Pandora's Box Read online

  On her first evening at work, Victoria strode into the lounge where the women languished on mismatched furniture. Clutching an empty beaded purse that she prayed would be filled with money by the end of the shift, she smiled a greeting that no one bothered to return. Feeling conspicuous, Victoria looked around for a place to sit, but all the seats were taken.

  Kelly was sprawled on a dilapidated sofa. Pink-tinted hair hung in her face as she absently scratched at a sinister-looking tattoo on her upper arm.

  Chelsea, squeezed into a corner of the sofa, was bent over, polishing her toenails.

  Miquon sat slouched in a faded flower print chair with one hand stuck in large bag of jalapeno potato chips, her jaw working overtime.

  Before sitting on the loveseat that was patched up with duct tape, Arianna spread out a fluffy towel and placed a pricey tan Coach duffel bag on the cushion beside her. She opened The City Paper and folded it neatly to the Adult Entertainment section.

  Sydney milled about, primping in preparation of the evening ahead. She piled her clothing and other personal items on top of a vacant folding chair, claiming it.

  A television, elevated on orange crates, was positioned in the middle of the room. It was turned at an angle to accommodate everyone in the room, but hardly anyone was watching. While a few of the women passed the time passively, others fretted over what to wear, compulsively changing from one outfit to another.

  “Is it okay if I sit here?” Victoria asked Arianna. Clad in a black teddy, taken from her sparse lingerie collection at home, Victoria felt exposed.

  Arianna frowned and sighed before taking a portion of the newspaper and placing it on the scruffy, grayish-colored carpet. She yanked up the heavy leather bag and dropped it on the newspaper. It landed with a thud, which made Victoria flinch.

  Carefully avoiding Arianna’s towel, Victoria sat down. She glanced nervously at the faces in the room, hoping for a welcoming look. But her eyes met defiant stares, and so she fixed her gaze on the blurry image on the television screen.

  From snatches of conversations, Victoria concluded that someone who worked there, someone named Bethany, had been arrested after the suspicious death of her infant. Whether Bethany and her black boyfriend Fred were involved in the child’s death was the central theme for the entire shift.

  “I think Bethany and Fred were in there getting high and that poor baby’s little lungs just couldn’t take no more,” suggested Miquon.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Arianna said with a derisive laugh. “Bethany got high during her entire pregnancy and it should have been immune to any fumes in the air. If that were the case and it died from inhaling cocaine fumes, there wouldn’t be any physical evidence, now would there? Something else happened,” Arianna said. “And considering the lifestyle of those two low-lifes, I shudder to think what really took place.”

  “Wasn’t Bethany breastfeeding?” asked Kelly, raking through her colorful hair. Her ears, nose, tongue, navel, and brow were pierced; her entire body was splashed with tattoos.

  “Breastfeeding!” scoffed Arianna. “Well then, you have the answer. It starved to death!”

  The women in the room exchanged astonished glances.

  “Bethany pulled doubles and sometimes triples,” Arianna explained. “She practically lived here. When was she ever home to feed it? She left it and that other child in the care of Fred—a strung-out crackhead. And why did she work all those hours? For drug money, that’s why.”

  “That’s not true,” Chelsea said. “Bethany was working hard to get a bigger place for her family. Did you know that Bethany, Fred, and the two kids were living in a one-room studio apartment?”

  “Oh!” Arianna dragged out the word. “So she should be commended because she emerged from a drug-induced haze and realized that she and her sordid little family were living in substandard conditions? Two adults and two children require more than a room. They should have been arrested a long time ago for subjecting those kids to that. I’m not going to join you in the notion that poor Bethany was the perfect mother when we all know about her warped view of motherhood.”

  “Why are you being so disrespectful?” Chelsea pursed her lips. “And I wish you’d stop referring to Bethany’s baby as it!”

  “Did you forget about her other kids, the two that were molested by her last boyfriend? Those two were put in foster care, and Bethany seems to have forgotten about them. Instead of trying to reclaim her children, she simply replaced them with two more. Now, at her rapid rate of procreation, you can’t expect me to refer to her offspring by gender.”

  “But you should show some respect for Bethany’s son.”

  “Well he’s dead, so what difference does it make?”

  Chelsea sighed in exasperation.

  “I wonder why Bethany stopped talking about her other children?” Kelly inquired. “She used to buy them stuff and visit them in the foster home.”

  “I heard she signed them kids over, and they got adopted out to two different families,” Miquon offered, her lips curled in disapproval. “Bethany just surrendered her rights, and let them people legally adopt her kids. Now you know that’s a damn shame.”

  “Really?” Kelly sat up straight, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “Oh Jesus!” Arianna’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “I don’t feel like listening to another rehash of that old story.” She swept up the Coach duffel bag that had been displayed by her feet on the floor, gathered the newspaper, stuffed it into the bag, then rummaged through the bag and pulled out a bottle of Evian, a current edition of Elle magazine, and a pen. She buried her head in the magazine and turned the pages sharply.

  Snatching off the cap of the pen Arianna made huge check marks next to designer clothing and circled the location of the stores.

  As Arianna got up to go to the bathroom, she turned down the corner of a page and left the open magazine where she had been sitting. In the tension-filled room, stolen glances were directed at the creased page with the image of a brand new white Lexus.

  Among the women there was a solid belief in scarcity, a belief that there wasn’t enough to go around. Most of the women had experienced the ups and downs of the business of prostitution—the good days when the heavens smiled on one particular person, and the bad days when nothing worked for the same seemingly blessed one. To end a shift without breaking luck was everyone’s greatest fear. To leave Pandora’s empty-handed after sitting for seven or more hours was the worst thing that could happen.

  Arianna, it seemed, never experienced the ups and downs. Some believed that her insatiable desire for expensive, trendy objects, the latest, the newest—the best, caused her to take more than her share. The unspoken, shared sentiment was that Arianna’s constant craving was at the expense of everyone else. And no one in the room could afford for Arianna to buy a new Lexus.

  Victoria also saw the picture of the car. But unlike the others, she was not threatened. Richly clad with manicured nails and perfectly coifed hair, Arianna was the image of pampered self-indulgence. Though Victoria watched Arianna with a touch of envy, she felt optimistic that she too would reap financial rewards.

  At the sound of the doorbell, the women sprang instinctively from their seats and raced to the door. Feeling self-conscious and awkward, Victoria hung behind. When the door was opened, a swarthy, rather handsome man of Greek or Italian descent stood smiling in the lobby. The group of women did a rapid retreat and collided with the lagging Victoria.

  “What’s wrong?” Victoria asked.

  “He’s her regular,” Miquon responded, pointing to Kelly who had confidently remained standing in the doorway. “Damn foreigners love blondes,” Miquon complained.

  “She’s not blonde,” Victoria said.

  “Yeah, well, she used to be. He don’t even care how weird she look with that pink hair and all those tattoos and earrings. I bet her cooch is pierced too!” Miquon shook her head. “Junkie bitch!”

  By eleven that night, there were nine recor
ded sessions. Kelly and Arianna had four apiece, and a sulking Sydney had only one. The shift would end in another hour and those who hadn’t made any money were quiet and sullen.

  At eleven-fifteen the bell sounded. Arianna and Kelly shrieked with glee. They darted to the door ahead of the others, whose movements were slowed by their sagging spirits.

  Victoria remained seated. It was pointless to continue running to the door. The customers were assholes, and never had she seen such greedy, ruthless women. She hated them all. It irritated her no end to have to listen to her co-workers’ nonsensical conversations. Agitated and battered from being trampled over each time she scuffled to get to the lobby where unworthy men appraised the women, it occurred to Victoria that she should just get up and walk out the door.

  The tastes of the men who paid for sex baffled Victoria. With Arianna’s exotic beauty and the air of mystery that surrounded her, Victoria was not surprised that she was a favorite of the patrons. The customers’ attraction for Kelly, however, was puzzling. The woman was covered with hideous ink images: a cobra curled around her upper arm, a black panther ran the length of her left leg. In addition to a spider web and cross bones, there was a human skull on Kelly’s back.

  Victoria thought her decision to work in a massage parlor would assure her of a truckload of cash instead of the empty purse she’d been holding for over six long hours. She turned her attention to the antics at the door. She didn’t have a clear view but could tell that the man standing in the lobby was a young Caucasian. Despite the girls’ most provocative poses, and Kelly’s enthusiastic sales pitch, the man was indecisive.

  “Come on, Manny.” Chelsea’s megawatt smile didn’t persuade Manny.

  He had already been with her; he wasn’t interested. In fact, he’d been with all of them.

  Manny gave Chelsea a half-smile while making a continuing roving gaze over the nearly naked bodies that quivered with expectation before him.

  “What happened to that redhead that was here last week?” he asked.

  “We told you she don’t work here no more,” Miquon blurted. “Damn!”

  “We’re not sure if she’s coming back, so come on and try one of us?” Sydney tried a softer approach.

  “I’ve seen all of you; I wanted to try the redhead,” Manny whined.

  Feeling exasperated, Arianna threw up her hands and abruptly left the lobby.

  “You got any other new girls?”

  “No! Now pick one of us!” Miquon poked out her lips.

  Arianna joined Victoria in the lounge.

  “You should go out there,” Arianna suggested. “Manny only sees new girls.”

  Victoria was rooted to her seat, fearful of more rejection. “Yeah, but…” she stammered.

  “It’s up to you,” Arianna said, unsmiling. “I couldn’t care less.” She gave Victoria her back and continued flipping through the pages of the magazine.

  Victoria sat in stunned silence; Arianna had dismissed her! Astonishment progressed to indignation. Fueled by anger, Victoria jumped up. Swinging her hips, she strutted from the lounge and joined the others in the doorway.

  Inspired by the sudden realization that her time had finally come, Victoria became coquettish. “Hi, my name is Pleasure,” she said, liking the sound of her new name. Would you like to see me?” She turned around slowly, teasingly, providing Manny with a full view of her lean, toned body.

  “I sure would!” Manny replied.

  With her heart quaking, Victoria had entered the room where Manny waited. Friendly and talkative, Manny put her at ease. Seeming to expect Victoria to be flattered, he talked about his weakness for women of a darker persuasion for at least twenty minutes. Ordinarily, before Pandora’s, she would have been insulted by this admission.

  But in the surreal surrounding of the session room, practically anything was permissible.

  Time passed quickly while Manny chattered incessantly. Not anxious to do the dirty deed, Victoria listened intently, as though the drivel that fell from his lips were pearls of wisdom. Her heart sank, when in mid-sentence, he swiftly stripped down to his briefs.

  Trembling hands tore open the condom package. Victoria chewed her bottom lip as Manny came out of his briefs, then she gasped. Manny had the smallest, pinkest, most non-threatening penis she’d ever seen.

  “It’ll get hard if you play with my nipples,” Manny stated, suddenly blunt.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Pinch them,” he demanded as he climbed on the bed. Lying prone, he motioned Victoria to straddle him.

  Without bothering to undress, she straddled him and began to apply light pressure to his pale nipples.

  “Harder!”

  Victoria twisted and turned the hard knots as if they were miniature doorknobs that refused to open.

  “Show me your pussy, you cunt!” Manny snarled.

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. The little white twerp did not just call her a cunt! But it was okay, she told herself. They were only role-playing. Victoria instantly made the mental adjustments and pulled the flimsy material of her panties to the side, revealing her dark, bushy pubis.

  Manny grunted in what Victoria assumed was ecstasy. She felt something brush against her butt. He had an erection. His not quite throbbing, more like shivering, little penis had managed to stand straight up; it fluttered against her backside. Propping up his head with a pillow, without warning, he pulled Victoria forward; his tongue, cold and clammy struck like a snake. Victoria tensed, her thoughts swirled: Was it safe to let him do that? Could she catch something? Before she could organize her thoughts, Manny moaned. Instinctively, Victoria pulled away. Bucking and thrusting into the air, he exploded.

  Victoria bolted for the restroom to wash off. There had been no penetration, but his tongue had touched hers and she felt defiled.

  Victoria was able to pay her son’s babysitter and buy a few groceries with the fifty dollars she earned from her debut at Pandora’s Box.

  Charmaine, a neighbor with a son Jordan’s age, had agreed to keep him overnight. Victoria felt lucky to find someone who was tolerant of her odd hours and didn’t press when she provided only vague information about her job.

  “Leave me a telephone number in case of an emergency,” Charmaine had requested.

  “Oh! Well, it’s hard to reach me. I’m going to get a pager, okay?”

  Victoria earned one hundred and fifty dollars on the second night. She bought a pager, called a laundry service that picked up and returned six bags of laundry, bought more groceries, and treated Jordan to lunch at McDonald’s.

  Sleeping over at his friend Stevie’s house was exciting. Luckily, Jordan was too young to understand or question the change in his routine.

  Other than the few material comforts, there was no evidence that two immoral nights had passed. Perhaps there’d be posttraumatic episodes later. Though she did not have a puritanical concept of morality, Victoria never thought she’d compromise her values—values instilled by Nana. Now that she had, surprisingly, nothing had changed. Nothing perceptible, at least. She had assumed with ease a decadent role in a lifestyle that she thoroughly disapproved of, and was exhilarated by it.

  The next day felt a lot like Christmas. Victoria had two customers. A refined man with a New England accent, who claimed to be a college professor, was her first customer. Victoria had no reason to doubt him. With the exception of having to dodge his wet kisses as he declared love and adoration, he was extremely polite and easy to please. As he prepared to leave, the professor embraced Victoria and slipped her an additional fifty dollars. He told her that he’d be back to see her the next week. When his lips sought hers, she acquiesced. The kiss made her flesh crawl, butif it ensured his business on a regular basis, she could endure the brief discomfort.

  Her second customer, Ted, was an awkward sandy-colored black guy in his late twenties. His light brown hair was wiry and seemed to bend every which-a-way, hazel eyes squinted behind thick glasses and outdated,
ill-fitting clothing gave Ted the appearance of someone who was unstable, apt to do most anything.

  It turned out that Ted was quite nice, seemingly sane and another talker. His wife, he confided, had had her tubes tied after their second child was born. Their sex life had diminished after the operation. Despite the fact that their second child was two-and-a-half, Ted chose to believe that his wife’s limp libido was related to the operation and was simply a temporary condition. One look at his boxy physique, and his spindly legs sticking out of dingy, boxer shorts and Victoria couldn’t blame Ted’s wife for pleading failed health or any other lame excuse that would keep him at a distance.

  “You’re pretty,” Ted said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I better watch out. You could be dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?” Victoria feigned wide-eyed innocence.

  “You could make me fall in love.”

  Victoria suppressed a groan.

  Ted handed her a twenty-dollar tip, and Victoria tried her best to look excited by the possibility of winning Ted’s love.

  CHAPTER 3

  With ripping speed, Rover vacated the premises when the shift ended at midnight. The scent of the cologne he wore lingered long after he’d gone. His favorite waitress at the diner was leaving work early and needed a ride home. Perhaps she’d invite him in for coffee or just to talk. He hoped to get lucky and end up beside her in bed.

  Dominique blew in five minutes later, clutching a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. She was bundled from head to toe in heavy winter regalia and didn’t make much of a fashion statement. Incongruous with her professional appearance, her look was frumpy, homespun.