The Rolexxx Club - Anniversary Edition

by Meta Smith

  Desiree climbed out of the queen-size bed and padded around the carpeted bedroom decorated in shades of pink, one of her favorite colors, to the small en suite bathroom. She looked in the medicine cabinet and found nothing. She looked in the cabinet underneath the sink and found a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol next to a jumbo box of tampons and a six-pack of toilet paper. Desiree popped two tablets into her mouth and ran the cold water from the faucet. After gulping the pills, she returned to the bedroom.

  The room smelled of potpourri and was white-glove clean. The canopy bed and furniture were made of thick, heavy wood and were obviously very expensive. Desiree ran her hands over the furniture’s surfaces and looked around, impressed. A picture of Ginger in a crystal frame rested on top of the nightstand. This must be Ginger’s place, she thought.

  She inspected the drawers and found them to be empty aside from

  a large, high-tech remote control with an LCD screen. After figuring out how to work the remote, she clicked on a TV that sat on an entertainment stand, and absent-mindedly surfed through the channels. She finally settled on a Spanish soap opera, Maria la del Barrio, on Telemundo. Then she thought about her cash. She grabbed her K-Swiss and lifted the blue inner sole to count her money. From the looks of the room, Ginger wasn’t hurting for money, but you could never be too sure. She could have gotten all this stuff because she was a thief!

  Desiree had $1,327, mostly in hundreds, with a few fifties and twenties thrown in. That in addition to the $3,000 she had managed to stash before she left New York made her feel rich. It was certainly more money than she’d ever had in her life.

  “This place is laid out,” Desiree said to herself while snuggling under the down comforter on the bed. She was slightly hungover from the night before, and the A.C. was on full blast, but oddly, she felt comfortable and at home.

  “I see you’re up. You okay?” Ginger was standing in the doorway. Desiree had become so engrossed in the novela that she was watching that she hadn’t heard her come in.

  “Yeah. Good morning,” Desiree replied, her voice still scratchy with sleepiness.

  “Afternoon.” Ginger laughed. “It’s five o’clock!” “Damn!” Desiree hadn’t bothered to check the time. “So how do you feel?”

  “All right, I guess. I took some Tylenol. But I still have a little hangover.” “Well, come in the kitchen. I’ll make you something to take that

  away.”

  Desiree followed Ginger through beautiful rooms and into an immaculate kitchen. There was a steel Sub-Zero refrigerator. Desiree had only seen one on television. The flattop stove looked like one from a cooking show, and Ginger had all kinds of pots and pans and appliances that looked like they belonged in a restaurant rather than in someone’s home.

  “Your crib is tight!” Desiree complimented Ginger’s home as she took a seat on a stool at the breakfast bar. She watched Ginger intently as she milled about the kitchen, arranging things and rustling through cabinets. Desiree had to find out how she could afford such a spread. Dancers made good money, she knew that, but this was the kind of house that belonged to a businessperson or a doctor or lawyer.

  “Thanks,” Ginger replied, modestly. Apparently, she was accustomed

  to living large. She accepted the compliment as if she lived in a shack, not in a mini-mansion.

  “So this is all you?” Desiree asked her, hoping she’d open up a little. “Yep, it’s all me, the fruit of all my labor,” Ginger replied with a touch

  of sarcasm rather than pride. “What about you? Where do you stay?”

  “I just got to town, so I checked into this hotel by the airport.” Desiree felt inadequate and insecure about her response. Hotel was an overstatement. The crappy room was hot, smelled musty, and was infested with mosquitoes. But it was only twenty-five bucks a night, so Desiree figured it was just as good a place as any to rest her head until she got her shit together. That was until she saw how Ginger was living.

  “That’s right. You’re from New York,” Ginger remembered.

  “Yeah,” Desiree answered dryly. She didn’t want to think about New York – too many bad memories.

  Ginger didn’t take the hint. “Which borough?”

  “Queens, the Bronx, Mount Vernon...I moved around a lot. You’re from here, right?” Desiree changed the subject.

  “Yeah, pretty much. I was born in Haiti, but I’ve been here most of my life. You just here for the Super Bowl, or do you plan to live here?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m here to stay. The weather is pretty. Plus, the money seems to be real good here,” Desiree said.

  “Yeah, it can be. Have you danced anywhere else?” Ginger continued probing Desiree.

  ‘’A coupla spots up top. But Giuliani kind of threw a monkey wrench in that. I hear it’s not what it used to be.” Desiree repeated what she’d heard from other dancers in an attempt to sound sophisticated. They swore that before Giuliani became mayor, money practically fell from the sky.

  “Really? I’ve danced at Score’s in Manhattan before. It was real good

  there. I worked at a couple of spots in Jersey too,” Ginger said. Desiree imagined Ginger twirling around a pole at the Bada Bing, the strip club from The Sopranos.

  “Well, I’m sure you make money everywhere you go. Look at you!” Desiree looked at Ginger. She was really beautiful. Her long hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head, and she was wearing a wife-beater and some cutoff jean shorts, yet she still looked stunning. Without a speck of makeup aside from some clear lip gloss, her high cheekbones, bright eyes, and straight, keen nose needed no further accentuation. Ginger possessed a natural, classic, and fresh beauty.

  “Look at you!” Ginger replied. “You’re just as pretty as I am. And your eyes are natural. I wear contacts.”

  “Yeah. But your body is better. I’m kind of flat-chested.” Desiree looked miserably at her modest 34A chest. She was definitely not flat-chested, but compared to Ginger, most women would look underdeveloped.

  “Buy some tits. I did!” Ginger poked out her 36Ds, then shimmied them.

  “Wow. Those are fake?” Desiree had assumed Ginger’s endowment was natural.

  “Yep. The best five grand I ever spent!” Ginger admitted proudly. She inspected Desiree curiously. “Can I tell you something, Desiree?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Look. You’ve got a lot of potential. You’re really pretty, but you don’t play up your features enough. Don’t take this the wrong way, but the tomboy look has got to go! I mean, I know you’re from New York and all, but there’s no reason you should dress so thugged out. That shit ain’t gonna fly down here. But with the right clothes and the right makeup, maybe lighten your hair...you could be so much prettier. And once you get your game tight, you can make money anywhere. The world could be yours, Desiree. You’ve just gotta know how to hustle.”

  “I can hustle. I ask everybody for dances. They just don’t like me as much as they like you.” Desiree picked at her fingernails self-consciously. The acrylic was chipped, and her thumb and pinkie nails were broken to the nub.

  “Not that kind of hustle. The kind of hustle where if there is only one man in the club, you can make him want you, you can turn him into a human ATM. You can make him do whatever you want, whatever you need. It’s all a mind game.” Ginger pointed at her temple for emphasis. “Real hustle is working smarter, not harder. You’re obviously in this game for the money. We’re all in this for the money. I don’t think that the majority of us dreamed of being strippers when we were little girls. Just having money isn’t enough, though; it’s what you do with it that counts. By working smarter I mean once you make that money, you gotta flip it. Invest it. Don’t blow it all on material shit to floss before you’ve got any real assets. I bought this house because I knew it would be a good investment. I bought my car for four thousand at an auction; I don’t have a car note. Matter of fact, every now and then I buy a car at an auction, fix it up, and sell it. I usually double my
money. And I run a Web site that pays my mortgage. See, that’s the difference between working for money and making money work for you. I can teach you this stuff if you want to learn.

  It’s not all about college. I didn’t learn how to do this in college; I read it in books and went to seminars. You’re young. If you start now, by the time you’re my age you could be very well off. You could have more than this!” Ginger waved her arm like a game show hostess.

  “There you go with that age shit again,” Desiree joked nervously to cover the fact that the conversation was slightly over her head. She wouldn’t begin to know anything about investing or assets and was surprised to hear Ginger speak like she was some kind of Wall Street big shot. Desiree couldn’t imagine doing the kinds of things Ginger described. That was for white people and people with money. Desiree used to think that she was smart but had stopped believing that smarts gave her an edge in life some time ago.

  There was another reason Desiree had reservations about what Ginger was telling her. Ginger was practically a stranger, even though they’d been “together.” Was Ginger telling her all of this because she was expecting some kind of relationship? Desiree had enjoyed what went down, but she had no intention of becoming a lesbian.

  “I’m serious,” Ginger stated. She went into the freezer and pulled out a Tupperware container of soup and put it in the microwave. She reached in the dishwasher and pulled out a bowl and a spoon for Desiree to eat with. She poured her a huge glass of Coca-Cola. “Drink this Coke. I know it’s kind of flat, but that’s how it’s supposed to be. It sounds crazy, but I guarantee that it will settle your stomach.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Desiree stared at Ginger with her piercing topaz eyes.

  “Shoot.” Ginger sat on a countertop.

  “Why are you being so nice to me? I mean, why do you care? What’s in it for you?”

  Ginger grinned sheepishly “I’m not so nice. Here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “What’s that for?” Desiree accepted the money but was confused.

  “Dewante paid us twenty-five hundred each last night. I kept this and told you he was paying us a g.”

  “So why are you telling me this now?” Desiree asked her, quickly putting her money in her bra.

  “You seem like you need a little help. I can tell you need money, and I can help you. And I don’t know if it’s because we favor or what. But I feel like I already know you. I guess it’s like, if I had a little sister, she’d be a lot like you. Maybe I see a little of myself in you, me from a long time ago. Besides, when you put positive vibes into the universe, that’s what you’re

  going to get back.” Ginger transferred the soup from the Tupperware container to a bowl and placed it in front of Desiree, who sat at a stool. Desiree didn’t know anything about positive vibes and the universe, but whatever Ginger had been doing was obviously working.

  “This is so good.” Desiree greedily devoured the soup.

  “Isn’t it? I got that soup last month in St. Thomas. I had them put the soup in this huge-ass container and froze it as soon as I got home. Luckily, the flight was only an hour.”

  “Wow! It’s weird, but I swear my hangover is gone.” Desiree wiped her mouth. Ginger refilled her bowl.

  “I know. I got real fucked-up when I was there, and one of the locals told me to go to this spot called Walter’s and get the island chicken soup, guaranteed to cure a hangover,” Ginger told her.

  “Damn. There’s a whole potato in here.”

  “There’s all kind of shit in there: carrots, celery, and potato and in real pieces, not all smushed up like in a can. It’s natural. That’s why it works.”

  Desiree smiled at Ginger. Ginger smiled back. An awkward silence. “Do you feel weird about last night?” Ginger asked her.

  “Yeah,” Desiree admitted. “That was some wild shit. I mean, nobody could have told me that a star like Dewante would pay to get his ass licked. What is that? Is he gay or what? I mean, he really liked the fingers up his ass and what-not,” Desiree chattered.

  “I meant about what happened with us.”

  Desiree smiled sheepishly “It was weird. But it was weird in a nice way I mean, it felt good and everything. But I’m not gay or anything. . .” Desiree’s voice trailed off.

  “Look, that was business, okay? I don’t want you to feel like I expect you to do it again.” Ginger smiled, and Desiree breathed a sigh of relief.

  “How much are you paying at your spot?” Ginger asked her. “One seventy-five a week,” Desiree answered.

  “Well, you can stay here until you figure out what you want to do, where you want to live. I’ve got plenty of room, as you can see. You can pay me four hundred a month, okay? That’s cheaper than a hotel, and you can save up for an apartment.”

  Ginger awaited a response from Desiree. “Okay I really could use the help, and this is a great house. It’s a whole lot better than my hotel. I promise I’ll pay you on time and I’ll be clean and I won’t get in your way,” Desiree rambled. She didn’t care that she barely knew Ginger: there was no way she was going to turn the offer down.

  Ginger laughed. “Chill, shawty, you at home now.”

  Ginger suggested they go get her stuff and then go shopping on the beach.

  “Won’t the stores be closed?” Desiree asked. It would be after seven or eight o’clock by the time they got dressed and got her stuff.

  “Nah. Not on the beach. And the club we’re going to doesn’t get started till later. We have plenty of time.”

  “Okay,” Desiree agreed. Ginger gave her fresh towels and told her to help herself to anything she needed. Then she gave her a pink Nike shorts suit to wear.

  After dressing they left the house and walked toward the Bimmer, which was parked in the driveway along with an Explorer.

  “The Explorer’s yours too, huh?” Desiree inquired. “Yup.”

  “So this investment stuff you were talking about earlier, you really think I could do what you did?”

  “Sure. Stick with me, kid. You’ll be all right,” Ginger assured her.

  Desiree admired the terra-cotta-colored stucco home with its manicured lawn and perfect landscaping. It was one of the nicest homes Desiree had ever seen. She’d been in a few brownstones back in New York that were pretty tight, but they didn’t have the little extras Ginger’s house had. Desiree noticed the fruit trees in the yard, as well as the palm trees.

  “Is this a golf course?” she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “Yeah.” Ginger shrugged, like everyone lived on a golf course. She chirped the alarm and got in the BMW. She let the top down, and the Florida sun beamed on their skin, even though it was early evening.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Desiree asked over the car’s stereo as they stopped and started through the traffic on the Palmetto Expressway.

  “Sure.” Ginger looked at her briefly; her eyes were shielded by a pair of Versace sunglasses.

  “What made you start dancing? I mean, you’re obviously smart, you know computers and got investments and stuff. Plus, you know guys like Dewante. As pretty as you are, you could be married with a family. Why do this?” Desiree asked her.

  Ginger laughed. “Let’s not talk about that now.” Ginger cranked the stereo louder and sang along in Spanish to a salsa song on the radio that identified itself as “Noventa y Ocho...Caliente!”

  PACKING DESIREE’S BELONGINGS WAS A SNAP. ALL OF HER

  things fit easily into the trunk of ginger’s car. All she had was clothes and shoes, and not many of those. After closing up her bill and returning her key to the desk clerk, they headed toward South Beach. Desiree was excited about going shopping with plenty of money in her pocket, something she had never done before.

  They went to a boutique called Metro and had a ball trying on all the funky clothes. Desiree bought a black sequined halter in the shape of a butterfly and a pair of black, boot-cut pants. The outfit accentuated her figure, adding curves to a
reas where they hadn’t seemed to be earlier, and the sparkle of sequins made her eyes shine gray with flecks of green. Ginger bought a super-short denim miniskirt and a sheer shirt. While they browsed the other fashions the store had to offer, Ginger convinced Desiree to try on a blondish wig from the large selection in the back of the store.

  “It’s final! You have to color your hair,” the flamboyantly gay salesman told Desiree. “Sandy brown with blond highlights is so you.”

  Ginger agreed emphatically and insisted on doing it that night. She whipped out a cell phone and began chatting in Creole.