“His parents thought that separating us would kill the relationship. But we love each other more than ever. They even went so far as to pick out a bride for Raj, told him they’d disinherit him if he married me. He had to obey his parents. That’s their custom.” She sadly shrugged her shoulders.
“So what happened to his bride? Did he burn her? That’s their custom too!” Victoria couldn’t resist throwing that in. She giggled wickedly, and then chastised herself. Dowry deaths and bride burning in India was a serious issue for the women in that country, an age-old custom that was finally getting some international exposure. In her normal state, Victoria would never joke about such a thing. She blamed her morbid humor on the sparkling wine.
“What?” Lauren twisted her face into a grimace. She apparently hadn’t heard about bride burning in India.
“Just kidding. Go on.”
“I don’t know what happened. He just called and said he was coming home.” Lauren hesitated a moment before continuing in a flat tone. “My life fell apart when Raj left, but now he’s coming back.” She brightened. “He sent me the most beautiful silk robe…” The smile left her face. “But I made the mistake of bringing it here and someone lifted it from my bag. We’re surrounded by thieves, you know,” she confided.
Victoria nodded. “So how’d you meet this guy, Raj?” Victoria struggled to look serious, but she wanted to burst out laughing when she imagined Raj as a snake charmer, sitting cross-legged in a white turban, blowing a flute or whatever they blew. The Asti was making her silly.
“I met him here.”
“Here! He was a customer?”
“Yep. And when we met, it was like we already knew each other. He didn’t want the normal kind of session; he just wanted to talk.” Lauren snapped open a beer, threw back her head, her long pale hair swept the towel on the bed; she guzzled down an enormous amount. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth, looking rather proud of the feat. Then her expression turned serious. “Look, I’m a white girl from Northeast Philly. Where I come from, white girls date white guys, only. Before meeting Raj, you couldn’t have told me that I’d get involved with someone from—of all places, New Delhi. Sounds like a weird place from a geography book, right? I mean who actually knows anyone from there?”
Lauren took another swig, this one, modest. And Victoria poured more wine in the plastic cup.
“Raj changed my life. He took me out of the business and treated me like a little princess.” The word little made Victoria pause. On the chubby side, Lauren could be described as voluptuous. She was cute. But little she was not.
There were three soft knocks at the door. Lauren cracked the door to make sure Rover wasn’t on the other side. It was Sydney.
“Damn. What happened to the Asti?” Sydney asked, holding up the nearly empty bottle.
Victoria smiled sheepishly.
“What took you so long?” Lauren asked, cutting her eyes at the bottle of Asti. She cocked her head, surprised that Victoria had drunk so much. “Here, Sydney, have a beer,” Lauren said soothingly.
“I don’t like warm beer.”
“Oh, stop complaining, it’s still cold. I was telling Pleasure about Raj and how his family tried to break us up.”
“Tried? Why the hell do you think he went back to India—to open a 7-Eleven?” Sydney said maliciously.
“You’re not funny.” Lauren frowned.
Victoria thought the 7-Eleven joke was hilarious, but managed to keep a straight face. Sydney didn’t deserve even a faint smile from her. Sydney was one of the white girls who rudely twirled on her heels, retreating to the lounge whenever a black customer appeared at the door.
Victoria observed the two girls. They were both at least ten years younger than she and yet she was being included in their silly conversation. It had been sort of okay listening to Lauren’s sorrowful love story, but putting up with the bickering between the two of them was wearing her patience thin. Victoria politely excused herself and rejoined the others—the rowdy crowd in the lounge.
After work that night, with five hundred dollars added to her bankroll, and needing to unwind, Victoria had agreed to go out for drinks with Chelsea and Jonee. Business had been good for the three of them. They took a cab to a bar on South Street and sat at the bar talking shop, drinking, and eating greasy appetizers until last call.
Desperate men, out to score and unable to comprehend the women’s lack of interest, had at first smiled flirtatiously, then growing bolder, sent drinks with a wink and asked to join them. But the last thing any of the weary women wanted was to be in the company of a lonely, horny man.
As soon as Victoria finished her coffee, water gushed from the ceiling. Instead of getting the buckets and pans, she ran for the tall trash container, and pulled out the filled plastic bag, and positioned it under the leak. In a matter of seconds, there was a major rusty puddle on the kitchen floor. Victoria’s slippers were soaked.
It was definitely time to start apartment hunting. Victoria opened the newspaper and searched for the real estate section, but somehow, ended up with the automobiles for sale section in her hands. She scanned the section and made red circles around the blocks of print that listed car prices that she could afford. She had twelve hundred dollars to play with.
Actually, the urge for a car was not sudden. It had been in the back of her mind. Who would watch Jordan when she moved out of the neighborhood? She liked her current babysitter and rationalized that she would need a car to transport Jordan back and forth.
Suddenly, it occurred to her that she had mentally swerved all around the subject of getting on with her life. She was making plans for a car, an apartment, as if she’d come up with an appropriate way to maintain herself and her son.
She knew with certainty that she’d never have a singing career. There was no strength left to pursue that far-fetched dream. But she was resisting the idea of going out and seeking a “real” job. The thought of clerical work made her want to cry. But what else was she trained to do? She could go to college, she thought optimistically. Then, her negative mind asked: To be what? The answer was as elusive as her long-lost dream and the thought of the energy needed to pick herself up and begin again, made her very, very tired.
The twelve hundred dollars that was tucked safely away in her bureau drawer along with the big recording studio bill, and a myriad of smaller bills, provided little solace. Victoria needed more. Much more. And she knew where to get it. The place that was supposed to be a temporary means of income was becoming a bizarre safe haven. It kept her hidden from inquiring friends who left anxious messages on her answering machine. What’s going on, Victoria? Are you okay? You never return my calls. Did you sign that record deal yet?
Pandora’s Box, undetected by the mainstream, was an underworld. And like a magnet, it pulled in the misfits of society, the disillusioned, and the emotionally impaired.
It was a place where money flowed freely through the hands of wounded souls. It was where she belonged, at least for now.
Still hung over, but guilt ridden, Victoria decided to take Jordan out.
“I don’t wanna go to no mooseum; I wanna go to Discovery Zone. Please, Mommy?”
“The Please Touch Museum is just for kids. You’ll have fun,” she cajoled. Then, feeling the need to be stern like her Nana, she changed her tone. “Look, we don’t have to go anywhere. We can just stay home if you don’t want to go.”
“Okay,” Jordan pouted. “Can we go to DZ next time?”
“DZ?”
“Yeah, Discovery Zone.” Jordan’s laughter was filled with pride. He knew something his mother didn’t know.
“As soon as we get a car. We can’t get to Discovery Zone on public transportation.”
Jordan looked at his mother quizzically.
“Trolleys, buses, the subway—that’s considered public transportation because it’s available to the public,” Victoria explained.
“Are we the public?” he asked with a fearful look.
<
br /> “Well…yes,” Victoria stammered. She wanted to be a responsible parent despite her secret life and despite the fact that she hadn’t had enough sleep and her head was pounding. It was, therefore, darn considerate of her, she felt, to take her son anywhere. No one could blame her for being unwilling to provide a lengthy explanation. “Jordan, let’s start getting ready, okay? I’ll explain what public means later,” she said testily.
“Mommy, can Stevie go with us?”
“No, Jordan. This is quality time for me and you.” She was in no mood to put up with another child.
“Is Stevie the public?” Jordan asked, looking suspicious.
“No, Jordan…I mean… Stop asking me so many questions.” Victoria hoped she wasn’t damaging Jordan’s psyche by her refusal to answer his numerous questions.
Victoria held her son’s hand as they exited the trolley on 22nd Street. The museum was a couple of blocks away. Pandora’s Box was also nearby. Victoria wondered if she looked like a normal mother out with her child. Or did she exhibit telltale signs of her decadent behavior?
They arrived at the museum and Jordan loved it. Victoria couldn’t pull him away from an old-fashioned trolley car exhibit. He and a group of newfound friends tirelessly boarded the immobile trolley, pretending to be passengers. The children took turns being the driver. Jordan beamed when it was his own turn and Victoria smiled back at her son. She patiently helped him dress in an authentic SEPTA uniform that included a cap, requisite attire to drive the trolley car.
Jordan scampered from one activity to the next with Victoria trailing, snapping pictures. Impatiently he’d pose while his mother fooled around with the orange light on the disposable camera.
Exhausted from trying to keep up with her exuberant son, Victoria took a break. She sat down on a child-sized chair and breathed a satisfying sigh. Her son was having a cultural experience while simultaneously busy at play. She felt like a good mother.
The other parents came in pairs, she noticed. Most were white. They wore pleasantly patient expressions, and their responses to their children’s questions were lengthy and in depth. She promised herself that she would start having more patience with Jordan.
Victoria wondered how the happy couples would respond if they knew her secret. Then she gave a wry laugh. The husbands all looked like customers at the massage parlor. She imagined all those seemingly wholesome fathers flocking to Pandora’s after depositing their unsuspecting families back in suburbia.
Victoria glanced at her watch. It was 2:30. Time to go if she planned on getting a nap before work.
“Jordan, come on, honey,” she called. “Let’s get ready. We have to go.”
“Aw, Mom,” he whined. “I didn’t even get to play store yet.” Jordan pointed to a table where a slew of kids were lining up, pretending to purchase miniature canned goods, boxes of cereal, waxed vegetables and fruit. A little girl was tallying up the order on a toy cash register.
“Honey,” Victoria cupped her son’s face, “It’s getting late; Mommy has to go to work later. We can come back another time.”
“Are you going to go to work all night long again, Mommy?” he asked loudly.
Victoria felt a tinge of embarrassment and guilt. She looked around to see if anyone had heard. “You know I work at night, Jordan. That’s why you sleepover at Stevie’s.”
“I don’t want to stay all night at Stevie’s house no more.”
“Why, Jordan?” There was panic in Victoria’s eyes.
“Because he only wants to watch The Cartoon Network and I want to watch Toon Disney.”
Victoria relaxed. With all the child abuse and molestation stories in the news, she was terrified of what Jordan might say. She reminded herself to talk to Jordan again, to reinforce what she’d already told him about inappropriate touching.
CHAPTER 8
“Gabrielle left a message for you. You can’t work tonight. You have to leave,” Rover announced in his dry, gravelly voice. A slight smile betrayed the pleasure he derived from delivering the message.
There was a trail of white shoe prints from the hall to the middle of the floor where Miquon stood—half in, half out of her snow-dusted coat. Stunned for a few seconds, she didn’t move, one arm poised, mid-air. Then she sighed and put her arm back into the dangling sleeve.
“What? What are you accusing me of now?” Miquon demanded.
“You know the rules. If you don’t work the slow days, you can’t come running in here on the weekend.”
“I was here all week,” she protested.
“Not according to my records. What happened to you on Monday?”
Miquon looked bewildered, squinted in thought, then said, “Oh yeah! Monday…I called out because my babysitter got sick. I told you that, Rover.”
“That’s not my problem; you know the rules,” he said, firmly.
“Well why the fuck ain’t you say something last night? Why you wait ’til now? I can’t believe I wasted my time coming out in this snow and shit. This is fucked up!”
Miquon scanned the room, looking for support.
And though there was great interest in the outcome of her predicament, no one met her gaze. There was the typical frenetic activity of preparing for the long night ahead. The floor was strewn with articles of clothing; lingerie draped the arms of chairs.
“It’s not my decision. Take it up with Gabrielle,” Rover said.
“How can I? That bitch ain’t ever here!”
A collective gasp filled the room. Victoria had never met or spoken a word to this all-powerful Gabrielle, but even she knew that Miquon had crossed the line.
“Yeah, I’ll let Gabrielle know how you feel,” Rover replied.
Hurling a string of curses, Miquon blew out the door.
No one felt sympathetic. There was one less girl. The chatter resumed. The general consensus was that Miquon would probably be fired because Gabrielle didn’t tolerate disrespect.
Victoria cut her eyes at Jonee. Jonee winked at her, indicating that she too, was glad to be rid of the loud, abrasive girl who was usually behind the constant bickering, the infighting that occurred daily.
Saturday night was a mob scene; twelve women had shown up to work. The lounge was in total disarray, with the women stepping over each other trying to get ready in the confined space of the lounge. Some had to dress in the restroom, while others readied themselves in the three vacant session rooms.
The doorbell rang in the midst of the chaos. Jonee, wearing turquoise contact lenses and honey blonde hair piled high, led the pack of women in the frantic rush to the door. Without hesitation, the client, a pudgy Caucasian with flecks of gray at his temples and mustache, chose Jonee.
The white girls, indignant as the black girls when it came to race disloyalty, grumbled to themselves.
Inside the room, the client handed Jonee two hundred dollar bills and winked. Her lips spread into a wide grin. The hundred dollar tip was extremely generous.
There was a pounding on the door.
“Who is it?” Jonee demanded, annoyed.
“Do you see my Lancôme bag in there?” It was Sydney.
“No, I don’t. Now would you please leave me alone!”
Jonee could hear Sydney complaining about her bag to Rover and within seconds there was another knock at the door.
“I don’t believe this shit,” she complained to her client. “What now?” she yelled to the closed door.
The response was from Rover. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but I have to let Sydney look for her bag.”
“I’ll be right back,” Jonee promised her client. He had begun to disrobe and looked perplexed. Jonee waved her hand, indicating that he should continue. She stepped outside the door, closing it behind her, careful not to let the client see Sydney, who stood beside Rover. She didn’t want the trick to change his mind and choose Sydney.
“Rover, can’t this wait until after my session?”
“No it can’t because all my money is in that
bag,” Sydney shot back. “I know I left it in there when I ran to the door, and it better still be in there.”
“It’s not my fault that you can’t keep up with your shit. My customer is waiting, Rover. Can I get back to my session?”
“I’m sorry, Jonee. She claims she had a lot of money in her make-up bag. You know I’m not supposed to let the girls get dressed in the session rooms, but it was so crowded tonight, I had to. I could get in a lot of trouble if this gets back to Gabrielle.”
Inside the room with Jonee and the client, whose nakedness was covered by a towel, Sydney fluttered Maybelline lashes and greeted the man with a breathy, “Hi.” She peeked under the pillows and patted around the bed. The client’s eyes bounced off her jiggling breasts. When Sydney bent down to look under the bed, her butt, adorned with a temporary tattoo—a pair of lips, was aimed at the client’s face. He was mesmerized.
“Look, your shit’s not in here, so would you hurry up and leave?” Jonee spoke through clenched teeth.
“I thought it was in here,” Sydney replied, sending the client a look of distress. “I don’t know where it could be.”
Gripping the towel that barely covered his wide frame, the man assisted Sydney in the search for her bag. And though it wasn’t likely that her bag would be found beneath his clothing, he grabbed a handful of his things and one-by-one, shook each article of clothing.
“Uh, I think I’ve changed my mind,” he stammered. “Can I see her?” He nudged his head toward Sydney.
“You can’t change girls in the middle of the session.” Jonee was livid.
“But we didn’t start, I…” the customer stammered.
Sydney cut in. “He can see any girl he chooses and you know it, Jonee.”
There was a policy at Pandora’s that allowed a customer the option to switch girls if he did so before the session started. Jonee left the room in defeat. Humiliated, she reentered the lounge.
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