Not really.
TANIA:
Whatever. No actual genital contact…unless, of course, I say so. And it usually involves a stiletto heel and someone else’s genitalia.
Penelope looked nervously at Thomas, whose eyes had widened. “Right, okay,” she said. “Next question! Ladies, do you guys have boyfriends? And do they know what you do?”
OLGA:
I got rid of Stanislas. He vas my boyfriend, but he vas also my pimp. He took too much money and played dominoes vith the old men in Brighton Beach vhile I paid all the bills. I prefer customers to boyfriends. They have fun and don’t punch you…most of the time.
BERNADETTE:
I’ve been married thirty-five years. My husband is an engineer. I think he gets off on what I do. And it keeps me from cheating with someone I’d get emotionally involved with.
TANIA:
I met my boyfriend through the business. He loves feet.
RANDI:
I stick to clients.
BERNADETTE:
It’s hard for some women to be in the business and have boyfriends. People’s feelings get hurt when sex is involved. But going to a hooker is better than fooling around with, say, a coworker. Nobody gets hurt. Office romances ruin everything and people get fired, I know. I worked in an office in the seventies.
Penelope sneaked a peek at Thomas, who had a what the hell did we get ourselves into? look on his face. “Well, let’s um…” she wanted to change the subject but wasn’t sure how. “Aren’t you worried about health concerns?”
TANIA:
Please. It’s like going through a McDonald’s drive-thru—but you won’t get fat, you’ll get exercise. And we’re better looking than anything that was ever served or worked in McDonald’s.
RANDI:
What’s the big deal? I love my job. I’m my own boss, and I make a lot of money. Just set up an online escort service—and you can get a background check on any john these days in five minutes or less for free.
OLGA:
It is true. Very chic. But I vould suggest to vomen starting out to not get pimp. That is where I ran into problems, Penelope, you remember Stanislas…
Penelope wasn’t sure NY Access should be giving people tips on how to be a prostitute. She wanted to change the subject again but Randi interrupted.
RANDI:
I don’t know why everybody’s got to be so judgmental about us. Shit. George Clooney picks up a waitress in Vegas, flies her out to his house in Italy, and pays her bills, and then everybody was like ‘Oh, she’s so great.’ What’s so great about her? She’s okay looking, but he didn’t move her ass in ’cause she’s so nice and pretty and all. He did it ’cause she fucked him—and good. She’s no different than us. She just got lucky.
PENELOPE:
Did you just call George Clooney’s ex-girlfriend a hooker? I don’t know if we can say that, even on local cable—
BERNADETTE:
It’s true—I’ve been around forever and it goes on all the time. It’s called socially acceptable prostitution. The girls put out; the men pay. Maybe not up-front cash, but believe me, they pay.
Thomas was dragging his index finger across his throat and looking vaguely ill.
PENELOPE:
George was probably just bored and, you know, she was fun. And why not go to Italy with George Clooney? They were, like, full on in love.
RANDI:
Oh, I get it. Now they were in love and all, so it’s okay. She was his girlfriend. How do you think she got all those nice dresses? How did she afford the pretty diamonds? How did she pay her rent?
OLGA:
(to Randi) Dah-ling, you don’t get it, do you? Vile she may be hees Pretty Voman—the difference betveen George Clooney’s ex-girlfriend and prostitutes ees seemple—men pay us to leave.
TANIA:
I could’ve been Quentin Tarantino’s “girlfriend.” He loved my feet. Met him at a club and my toes were like tractor beams, suckin’ him in. Wouldn’t leave ’em alone all night—kept trying to touch ’em and even wanted to kiss ’em. I was like, “Bitch, I charge for that!” He’s a big foot guy—just got to keep ’em pedicured and in five-inch heels and he’ll do anything you want.
Penelope was sweating now. “Okay! Time for a break. Thank you, ladies, it’s been informative, and thanks to everyone who’s been watching. We’ll be back in two minutes!”
The second the cameras stopped rolling, the phones started ringing.
“What’s going on?” Penelope asked Thomas, who, after loosening his tie, was trying to undo the top three buttons of his shirt. Yum, Penelope thought, catching a glimpse of some chest hair.
“What did I tell you?” he gasped, looking faint.
“It was live?”
“And no names!” he said.
“Oh, God. Oops.” Penelope gave him a wan smile.
“Yeah. Nice touch, getting them to call Clooney’s chick a whore and outing Tarantino as a foot fetishist. Oh my god, we’re both fired. I should’ve stayed in Pakistan doing documentaries. At least there you could hear the bombs before they dropped.”
“Penelope!” Marge roared over the din of the phones. “You’re back on in two seconds. What’re you doing chatting up Thomas? And someone shut off those damn phones! We’re live here!”
Penelope took her place back in the interviewer’s chair but before she could admonish the women for naming names, she heard Thomas’s voice, “Three…two…one…”
PENELOPE:
(reading the teleprompter) Good evening and welcome back to the “Call Girl Coffee Klatch.” I’m Penelope Mercury, and tonight I’m joined by Randi, a party specialist. Randi, thanks for being here.
RANDI:
(smiling as the camera pans to her) You bet!
PENELOPE:
On her right is Bernadette, who’s been in the business for over thirty years. Tania, a foot specialist.
TANIA:
I prefer fetishist.
PENELOPE:
And Olga. Ladies, thank you for coming.
OLGA:
Our pleasure, dah-ling.
PENELOPE:
Being a prostitute is, you know, technically illegal—have you been arrested?
OLGA:
Dah-ling. Ve simply provide company. Dates, as you call them. If the dates get romantic—well, that is not our fault. The men don’t pay for sex, they pay for the dinner and company.
TANIA:
I ain’t no prostitute or escort. I provide a much-needed service to the foot fetishist community.
RANDI:
I’m with Olga. I’m just good company.
PENELOPE:
What kind of men use your services?
OLGA:
Oh, all types, dah-ling.
TANIA:
Rich, poor—well, not that poor, they got to pay the rates, but you know—white, black, Asian, Caucasian, whatever. They’re ain’t no type when it comes to men wanting good…company.
BERNADETTE:
Believe me, she’s right. Over thirty years in this business, I’ve seen it all. There was this Hollywood manager who’d only use washcloths to wipe his ass. Can you believe that?
RANDI:
Mmmm…I bet I know who it is.
PENELOPE:
No names!
RANDI:
Please. He used to try on these dresses. It was like stuffing Rosie O’Donnell into Jessica Alba’s prom gown. Not pretty.
BERNADETTE:
That’s him.
OLGA:
Some of them just vant to talk. Vee are like psychologists, sex therapists, and anthropologists all rolled into one. You know trouble vhen it valks in the door. I can spot a bad man a mile avay now.
PENELOPE:
Like what?
OLGA:
I had thees one actor. He’s very big, very popular. So he comes to see me and starts talking about hees mother as hee’s getting naked and calls her a fucking whore. I took offense. She vas not actually a hooker.
/> BERNADETTE:
You gotta watch out for the ones that hate their mothers. They’re the serial killers.
OLGA:
Mostly, they are just old boring men who need a thrill.
RANDI:
Oooh, that’s the truth. I had a guy last night. He’s the head of a news network, and the entire time all he did was re-enact a Geico commercial. For two hours. I was doing my shopping list in my head.
PENELOPE:
Well, at least he didn’t just sit there and quack like the Aflac duck.
RANDI:
True, true. I don’t get off on bestiality.
PENELOPE:
Any major dislikes?
BERNADETTE:
Oh, I do hate a hypocrite. Take our mayor, for example.
PENELOPE:
Huh?
BERNADETTE:
Mayor Ed Swallows cracks down on prostitutes, escorts, art shows, and anything he sees as immoral, but Swallows is no saint.
RANDI:
Oh, he swallows all right. He made me do a threesome with this basketball player for the Knicks once. Naaaasty.
TANIA:
I’d heard he swang both ways from my friend, but he’s not into feet so he never called me.
RANDI:
Girl, you have no idea. We were all going at it, then he just leaves me in the dust. Like I was just there as an excuse so he could get off with that guy. Then he tried to stiff me. Cheapskate.
OLGA:
Yes, he’s living, how you say? On the DL.
PENELOPE:
Wait, what? The MAYOR is on the down low?
OLGA:
Yes, everybody knows thees. I too have been vith him. By myself, but he inseests on doing eet from behind. But I always get my money upfront.
TANIA:
You’re lucky he didn’t donkey punch you.
PENELOPE:
(realizing things may be once again spiraling out of her control) Donkey punch? He’s into animals too?
BERNADETTE:
No, no. It’s a sexual term. Like a fish eye or Dirty Sanchez.
PENELOPE:
(putting her hand to her head) I think I’m going to throw up.
BERNADETTE:
Don’t be so puritanical.
Penelope looked up and saw Thomas, sheet white, hoarsely whispering, “Wrap it up! Wrap it up!” Next to him was Marge, who was gagging after attempting to dry swallow a Blue and a Green, and David, who was trying hard not to laugh.
PENELOPE:
(with a crazed smile plastered on her face) Right, well, ladies! Thank you all very much. We’ve loved having you and hope to see you all again soon. This is Penelope Mercury for New York Access. Have a great night, everyone!
The next ten minutes were a blur. Between the women leaving, Marge choking on her pills, David trying to hand her a glass of water and tripping over the camera wires, accidentally dousing her with it, Penelope wasn’t quite sure what to do.
She was snapped out of her trance by Thomas, who took her arm and said, “Let’s get out of here. Now.” And he dragged her to the elevator. But before they could get on the elevator, Trace, there to do the late-night news, appeared. Drunk.
“Hello, gorgeoush,” he slurred to Penelope.
“Ew, get away from me, you nutbag,” she said.
“Kish me,” Trace slurred and lunged at Penelope.
Thomas stepped in, pushed Trace, and said in a low voice, “Don’t go near her.”
Penelope had had enough. Irate and sick of Trace’s constant lechery, she looked at Thomas and said, “I got this.” Just as the elevator doors opened, she cocked her fist back and punched the soused anchor full in the face, knocking him to the floor.
As she heard Marge scream in the background, “What the hell…?” Thomas grabbed Penelope’s arm, pulled her into the elevator with him, and escorted her outside.
“You know there’s a high likelihood that we’ll both be out of a job by tomorrow,” Thomas said as they lingered outside of the NY Access building.
“Yep,” Penelope said. “Figured as much.”
“So.”
“So.”
“Should we go, maybe do something to celebrate?”
“Yeah, okay,” Penelope said, surprised—it was, after all, the first time he’d ever asked her to do anything outside of work. “Wanna, um, have a drink by my house?” she asked.
“Sure,” Thomas said, grinning. “Where?”
“There’s this great bar, The Room. Just beer and wine and stuff,” Penelope said, trying to be nonchalant.
“Sounds good.”
They walked away just as news trucks from NBC, FOX, and ABC local affiliates were pulling up outside NY Access. Penelope could hear one ABC producer yell, “Yeah! Yeah, they just put on the air that the mayor had an affair. With a dude and a bunch of hookers! We’re on it!”
They hopped on the subway, got off at the West Fourth Street station, and started walking south on Sixth Avenue.
“We’ve worked together every day for months now, and this is our first after-work drink,” Penelope said. “Why is that? Why do you always have to rush home after work? Do you have a separation of church and state thing going on?” she asked. “Or do you have a secret wife and kids to take care of?”
“No,” Thomas said, looking away, “nothing like that.”
“So what is it, then?”
“My mom’s been sick,” Thomas said as they turned east onto Houston.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Penelope said, embarrassed.
“It’s okay. That’s why I work at New York Access in the first place. I was doing documentaries in Pakistan for the BBC when she was diagnosed with a pretty aggressive case of multiple sclerosis. I had to come home and take care of her.”
“What about your dad?”
“He died when I was a kid.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Yeah, my life for the past couple of years has basically been work and my mom. Last month she finally got approved by Medicaid to go to a decent hospice in Queens, but it’s been…hard.”
“Wow. I had no idea,” Penelope said. She felt ridiculous. His tale of woe and selflessness had somehow turned her on even more than she already was. She wondered if that were wrong.
“Well, shit happens,” Thomas said. “And I can start having a life again, I guess. I’m glad to be out tonight with you.”
“Thanks, me with you too,” Penelope said, blushing.
“And whatever happens with New York Access because of tonight, Trace, and that stupid Coffee Klatch, I’m glad I met you.”
Just as Penelope was starting to think all was right with the world, despite her possible once-again imminent joblessness, she spotted something odd.
As they were turning onto Sullivan Street, Penelope saw a woman in a brown bobbed wig and what looked like a silvery feather duster crouched down between two cars, clutching a camera and looking at the entrance to her apartment building.
“Hey,” Penelope whispered to Thomas, grabbing his arm. “Stop.”
“What’s up?” Thomas said.
“I think my neighbor’s stalker is here.”
“Your neighbor has a stalker?”
“Shhhh!” Penelope hissed, pulling Thomas into a nearby doorway.
“What is going on?” Thomas whispered.
“Just wait for a sec. See that woman with the bob hiding by the cars?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been following my friend.”
Sure enough, three minutes later a taxi pulled up. Lipstick, in her beautiful green dress, emerged from the backseat. The woman with the wig started taking pictures with her camera.
“Lipstick!” Penelope yelled, “she’s here—your stalker!”
As Lipstick turned toward Penelope, the woman, caught in between them, stopped taking pictures and tried to run off. But she was blocked by Penelope, who grabbed her arm and ripped off her wig, exposing her blond hair tucked up underneath.
Lips
tick gasped.
“Who are you?” Penelope demanded from the struggling woman. “And why are you following my friend?”
“It’s all right, Penelope,” Lipstick said, “I know her.”
“Huh?” Penelope asked. “You do? Who is she?” Turning to the woman, Penelope shook her and demanded, “Name!”
“It’s Bitsy Farmdale,” Lipstick said. “You can let her go.” Bitsy’d seen Lipstick leave the Met and, while Lipstick and Dana had strolled for a block outside, had taken a cab back to Sullivan Street to get there ahead of her.
“Really?” Penelope asked. “That chick who’s always so mean to you?”
“Yes,” Lipstick said.
“I can rough her up a bit, if you want. I’m from Cincinnati. Jerry Springer used to be the mayor there, you know.”
“Let her go.” Lipstick sighed.
“Fine,” Penelope said and released Bitsy with a shove.
“If I have one bruise, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” Bitsy snarled at Penelope, rubbing her arm.
“No, she won’t,” Lipstick said, standing up straight. “You won’t be calling anyone, Bitsy.”
“Really? You think so?” Bitsy said with a mean laugh. “Just wait till I’m done with you. You humiliated Jack tonight by bringing some random person—and not that designer—to the ball and now you’re clearly shacking up with some bum in this…tenement. He’ll be so pissed.”
“Why is anything I do your business?” Lipstick asked.
Mercury in Retrograde Page 21