Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  But the real turning point for me was an incident that never resulted in a hospital visit. In fact, my parents never knew about it. I was playing in the driveway with a group of kids who had come from next door, and my mother was somewhere in the house out of sight. It was a bright, sunny day, and we all had our tricycles out. We rode around in circles where we could and some of us practiced riding to the end of the driveway.

  I got on my tricycle and explored the sloping driveway. The trike was cruising downhill, and I liked it. The pedals started moving faster. Though I felt at home on my tricycle, I lost control of the front wheel. My feet weren’t fast enough for the pedals. This was a first for me, but I made a split-second decision as I reached the curb. I grabbed the handle bars tight and refused to fall off. I was not supposed to be at the end of the driveway. I had been told countless times to look out for cars when crossing the street, but I knew that looking was not an option. I couldn’t stop.

  I sat tight, wheels to the ground, unable to turn my head or slow down or do anything more than feel the incredible speed of the tricycle gliding across the street. I was keenly aware of my limitations and totally in the moment. I knew I had lost control, and I knew it was wrong, but I have never forgotten how exhilarating that brief perilous ride was. Silently anchored to the trike, if I could have put those sensations into mature words, I’d be shrieking: OMG! I AM REALLY GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!

  The machine kept going and rode straight into the empty driveway across the street, where I came to a natural stop, because the trike was now facing uphill. The entire adventure couldn’t have lasted more than forty seconds but I remember it in slow motion as a watershed event. My first experience of a free ride.

  At this point, I had enough sense to get off the tricycle. I had a new respect for its unpredictable powers and now that I could, I hopped off. I wasn’t ready to ride across the street again, but I had to get back there before my mother noticed. I walked my tricycle back to the curb, looked around, then walked it back to the top of our driveway. I wondered what the other kids would think of me for losing control of my trike.

  There were no screams of dismay, no taunts, and no accolades for what I had just done. The other children continued to go about their business. This is also my first memory of opting for nonchalance. Acting as if. I had escaped injury and, just as importantly, I escaped embarrassment.

  My first…jig.

  FRIDAY, 5/11/01

  This morning, two shaky-sounding voice mails from Allie on my cell, the last one (4:10 am) even more distressed than the first at 2:31 am.

  “Didn’t you read my e-mail? You can call back anytime. My phone is on but maybe I’d better try to get some sleep. Okay, so leave a message if I don’t pick up!”

  There are times when I feel guilty about refusing to share my home number with my best friend.

  And there are times, like this, when I know I’ve made the right decision.

  LATER

  Catching up on Allie’s e-mail. The first one, sent just before midnight, is troubling:

  I need to talk to you about something. I’ve been getting these weird weird e-mails from someone called Amy Hatchet. At first I ignored her. Then she sends another one a week later. I know it’s just e-mail. I KNOW sticks and stones are just sticks-n-stones but I don’t like the way she’s talking. Now she writes every few days. And she knows too much about me.

  Another, sent from a Hotmail address at 1:46 am:

  Subject: MY NEW CONTACT INFO from ALLIE this is NOT SPAM!

  I am sending this new address to five people total. You, of course, will always know how to reach me. What would I do without our friendship?? I also gave it to Lucho but that’s another story. Plus Jasmine and a few of my better guys. Okay, well maybe EIGHT people have the new address. Max. Please do not give it to anyone. I may have to shut down my Trollop_At_Large account but I’m afraid to do that. In case Lucho’s e-ing me at my old address.

  From Allie’s new Hotmail account, at 3:03 am:

  Subject: What I’m talking about!

  Look what she sent me the other day! Is this creepy? She keeps threatening to Investigate NYCOT.

  >>Your Trollop Collective is a FRONT for Human >>Trafficking and the Committee will assist us when >>we investigate your network of sexual enslavement. >>What will the good people of Ridgefield, >>Connecticut say when they find out the girl next >>door is really a conduit for traffickers from >>Bangkok. Quit while you’re ahead. Or should that >>be Giving head. Danbury Federal Correctional >>facility is a nice place to visit. Very close to >>Ridgefield.

  Lucho told me not to worry about a crank sending e-mail to the Colloquium Committee. He was totally reassuring but then he left for Bogotá and now I don’t know how to reach him. I’m afraid to ask other people on the Committee if they’ve been getting e-mail from this person. AND LUCHO HAS BEEN OUT OF TOUCH FOR ALMOST 36 HOURS…No IM’s, no voice mail nothing…I fear the worst.

  No wonder Allie was bouncing around her apartment, sleepless, at four am. It’s not really about the stalker.

  It’s the first time she’s ever had to deal with her new boyfriend…being out of town.

  FRIDAY, LATER

  Just back from an emergency Frappuccino with Allie at the Starbucks on Thirty-second. Despite the late-afternoon sky turning gray, she was protecting her eyes with huge tortoiseshell sunglasses.

  “For god’s sake,” I told her, “you have to reorganize your fear, break it down into components. Lucho is one issue and the e-mails are another.”

  “But it’s all happening at once!” she said. “It’s not like Lucho to be out of touch. For two whole days?”

  She readjusted her sunglasses, headband-style, and sipped on a bright green straw that was too tall for her drink. Her eyes were pink and slightly swollen.

  “It is very rare for a boyfriend to get kidnapped,” I pointed out. “Sometimes it’s good to have a little break. He’s probably just busy. How often were you guys talking before he went to Bogotá?”

  “Five times a day!” Allie exclaimed, causing a wide-eyed barista to turn around and stare. “And I have to prepare my speech for the Open Society Institute. Oh!” She looked mortified. “I forgot my flash cards. I wanted to get your feedback.”

  “It’s okay. You’ll do the flash cards later. Remember what I said. Components. The flash cards are a separate component.”

  Allie sighed.

  “I guess you’re right. Well, I sent Lucho an e-mail from my new Hotmail address but I don’t know if he got it.” She nibbled on an oatmeal cookie like a frightened protein addict. “I have to keep going into my old e-mail account to see if he wrote. And then I see her name! And those horrible subject headers. Don’t ever change e-mail accounts when a guy is out of town.”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  “His phone doesn’t work in Bogotá. I left a voice mail but he won’t get it till he comes back.”

  “So who do you think is sending these creepy messages?”

  “I don’t know. It could be anyone. She sent it to the Trollop_At_Large address. Everyone has that.”

  “Well, maybe…” I tried to think of a tactful way to say this. “Maybe the activist lifestyle is not suitable for you at this point in your—”

  “Don’t even go there!” Allie said. “I’m on the Colloquium Committee. And I’m the media coordinator for NYCOT. Noi’s visa application is in the works. People are counting on me. Quitting is not an option! And Noi has a right to come here and speak at Cornell about the struggle in Bangkok. How dare this—this Amy Hatchet try to intimidate—”

  “Allie, you are being exposed to all kinds of vindictive, dangerous maniacs because of your involvement with NYCOT. I saw that e-mail, and I don’t like the language she’s using. Or he. An e-mail address tells you nothing. That could be a guy masquerading as a girl.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Thank god for my doormen!”

  “No kidding. But Allie, it could even be Lucho!”<
br />
  “Lucho! It couldn’t be.”

  “How well do you really know him? How do you know he’s in Bogotá? He could be sitting in his apartment on the Upper West Side playing a horrible prank on you! He’s just someone you met at a conference! Maybe he’s a sadistic weirdo!”

  “He’s—he’s the love of my life! He is not just someone I met! You’re getting so jaded, Nancy. Ever since you got married,” Allie said. “Have you ever had a healthy relationship with a man? Well, maybe I haven’t either but at least I’m trying. Just because you lie to Matt all the time doesn’t mean the whole world is like that. And,” she added, “Lucho’s the first sex partner I’ve had who doesn’t have to stop as soon as I come! I used to think I was too sensitive for prolonged oral sex. But after Lucho makes me come? He just—he refuses to stop, but he’s totally gentle and considerate and it’s the most intimate fulfilling oral sex I’ve ever had with another person in my entire life! How can you call Lucho a sadist?”

  I was anxious to take our conversation outside, where my friendly neighborhood baristas wouldn’t hear anything more. On the sidewalk, I gave Allie my ultimatum.

  “Look,” I told her. “I can’t afford to be hanging out with someone who flaunts every part of her life the way you do. I have too much to lose. Maybe you think I’m jaded, but I have responsibilities. I had a bad scare last week. Matt found out about my other apartment! I have to keep a low profile now, and I can’t afford to arouse any suspicions. You leave messages in the middle of the night about this e-mail stalker, and when I try to help, you call me a liar! If you care about your friends, you’d better start thinking about how your actions affect other people. What do you think will happen if you’re investigated?” I asked her. “Your friends will be, too!”

  But I don’t think Allie, for all her activist cred, has any idea how true that might be. Or what would happen to my marriage if I got swept up in something like that.

  FRIDAY MIGHTNIGHT

  A startling phone call from Miranda, who just got back last night.

  “You won’t believe what happened after you left,” she told me.

  Neither would you, I wanted to say but didn’t. Even if I spilled all the beans to her, Miranda would have trouble believing the truth about my life.

  “Well,” she said, “Sebastian’s girlfriend called your mother and told her about his crack habit.”

  “Omigosh. And nobody told me?”

  “But you already knew.”

  “I mean…nobody told me that Mother—never mind,” I said. “Is she upset?”

  “She was shocked at first. But he’s in rehab now, so I guess it was okay to tell her? She’s flying home tonight. I’m sure you’ll hear from her.”

  10

  Why I Am Not a Crackhead

  SATURDAY, 5/12/01

  So the cat’s officially out of the bag. Sebastian is misty about whether he still has a job. Erica says he does and I want to believe her. Well, my brother has survived one corporate regime change after another. When the entire department gets tossed, he’s the one they keep. He may have his job figured out, assuming they don’t know his true whereabouts.

  Apparently, Sebastian has checked himself into a residential rehab in Whitby, Ontario—but had the good manners to wait until after the funeral before revealing his crack habit to Mother. There is something to be said for being a diplomatic crackhead. Robert broke the news to Dad, who is being incredibly philosophical about the whole thing—while my stepmother, who has never had a good word to say about my father’s older kids, is in “I told you so” mode.

  SUNDAY NIGHT

  Mother’s last e-mail, sent from the computer room of her B&B, was more upbeat than expected:

  Sebastian is feeling better though he says the food is rather bland. Erica assures me that Renascent House is secular and Sebastian hasn’t been fired. So it’s not all bad. Dodie’s youngest went to a Protestant recovery center last fall—remember the one with all the rings in her nose? She came out sounding like a charismatic preacher. Terrible. Dodie is wondering where she went wrong as a parent. By the way, Dodie thinks I should turn my computer room into an Internet café. She would invest in some new equipment, advertise the café in her bookstore and share the proceeds. The B&B guests are always needing to use my computer which I find to be an imposition. Why not charge them for it? And get some new equipment in the process. What do you think?

  Dodie is a Birkenstocked pottery teacher who runs a used bookstore in the same village, my mom’s best friend and a fellow atheist. Neither Dodie nor Mother is actually from Wales but both are avid supporters of Welsh Nationalism. Now they also have in common a grown-up child in recovery.

  Mother doesn’t realize that her well-groomed Upper East Side daughter has also done the drug that currently plagues Sebastian. Unlike Sebastian, I stopped because I was afraid it might turn my hair prematurely gray. Doesn’t Mother wonder why her eldest child hasn’t a single gray hair, while my younger brother’s hair turns gray before our eyes? But she’s been in denial about Sebastian’s lifestyle for many years. And mine, too, come to think of it, despite the fact that I ran away from home when I was fourteen.

  Being the sensible precocious one, I outgrew cocaine before it could affect my looks. I guess that’s one benefit of being a first-born girl, an older sister, with an inflated sense of responsibility.

  When I arrived in New York, I was almost seventeen, and “crack” hadn’t been invented yet. It started out as “freebase,” and the freebasing elites were making headlines by setting themselves on fire. In the early eighties, smokable cocaine was an expensive hobby, a privileged addiction. Freebase wasn’t a drug for schoolteachers or salaried folk. Most freebase users were small business owners with lots of cash flowing through their hands.

  Like Larry.

  I met Larry while working for Jeannie’s Dream Dates. Larry, a recently divorced textile wholesaler, lived in a Second Avenue highrise near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Freebasing as an evening ritual racked up many hours on the escort service clock, and Larry was more than willing to pay by the hour. He prepared the stuff himself from a recipe involving Drano, baking soda, tin foil, and, of course, cocaine. He was a freebase connoisseur. Are there any connoisseurs of that drug anymore? It’s so much easier to skip that phase and become a crackhead.

  I watched him cut a lemon in half and, with an old-fashioned Pyrex juicer, remove all its liquid. Then he added water to the lemon juice and poured this into a glass water pipe. For lighting the pipe, some people preferred a blowtorch, but Larry had his own method. He took a long piece of loose cotton wool, and looped it around the head of a metal device normally used for cleaning a flute.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked him. “Are you a musician?”

  “My brother teaches at Juilliard Prep,” he said. “I stole it from him.”

  When you hear about a coke addict stealing from his family, you imagine money. But people steal the strangest things. I felt rather sorry for his brother, who must have been upset when his cleaning rod went missing. Like sex organs, woodwind instruments need prompt, frequent, and very detailed cleaning. But an addict doesn’t care if his actions could be harmful to a musical instrument.

  Larry dipped his large metallic homemade Q-tip into a bowl of 180-proof rum. Then he lit the cotton wool with a Bic lighter.

  When I inhaled the lemon-scented smoke into my lungs, it was delicious—lemon juice foils the vile taste of the smoke. When I exhaled through my nose, I knew I had found my favorite drug. An exquisite giddy rush filled my head. I announced to my freebasing mentor: “Wow! This is better than an orgasm!”

  Any drug that makes sexual pleasure seem puny is a drug that needs watching. But what did Larry care? He was already on that track himself, delighted to have the phone number of a pretty girl who was willing to freebase. Until now, I had been faithful to the escort service, afraid to give out my number. But exchanging numbers with him that night felt absolutely right.


  A few nights later, Larry invited another couple to smoke freebase with us. We sat at the dining room table, taking turns with the pipe. When it was my turn, Larry said, “She’s got great lungs.”

  The other couple observed while I inhaled.

  “Fantastic lungs.”

  “Amazing.”

  This was how freebasing conversations went.

  I couldn’t tell whether they were married, dating, or something more basic. In the haze of freebase euphoria, I wondered if the other girl was a pro.

  Then I worried about whether they were swingers. Coke makes you so paranoid!

  Did Larry expect me to have sex with them? Was he going to pay extra for this? Did I have to go down on a strange girl? Because I sure wasn’t going to hop into bed with them unless—. What was I thinking? Sex was totally beside the point.

  After they left, I attempted to give Larry a blow job but he wasn’t really up to it. He was, however, up for doing more freebase. I left after four am with $1,500 in my pocket and slept for a day. When I woke up, I was still hung over so I didn’t answer my phone until I was able to work again. In the eighties, it didn’t matter what time you woke up, you’d still make money.

  My brother never got paid for doing freebase. By the time Sebastian discovered the stuff, it was no longer an elite way to get high. Freebase got downsized into crack.

  Crack is thought of as a street drug. That’s what Mother believes because she gets all her drug lore from the papers. Actually, crack is freebase padded out with loathsome filler material, repackaged for the middle class.

  On a junior exec salary, you can satisfy a crack yearning fairly often. As long as you don’t do it every week, you can be a part-time crackhead or even a frequent user for quite a few years before it catches up with you. In the days of freebase, though, the road from initiation to addiction to bankruptcy was a matter of months, not years.