Calling Out (14 page)

“I feel like shit. I hate going out when I have my
period,” Diamond says.

“Stop moving. It's hard to get these tiny ones,” Nikyla
says, stretching the arch of Diamond's brow taut.

“Hi, girls,” I say.

“Well, well, well,” Nikyla says. “Is it true?”

I laugh.

“I think I hear hell freezing over,” Diamond says.

Nikyla stands and holds her arms open and wraps me
up in a hug.

“I came to check the schedule. Do my write-up,” I say.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Diamond says. “Hey, help
me work on these,” she says to Nikyla, her hands on her
enhanced breasts as if they were not attached to her body.
“They're getting all hard and shit.”

Nikyla takes one of Diamond's breasts between her
hands.

“Okay. How about this,” Nikyla says, “Roxanne. Age
twenty-six, slender, long dark hair, brown eyes. 35-24-33,
smart, sensual, a great listener. A real beauty.”

“In my wildest fantasies,” I say.

“Oh please. Like it matters. It's perfect. You'll attract
the ones who are looking for love.” Nikyla takes Diamond's other breast in her hands and rolls it with her
palms.

“Great,” I say. “Just what I need.”

“Hey, Rox, I can't find Jezebel. She's flaking again,”
Kendra says from the office between mouthfuls of
Pringles. “Want to be on?”

“Uh, okay,” I say. “Sure. I better go home and shower.
Get gussied up.”

“Cinderella off to the ball,” Diamond says.

Nikyla smiles at me, mouths “good luck,” and blows
me a kiss.

I like how escorting blots out reality, one hour at a
time, and I'm secretly excited to get back out there.

Ember's car won't start, so on the way to my date I drive
her down to Holladay to the house of this guy she's already seen three times
in two weeks. She just says he's kind of in love with her and tips big, but
my guess is that he's her cocaine connection. She seems to have an endless supply
these days. I find white powder on every smooth surface of the house.

“So what's the deal with art school?” I ask. “Are you
going to start in the spring?”

I want her to have a concrete reason to stay in Salt
Lake with me. Something to ground her here. Her wildness scares me even as I crave its glow, its intensity.

“I don't know. Yeah, I guess,” she says. “It depends,
you know?”

Ember lights another cigarette with the butt of the
one she's still smoking.

“You could probably take extension classes at the U in
the meantime if you wanted, like drawing or painting. I
was thinking about taking some kind of class. Want to go
up there tomorrow with me and check it out?”

“I don't think I can handle classes right now,” Ember
says, blowing out smoke and rubbing her nose with rabid
persistence. “But you should, Janie. You're smart. I think
that would be great for you. Turn left at the light.”

I park in front of a sagging, putty-colored ranch
house with a corrugated metal fence and an old washing
machine poking up through the snow on the lawn.

“Are you sure he's home? There aren't any lights on,”
I say.

“It trips him out to have on a lot of lights. He's probably in the basement. Don't worry. He's a pussycat. I'll cab
home.”

Mohammed would be furious to see that she's going
out in jeans and an old “Wisconsin” sweatshirt under her
ski jacket.

“Okay,” I say. “Be careful.”

“Hey, good luck tonight,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Remember, they're all just men,” she says. “Just act
like you really like him. He'll sense it and reward you for it.
And however it goes, know that the guy's lucky to get you.”

She gives me a kiss, her breath a mix of cherry cough
drops and smoke, and opens the door. Before shutting it,
she leans back in.

“I'm not going to go,” she says. Her eyes simmer.

“You're not?”

“I mean with Ford. I'm not going to Moab,” she says.

“Oh, I'm so glad,” I say. I'm flooded with selfish relief
and thrill. I won't be the one left behind.

“Yeah, it's going to be great,” she says.

“Does Ford know?”

“Sort of,” she says and slams the door.

Ember steps back, raises her arms out wide and looks
at the sky as if to say “This kingdom is ours!” She giggles
and drops her arms as she walks up to the dilapidated
house. She goes in without knocking.

I'm on my way to see someone named Harold in
South Sandy. Kendra said he sounded normal enough, if
a tad nervous, and although we don't normally meet new
clients at their houses, he pressed for an exception and it
was the only way she could close the date.

Sandy is a flat, sprawling, middle-class suburb with
young trees and one-story houses and a lot of big-portion
chain restaurants. Harold's tidy brick house is at the end
of the street, on a cul de sac, and it's easy to spot because
it's the only one not strewn with Christmas lights. I wear
a conservative outfit at his request, a tailored shirt and
pinstriped pants with my hair pulled back. Because I
heard he is skittish and his name is Harold, tonight I'm
feeling emboldened. The short cement walkway from the
driveway to the door has been shoveled clear with perfect
precision. Shades are drawn over every window. The door
knocker is the sharp-angled head of a watchful wolf. It's
heavy and cold in my hand as I strike the brass plate on
the door.

There are the muffled steps of stocking feet, a pause as
he examines me through the peephole—I smile—and
then the clicks of locks and chains being undone. The pale
face that appears in the door is strikingly rectangular,
accentuated by a boxy hairline and a deep side part.

“Yes?” he asks.

I can't tell if his slight accent is really British or some
affectation.

“I'm Roxanne,” I say, irritated that he hasn't immediately let me in from the winter night. The frosty wind nips
my ankles.

“Oh,” he says. “Yes.” The door is still only open a foot
or so. “I see. You'll have to take off your shoes out there,
I'm afraid.”

“Okay,” I say. The cement landing sends deadening
cold into my feet, and I stand like a flamingo trying to
keep one of them warm. “Uh, may I come in?”

“Yes, of course,” Harold says. He pauses before
opening the door to allow my passage. “Let me take your
coat.”

The house has a worn sterility to it: no books, no
magazines, no photographs, no tchotchkes. Nothing on
the surfaces, and nothing out of place. There is a shabby
institutional couch, its pillows perfectly aligned, an old
Zenith television, dust-free and reflecting the room like a
fishbowl, and a small black acrylic coffee table. The drab
loden-colored carpet is flat, as if it had been recently
shorn.

“Can I offer you some water?” he asks.

Harold stands with his hands on his thighs, leaning
forward like a butler ready to serve. The fleshy lobes of his
big ears, his ample nose, and his large, unruly hands seem
incongruous in the sparse room, and Harold himself
appears uncomfortable in his body.

“Yes, please,” I say. “If it's no trouble.”

I would guess from the lines on his face he is in his
mid-fifties, though his old cardigan, trousers, and slippers
give him a more elderly air.

As he shuffles off to the kitchen, I sit on the middle
cushion of the couch—my self-assuredness receding—
cross my legs, then uncross them, put my hands in my lap,
then lace my fingers, without the slightest idea of how to
act for this man.

“Your name again, miss?” he asks when he returns,
handing me a glass.

“Roxanne.”

“Well, Roxanne. I guess I'm supposed to pay you now,
is that it?”

I smile and look down at my lap. From an old billfold,
Harold pulls a stack of twenty-dollar bills; all facing the
same way, all seemingly ironed, and hands them to me
one at a time.

“You know I've never done this before,” he says.

“Well then, Harold. I'm the lucky one,” I say, trying
hard to sound genuine. “I get to take you on your maiden
voyage.”

After I call in, we sit side by side on the couch without
touching while I ask him questions about his job (bookkeeper for an accountant), if he's married (no), if he has
kids (no), where he's from (Pocatello, Idaho), about his
hobbies (jigsaw puzzles, crossword puzzles, birdwatching). I look for clues in his demeanor about what to
do next but he gives no hints, not even a raised eyebrow
or a suggestive narrowing of his eyes.

“So, Harold,” I say after fifteen minutes of polite chatting. I should just let the clock tick down but I feel like he's
paying me to take the lead. “What would you like for me
to do for you this evening?”

He squints and frowns, the parenthetical lines around
his mouth slacken, but then he turns to me with a
naughty grin.

“I've been so bad,” he says. “And I think it is now time
for my punishment.”

He must have been too timid to reveal this predilection on the phone or else Kendra would have sent him
S&M Samantha. Doing everything in my power to stifle a
smile that threatens to spring up, I stand with my hands
on my hips and act like I know exactly what I'm doing.

“Is it? Is it time?” he asks.

“Harold. Go to your room. Now.” I point out of the
living room. “I'll be back to deal with you in a minute.”

“Should I crawl?” he asks, looking up at me with a
demure downward tilt of his head.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course you should.”

In the kitchen I look for any nonlethal implements
that might be put to use—a wooden spoon, a meat tenderizer, a tray of ice cubes, a rolling pin, a ball of string. I
start laughing at my collection, and have to clear my
throat with vigor to stop before I reach the bedroom.

Harold has stripped to his boxers, undershirt, and
black socks, and he is on all fours on the floor at the foot
of the bed. My first reaction is not that he looks ridiculous—he does—but that he is a sad man. I unload the
kitchen utensils onto the bed; its threadbare quilt pulled
taut with angular, military-style corners. I opt for the
spoon, slapping it against my palm.

“Good boy, for doing as you were told. But that
doesn't mean you're off the hook,” I say.

I nudge down one side of his underwear, exposing the
almost translucent flesh of his left buttock cheek. I graze
the skin with my fingers before landing a light smack with
the wooden spoon. And again, harder, turning his pale
skin pink. Another crack of the spoon and a low, animallike moan escapes from him. The meat tenderizer proves
trickier, as it bounces off his butt. I order his shirt off and
drag the jagged head of the mallet against his back.

Harold says, “Oh, oh, oh,” with the slow rhythm of a
mantra, so I gather I'm doing what he wants. He doesn't
open his eyes or move away.

Before the ice melts on the bed, I take the tray and
hold it to the soles of his feet, for lack of any better idea,
and he starts and whimpers but I hold the ice steady,
amazed that he is paying me for this.

“I know I deserve it,” he says. “Make me pay. Make me
suffer.”

I pull his boxers down to his knees and slap him as
hard as I can muster, leaving my palm stinging. I slap him
again and again. His skin quivers with the blows. With
each hit I feel more in control and invigorated. Adrenaline
surges through my veins. It is as if a part of me has come
out of hibernation, and I welcome it.

“I want to see you crawl, Harold. Like the big baby
you are,” I say. “Crawl!”

He obeys, crawling on his hands and knees in a circle,
looking over his shoulder at me with that big, square face
of his, with the fear and bafflement of a toddler, and I
wonder if I'm damaging this man forever. He scoots
around the perimeter of the room and I use the spoon like
a riding crop each time he passes by. His knees are rugburned. His forehead is damp.

“Stop,” I shout. “Now go to the corner and don't move
until I say so.

Harold wedges himself against the corner walls, his
boxers tangled up around his knees. Red striations run
down the length of his back. I kneel behind him and rake
my fingernails across his shoulders.

“Don't you dare turn around,” I whisper. “I mean it.”

“I promise,” he says. His breathing is quick and rasping.

Just as I claw my nails into his skin, Harold ejaculates
onto the wall. And then I'm startled by the sight of tiny
droplets of blood beading up within the finger-wide
scratches on his back.

“Oh my god. I'm so sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean to
hurt you. Let me get something to clean you off.”

“It's okay,” Harold says. “Really.”

When the phone rings, I answer it.

“You have five minutes,” Kendra says.

By the time I hang up, Harold is zipping up his pants
and his countenance has regained its former imperviousness.

“Thank you,” he says, and extends his hand for me to
shake it.

“You're welcome,” I say, no longer in command, “I'm
sorry about…I hope it was enjoyable for you.”
“Yes,” he says, “quite.”

He pulls open his wallet and hands me a smooth
twenty. I feel bad taking more of his money but I know he
would feel worse if I tried to give it back. I want to ask him
what exactly he is paying me for, if it's the only way he can
find solace, if he's always been alone, where he finds joy, if
he feels worse now that it's over, if he thinks I pity him or
if he cares.