hat. Unwilling to be concealed completely, Victoria maneuvered herself into view. To her utter amazement, an Amish man stood in the lobby. Rain dotted his wire-rimmed glasses and his face. He didn’t have on a coat, and his wrinkled black suit was damp.
Victoria had recently rented the old video, Witness, and lately there had been shocking reports about child abuse, drug addiction, and even murder among the Amish. Although she had learned that they were far from perfect, it was hard to fathom an Amish trick! How on earth had he arrived, she wondered. By horse and buggy? And what nerve! The man had walked in, as bold as you please, into a den of iniquity, and stood there stroking his beard, appraising the girls and enjoying the deliciously difficult task of making a selection.
Victoria’s less than eager demeanor set her apart from her coworkers.
“How about her?” The Amish man pointed a crooked finger at Victoria. She recoiled and was about to decline. But remembering her money woes, she accompanied the unusual guest up the hall to an empty room.
He told her his name was Ezekiel.
“My name is Pleasure.” Victoria managed an impression of a smile. She couldn’t help feeling offended by his shabby, strange appearance and was further offended by the body odor he emitted as he disrobed. Taking Jonee’s advice, she was rid of the Amish man in less than twenty minutes.
By the end of the shift Victoria had earned seven hundred dollars.
Victoria had taken the trolley to work, but afraid of being robbed of her hard earned money, she took a cab home. She could afford it now.
Tossing in her workbag, Victoria slid into the back seat of the cab. As the cab rolled along Market Street, she rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes. The sound of the ticking meter lulled her into a peaceful state. She couldn’t recall having ever ridden in a cab without anxiously leaning forward, monitoring the running meter, or at least wanting to.
CHAPTER 6
Over coffee the next morning, after picking up a too-talkative Jordan from the babysitter, Victoria scanned the real estate section of the newspaper. She had to find another apartment. At first the thought gave her a queasy feeling. But recently those feelings had been replaced with stirrings of excitement. She perused the rental listings. From the many options, she selected the sections of the city that were familiar: Southwest Philly, West Philly, and University City. She was looking for something in the affordable range of five to six hundred a month. A devilish smile crossed her face as she realized that if she continued making money like she did last night, she could afford to live practically anywhere she wanted.
Her current apartment had severe plumbing problems. Water from the leaky pipes of the apartment above her seeped through the ceiling tiles in her kitchen. A couple of tiles were missing, having collapsed from the weight of the water, exposing rusty pipes and rotted wood. Buckets, pots, and rubber waste-baskets were placed strategically on the worn linoleum kitchen floor to catch the brownish drops of water. After placing a trillion calls, someone from the License and Inspection Bureau had finally come to investigate. The investigator seemed appropriately appalled but the situation was never remedied.
The pending eviction was a good thing, Victoria decided. Paying back the rent she owed while continuing to live in squalor was obscene.
An ad for a luxury apartment in Mount Airy caught her eye. The ad boasted that every apartment overlooked Fairmount Park, that each unit had a washer and dryer. There was a pool, a tennis court, a health club, and a twenty-four hour doorman on the premises. Victoria thought wistfully that she could get accustomed to living like that.
That thought brought back sad memories of a time when, young and naïve, she had had the briefest of flings with an NBA rookie. He lived in a condominium in an affluent, gated community in Mount Airy. In his world, a world Victoria had yearned to enter but could only glimpse, everything was shiny, bright, and brand new. From the dozens of pairs of Nike sneakers to his BMW, there were no signs of wear on any of his possessions.
The morning after their tryst, the rookie pulled up in front of her shabby row house. Victoria was greeted by the sights and sounds of her urban neighborhood, and was embarrassed. An expression of disgust crossed the rookie’s face as he hastily pulled the car from the curb, and screeched away. He was off to give false hope to another poor soul who thought she could escape a fretful urban existence by riding his coattails.
A few years later Victoria had seen his smiling dark face in an Ebony magazine, posing on his wedding day. Five other tall, black, and equally wealthy NBA players flanked him. His Caucasian bride had a pale, Scandinavian look—as did all five bridesmaids. There was not one visible black female face in the photograph. Not mother, sister, aunt, nor cousin.
No knight in shining armor would ever rescue a black woman.
Victoria had vowed to never again attempt to take a shortcut to a fresh air, tree-lined environment. She’d wait until her own ship came in.
But it hadn’t. It was supposed to come in with a cargo of gold and platinum records, Grammy awards, and her image on the cover of dozens of magazines. She was supposed to have all those trappings of a successful music career, along with a healthy bank account and portfolio as well. Victoria thought of Justice Martin and was surprised that her rage was finally beginning to dissipate. She hadn’t forgiven him, she doubted if she ever could, but at least she was able to get through a day without fantasizing about putting a bullet through his head.
She spread out on the kitchen table the money that it had taken only three days to earn. Minus the twenty-five dollars a day she paid the
babysitter, carfare and other miscellaneous expenses, Victoria counted nine hundred and twenty dollars. The sight and smell of all those large bills made her heart race. She’d been making do with so little for so long. But no more. The weekend had just begun and she couldn’t wait to get back to work.
At 13th Street the trolley came to a halt. Victoria bounded the stairs that led to the corner of 13th and Market. She felt irritated and personally offended as she breezed through the entrance of the former John Wanamaker’s department store. Wanamaker’s, a landmark, a part of local retail history, a part of her life, had changed overnight and had become Lord & Taylor. This violation, Victoria felt, had stolen the grace and elegance that the great stone building had possessed.
She strode into the store ready to do battle with the uppity Lord & Taylor staff. Once, when she had shopped at the City Line Avenue store, she had not been treated well. The sales clerks, or associates as they now were called, had looked past Victoria, eager to assist the Caucasian clientele, but Victoria had made a fuss, and insisted that it was her turn. She had never returned because it was draining to have to wield a sword while shopping.
But on this day, armed with nine hundred tax-free dollars, and the wherewithal to make much more, she defied any of the so-called associates to try to snub her.
Victoria stepped onto the escalator and rode to the Intimate Apparel department on the third floor. She needed something new for work. She passed the girdles and other painfully confining body armor that was cleverly advertised as body shapers. Feeling irrationally annoyed that any woman would buy that crap instead of exercising, Victoria sucked her teeth and whisked by. She approached rows of delicate pastel items, and paused to touch an incredibly soft peach tunic. The label inside read 100% raw silk. It cost one hundred and fifty dollars, which was much, much more than she intended to pay. She surveyed other dainty little stringed things but soon realized that the articles that attracted her were more suitable for a romantic evening at home than her seedy work place.
Amid the racks of tasteful apparel she discovered a fanciful line of lingerie, glitzy and glamorous and a tad bit sleazy. Perfect!
Victoria chose a shimmering pale green two-piece bra and panty set with a sixty-dollar price tag. Glittery fringes fell down the front of the thong-back panties. Identical fringes decorated the bottom of the push-up bra. As she sorted through the rack she noticed that the outfits became bolder and sassier. She wanted everything she saw, but limited herself to buying only two selections. A seventy-nine-dollar dramatic Asian red camisole with red ostrich feather and matching G-string caught her eye. Standing before a mirror, she held the outfit up in front of her. She liked what she saw. The thought of posing at the door in either of the provocative outfits gave her an adrenaline rush.
“Cash or charge?” The sales person looked like a mannequin.
Victoria replied, “Cash,” and then pulled out a wad of money. The wad, too thick to fit inside her wallet, was held together by a rubber band. She peeled off seven twenty-dollar bills, which the sales person regarded with a sigh and a frown. Victoria put the money on the counter.
“Do you have a problem with cash?” Victoria challenged.
“Oh no, not at all.” The woman gave a nervous laugh and carefully folded and wrapped the purchases in tissue paper and placed the items in a bag. She rang up the sale, snatched the money from the counter and slid Victoria her change—a five-dollar bill, which Victoria placed in her old leather wallet. Victoria hadn’t realized just how worn her wallet was until she noticed an ever so slight scowl form on the sales woman’s face.
All eyes turned suspiciously on the Lord & Taylor bag when Victoria arrived at work.
“What did you buy, Pleasure?” asked a naked Sydney.
Victoria didn’t think she’d ever get used to the immodesty of her white co-workers. They traipsed about completely nude and struck up conversations as if they were fully clad. Well, call her repressed, but Victoria found it as uncomfortable to view their nudity today as she had back in the locker room in junior high school. There she and her black classmates made the startling discovery that white girls had no problems with nudity. While the black girls hid behind towels, and jumped back into their clothing as quickly as possible, the white girls proudly paraded around naked. Laughing, talking, blow-drying their hair, all completely naked.
Sydney threw back her carelessly tousled hair and waited for Victoria to indulge her curiosity.
“I bought something to work in.” Victoria averted her gaze. She wondered why Sydney and the others were so impressed with her purchases. Surely they could shop wherever they pleased. Victoria couldn’t get over how cheap and tacky her co-workers seemed to be. One would think with the amount of money made at Pandora’s Box, her co-workers would dress a hell of a lot better, that they’d have expensive jewelry, or better cars or luxury apartments. But as far as she could tell, aside from Arianna and a few others, that was not the case. Most of the girls wore cheap clothes, rode public transportation and lived in fifty-dollar-a-night transient hotels. She wondered if they were all on drugs.
Victoria went into a vacant room to change and swished back into the lounge. She looked and felt great in the pale green-fringed set.
“Where’d you buy that?” Arianna asked in a snippy tone.
“Didn’t you notice my bag, everyone else did.” Victoria matched her snippiness.
“I know you bought it at Lord & Taylor. Which one? City Line Avenue or King of Prussia?”
Victoria softened. “Neither. I went to the 13th and Market store.”
“That figures. It’s so tacky there. As far as I’m concerned the store has the name but none of the class.”
Weary of dealing with a succession of combative personalities, Victoria had no response to Arianna’s remark. Provoking hatred seemed to be Arianna’s goal in life.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday morning. Victoria awakened feeling groggy with a foul taste in her mouth from a night of drinking with the girls. She needed coffee before she could even consider picking up Jordan, whose energy level was bound to be full force. Most of the time she was able to subdue him with TV and videos; he had a collection of beloved Disney cartoons, and he’d watched Spiderman, Shrek, and Monsters, Inc. over and over. But he was a rambunctious boy; he needed open space, fresh air, and some sunshine. If she could get rid of the grogginess, she’d take him out today.
Victoria stumbled around the kitchen; it was an obstacle course. She attempted to navigate, but stumbled into the assortment of receptacles scattered throughout the kitchen. She checked the buckets, and was surprised they were empty. Craning, she looked up at the exposed pipes in the ceiling. No leaks today! She gathered the unsightly containers and put them away. Every now and then she was able to enjoy her coffee without the annoying drip, drip, drip.
On the previous night one of Victoria’s new coworkers, Lauren, a sweet-faced blonde, had smuggled in a six-pack of beer and a bottle of chilled Asti. Victoria had turned down the beer but eagerly accepted the sweet sparkling wine. After work she had gone out to unwind and drank even more. Now she was hung over.
Victoria had been surprised when Lauren invited her, along with Chelsea and Sydney, to one of the vacant session rooms to share in a celebration of her boyfriend’s pending return from India.
Lauren and Victoria started the celebration without the other two. Chelsea hadn’t changed from her street clothes and Sydney was in the office tending to some business with Rover.
“I don’t really know you,” Lauren said, hopping up on the bed and looking intently at Victoria, who sat across from her in the chair. She offered Victoria a plastic cup, “but you seem nice, not rowdy like some…” her voice trailed off. She nodded her head toward the closed door, indicating Miquon, Victoria presumed.
“What did you say you’re celebrating?” Victoria asked, taking a sip.
Lauren lit a cigarette before answering. “I was engaged to this guy from India,” Lauren spoke in
a whisper.
It was hard to picture pale Lauren with a dark-skinned person.
“His family is very wealthy. We were living together… we had a beautiful apartment on Delaware Avenue, by the river. The view was fabulous. At night you could see the fucking lights on the Ben Franklin Bridge. It was awesome. Raj…my fiancé, was so good to me, Pleasure. He gave me everything.”
Victoria shifted uncomfortably and took another big swallow of Asti. She hadn’t gotten used to her own alias.
“He gave me this.” Lauren caressed a hollow gold heart that hung from a delicate gold chain. “The heart and the chain are both 18K,” Lauren said reverently.
“It’s beautiful,” Victoria, responded, nodding for Lauren to go on with the story.
“And this is nothing compared to the jewelry locked in my safe deposit box. I’ve got a strand of pearls, a diamond and emerald choker, a two-carat diamond ring, all kinds of stuff that would just freak you out!”
Feeling a pleasant buzz from the Asti, Victoria decided that she liked Lauren. Lauren had a girlish exuberance that was endearing, non-threatening.
“I never wear my jewelry; it’s too expensive. Where would I wear it anyway?” As an afterthought she added, “Oh! I also have a full-length mink. I’ll wear it to work one day to show you. It looks so cool when I wear it with my jeans.”
Victoria gave Lauren a kind smile. The necklace really was beautiful and looked incredibly expensive and Victoria didn’t doubt that the girl had more and better goods locked away. But there was a sadness about Lauren that no amount of baubles and beads could take away.
“Raj is coming back, and we’re going to get married.” Lauren had a dreamy look in her eyes. In the dimly lit room she seemed to have an ethereal glow and reminded Victoria of the pictures of white baby angels she had seen as a child in Nana’s enormous, frayed Bible.
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