Pandora's Box

by Allison Hobbs

  The midnight shift was rarely busy on weeknights, though on the weekends the customers came in droves. But it was only Tuesday and there was just a skeleton crew. Only Dominique and Reds were scheduled to work.

  Reds had come to work a half-hour early and had quickly changed into a daring halter gown. A push-up bra elevated her sagging bust line, creating cleavage and the impression of an ample bosom. Though enticing, the long gown concealed flabby thighs, saddlebag hips, and a protruding gut. A shock of frizzy hair was brushed tame, styled and in place, and her make-up, heavily applied, was complete.

  Reds came to work early to snag any customers who happened to call amid the pandemonium that occurred during the change of shift. At that time, the women who had just arrived were busy preparing for the night ahead. They changed from street clothes to work attire, applied make-up, fixed hair, and hardly any of the women were in any state worthy of exhibit at the front door. Therefore, customers who were unwilling to sit unattended in the cold, brightly lit lobby would grudgingly agree to a session with Reds.

  High yellow with a wild mane of flaming hair, Reds had commanded top dollar in her day. But time and booze, the diabolic duo, had wreaked havoc on her figure, and though her face was still pretty, her fair skin was now beginning to crack. Reds had to constantly devise new ways to coax the clientele into a session with her.

  “What’s Sheena doing here?” Dominique asked, referring to a frail figure asleep on the sofa.

  “Don’t ask me. She was knocked out when I got here,” Reds answered.

  “Did Rover straighten up the rooms?” Dominique inquired.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t check.” Reds responded absently. She had gotten a whiff of Dominique’s coffee and was debating ordering some from the all-night deli on Sansom Street, but remembering the two-dollar delivery charge, she changed her mind. Having sat without a customer for two days in a row, Reds didn’t have a dollar to spare. She opted for a cigarette instead. Dominique carelessly hung her hat, coat, and scarf on a wobbly coat rack and marched up the hall to inspect the rooms. Eager for the excitement of Dominique’s reaction if the rooms hadn’t been cleaned, Reds trailed behind.

  The two women peeked in the first session room and frowned. Rover had obviously thrown the room together haphazardly. Bits of tissues and other debris were scattered on the floor, evidence of slipshod vacuuming. Though both the ashtray and the waste can had been emptied, the ashtray hadn’t been wiped clean and the waste can needed a fresh plastic liner. The bed, made hastily with crumpled linen, added to the unkempt appearance of the room.

  “Did you hear about Bethany? She was trippin’ so bad they had to put her away!” Dominique exclaimed to Reds as she smoothed out the sheet and rearranged the towel.

  “Put away?” Reds asked. Feeling exhilarated by the possibility of new gossip, she retrieved a cigarette and lit up. “I thought Bethany and Fred got released after they took ’em in for questioning.”

  “Fred’s out, but they put Bethany in a loony bin.”

  “For real? Who told you?”

  “Gabrielle. But check this out…just before she snapped the fuck out, Bethany told the cops that the baby was alive when she got home from work. Well naturally they asked her where she worked…” Dominique scowled as she detected grimy smudges on the containers of massage essentials. “And that dumb ass told ’em she worked at Pandora’s Box!” She wiped off the bottles of baby oil and lotion with tissues yanked from a cheap store-brand box. “The cops called to verify her employment.”

  “Why the hell would she tell them where she works?” Reds asked. “It’s not as if this is a legal business with taxes and shit coming out of our pay. We damn sure don’t need the IRS snooping around here. Bethany’s so damn stupid.” Reds paused, shaking her head. “Gabrielle must be pissed!”

  “She’s beyond pissed. I had to listen to that hoe rant and rave about being raided and being shut down.”

  Reds snickered at the irreverence. She knew Gabrielle would not take too kindly to being called a hoe.

  “She bitched about everything—how she’s not making money like she used to…. And guess which shift is to blame?”

  “Midnight, of course,” Reds chimed in, tightening her lips as she rolled her eyes.

  “She wanted to know how many sessions we had last night. You should have heard how that bitch went off when I told her we only had two. She cussed me out, like I’m the one responsible; like I block the door and refuse to let the customers in.”

  Reds shook her head in disbelief.

  “Now she’s talking about putting some new black chick on our schedule. Said the girl has customers lined up at the door.”

  “Well, if she’s such a moneymaker, why does Gabrielle want to change her shift?”

  “How do I know? She’s supposed to be real pretty with a lot of class, and Gabrielle emphasized the word class, like we ain’t got none.”

  Reds thought for a moment as she studied her nails. At first she felt hurt, slighted by Gabrielle’s words. Then irritation washed over her. “Gabrielle should realize that it don’t matter who she puts on this shift. Classy or not, the fact is…customers don’t come out late at night during the week. She should be grateful that we’re willing to hold down the fort, none of the other girls would have the patience to sit through this shit.” Reds looked down at the floor, and frowned at sprinkles of powder that Rover had failed to vacuum. ”Everybody wants to work the midnight shift on the weekend. And that’s the time we should be reaping the benefits of sitting in here all week. But nooo! We have to share the wealth with all them greedy bitches from the other shifts.”

  Reds started pacing. Dominique eyed her curiously. It wasn’t like Reds to get so worked up.

  “Gabrielle ain’t got no kind of loyalty,” Reds continued the tirade. “We been making money for her for four years! Now she wants us to work with some siddity new bitch who’s gonna cut into the little bit of money that does come our way.” Reds took one long, last puff before snuffing out the cigarette in the glass ashtray Dominique had just sprayed with disinfectant and wiped clean.

  Without a word, Dominique emptied the ashes. Then, changing the subject, Dominique said, “I still can’t understand why Bethany would draw attention to us like that. Do you think she deliberately tried to get us busted? Think about it…the night the baby died, Bethany left work broke and mad as hell.”

  “Naw, I don’t think Bethany would deliberately try to get the place raided,” Reds said, suddenly calm, as she followed Dominique to the second session room. “She needs Pandora’s as much as we do. Believe me, Bethany will be back. As soon as she pulls herself together, she’ll be back—trickin’ like the rest of us. Where else she gonna go?”

  Dominique didn’t answer.

  “Is Fred gonna take care of the baby’s funeral?” Reds inquired.

  “I doubt it. I don’t know what’s going to happen with the funeral. Gabrielle is going to let us know when she gets some more information.”

  A worried look crossed Reds’ face. “We ain’t been busted in years. I don’t know…Bethany runnin’ off at the mouth and all…” Reds shook her head. “I sure hope nothing happens.”

  “If the money was still as good as good as it usta be, I could stand a couple of raids,” Dominique said playfully. The two veterans slapped hands and laughed heartily.

  “Remember how we used to spend one-hundred dollar bills like they was ones?” Red said, grinning as she recalled more prosperous times.

  “No, Reds,” Dominique said with an edge to her voice. “You used to spend money like that. My black ass wasn’t in demand, but I knew how to stretch a dollar—still do.”

  Dominique’s meaning wasn’t lost on Reds. Reds was painfully aware that now the tables had turned. Through no effort of her own, thirty-six years old Dominique still had a beautiful body. Blessed with good genes, she didn’t work out and didn’t know or care about the nutritional value of the food she ate. Tall, lean and muscular, Domin
ique was an imposing figure. Her short hair was permed bone straight and slicked back. She was dark with strong masculine features. Dominique made a living, albeit, a modest one, from a clientele that was exclusively masochistic, Caucasian men. Reds, on the other hand, could barely make ends meet.

  At the sound of the doorbell Dominique and Reds both hurried down the hall. Dominique was still wearing her street clothes. It didn’t matter; she’d change later. Rules were relaxed, broken on the midnight shift.

  “Get up, Sheena. Someone’s at the door,” Dominique yelled to Sheena as she passed the lounge.

  Sheena stirred, but didn’t get up.

  Without so much as a glance at Sheena, Reds threw open the door and to her dismay, it was Miquon pushing past her, with a beat up canvas workbag.

  “What are you doing here?” Dominique asked, one hand on her hip. “You’re not on the schedule.”

  “I know I’m not on the schedule, it’s my day off. Gabrielle said I could come in to make some extra money.”

  “She didn’t mention your name when I talked to her this morning.”

  The sight of Sheena stopped Miquon. She rolled her eyes dramatically before flopping down on dilapidated flowery chair.

  “Yeah, well, I guess Gabrielle don’t tell you everything!” Miquon exclaimed as she rifled through her workbag.

  Dominique and Reds exchanged worried glances. Miquon would not be regarded as competition on the other two shifts, but after midnight there was no set standards, the most bizarre and outlandish could be queen of the night.

  “Why didn’t she just let you work your own shift?”

  “Because she realized that this shift needed some flava!” Emphasizing her point, Miquon snapped her fingers and twisted her neck.

  Miquon shot an angry glance at Sheena, who had begun to snore loudly. “I see Sheena’s gittin’ her nod on—as usual. I’m damn sure the customers get sick of coming here and seeing just the two of you. And every now and then y’all throw Sheena up in the mix. What a selection! That’s why y’all be havin’ so many walk-outs on this shift.”

  Reds felt a twinge.

  “What walk-outs? You don’t know nothin’ about this shift,” Dominique snapped.

  “I know y’all be having just two or three customers written up on the sheet for the whole, entire night. Now that’s crazy. So if they ain’t walkin’ out, then y’all must be pocketing the money!”

  Reds lowered her eyes guiltily toward the floor. She didn’t think that the money Dominique sometimes let her keep would ever be noticed; it wasn’t that much, anyway.

  But Reds couldn’t speak for Dominique; she had no idea how much session money Dominique skimmed off the top.

  “Look at her!” Miquon pointed to Sheena’s prone body. “She’s knocked out and she ain’t waking up no time soon. Sheena just uses this place as a crash spot. The dope man won’t let her hit the pipe when her money runs out, so she comes here. She ain’t bringing in no money so I don’t know why Gabrielle don’t just get rid of her sorry ass.”

  “Gabrielle and Sheena go way back. Reds and me knew her back when she first came out, didn’t we Reds?”

  “Uh huh. When I met Sheena, she was only about fifteen or sixteen. She was ’bout as country as they come. Sheena’s from Georgia, right?” she asked Dominique.

  “No. Alabama.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. Birmingham. Sheena was one of those big ol’ corn-fed country girls,” Reds reminisced, smiling. “I know it’s hard to believe, but once upon a time, Sheena was built like a brick shithouse.”

  “Brick shithouse,” Miquon mimicked. “I forget how old y’all asses are until you start talkin’ like that.”

  “Anyway,” Dominique interrupted, glaring at Miquon as she put on a black latex two-piece. “Gabrielle looks out for Sheena. She’ll always have a home at Pandora’s Box.”

  Reds recalled how, as a young girl, Sheena had been wild and fun loving. But Sheena had been smoking crack now for at least five years, and the drug had ravished her body, destroyed her soul. A vacant gaze had replaced the light that had once brightened

  Sheena’s eyes. Reds doubted if the bedraggled creature curled up on the sofa would ever find the strength to reclaim her life.

  Most girls in the business offset the pressures with alcohol or drugs in some form or another. Reds was no exception; drunken binges masked her pain. But nothing that Reds was aware of—not even heroin—had the devastating effect of crack. Hit with waves of sudden and overwhelming sorrow—sorrow for herself as well as for Sheena, Reds grew listless.

  “If Gabrielle wants to turn this place into a damn shelter, that’s on her,” Miquon exclaimed. “I’m here to get mine; I’m not worrying about Gabrielle, Sheena or nobody else.”

  In a flash, Miquon was out of her street clothes and naked, boldly revealing rolls of flab and stretch marks. Her discolored, ample derriere was riddled with unsightly dents from cellulite. Both Reds and Dominique turned their heads in disgust.

  Miquon pulled a white lace teddy from her bag. Still perturbed by the exchange with Dominique, she grumbled to herself as she struggled to get into the too small outfit, The front of the teddy did not cover Miquon’s protruding stomach as it was meant to. Instead, it gathered in the middle, exposing part of her pubis and revealed her hanging lower abdomen. When asked why she would wear such an unflattering outfit, Miquon responded, “Ain’t no shame in my game, I wear whatever I want!”

  As Miquon rubbed the ash from her body with gobs of Vaseline, the doorbell rang. Looking like an ill-tempered rhino with one ashy leg, Miquon stomped ahead of Dominique and Reds. No one attempted to awaken Sheena.

  A chunky white guy wearing a green Eagles parka eyed the women suspiciously. His face was blotched and red from the cold.

  “Have you been here before?” Miquon inquired.

  “No,” he said. His eyes quickly roamed over the three women before resting on one of the signs on the wall.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Reds threw back her hair and puckered her lips.

  “Uh, it’s uh, Bob. Where are the other girls? That sign says I get a choice of twenty-five-where ya hiding the other twenty-two?” He snickered.

  “We have twenty-five girls spread out on three different shifts,” Dominique interjected. “Just the three of us tonight. So come on and try some hot chocolate. I’ll warm you up,” she said, soothingly.

  Bob smiled indulgently, and then said, “No offense to you’s, but are there any white girls working tonight?” He didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but he wasn’t into black chicks.

  “She said it was just us three. Do you see any damn white girls,” Miquon flared up.

  A deeper shade of red covered Bob’s face.

  “We’re all the same in the dark, baby,” Dominique said playfully, defusing the situation. “Just close your eyes and pretend I’m a white girl.”

  Bob shifted uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think so…”

  “Come on, baby. Let me take care of you,” Dominique cajoled. “We’ll start with a massage, then we’ll…” She rubbed her hands over the length of her body and stopped at her crotch, moving her fingers in a circular motion.

  “What the hell,” Bob said, blushing with resignation. “I’ll stay.”

  “Who do you want to see?” Reds figured he wanted to see Dominique, but one could hope.

  “Her,” he said, pointing to Dominique. Dominique offered a smile.

  Reds shrugged her shoulders, and joined Miquon, who trudged back into the lounge, muttering, “I can see this shit is going to get on my nerves. Y’all bitches is too foul for me.”

  “You’re getting on my nerves!” Reds snapped back. “Why do you have to be so loud and crude?”

  “What do you expect me to do? I get tired of these racist motherfuckers axing for white girls all the time.” Miquon slumped down on the sofa where Sheena was still sprawled out.

  “Move over, Sheena,” Miquon grumbled. “You takin’ up the who
le damn couch.” She scooted over, using her butt to push Sheena out of the way. Sheena snored louder.

  “You’re crazy, Miquon! A trick can spend his money any way he wants. A good hoe should be able to convince him to choose her. That’s what Dominique just did! You need to stop complaining and start taking lessons from the pros.”

  Miquon waved Reds away. “I didn’t know I had to convince him by rubbing on my tits and playing with my coochie. Y’all too slimy for me. We don’t roll like that on the second shift.”

  Reds pointed to Miquon’s groin. “Look at the way your stuff is hanging out, you can’t talk.”

  Surprised, Miquon attempted to cover her pubic area.

  Not one to carry a grudge, Reds felt better after putting Miquon in her place.

  “We heard there’s a new black girl on the second shift…” The statement hung in the air. Miquon ignored Reds.

  “What does she look like? Come on, Miquon. You know you want to tell me,” Reds teased.

  Miquon sucked her teeth, and then acquiesced. “She looks all right. Brown skin, nice shape. But, I don’t like her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She puts on airs.”

  “Sounds like another stuck-up Arianna,” Reds cut in, and then leaned back in the chair with her arms folded, nodding sagely.

  “No, she ain’t that bad. Ain’t nobody as conceited as Arianna. I wonder why all those uppity bitches wanna work here, anyway?”

  Miquon waited for Reds to respond, and then she began tearing off the wrapper of a Snickers candy bar. Miquon sank her teeth into the gooey chocolate and closed her eyes blissfully.

  “What’s the new girl’s name?”

  “Her name is Pleasure,” Miquon answered, perturbed. “Anything else?”

  Reds shook her head no. Then for lack of anything better to do, Reds craned her neck to look at the front of a magazine that was lying on Miquon’s workbag. Reds didn’t recognize the pretty young black woman on the cover, who posed in a form fitting, cut to the crotch dress. The woman was someone in the entertainment business, but Reds wasn’t sure if she was a singer, actress, or rapper. And not knowing was another reminder of the age disparity between herself and most of her young co-workers.