Spent (10 page)

23

A
t Polk Inn there
was no such thing as a normal shift. There were times that “normal” included all hell breaking loose. I clocked in one Thursday to learn that Allesandra had been killed in a knife fight, out in the street, and Revo had disappeared. Luca had OD'd, and Heather was in the hospital in labor. Sometimes life and death would cozy up beside each other. This all during the same day I was reprimanded for allowing Armando to get anywhere near scissors. “They could cut themselves on the edges of those water bottles,” my manager said. He was right, but I didn't feel remorse. I thought it was good for Armando to do something thoughtful, and we shared a love of lilies.

I walked into the kitchen, which is the first thing I do when I need a reset. I stood in the chilly glow of the fridge and considered my options. I swiped a Capri Sun and sucked the wet sugar from the spindly straw. It was eerily quiet under the florescent kitchen lights. Charlie rushed out the front door in a denim miniskirt and spike heels with a little wave. I ordered Domino's pizza in case some clients showed up for dinner. I heard loud music blaring from upstairs. It was Armando's room, so I grabbed his meds from the office and knocked on his door.

“Can you turn that down?” He opened his door a couple inches.

“Why? No one's here.”

“I'm trying to order us pizza.” His eyes were two black holes.

“I'm not hungry.” I handed him his meds. He shook his head then shut the door in my face. I ducked into the RA office and wrote in the binder:

“Armando was asked to turn his music down. Refused his HIV and psych meds.”

Downstairs, I gorged on three pieces of drippy pepperoni pizza and replayed the night with the client I'd decided to meet. I was shocked at how easily I'd crossed the line from dancer to hooker. I grasped for excuses but was disgusted with myself. Had the street economy invaded my skin? Why lunge deeper into sex work while trying to distance myself from it?

I used my red key to open an empty client apartment and locked myself in the bathroom. I stuck my finger down my throat and puked. I wanted to sit in the dark and blast music, rock back and forth in my own emptiness. Rock my emptiness to sleep.

Armando's music played louder and louder.

“Goddamn it,” I mumbled. I walked down the hall and banged on his door. He didn't open it.

“Armando!” I kept knocking. Louder.

“I'm coming in, Armando.” I unlocked his door and, noticing my key chain still had some puke on it, wiped it on my jeans. The door was heavy because he'd used a bookshelf to blockade it. I pushed my whole body against it, sliding the bookshelf towards the wall. Armando stood holding a wooden bat in his arms. His head was cut and blood dripped down into his perfectly tweezed black eyebrows. Blood was splattered on his hands and shirt. His eyes were fierce and lacked any of the softness from the day we'd arranged the lilies. His gaze was ecstatic and free, like an angel floating in cool moonlight.

“I'm okay,” he said.

He let the bloody bat drop, and it landed with a thunk. Both of us froze, standing in the dark room with his blood under our feet. White lilies drooped pitifully on a wooden bedside table. My manager had confiscated the water bottle.

“I'm okay,” he said again in a raspy whisper. We glowed in the dark. I backed away, stepped into the hall, and called my manager. Armando's door slammed shut.

“Call nine-one-one,” my manager said. I didn't want to. I didn't want Armando to go anywhere. I wanted to throw a blanket over him and pat him on the head and hand him a sack lunch and a movie pass. Within a few moments that could've been thirty seconds or a half-hour, the door buzzed.

Outside, the ghetto blaster guy was still swaying to rap music. Behind him were six men in black helmets and kneepads. I'd never seen them before: the SWAT team. They wrapped Armando up and carried him away on a stretcher. His expression seemed to ask me,
Why
?

24

R
ed past-due notices piled
up as my bills went unpaid. I was behind on rent and had exhausted my list of people to touch for a loan. So it wasn't long—in fact it was soon—before I was back moonlighting in the Tenderloin clubs, trying to make some dough, to get my head above water, to breathe. I reasoned with myself, told myself that I was adding something to my clients' lives in both places. Or at least that I wasn't causing them more harm. I told myself that I catered to the needs of somewhat helpless people. Call it denial, call it a girl making a living, or trying to. I hadn't completely separated myself from sex work, and I was used to the sexual validation. Without it, I didn't know myself. I wondered what it would take to disentangle, to totally leave sex work behind.

A few weeks after Armando cut himself, I rode my motorcycle a couple blocks up to O'Farrell on the wet cold night where I was stripping at New Century Theater till 4:00
a.m.

New Century was empty except for a few coked up firemen. They weren't supposed to be there, but everyone knew they bought their powders from Carla. They did blow in the bathroom and leaned against the walls of the club. Sometimes I'd talk to one of them, but I couldn't waste too much time flirting—I needed money to pour, not trickle, in. When the DJ called my name to dance onstage I was about to give up and go home. “I'm leaving after this set,” I told him as my first song by Danzig started. A tall, fat guy in a suit and tie walked up to the stage with a pink drink in one hand and a twenty spot in the other. He threw it onstage and staggered away. I removed my bikini top and tossed it onto the floor. After my third song, I walked over to him and his friends.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” I said.

“I wouldn't call that dressed up,” he said pointing to his lap. I sat down there, and his friends roared.

“I'm Stevie,” I said. My lips touched his ear lobe. The music was so loud I felt the bass vibrate my tailbone.

“Do you want to make some money tonight or what?” He flashed a tennis ball-sized chunk of hundreds—enough to pay my rent, buy groceries, gas, maybe some new lingerie. “I'm Rob,” he said, then told me he was one of the founders of one of the biggest magazines in the country. I talked him into a dance, and the suits egged him on with high fives. He took my hand and they patted him on the back—universal reactions when a guy agrees to a dance, at least in any club I ever worked in. Rob followed me down a glowing hallway that led to a private room with an Egyptian theme, paintings of scarabs and pyramids reminded me of lost civilizations and strong women like Nefertiti and Cleopatra. I was sweaty from my stage show. I sat down on the black vinyl couch seat. My thighs stuck to it. The song started so I draped over him in slow motion. “I've been looking for someone to pay,” he said.

“Well, luckily, I showed up for work today,” I said. He handed me two hundred dollars and gave me a card with his phone number and email address.

“I mean, outside of here,” he said.

Oh shit
, I thought. This would mean more than a handjob. This would mean crossing another line. I was supposed to be stronger than that. I was supposed to be a role model. My managers at the Polk Inn would call this “acting out.”

That was a lot of money, I reasoned. I could just meet Rob for dinner. Lots of girls met regulars outside of the club. I gave him my number.

“I know a great place for dinner. Call me.” When he called, a couple of days later, I'd already forgotten about him.

“Do you like sushi?” he asked.

“Love it,” I said.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” he asked.

“PJ Harvey, Tricky. Nick Cave,” I offered. Was this an invitation for a rock concert or a blowjob? I started to wish I hadn't given him my phone number.
I've never met a client for dinner
.
Why am I going to now
? The silence was sticky and my right hand was trembling as I turned on the stove to heat water in my red teapot.

“They have terrific tuna tartare at Asia de Cuba. Meet me there Friday at six,” he said. I hoped he didn't think this was a freebie. Guys always think dancers will date them for free. I'll talk to a guy in the club for a half hour and suddenly I'm their girlfriend. Sometimes they'll send flowers to the club with notes like, “Don't forget to call me, Stevie.”

“What time?” I said.

“Will you do full service?” he asked. I was quiet for a moment in my red kitchen with its silky blue curtains. The silver teakettle I purchased at a junk shop in the Mission whistled. My black and white tile floor was dusty. I wiped a drop of goop, probably honey, off the floor with a sponge.
What was the question again? Right. Would I fuck him for money? It would be more than I was making in the club and it would take less time. Should I be talking about this on the phone? Was he a cop?

“Okay,” I said. I poured hot water into my favorite red mug, watched the bergamot tea bag steam, and felt the warmth of it on my face. “Yeah.” Just like that.

“How much?” he asked.

Start high, I thought.

“A thousand, I guess,” I said, taking a stab in the dark.

“I was hoping for eight hundred, but I won't haggle with you.”

If dinner was a hundred fifty bucks, eight seemed fair.

“Okay, eight,” I said and wondered if I would be expected to do oral.
If so, for how long
?
How many positions would be expected for eight hundred dollars and whom could I ask
?
No one. I was too ashamed to ask anyone.
Would he have condoms
?

The night I met
Rob for our eight hundred dollar date, I had been hanging out at my new AA sponsor's house in Noe Valley. I missed Jessa, who I hadn't heard from since she swallowed a bunch of pills and took off to Morocco. I wondered how she was doing and worried about her, too. I even prayed a couple of times. When I mentioned stripping to my new sponsor, she tightened her hands around a mug of coffee, slid it closer to her chest and said, “You owe all of the wives and girlfriends amends for helping their men cheat.” I didn't mention my plans to meet Rob. I was going from stripper to hooker without much hesitation, and my secret scratched at my insides during the cab ride towards the hotel.

It was a cold San Francisco night, and the fog unraveled like a soft ribbon over prim Victorian homes. Inside the lobby, there was a giant fireplace and a hot pink chair that looked like a prop from the set of
Alice in Wonderland
. There were digital interactive portraits on the walls that blinked and changed expressions when you looked at them for more than a half-second. I recognized Rob at the bar. He was sipping an orange cocktail and pointed to a glass of water in front of him. “This is for you.” I gave him a we-are-not-total-strangers kiss and sat down beside him on a wooden stool.

“We're on a waiting list for a table,” he said and glanced at an expensive watch. I didn't know what to wear for a paid date. There's no brochure to consult. I didn't want to look cheap, so I chose a coffee brown top that hugged my cleavage and black cigarette pants. I should have worn a dress, gone for a more professional appeal. I regretted carrying my big bottle of water into the hotel. I set it on the floor.

“You look sweet,” Rob said. Three pretty girls stood nearby in skirts scrolling through their cell phones. I reminded myself that I wanted one.

A few sips of sparkling water later, my head started to float above my body, and I felt warm and syrupy. The glass in my hand tipped sideways, spilling some water on the bar. I laughed and reached for napkins. “What did you tip that bartender?” I said. I moved off the stool and grabbed the bar. The music pulsed, and I shivered from a sudden chill. The bartender was at the other end with his back to me, talking to a girl in a black tube dress.

Rob's grin became long rabbit teeth encased in wax. His lips were wet with words that made no sense. Conversations garbled around me, and the music circled my face like smoke. I thought about yelling, but no sound came out. The girls chatting nearby turned into mannequin-goblins.

“I want to make you do things,” Rob said. His words came from land, but I was underwater. His eyes were white glossy eggs. There was a terrible cackle.

“Bathroom. Be right back,” I said. The digital portraits mocked me all the way to the lobby. My legs went rubber, and my feet were full of helium. The scenery blurred: fuzzy, swimming bodies in a Roadrunner cartoon. I found the restroom and lunged towards the mirror. My pupils pulsed from small to large like they had acquired a heartbeat in my absence.

My head was intact. I touched my neck to make sure, then placed my palms on the cold walls. In the mirror, my cheeks drooped.

In the mirror, I whispered, “You will eat. You will act normal. You will take his money. When this is over, you will buy a cell phone.”

I walked back to the bar where Rob waited.

“Hey, cutie. Our table's ready.”

“Great,” I said.
Motherfucker
, I thought.

The waiter pulled my chair out, and I sank down. I flirted and giggled on cue and asked Rob, “Is that Polo by Ralph Lauren you're wearing?” I devoured crab cakes and quesadillas and lettuce leaves doused in citrus oil. “You've got a great appetite down here. I hope you do upstairs,” he said. The waiter appeared with ice water in a dainty glass.

“Can I have a large bottle of carbonated water instead?” I decided the waiter and I had a telepathic understanding. I winked at him. He knew what was happening and was waiting for my signal to call the cops. Undercover vice would arrive and haul Rob off in handcuffs. He would be the one trapped. The waiter and I would instantly fall in love and would leave this hotel and decorate our flat with hot pink love seats and ivory curtain sets from Bed Bath & Beyond.

We skipped dessert, and Rob paid the bill. He led me into an elevator. It stopped at the eleventh floor, but no one noticed us, and no cops came.

In his suite, everything was virginal: white comforter, white curtains, white walls and candles. I watched him undress. Rob was pushing three hundred pounds. In more svelte years he'd been a football player. Rolls of fat spilled out of his waist now: years of tacos and crème brûlée at the executive desk of his fashionable magazine empire. He unbuttoned his shirt with thick fingers. I smelled pork and garlic. He was a powerful man. I thought of my AA sponsor.
Which lie did Rob tell his wife
?
Was he in Chicago giving a talk or at the gym with his trainer
? He took stiff bills from his wallet and placed them under a metal lamp, then laid down on the white bed.

“Join me?”

I took off my clothes and climbed on top of him. We were in golden candlelight, and the quiet room was dim and holy. I used my teeth to rip open a condom and studied it. I found his cock under soft flesh and slid the condom in place. His smile was greasy, and the room smelled like jasmine. I felt numb, as if he was fucking a postcard of my pussy. The white sheets got wrinkled and he finished.

I stood up, took the money and my clothes, and walked into the bathroom, a small box with sharp white angles. I counted eight hundred bucks and threw up in the toilet, coughing to hide the sound. I wiped my mouth and slipped the bills into my jacket pocket. I tore the ribbon from the tiny soap and washed my hands with lavender suds. I got dressed then waved goodbye from the door. He was snoring.

Outside, heavy mist dropped onto my bare shoulders. I hailed cab after cab until finally one stopped. I rolled down the window and inhaled the cold air, letting the cold wind smack my face. I was ashamed. I'd have to change my sobriety date if I told my sponsor. I watched two men in front of a liquor store carrying someone strapped to a gurney. I dug my fingernails into my thigh until they left a set of white, crescent moon marks.