Cold Caller

by Jason Starr

  But Ed never had a clue how I felt about him. He was very impressed with my computer knowledge and my apparent loyalty toward him as an assistant. After two weeks, I had revamped the entire computer system, including upgrading the network and installing new software programs, and I handled all the purchase orders. I overheard Ed telling Nelson that I was “indispensable to the company” and that because of me the company had saved “thousands of dollars.” I knew that by being overly resourceful I was impressing Nelson, and that I was also making Ed look good to Nelson. Since Ed had technically “discovered me”, whatever I did indirectly reflected on him, and I knew that as long as I did my job well, he would brag about me to Nelson.

  On the first day that the new computer network was up and running, Nelson called me into his office to personally congratulate me. He told me how impressed he and Ed were with me and that if I kept up the good work I would definitely be rewarded for it. Then he invited me to Sag Harbor the following Saturday for lunch and a spin on his yacht. I made up an excuse that I had a wedding to go to that day. Then he suggested a date in August. Hesitantly, I agreed. There was no way I was going to actually get on a boat with him, but I knew I could always make up an excuse once I got out there. Perhaps I would wrap my ankle with an Ace bandage and make up a story about how I had fallen getting out of the shower. Or I could show up coughing and say that I had a terrible case of the flu. Then there was the possibility that he had only suggested the other date as a formality, and that by August he would forget all about it. I hoped this was the case. I felt bad about lying to Nelson and I wanted to avoid having to lie to him anymore. However, I couldn’t help rejoicing over the irony of it all. Here I was, worrying about how to politely turn down a sailing invitation from the President of the company, when only a couple of weeks earlier I had been forced to humiliate myself by apologizing to the entire telemarketing staff. And it had all happened because of a single lie!

  As Ed’s assistant, I learned a few shocking things about A.C.A. For example, I found out that A.C.A. intentionally withheld commission money from telemarketers, and that the commissions of black telemarketers were held more frequently than the commissions of whites. Since most telemarketers only lasted with the company for about a month, the idea was to avoid having to pay out commissions to employees who were no longer with the company. Ed had made up some crazy statistic that black workers were fifty percent less likely to keep a job for a month than white workers, so he withheld the commission revenue of black employees until they had been with the company for two months. Then, since Ed’s statistics said that a black employee had a less than ten percent chance of remaining with a company for more than six months, their commission was released gradually, while the white employees received almost all of their commissions after six months. The real reason Ed had fired those telemarketers – and why he had intended to fire me – wasn’t because the company was in financial trouble like he had claimed, but because the company owed those telemarketers hundreds of dollars in commissions and they wanted to avoid paying the money. Although you may not believe that a modern business could be run in such a backwards, counter-productive way, I assure you that I’m not making any of this up. To Ed, it didn’t matter that he was firing telemarketers who had been productive for the company and who would have continued to be productive. He felt that he could hire new telemarketers to do the same work and at the same time “save” thousands of dollars in commissions.

  I had a lot of ideas about how to run the Telemarketing Department more efficiently – and more rationally – but I kept them to myself. I wanted to focus on doing my job and impressing Nelson and the last thing I wanted to do was to create any rifts with Ed.

  The workaholic side of my personality had returned. When I was in my office, the world consisted of me and my work and nothing else. Sometimes I’d be staring at my com­pu­ter, trying to crack some difficult problem, when I’d become aware of someone standing behind me. I’d turn around and the person would say he’d been there, trying to get my attention for several minutes, and I wouldn’t know whether or not he was lying. It was as if working at a serious job again had given me the power to make the world disappear, whenever I wanted it to. It may have made me seem annoying and irritable to other people, but I was happy.

  When I’d leave the office, I’d still feel dazed and a little disoriented and a few times I stepped outside without remembering leaving the office or taking the elevator down to the street. I saw the prostitute with the phoney blond hair on the corner near Eighth Avenue a couple of times. I’d almost walk past her when I’d realize she was standing there, smiling at me. Caught off guard, I’d react awkwardly, either smiling back or rushing ahead, stone-faced, pretend­ing that I hadn’t noticed her. My heart would start pound­ing, as furiously as it does when I wake up from a nightmare. I’d tell myself that I was being ridiculous, that I had no rational reason for feeling so much anxiety. After all, she was just a woman, no different from millions of other women in New York. And wasn’t it true that I never felt so excited, even when I was surrounded by women on a crowded subway car? But of course I was only kidding myself. I knew exactly why the prostitute made me feel so nervous, but I didn’t want to admit it. Because I knew if I admitted it, I’d want to confront it, and I didn’t want anything to come between me and my work.

  Julie and I still weren’t having sex. When I came home from work or on weekends when we were lounging in bed, Julie would sometimes start to come on to me. She’d touch my hand or move to kiss me and I’d move away and suggest that we go somewhere or say that I was hungry and needed something to eat. One time Julie got frustrated and suggested that we go to a relationship counselor. The idea wasn’t new. She’d suggested it once before, after I’d lost my job at Smythe & O’Greeley and fell into a depression. I’d been avidly against it then and I told her that my position hadn’t changed. She told me that she didn’t understand, that I didn’t seem to care one way or another about our relationship. She knew couples, she said, who had gone for counseling, and it had done wonders for their relationships, and she begged me to try it, just once. I wouldn’t budge. I told her the truth, that I didn’t think there was anything wrong with our relationship, that in fact I thought our relationship was better now than it ever had been. Yes, we weren’t having sex, I said, but how many couples have sex all the time and still wind up breaking up? Don’t women always complain that men only want sexual relationships? Well, we were having a non-sexual relationship, and it wasn’t as if it was going to be that way forever. I was just going through a transition now because of my new job, and I assured her that as soon as I got comfortable in my routine, our sex life would pick up again.

  Then one day – I think it was a Wednesday or Thursday – I was sitting in my office, looking over some tele­marketing statistics, when something strange happened. On my computer screen, I saw myself naked on a bed in a hotel room. I thought I must have overworked myself, so I closed my eyes tightly and took several deep breaths, but when I opened my eyes the image was still there. I stared at the screen, my eyes not blinking at all, and I wondered if I was going crazy, or if I was asleep dreaming and that in a few seconds I would be awake. The prostitute from the corner appeared next to me in bed. She was smiling, the same way she always smiled at me on the street, with her tongue running gently over her top lip. She was naked too and her body was perfect; she didn’t have a blemish or a scar anywhere. She started to run her hand gently up my leg, and I felt the sensation of my leg hairs sticking up. Her tongue was inside my mouth, and then her other hand pinched my nipple. The pain was so sudden and real that I actually screamed. I stood up and walked quickly to the vending machines. I bought a can of soda and drank it in one gulp, unaware of the carbonation. Ed came into the room and asked me if I was all right.

  “Fine,” I said. “A little thirsty, that’s all.”

  I returned to my office. The statistics had reappeared on the computer screen, but it didn’t matter; I sti
ll couldn’t get the vision of myself and the prostitute out of my head. Finally, I decided that I had to confront the fantasy, once and for all. I’d cashed my first paycheck at my new salary so I had enough money. I had about two hundred dollars on me and I doubted the prostitute’s fee would be any higher. After work I’d pick her up and we’d go off to an apartment or hotel room somewhere and have sex. It seemed so simple to think about, but somehow I knew it wouldn’t be so easy to actually go through with it.

  I was fine until about four-thirty. Then I started worrying about every detail – how I should look, how I should act, what I should say. I thought about movies I had seen where guys picked up prostitutes, but nothing ever worked out like it did in the movies. Would she ask me if I had any diseases? Should I ask her if she had any diseases? What about condoms? Was I supposed to bring one or would she have one? And what about my appearance? I was wearing a business suit, so I looked presentable, but I hadn’t showered since early this morning. I sniffed my underarms and realized the problem was as severe as I’d feared. How could I have sex with a woman when I smelled like I’d just worked out in a gym?

  I went into the bathroom and scrubbed my underarms with moist paper towels. After several minutes, I convinced myself that I didn’t smell anymore, or that at least I didn’t smell as bad as I had before. But what about my breath? I’d eaten tuna fish on an onion bagel for lunch and I didn’t have a toothbrush at work to brush my teeth. From the vending machine, I bought a packet of mints. I ate every last one of them, but when I blew air against my hand it smelled like a fish market. What if she kissed me when we were having sex? Or what if she smelled my breath on the street and refused to even have sex with me? What could be more humiliating than being turned down by a prostitute?

  I waited in my office till about six o’clock. I had to just do it, I told myself, not even think about it. In an hour I’d be laughing and realizing how ridiculous I was for being so nervous. I was probably going to be the cleanest, best-smelling guy she’d been with in months. Then, going down in the elevator, I had a thought that terrified me. What if she wasn’t there? She wasn’t there every day and there was a very good chance that she wouldn’t be there today. But she had to be there. I’d built up the courage to approach her, and I didn’t know if I could do it again.

  When I reached the street, my pulse was raging. She was there all right, in the same place I had seen her all the other times. Today she was wearing dark sunglasses and she had her hair up in a bun. But she was wearing the same outfit as usual – the red velvet and the leather skirt and the gold hoop earrings. She had her hands on her hips, balancing herself somehow on three- or four-inch red pumps. Then time skipped ahead, the way it sometimes does in dreams. Suddenly, I was in front of her, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. She turned around angrily, as if she thought I was a cop or a bum harassing her. I couldn’t think of anything to say and I wanted to walk away and pretend none of this had ever happened.

  “Looking for a date?” she said, with a strong Bronx or Brooklyn accent. Up close, I noticed the layers of makeup she was wearing and a large gap between her front teeth.

  “I can’t talk here,” I said, fearing someone from work might see us. “Meet me around the corner on Forty-fourth Street off Eighth Avenue.”

  “Are you bullshitting me?”

  “No,” I said. “Just meet me.”

  I went around the corner, hoping no one had seen us talking. I realized I had taken a stupid risk. What if Ed or Nelson had seen us? Or what if Mike saw? He’d think it was his duty to tell Ed how I spent my time after work. But almost everyone had left the office at five o’clock and I knew it was unlikely that I’d been seen. I had waited in the middle of the block for about five minutes when I felt someone tap my shoulder from behind.

  “So, you want a date, honey, or what?”

  She was next to me, so close I could smell the grape bubble gum on her breath. I realized she must have come around the corner the other way, from Ninth Avenue instead of Eighth.

  “You scared me,” I said. “I was just...Never mind.”

  “You’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

  “A cop? Of course I’m not a cop. Why? Do I look like a cop?”

  “You could be undercover, though it would be a hell of a disguise.”

  “I swear I’m not a cop. Is there somewhere we can go? Somewhere you usually take your...your clients?”

  “It’s a hundred bucks, money up front. Plus thirty for the room. No hundreds neither, and no fifties.”

  “I have to give you the money here?”

  “Money up front. If we don’t do it my way, we don’t do it no way.”

  We went near the doorway of an apartment building and I gave her a hundred dollars in tens and twenties. She counted the money three times before she stuck the wad in her pants somewhere.

  “So what do we do now?” I said. “I mean is there some apartment you take people to?”

  “Yeah, with a doorman and a health club and a fucking swimming pool.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a hotel on Forty-third between Ninth and Tenth – The Royal. Don’t say nothing to Bobby. Just give him the thirty bucks and he’ll give you a key. You get a half hour with me. More time, more money, honey.”

  “Do we have to go there together?”

  “Whatever you say. Wanna meet me in the lobby, meet me in the lobby. I got no problems.”

  We agreed to meet in the lobby in five minutes. I knew it was stupid of me to give her the money, that she could run off and I’d never see her again. On the other hand she was a prostitute, not a hustler, and my hundred dollars wasn’t going to buy her a ticket to a new life.

  There was nothing royal about The Royal. It was an old, narrow dump with chewed up wooden floors and peeling paint on the walls. I waited inside, near the door. There were a couple of junkie types on the bench in the lobby and in my business suit I didn’t exactly blend into the wallpaper. A few minutes later, the prostitute arrived. She waved for me to follow her inside and I did as I was told. Bobby, the desk man, must have been ninety years old. I gave him thirty dollars and he slid a room key over to me like it took all the strength he had. I wondered how many times he’d been through this routine. A guy that old probably didn’t know who he was anymore.

  I followed the prostitute up the creaky stairs. It was impossible not to notice her big butt shaking back and forth in front of me. I wondered if she was trying to make it shake or if she’d been doing it for so long that it had become natural.

  I wondered if her tits were real.

  On the first floor landing, a water bug skidded past my shoes and I noticed mouse or rat droppings near the walls. I didn’t even want to have sex with the prostitute anymore. I just wanted to be home, having a quiet night with Julie. I made a pact with myself that after this was over, I’d never do anything like this again. I’d be faithful to Julie for the rest of my life.

  We went into a small, musty room at the end of the hallway. The room wasn’t much bigger than the bed and there was no bathroom, and only a small, antique-looking sink in the corner. There was no cover or blanket on the bed and the sheet was marred with yellow stains and cigarette holes. She let me in ahead of her, then as soon as she closed the door she started taking off her clothes. I don’t know how she did it, but in about ten seconds she was completely naked.

  “What are you waiting for?” she said.

  I couldn’t move. I was staring at her body, not able to decide whether I hated it or loved it. She was heavier out of the clothes than in them and the weight wasn’t very well distributed. Most of it was in the form of fat and it was mostly on her thighs and stomach. Her tits were silicon double Ds. She didn’t have the perfect skin I imagined she’d have either. There were several large pimples on her breasts, and her left leg was noticeably lighter than her right leg, probably because it had been burned in a fire. I guess you’re getting the picture now that there was nothing terribly
attractive about this woman, and yet to me...to me she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Maybe it was because it had been so long since I’d been alone in a room with a naked woman who wasn’t Julie. Or maybe it was because she was a prostitute and the thought of the hundreds or thousands of guys she’d serviced in her lifetime gave her a kind of beauty that some people can’t recognize. Whatever the reason, my impotence had become a thing of the past.

  “Come on,” she said impatiently, sitting on the bed. “I’m not gonna take your clothes off like your mommy. I ain’t gonna talk to you like a little girl neither. I do straight fucks, that’s all. You want me to suck your dick that’s fifty bucks. You wanna come that way it’s another fifty, but you’re gonna have to wear a rubber. And the clock started ticking when we met outside. You’ll have to give me another thirty bucks if you want that time back.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need any extra time,” I said.

  I started taking off my clothes clumsily and I couldn’t do it nearly as fast as she could. Finally, I had all my clothes off. I was going to ask her about condoms when I realized she was holding one in her hand. I realized how dumb it was of me to think she wouldn’t have one.

  She spread her legs and stuffed some lubricant or jelly into her vagina. Suddenly, it occurred to me that she didn’t tell me her name. It seemed strange to have sex with a woman, even a prostitute, without knowing her name.

  “Why do you care?” she asked.

  “Just in case I want to call you something, you know, while we’re doing it.”