“It costs more than a coffee peddler could ever afford, so hit the pike, you sell-out!” She slammed the door in his startled face, feeling justified in not giving him a tip.
“What did that black guy ask you, Pleasure?” asked a little waif who had not, until that moment, spoken a word to Victoria.
“And you are?” Victoria asked in a haughty voice.
“Lara,” she said, in a matching waif-like voice.
“And why should I indulge your curiosity? Hmmm?” Victoria asked, feeling really bitchy.
Lara looked shocked. Her mouth curved into an uncomfortable smile that twitched.
“Why don’t you just mind your business? Think you can do that?”
A hush fell over the room.
“What’s your problem?” Lara turned and faced the stunned spectators. “Jeez, I just asked a simple question.”
Exhilarated by the tension she created, Victoria plunked down into the flower print chair. The room was so quiet, the squeak from the plastic lid seemed amplified when she lifted it from the Styrofoam cup.
Coffee, the calming elixir that it was, enveloped her with tranquility as soon as she took the first sip. She was suddenly very sorry for her harsh treatment of the delivery guy. She even felt sorry for Lara. With softened eyes, she glanced over at Lara, expectantly. Lara, however, pursed her lips and shifted her gaze. Oh well, I tried, thought Victoria as she gulped the coffee.
“I can spot an implant a mile away; every other woman at my gym has them,” Georgette declared. “She’s definitely had some work done. I mean it’s so obvious. She goes away for a month and then comes back—sticking out to here!” Georgette extended her arms in front of her chest.
“I don’t know,” said Amanda. “Her boobs were already big. Why would she need implants?”
“To make more money.”
Victoria simply did not care about whom the two women gossiped—another vain white woman, she supposed. She wished they’d conclude the senseless discussion so she could organize her thoughts, get centered.
The next time the bell sounded, it was a well-dressed, kindly-looking older man, with shiny white hair. He kept the front door ajar while he communicated something to his limo driver. The man held his hat in his hand and spoke the King’s English perfectly. Victoria smiled and posed enthusiastically. The customer looked like an excellent tipper.
But again, Diana was selected.
While Diana was busy, the waif broke luck with a skinny, awkward kid, not more than a teenager. Georgette got the next customer, occupying the last of the three rooms.
Though she couldn’t get a full view, Victoria studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She admired her teal camisole, and then frowned. As pretty as it was, the camisole and high-cut panties weren’t working for her. She was getting really sick of jumping up and down, smiling and posing for nothing. One never knew what these stupid customers wanted, but clearly, she needed to change. Victoria put on a scarlet, sheer netted teddy with marabou feather trim and strutted back into the lounge, invigorated.
Victoria and Amanda were alone in the lounge the next time the bell chimed. Victoria prayed that she would be selected; her ego couldn’t endure any more rejection. Victoria appraised Amanda as they both went to the door. Amanda was attractive and slender, but her body was not nearly as toned as Victoria’s. Her face, though still pretty, was not perfect; it was marked with tiny lines, and there were crow’s feet gathered at the corners of her eyes. Noticing Amanda’s worst feature—her flat, sagging derriere, Victoria felt a surge of confidence as she walked to the door, quietly chanting positive affirmations.
An enormous grin spread over Victoria’s face when she opened the door to discover one of her regulars, the amorous professor. What a relief! Now she wouldn’t have to put up with the smug attitudes of her white co-workers who felt superior and believed that black women couldn’t make money with the day-time clientele who were considered to be far more selective than the men who frequented Pandora’s Box at night.
Surely, a higher power was instrumental in this little coup. Victoria said a silent thank you, acknowledging the miracle.
“Hi!” Victoria said, her smile filled with gratitude. She was not only grateful, but also extremely flattered that the professor had gone through the trouble to find out that she was working the day shift. Victoria was so filled with the wonder of the moment she didn’t notice the professor’s sheepish expression.
“How are you, Michael?” Amanda asked.
Michael? Victoria actually looked behind the professor to see if someone else had come in.
“Would you mind very much having a seat and waiting for me, Michael? All the rooms are filled right now, but one should be available in a few minutes.”
“I don’t mind at all,” the professor said, smiling lovingly at Amanda, without so much as a glance at Victoria.
Victoria looked from Amanda to the professor like they were speaking a foreign language. This had to be a mistake. The professor was Victoria’s customer—her regular, for crying out loud. But when Amanda and the professor gave each other a quick peck on the lips, Victoria knew there was no mistake. She knew well, his penchant for kissing. Ugh! And to think she had allowed it, for the sake of keeping him as a regular.
Livid, Victoria stormed out of the lobby and up the hall to the office, where Rover was setting up a display of snacks, condoms, beauty supplies, and feminine products.
“Rover, I want to leave. I’m not making any money. I’m just wasting my time being here—and I can think of a million other things I could be doing besides watching other people make money.”
“You can’t leave, Pleasure. You know the rules. If you leave, I’ll have to suspend you, and who knows—Gabrielle may fire you.”
“Fire me! This isn’t even my shift! I came in as a favor to you…and I’m just sitting around doing nothing but suffering.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Rover asked, looking mildly amused. “It’s not even noon yet.”
She glanced at her watch; it was five minutes to twelve.
“Give it a chance, Pleasure. You’ll make some money.”
“I don’t think so.” Victoria sighed in exasperation. “Why can’t I just leave? Who’s going to miss me? None of the airheads on this shift will, I can assure you of that. Nor will these customers—a bunch of bigots. I hate this shift!”
Rover squinted at his display, with his head cocked to the side. “Oh, I got something new you might wanna try.” He handed Victoria a small plastic squeeze bottle.
“What’s this?”
“Hand cleanser. Fights bacteria without water. Just rub it on your hands.”
“No thanks,” she said, handing it back. “I prefer soap and water.”
“Yeah, but this will protect you from germs during those in-between times, when you can’t get to the sink right away. The girls are buying it up faster than I can stock it.”
“Good for them. I said I don’t want it. Now stop trying to change the subject. How come this nonsensical rule doesn’t apply to Sheena? She gets up and leaves whenever she’s good and ready? Kelly does, too. And they’re both addicts, dammit! Now I ask you, is that fair?”
“The world’s not fair,” Rover said mechanically. “They both have drug habits; Gabrielle takes that into consideration.”
“Well, that makes a lot of sense,” Victoria replied facetiously. “They can leave to go get high, but I can’t leave to take care of my son who, by the way, was shuttled off to a babysitter for no reason that makes sense to me. I feel like a negligent mother sitting around here listening to the drivel from those idiots in the lounge, when I could be spending time with my child.” Victoria’s chest heaved with indignation after her tirade.
Rover made the motions of playing a violin. Victoria chuckled involuntarily.
“But you really don’t need me here, isn’t that obvious?” she asked, still laughing. “Rover, let me go home.” She whined pla
yfully, dragging out the last word.
“Be patient. Everyone has a bad day every now and then. Every day can’t be Christmas.”
His words were scant consolation. Victoria didn’t like the feeling of being the low man on the totem pole. She didn’t like being regarded as insignificant, as a nonentity.
“Your luck will change. If you don’t break luck on this shift, you know you’ll make a killing on your own shift.”
“I’m living in the moment, Rover. I want to make money now, not in some distant, obscure future. Besides, I’m off tonight, remember? I’m still on vacation.”
Victoria sank dejected onto the cot, focusing her attention on the TV screen as the News at Noon theme song began. Forgetting her troubles, Victoria smiled as she watched a clip of the black mayoral candidate. He was looking boyishly handsome in sweats, smiling and waving at the cameras, as he and a couple of handsome brothers jogged along Kelly Drive. Victoria leaned forward. One of the black men—the tall one—looked familiar. The smile left Victoria’s face, her heart thumped wildly as she waited for the camera to pan in again. It was the opportunist himself, Justice Martin! Smiling broadly, he jogged with the soon-to-be mayor.
The reporter queried the candidate, who was now jogging in place. Victoria turned away from the images and tuned out their voices. She couldn’t bear to watch Justice looking so decently All-American. He, the devil’s spawn, who had ruined her life, was happily living his own, hanging out with the future mayor. No doubt, a photograph of that Kelly Drive run would grace a wall in Justice’s office the instant the voters elected the candidate mayor. Sickened, Victoria stood up to return to the lounge. She wondered if the future mayor was aware of the low-life company he was keeping.
As the day wore on, the situation at work continued to deteriorate. Victoria was without a single session, while the four white girls hopped in and out of the rooms, gabbing merrily with each other. After being overlooked repeatedly by the entirely white, blue collar, and professional daytime clientele, Victoria stopped going to the door.
She had planned to hang out in the office with Rover until quitting time, but he informed her that the girls had to stay in the lounge. That was new information. She usually had to dodge Rover; he was always trying to lure her into his office to chat.
Amanda, who, amazingly, had more sessions than Diana did, gave Victoria pitying looks, while the others, deeming Victoria unworthy of acknowledgment, ignored her. Victoria mistrusted Amanda and refused to meet her gaze.
“Are you okay?” Amanda asked.
A sarcastic, “Paleeze!” was Victoria’s only response. Like Miquon on her worst day, Victoria was feeling more than disgruntled.
As much as Rover loved Gabrielle, he hated her wicked side. She had so much going for herself. Why was it so important for her to control the girls who worked for her? He was following Gabrielle’s explicit instruction when he called Pleasure to replace Zoe. To accommodate the occasional client who preferred women of a darker persuasion, Gabrielle scheduled only one black girl on the morning shift. Black girls did well on both the other shifts, but it was common knowledge that the daytime hours belonged to Caucasians. No one knew why.
Disenchanted after a couple of days on the morning shift, the average black working girl quickly wised up and switched to evening hours. But Zoe, light-complexioned, with auburn hair of her own, in addition to an assortment of blonde wigs and a variety of pairs of contact lenses ranging from hazel to sky blue, was determined to survive on the morning shift. Married, Zoe led a dual existence. In the beginning of her new career, Zoe had gone home empty-handed every day. But she persevered and managed to build up a respectable clientele. She didn’t make a killing, but the money she earned provided her with the extras she desired. As soon as she’d gotten comfortable with the lifestyle, Gabrielle pulled the rug out from under her, insisting that she work the midnight shift, knowing full well that Zoe did not have the flexibility of the other girls. When Zoe refused, Gabrielle called personally to inform the uppity girl that she should not report to work, that her services were no longer required.
Gabrielle told Rover that Pleasure’s popularity had gone to her head. She needed to be brought down a peg or two. How dare she leave work for over a week to take a Florida vacation? Even if she never set foot on the premises again, there was only one Queen Bee at Pandora’s Box, Gabrielle had screamed at Rover. “ME!”
CHAPTER 19
At 3:30 p.m. Victoria awakened grumpily to the annoyingly high-pitched cartoon voices coming from Jordan’s bedroom, fused with the shrill sound of the alarm clock.
“Jordan, turn that TV down,” she yelled as she got out of bed. The volume decreased a decibel. Still half asleep, she shuffled into the kitchen and poured hazelnut beans into the coffee grinder and pressed the switch. The pleasant aroma jolted her into awareness. Having recently acquired a taste for gourmet coffee, she had an extensive collection. An assortment of expensive-looking bags that boasted a variety of fancy flavors: Toasted Maple Walnut, Godiva’s Raspberry Truffle, Kona Hawaiian, Jamaican Blue Mountain, and Pumpkin Pie completely concealed a can of Maxwell House that hadn’t been touched in months.
She wondered, idly, if the week would end with her topping the two grand she’d earned the week before. The memory of the profitless day that she spent on the morning shift was fading fast. On the five o’clock shift Victoria made money hand-over-fist! Images of crisp green money folded neatly in her purse gave Victoria a palpable rush.
She looked around in wonder at her new lifestyle. Everything inside her once dilapidated apartment looked and smelled brand new. Kitchen appliances glimmered and gleamed. Tags still adorned the stacked, apartmentsized washer/dryer she had bought from Sears. And hallelujah for that! Gone were the days of loading weeks’ worth of dirty laundry into trash bags and then lugging the load into the gloomy laundromat.
After the owner had made the necessary repairs to the apartment, Victoria had gone on a nonstop spending spree. Every stick of old beat up furniture was tossed out and stacked curbside in a shabby heap and replaced with stylish new furniture, paid for in cash.
The freshly-painted living room walls were decorated with prints of colorful African American and Caribbean art, and an Andrew Turner original in an ornate gold frame was proudly hung above the buff-colored leather sofa.
Loony Toon characters raced across the curtains and walls in Jordan’s redecorated bedroom. His new bunk bed was an elaborate piece of work with attached dresser drawers, a pullout desk, and a toy bin. The room was filled with new toys, books, and Jordan’s very own TV and PlayStation 2.
Parked outside was Victoria’s new car, a metallic gold compact that she adored. Her income provided these new pleasures. Her child, like any other, she rationalized, deserved to live in a decent environment with bright, colorful playthings. It was her responsibility to make sure that he was never, ever deprived again.
She smiled to herself. Perhaps those accustomed to the rich highlife would scoff at her version of newfound wealth. Still, she was amazed and grateful for all her shiny new acquisitions. She had once believed that there was nobility in being poor—in suffering and sacrificing, but she now believed that it was shameful, sinful even, for anyone to endure the wretched existence of her former life.
Victoria poured a second cup of coffee, stirred in the nondairy creamer and sugar, and, with cup in hand, she padded back to the bedroom. Passing Jordan’s room, she caught a glimpse of him aiming the remote at the TV—channel surfing. “Jordan! That’s enough TV. Read a book while Mommy gets ready for work.”
“Aw, Mom. I wanna watch Arnold.”
“What did I say, Jordan?”
“But I can’t read all the words.”
“Try sounding out the letters the way I taught you.”
Jordan emitted a sound of displeasure, which Victoria chose to ignore. She didn’t have time to chastise her son; she had to start putting her work attire together. She picked up and examined the oversized pink
nylon bag that was used to haul her essentials back and forth to work. When she unzipped that bag, the pungent distinctive scent of Pandora’s Box was unleashed—that now familiar combination of cigarette smoke, hair spray, body spray, and sex.
Inside the bag were five outfits that she had taken to work the night before: four pairs of heels, stockings, thigh-highs trimmed with lace, a garter belt, cologne, makeup, a couple of wigs (one red, one blonde), a curling iron, a vibrator (to please her more kinky clientele), dozens of condoms that she bought by the case at Drug Emporium, a lubricating gel, body lotion, costume jewelry, baby wipes, a silk robe and slippers, a CD player (to mute the bickering and daily skirmishes among the girls) and, for inspiration, Acts of Faith by Iyanla Vanzant.
With spirits high, Victoria slung the heavy bag effortlessly over her shoulder as she locked her apartment door. She quickly dropped Jordan off at Charmaine’s. There was money to be made—she could feel it.
Victoria pressed the doorbell at Pandora’s; Arianna opened the door. Without cracking a smile or uttering a word of greeting, Arianna swirled around and returned to the lounge. Victoria’s high spirits vanished. She had not expected to see Arianna; she thought she was the only black girl scheduled to work that night. For the past month she had managed to avoid the insufferable girl, scheduling her own workdays around Arianna’s schedule. But it appeared that Arianna did not adhere to any schedule; she just came and went as she pleased.
It was common knowledge that she only came to Pandora’s to drum up business for her own recently-acquired establishment. Jonee had seen an ad in the Adult Services section of the City Paper, announcing the opening of Tatianna’s Boudoir. Jonee was certain that Arianna and Tatianna were one and the same. “Girl, I knew her when she got in the business about five years ago. We were both working at the peep show at 13th and Arch. Back then she used the name Tatianna. She was only sixteen, but pretended to be twenty.”
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