by C. C. Harris
Looking outside, I noticed it was already getting dark. Although this place looked ok by day, I didn’t want to risk walking at night. I gulped down the coffee, tucked my laptop under my arm, and reluctantly left the safety of my booth.
THREE
Dissonance
People were hurrying home and vendors were packing up their stores. I bought a couple of packs of cigarettes and a lighter. Sucking on a cigarette felt like heaven. A week ago, I couldn’t understand how people worked boring nine-to-five jobs but now, I would do anything to be in their shoes.
It took ten minutes to reach my apartment block. I noticed a figure in the distance wearing a grey overcoat, his arms outstretched. As I approached him, he called out, ‘Please help me, I beg you! They’re going to kill my friend! Please hurry.’ Reeking of alcohol, he pointed a nicotine-stained finger towards a darkened alleyway.
‘She’s down there. You must help her. Please…save my friend!’
I wondered whether liquor had fucked up his brain and he was hallucinating. For one thing, I wasn’t his rescuer and for another, I wasn’t going to get killed for anyone.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Please help me! You must help!’
‘I’ll call 911.’
‘You must help her now! Hurry! Hurry or they’ll kill her!’ the vagrant yelled.
I was pissed. There were plenty of people standing by. Why pick me? Did I have ‘The Rescuer’ tattooed on my forehead? One day I’m trading thousands of dollars’ worth of shares and stocks, the next I’m in Shitsville Lane helping some fuckin’ vagrant.
I reluctantly peered into the darkness. It screamed of danger. What the hell, life can’t get much worse.
I dropped my cigarette and squashed the remains with the tip of my shoe. I wasn’t in any hurry to get killed. I edged along a brick wall charcoaled with graffiti that depicted a king’s crown, praying I wouldn’t need my gun. The putrid smell of a dumpster made me gag. I continued forward, stepping around sludge. I reached the corner and slowly peeked around it.
In the alley, I could see three teenage thugs holding a rope. They were suspending a dog, three feet off the ground by its neck. The dog’s torso quivered, its paws frantically paddling.
I stepped out from the shadows. ‘Let the dog go!’
‘Oh, who do we have here?’ Like a pack of hyenas, the kids snarled. ‘What are you going to do, Mr Office Guy? Maybe we should hook you up too,’ the leader laughed. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer my knife? Maybe we could carve you up into small pieces like a pig on a spit.’ He waved his knife in the air.
I held up my pistol with my finger gently resting on the trigger. ‘What about I blow your head off you fucker.’
‘Oh shit, he’s got a piece.’ The leader of the pack dropped the dog.
‘Fuck off now or your head will be a fuckin’ soccer ball.’
The leader tripped forward in his frantic attempt to retreat.
The beggar scooped up his dog. ‘It’s ok Molly, you’re safe now.’
I couldn’t believe I’d just saved a fuckin’ dog. I hated dogs.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the vagrant
‘It’s all good.’ I was a liar. It wasn’t good. It was likely these street punks lived here and this was their territory. If word got out that some foreign crazy-ass was walking around with a gun, I was a goner, especially if they were wannabe gang members. Just over a fuckin’ dog and some idiot kids with shit for brains.
I gave the vagrant a pack of cigarettes and my lighter. Now I was totally pissed. Giving away my lighter meant buying another one before heading to my apartment. I hoped a part of me cared. A part of me that possessed my parents’ kindness.
It wasn’t long until I was at my apartment. Once in my room, I lit a cigarette and collapsed on the bed. This was my palace. An apartment with three pieces of furniture, a bed, a small round table, and a chair. The hours drifted by while I smoked, drank, and slept.
I woke next morning to the sound of traffic and crashing metal. I bolted upright in a sweat, still fully dressed, like a deer in headlights. It took a few seconds to remember where I was. A garbage truck screeched down Lewis, intermittently stopping and starting while hooking up trash cans. I imagined a body being hurled into its metal jaws.
The morning presented a depressing start. Raindrops squiggled down the room’s dirty windowpane and birds enjoyed a meet and greet on its ledge.
I didn’t understand how I’d worked for fifteen years and ended up with nothing. Does that make me a pathetic loser? My thoughts were punishing.
I had two job interviews, one as a salesman for a life insurance company, and another as a personal assistant for a psychologist. Both jobs sounded boring, but I was desperate. I had an unexpected flashback, hearing the voice of my grade seven teacher, Mrs Hobbs. ‘Curtis, do you know what happens to kids who aren’t conscientious at school and who get bored? They want to have fun and fun gets you nowhere, Curtis. Fun doesn’t get you a good job and fun doesn’t lead to future happiness. Your score for conscientiousness, is pretty much a one out of ten Curtis. That means you never listen, you never pay attention, and you’re the class clown. You’re destined to be a dropout and ending up in no man’s land.’
I remembered Mrs Hobb’s long sharp manicured nails. She was better known as Mrs Velociraptor. It was rumored in the school, she transformed into a dinosaur by night and enjoyed slashing the throats of children with one strike of her fingernail. It sounded farfetched at the time, but as a kid, I’d always double-checked that doors and windows were locked at night before bed time. I knew one thing. She was the ten out of ten for being the school bully and making my school days as boring as bat shit. I’d sweat with the sound of her monotonous droning. School was an academic straightjacket of pure torture.
Thank God, she can’t see me now.
FOUR
The Interview
By 10.30 am, I was running for a bus with a resume in one hand and my cell in the other. My first job interview was at the insurance company situated in the Upper East Side on Park Avenue, less than an hour’s bus trip from Brooklyn. The company building boasted a marble foyer. I caught an express elevator to the thirteenth floor, hoping I didn’t look desperate.
The elevator doors opened onto a maze of cubicles. People were working in a crammed space only big enough for a desk and a chair. Sitting on windowsills were dying pot plants and faded stuffed toys.
‘Excuse me, Sir, did you want to see someone?’
The receptionist had a squeaky voice, as if she had inhaled helium.
I’d been hoping to walk away without her noticing me. I was on the run from doing time, so I wasn’t going to be working in an office that simulated a prison.
It was an effort to turn around. ‘No, I’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve been working here for two years and I still get lost.’
Her high-pitched giggle was painful. I winced. It was a relief to get out of the building.
The second job interview was working for a high-profile psychologist as a personal assistant on Madison Avenue. It sounded easy enough. I had experience in finance, bookings, and meetings. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult.
It was an easy walk and I had time to grab a coffee on the way. A coffee was still affordable. I reached the building and took a deep breath. I had to get this job. If I fucked this up, it meant sleeping in the subway.
A flight of stairs led me to a one-person office on the third floor. It seemed ideal. I tapped a bell on a vacant desk. An office door opened.
‘Hello, I’m Dr Ellison, and you are…?’
‘My name is Curtis, Curtis Carter. I’m here for the personal assistant interview.’
‘Ah yes, nice to meet you, Curtis. Come into my office and make yourself comfortable.’
As I entered his room, I noticed a fish tank that ran along the length of his office wall and a silk palm standing in a corner. A black chair faced a cr
eam couch. It looked luxurious. This guy had more furniture in his office than I had in my apartment.
‘Did you find it difficult to get here, Curtis?’
‘Not at all. Just a quick bus trip from Brooklyn. I like your office.’
‘Thank you. I try to create a restful ambience for my clients. Their heightened levels of anxiety can be alleviated by a visually calming environment. My colleague, Dr Lee Cameron, is a psychiatrist. He works on the fifth floor and has his own personal assistant. So, Curtis, take a seat and tell me about yourself?’
Oh crap. What was I going to say? By the way, I’m running away from the mafia who want me dead. I have no money and I carry a gun. This guy was a psychologist and I was already feeling paranoid that he could read my mind. Then I remembered a heavyweight stockholder, Harry Hamlin, who’d been around the traps when I was crawling in diapers. He’d pulled me aside and said, ‘Curtis, the problem with you is that you’re too fuckin’ honest. Just fake it until you make it.’
Harry was right, and I’d done plenty of training in speaking bullshit. ‘I’d like to…well…study psychology and possibly be a psychologist one day so I thought it would be a good idea to work in such an organization first.’
‘That’s great you have a plan and some positive goals, Curtis. What do you think I do?’
‘You help people.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I help people, but I need an assistant who can help me run my practice, so I can help people. Does that make sense?’
‘Absolutely.’
There was an unsettling feeling about this guy, but I needed the job. His face was expressionless. He gazed at my fudged resume.
‘You sound like the person I’m looking for. When can you start?’
‘Straightaway.’
‘Sounds good to me. You can start tomorrow at 8.30 am sharp. I have client appointments starting at 9.00 am. The appointment book is on the reception desk. I’ll run through procedures with you in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, but there’s one thing.’
‘Yes, Curtis?’
‘I was wondering if…if I could have four weeks’ pay in advance? I’m helping out my sick mom and finances are tough for her.’
I was sure he knew I was lying. It sounded so fuckin’ corny.
‘I’d be happy to help you out, Curtis. Give me your bank account details tomorrow and I’ll organize a money transfer.’
The guy didn’t sound too bad after all. Having the apartment manager off my back was an instant relief.
I noticed a group of stone symbols on his desk as I was leaving.
‘You like those, Curtis?’
‘Yes, they’re interesting,’ I replied.
The doc hadn’t missed what I’d thought was a discreet observation. I reminded myself that his job was observing people’s behavior and that I’d better not fuck up.
‘They’re Chinese symbols,’ he said.
‘Do they have a meaning?’ I asked, trying to sound interested.
‘They mean power and strength.’ His response was sharp.
I thought it was strange that someone who helped others seemed so detached.
I was careful not to hang around too long. ‘You have interesting possessions, Doctor. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work for you.’ I gave a quick handshake.
Once out of sight, I punched the air, feeling as if I’d just sold stock at triple the price. I did it! Now I had to get back to my apartment safely.
On the relaxing bus ride, I remembered his expensive looking paten shoes. They were not from the local Walmart. Maybe a rich family.
When I got off the bus, I likened my existence to being in a jungle. My enemy was a mountain cat camouflaged amongst the buildings, waiting to pounce and grip its claws around my neck. I imagined razor-sharp teeth crunching my bones. Crazy thoughts. I needed to turn them off. I bought a bottle of bourbon and a burger, a much-needed pleasure.
Watching the price of stocks was exciting, going out to dinner with business partners was necessary, but imagining someone following me, scared me shitless. The feeling was not unlike childhood nightmares of Egyptian mummies following me. There was no escape, nowhere to hide. Whether mafia or mummies, the fear was the same. My paranoid thoughts continued their stranglehold. Do I need to walk different ways home to avoid anyone following?
It was a relief to see my building. Only a minute more and I could collapse on my bed.
FIVE
Occupational Identity
Sassy Lee was a streetwalker who frequented Lewis Avenue. She had been working the streets since she was seventeen and now at twenty-three, she felt comfortable in this part of Brooklyn. Sassy knew how to plant the seed of sex in a male’s brain for lustful germination. Her clients were slaves to their addiction. She knew sex was no different from heroin, providing a fix for their cravings.
Sassy was street smart. She had plenty of repeat customers. Pretending she enjoyed the sex brought them back. It was one of the first tricks of the trade.
She made them pay up front because once they’d finished with their business transaction, clients were reluctant to part with their cash.
She worked for a pimp who didn’t slap her around and demand sex. He allocated a few streets to her that she claimed as her own. She was street smart with the customers. The dangerous clients were those who offered fame and fortune. The naivety of the young streetwalkers made them a vulnerable target for customers who had a lust for torture and snuff movies.
She could still hear the last words of her friend: ‘Oh my God Sassy, I have this amazing offer. I met this guy who said he’s a big movie producer. He said I’ve got what it takes to make it and I was special, just like my mamma told me. He’s offered me a modeling photo shoot and a movie deal.’
Sassy had pleaded with her not to go. Crystal just gave an affectionate laugh and said it was nice someone cared but not to worry, she would text her after the shoot. That was the last time Sassy saw or heard from Crystal. She didn’t get a text. She simply vanished off the face of the earth.
Sassy knew the warning signs. If a client pulled up in a cargo van, truck or anything else that could keep an unsuspecting victim captive, she knew to stay away. The prostitutes who were hooked on drugs and desperate for a quick fix took their chances.
She remembered a lucky escape when she first hit the streets. A middle-aged guy who looked like he was on his way to a Woodstock Festival offered her a weekend away. He said he was going camping and had some amazing weed that he didn’t mind sharing.
Sassy felt trapped in the city and yearned for the country air. She couldn’t resist. She’d smoked some weed in her time, so she was looking forward to escaping her world for the weekend. He looked harmless enough, even showing her pictures of his kids.
Just as they were leaving the city, she noticed a knife, rope, and duct tape on the back seat. Her survival instincts kicked in. In sheer panic, she opened her door and jumped.
Her skin along the lower part of her body was scraped off and she heard the crunch of bones as she bounced along the interstate. Sassy escaped but she ended up in hospital with a bloodied and battered body.
She didn’t think too much about it again until the police caught up with her months later. She identified the mugshot of a man who was known as the Highway Hippy Killer. He preyed on prostitutes, runaways, and hitchhikers. Now, he was sitting on death row. The police told her she wouldn’t have made it if her killer had had automatic locks on his vehicle doors. Hearing the words ‘lucky to escape’ traumatized her more than the experience. It gave her shivers to think of the torture he would’ve enjoyed. It was another thing in her life that made her feel stupid and worthless.
Now she didn’t work without a taser. She serviced a retired cop who gave her the tools and the knowledge to protect herself. Sassy found him different from most clients. He cared about her safety. No one was interested in the good cops; it was always the bad cops that sold newspapers. The usual headlin
e was: A crooked cop, a prostitute, and dirty money.
Sassy lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and she was fortunate to have some regular clients. She had a six-year-old daughter who lived with her parents. Working on the streets gave her enough money to put her daughter through school. She considered visiting her daughter was better than her daughter witnessing her mom’s loser life.
Sassy was the queen of disassociation and consciously split her personality to survive. On the streets, she was Sassy, and off the streets, she was Sandra, a caring mom who would do anything for her kid.
She didn’t remember having had a happy childhood. As a teenager, the longer she’d stayed at school the dumber and more depressed she’d felt. Her self-esteem was non-existent and the cuts on her arms were a cry for help. She enjoyed being with like-minded friends couch surfing and not having a care in the world. They spent most days getting high. One day, she jumped over the school fence and never returned.
After one of her drug highs, she fell pregnant. She didn’t know who the father was. Her mom begged her to stay home to raise her child. Sassy felt alienated from others in their small town. She couldn’t bear to stay at home, in a place that produced small minds, so she packed her bags and kissed her baby goodbye.
Her life changed in a flash when, alone and hungry at New York’s central bus depot, a pimp picked up her bags, fed her, and bought her clothes. Before long, she was working the streets and pulling in more cash than she had ever dreamed of. She sent cards and money home for the baby and pretended she had an office job.
Although Sassy’s pimp looked after her, for some time she had wanted to turn her life around and start again. The job brought too many risks and she didn’t want her child to lose her mom. Sassy knew she had been in denial of the seediness of some of her clients.
