Pandora's Box

by Allison Hobbs

  “I tried, but he grabbed me.”

  “Then you should have screamed. Nine times outta ten, these fellas don’t want to make any real trouble. They want to slip in and out of here as fast as they can. They have wives, families. They can’t afford to make too much of a fuss.”

  “I pity his wife,” Victoria said, shaking her head and imagining the grisly horror of having to tangle with sweaty Bernard and his gargantuan penis night after night—for free!

  CHAPTER 14

  A few of the girls who’d made money, openly counted their take at the end of the shift, flaunting big bills in the solemn faces of those who were going home empty-handed. Victoria, however, feeling compassionate, tallied her earnings with a hand tucked discreetly inside her purse. She counted three hundred dollars. Not bad for a night that had begun so slowly, and with regard to her encounter with Bernard—violently.

  As feared, the new girl, Allegra, was the moneymaker of the night. Highly skilled in the art of separating men from their assets, she shamelessly displayed her sizeable earnings. Oblivious to the covetous glances of Miquon and Chelsea, Allegra pranced about, displaying a thick wad of money that was strapped to her thigh by a pink lace garter.

  There had been times when Victoria had chosen to stay on for the next shift because her earnings were insufficient, but she had yet to experience the humiliation felt by the women who didn’t even break luck.

  The customers were mostly undesirables: men who had to pay for sex. That they were responsible for causing such feelings of inadequacy in someone as intelligent and as pretty as Chelsea was incomprehensible.

  “Are you okay, Miquon?” Chelsea asked.

  Miquon screwed up her lips, and then gave a reluctant nod.

  “Are you gonna stay, and try to make some money on the next shift?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My babysitter don’t mind if I’m a little bit late, but she ain’t tryin’ to watch my kids all night long. Ain’t like it’s guaranteed that I’m gonna make enough on the next shift to pay her double time. Nah, I ain’t stayin’… I’m gittin’ up outta here.”

  “Do you have money for a cab?”

  “Nope. Gotta pay my sitter; I’m gonna have to hop on SEPTA.” Miquon paused, bit her lip contemplatively, and then said, “I can’t believe this shit. I been on suspension…ain’t had no money. My first day back, and I gotta leave here broke.”

  Chelsea shook her head.

  Wearing a grave expression, Miquon prepared to leave, packing her workbag as if in slow motion.

  As much as Victoria disliked Miquon, it saddened her to see her with her spirit broken. She wanted to say something encouraging, or offer her cab fare, but a survival-of-the-fittest attitude existed at Pandora’s, and for some reason, offering money to anyone who failed to break luck was frowned upon.

  Poor thing, Victoria thought as she watched Miquon dragging her heavy workbag down the hall. She gripped the handle with one hand, and with the other she clutched her street clothes, and coat. Miquon mumbled to herself as she ambled toward the bathroom. Victoria couldn’t recall Miquon ever requiring privacy while getting dressed. She seemed to delight in defiantly exposing her stretch marks, cellulite, and flab. Shame and disappointment must have driven her out of the lounge, Victoria concluded. Then, feeling magnanimous, Victoria decided to stealthily slip Miquon fifty dollars.

  Victoria waited a few minutes, and then tapped on the bathroom door.

  “What!” Miquon asked sharply.

  “It’s Pleasure. Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, when I’m finished,” Miquon said, with much attitude. “Damn, can’t have no privacy in this joint.”

  Undaunted, Victoria tapped on the door again. “Miquon, I want to talk to you.”

  Miquon sighed heavily, then unlocked and cracked the door.

  Victoria offered a smile, which wasn’t returned. Through the open space Victoria could see Miquon’s personal possessions in several piles on the floor. She was shocked that Miquon would scatter her personal things on the dirty bathroom floor.

  “I just wanted…” Victoria fell silent as her eyes roamed to the piles on the floor.

  “Yeah!” Miquon bucked her eyes. “Whassup?”

  Appalled, Victoria spotted several familiar articles among Miquon’s things: Sydney’s Lancôme bag, Arianna’s sequined demi bra, and Lauren’s treasured silk Indian robe. A platinum wig, balled inside out, was undeniably the hair that on that very night had been stolen from Jonee.

  Miquon was a kleptomaniac! A mean-spirited thief! She couldn’t even fit the robe or the bra, and she’d look absolutely frightful in the pale-colored wig.

  “Never mind,” Victoria said, lips pursed.

  “Crazy bitch,” Miquon muttered with a resentful look as she banged the door shut.

  Victoria rushed back to the lounge. The room was in chaos. Allegra was crying into her hands. Chelsea provided comfort, patting Allegra’s thin back.

  “What happened?” Victoria asked. Lord, there was never a dull moment at Pandora’s Box.

  “She lost her money,” Lauren said.

  Allegra lifted her head, revealing angry blood-shot eyes. “I didn’t fuckin’ lose my money!” she screamed. “One of you thievin’ bitches stole it!”

  “Don’t call me a bitch,” Lauren said. “You’re the fuckin’ bitch, you stupid ass. Can’t even hang onto your own damn money.”

  Allegra shook off Chelsea’s arm, sprang up from her seat, and advanced toward Lauren.

  “You’re calling me stupid? I heard you got dumped by some nigger from India…now who’s stupid?”

  The spectators, black and white, gasped at the N word.

  Lauren swung at Allegra, but missed. Allegra grabbed a hank of Lauren’s long hair, quickly wrapped it around her fist, and yanked it before pulling her into a head-lock, and taking a bite out of her cheek.

  At the sound of Lauren’s blood-curdling shriek, Rover bounded down the hall, covering it in just a few, long strides.

  And as Rover, Chelsea, and a few others struggled to separate the two women, Miquon slipped past the lounge. With Allegra’s money stuffed in her bra, she was out the door, her swift and silent departure announced by the chime of the bell.

  Victoria darted into the waiting cab.

  As if aware of Victoria’s urgent need to put distance between herself and the massage parlor, the cabbie hastily pulled away from the curb, made a bold U-turn, weaved into the far right lane, and raced up Market Street.

  Beginning with the ravings of her first customer and ending with Lauren and Allegra’s fistfight, the evening had been fraught with mayhem.

  The cab zipped past 30th Street. Victoria caught a glimpse of an attractive couple, laughing and holding hands as they rushed inside the train station. They looked so happy, so normal. She felt a twinge of envy and slumped into her seat.

  Victoria was lonely, but hadn’t realized it until now. Being in the company of the unending stream of men who patronized Pandora’s seemed to replace the desire for a normal relationship.

  A crystal clear image of Kareem surfaced. That night with him. Something had been awakened that night, something that proved she was a normal woman capable of normal feelings for a man. And the quick but sharp pain that shot through her heart at the sight of the couple was a reminder that the desire blazed as strong as ever. But where was Kareem? She’d waited for him to come back, but he hadn’t. Oh, what difference did it make? He was just a customer. All he could offer was a warped version of a love affair; a pseudo relationship confined within the walls of Pandora’s Box. And like the Greek mythological story, inside Pandora’s there was only malice, discontentment, violence, and resentment. Victoria hung her head in anguished resolution. Nothing good could come from Pandora’s. Victoria lifted her head, recalling the end of the story. As Pandora closed the lid on the box, which contained all the evils of the world, she found hope lying on the bottom. And there was hope for Victoria, t
oo. She would not allow herself to remain trapped inside Pandora’s. Just as soon as her affairs were in order—one more month, two at the most—she’d work out a plan to restructure her life, and she’d put this wretched experience far, far behind.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sheena was back on the midnight shift after a fifteen-day hiatus. She looked terrible. Her complexion, which used to be a rich mocha, was now a baffling grayish hue, a greasy red bandana concealed dirty, matted hair, and she was skinnier than ever.

  It was not unusual for Sheena to disappear for days, sometimes for up to a week, but never had she been gone for over two weeks; her money never lasted that long.

  Unlike her co-workers who competed at a breathless pace for as many sessions as their bodies could endure, Sheena needed only one session, or one sucker (as she put it) to make enough to get high. Sometimes it took days for her to break luck, but she would wait patiently, sleeping most of the time.

  A few faithful customers came to see Sheena. Her regulars. Those straggling few were remnants from her pre-drug era, and came to see her a couple times a month.

  It was hard to believe that the tall, twenty-eight-year-old woman once filled out a size twelve. Over the last few years she had dwindled down to skin and bones, and even a size three fit her loosely. A sad semblance of her former self, Sheena looked downright unhealthy. Sick. Like she had contracted something.

  The other girls, prettier and certainly shapelier, were mystified by the loyalty of Sheena’s customers.

  The black girls at Pandora’s Box usually profited from both black and white clienteles. Black men, however, were the major contributors to their income. Sheena had no black customers; her regulars were all white. Ordinarily, the black men who came to call, were desirous of someone soft with sumptuous curves. Sheena, with her skeletal appearance did not merit an appraisal and was, therefore, dismissed on sight.

  Rumors about Sheena swirled: she did it without a rubber; she never asked for a tip; she was into anal sex. No one knew for certain what Sheena did privately, but they did know that at the conclusion of a session, Sheena was out the door, and she wouldn’t reappear until her money and credit ran out at the place where she got high.

  Six women were working the midnight shift: Dominique, Reds, Kelly, Milan (a pretty newcomer with brand new breast implants), Sheena, and Victoria—too many women for a Monday night.

  Victoria recounted the four hundred dollars she’d made from the previous shift, and mentally added that to the twelve hundred she had at home. Sixteen hundred was close to what she needed to move, but she’d asked to work the midnight shift because she needed an additional thousand dollars to make a down payment on a new, but inexpensive compact car. There was a dealership on Passyunk Avenue that cared not a whit about bad credit. A car would make apartment hunting a lot easier.

  Victoria had never met Sheena, and nothing she had heard about the unfortunate girl prepared her for the bedraggled creature lying curled up on the sofa. In a subconscious gesture, Victoria clutched her purse to her chest. Sheena didn’t look capable of making one dollar, and Victoria did not intend to share any portion of her earnings with this seeming derelict, who more than likely was also a thief. There was absolutely nothing that distinguished Sheena from any of the vagrants roaming the streets. Victoria couldn’t imagine why Sheena was allowed on the premises.

  Then, reminding herself to not be judgmental, Victoria tried hard to look upon Sheena with pity.

  Sheena hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup, and had tossed her ratty, used-to-be curly wig on top of her dirty work bag. She looked dog-tired as she curled up on the sofa.

  “Whatchu doing, Sheena? Preparing to camp out for the night?” Dominique inquired, scowling.

  Sheena’s mouth twitched into a smile.

  “You got some fucked up timing. As you can see, it’s crowded as hell. Why’d you have to drag your ass in here tonight?”

  Sheena mumbled something, and then burrowed deeper into the coat she was using as a blanket.

  “And you got the nerve to sprawl your ass out, takin’ up the whole damn couch.”

  Sheena drew up her knees to provide some space, hoping to avoid being banished from the sofa to an uncomfortable chair. Then, jolted by a sudden recollection, she shot up straight.

  “Guess who I saw?” Sheena said excitedly.

  “Who?” Dominique and Reds asked simultaneously.

  “Bethany.” Sheena’s voice became a whisper as her frail body slumped into its original position, fatigue overpowering her desire to engage an audience.

  “Where did you see Bethany? I thought she was still locked up in that crazy house in West Philly,” Dominique said, smoothing her slick hair.

  “She’s out, ’cause I was with her and Fred all last week.”

  “Where?” Dominique asked, raising her voice.

  “Um…we was in North Philly.”

  “Doing what?” Reds chimed in. She held a curling iron poised in mid-air.

  “Gittin’ high!” Sheena announced with uncharacteristic sass, accompanied by a circular neck move.

  “What!” Dominique and Reds shouted in unison.

  “That bitch is hittin’ the pipe again?” Reds directed her words to Dominique.

  “What did she say about the baby, Sheena? Does she know the people from that funeral parlor called here damn near every day for about two weeks?”

  “Bethany ain’t say nothin’ about the baby, and I didn’t want to bring it up,” Sheena said, clearly regretful that she’d opened her mouth.

  “Well, you should have. We were feeling sorry for Bethany, thinking she was in the nut house, and she out gittin’ high with you!” Dominique said.

  “We even took up a collection for the funeral and gave the money to Fred,” Reds added. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I’m starting to think there’s some truth to the story that they killed that child! Damn, they didn’t even have the decency to bury their own kid.”

  Dominique shook her head in disbelief. “So what about the money we all gave for the funeral…what happened to it?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no money,” Sheena said, shrinking back into the couch.

  “The twenty dollars apiece we all chipped in for the baby’s funeral—the funeral that never was,” Reds said, ticked off.

  “So, our money just went up in smoke?” Kelly asked mid-nod, scratching.

  “Our money!” Dominique hissed. “You didn’t give up a cent, and you know it. And don’t try to act like you’re any better. You may not be a smoker, but your get high in a way that’s just as fucked up. Shooting that shit up your veins is probably worse.”

  “I have a habit, I admit it,” Kelly said sorrowfully. “But at least I’m trying to get help. I’m on the list for the methadone program, and…”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dominique interrupted. “We’ve heard that story before. Give it a rest, Kelly. I don’t feel like hearing your bullshit tonight.”

  In feigned bewilderment, Kelly threw up both her hands.

  Dominique was an imposing figure as she stood over Sheena, glowering. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying all our hard-earned money went up in smoke? Just like that?” The question was accompanied by an extravagant wave of her lean, muscular arm, and a snap of thin fingers. “Is that what you’re saying, Sheena?” Dominique dropped suddenly to her knees, meeting Sheena eye-to-eye.

  Sheena looked away from Dominique’s reproachful gaze.

  “And you was gittin’ high with Bethany and Fred? You helped them fuck up our money?”

  Sheena recoiled into a knot. Tsks, sighs, and other utterances of disapproval sounded in the room. Dominique shooed Sheena from the sofa. The eyes of the others, filled with condemnation, followed the gaunt, jittery girl as she scurried to a corner on the floor where she made a pallet with her coat. On the floor, cushioned by the ratty old fur coat of undeterminable species, Sheena lay under a dingy polyester robe that barely covered her long body. She
curled into an even tighter knot as she attempted to keep her legs and feet beneath the flimsy fabric.

  The stories circulating around the death of Bethany’s son had just started to die down, now they would begin anew, but with a different twist. Bethany had become a folk hero of sorts, a noble mother who, unable to cope with the loss of her child, had sunk into the depths of despair, the result being a nervous breakdown. But after tonight, her name would be forever tarnished. Bethany would be labeled a baby-killer, and the ever-changing story of her son’s death would be told inside houses of ill repute throughout the city for years.

  As it turned out, Monday night wasn’t bad at all. The doorbell rang three times in quick succession during the first hour. As expected, Milan, with her demanding attention breasts, got the first session. Dominique got the second, and a ferret-faced black man who wore a grimy gray uniform chose Victoria.

  Inside the room, the wiry little guy paid the fee.

  “I’ve been on the road all night; I’m a truck driver,” the man said, rubbing his forehead wearily.

  “Hmm.” She felt no sympathy for him, and did not intend to engage in mindless chatter.

  When the truck driver stripped down to his underwear, Victoria was hit by a pungent body odor. He smelled like he’d been driving for a week. Why was it so rare for customers to come in fresh and clean? She had seen enough dingy, threadbare boxer shorts to last a lifetime. Most of the customers were married. Victoria couldn’t imagine how their wives tolerated them, permitted them to crawl into bed so rough and ashen, so unclean.

  With his thumbs beneath the elastic waistband, the truck driver was about to shed his boxer shorts. “The shower is at the end of the hall,” Victoria informed him.

  Disappointment shone in his eyes. “You want me to take a shower?”

  “I certainly do,” she said, with her arms folded across her chest.

  In record time, the man returned. He was dripping wet, and wearing a sheepish grin. As he briskly dried himself, Victoria wasn’t surprised when she caught a whiff of the same acrid scent. He was as funky as before. She also noticed that his shoulders and back were dotted with unsightly black bumps. Victoria sighed, and rolled her eyes in disgust. Oh, well, it was his loss! She tended to be extremely cold and abrupt with customers who didn’t practice good hygiene.