Working Girl (3 page)

“I asked if you wanted to go do something tonight? Get into some trouble. Maybe find some girls.”

Contemplating my options, I pause for a second. This could go one of two ways. I could decline his invitation and he’ll know something is up and start acting funny around me, or I could just go along and appease the man whore that is my only true friend. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I turn and look at Brad, whose eyebrows are lifted waiting for my response. “Fine, I’ll go,” I say. “But don’t try and hook me up with any of your ‘honeys.’ I’ve already got my sights set on someone.”

SOMEHOW I MANAGE TO FALL
asleep doing my class reading. Still sprawled out across the top of my comforter, I stretch as I begin to stir. With my arms outstretched above my head, I smile feeling refreshed. There’s nothing quite like a daytime nap. Panic suddenly hits me as I realize I have no clue what time it is. Big Earl will have a shit fit if I miss my shift.

Snapping my head up, I glance at the clock and breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s only five o’clock. Plenty of time to get ready and head across the street to my proverbial hell.

I roll myself over before swinging my feet off the side of the bed. As my feet hit the floor I still my body, hearing the music from the down the hall.

Momma is awake.

The telltale crackle of the old vinyl record fills the air as Elvis’s deep smooth and sensual voice dances in my brain. The song is contagious and I find myself humming along as I walk down the hallway to her room to find her already perched at the seat in front of her vanity.

I stand there, unbeknownst to her, watching as she readies herself. She’s wearing her silk dressing gown and for a moment I pretend that she’s not a prostitute. She looks like an average middle-aged woman; her brown eyes and hair a mirror image of mine. But then her robe falls open, revealing her lacy bra and bringing me back to reality. That bra will attract more than one Joe tonight.

Countless hours of my life have been spent watching her. Hell, there was even a time where I adored her. I love my Momma, I do, but I can’t understand how she could have allowed me to grow up with all this surrounding my innocence. It doesn’t seem fair, and I can’t help but hate her a little bit for it.

There is no handbook to guide the daughter of a hooker, but it didn’t keep me from trying to figure out my messed up mind. In desperation, I had even Googled “How to cope with your mother being a prostitute” before. It ended up being a bunch of psychobabble bullshit, leaving me with nothing but my own thoughts.

As I continue to watch her I feel sadness. There’s so much I’m missing out on. I’m no fool and I know that. I’ve read enough books to know that children aren’t supposed to worry about their moms like I do. Day after day I worry if it’s going to be her last; if this will be the day that she attracts the wrong Joe and he takes her from me; that this might be the day she actually drinks herself to death. All things a girl my age shouldn’t have to think about when it comes to their momma.

After a few quiet minutes her familiar eyes meet mine in the mirror and I force a smile, trying to hide my sadness.

“Presley, baby girl,” she coos. “Come help me.” Moving on just like nothing happened, but I know she knows. She’s no idiot. She’d ended her night blacked out drunk, even so she knows she didn’t just miraculously wake up in her bed, perfectly cleaned and tucked in.

I go to her, and she hands me her favorite pearl necklace. She lifts her long brown hair off the back of her neck before turning and smiling at me. “Did I ever tell you about that necklace?”

I nod, but she ignores the fact that I’ve heard the story a million times and starts telling it anyways while I fasten it around her neck, her fingertips running along the smooth pearls. “This necklace was your great-great grandmother’s—”

“Who came over to America from Spain.” With a roll of my eyes, I finish the sentence for her. I know the story. At this point, I could probably tell it better than her. The story is one I've heard a million times over. The rich Spanish monarch who cast out his daughter for daring to fall in love with the wrong man. The story of how the two of them fled in the dead of night and snuck aboard a merchant ship headed for American shores to ensure they remained together, for better or worse, was one that would have been romantic . . . had it not ended in him dying of scurvy while they made their journey. Even if some semblance of sweetness could be recovered from the fact that she found herself pregnant with his child, thus enabling her to carry a piece of her one true love throughout her life, it would be dashed by the fact that her great-granddaughter chose to recount the story time and time again, all the while wearing her prized pearls, stolen as a means of currency but something she could never bear to part with, and readying herself for a night of selling herself to the highest bidder. Great-great Grandmother would be so proud.

Right.

Staring at the reflection of my mother, I feel so helpless. She looks terrible, way beyond her forty years. It’s like she’s aged twenty years in the span of the last six months and my heart breaks. Big Earl is already harassing her about being too old for the business, always pointing out that men don’t want to pay for something they can get for free at home. Big Earl liked to offer the cliental fresh-faced beauties. It’s what he prides himself on, and one of the reasons he harasses me to take her place. Momma knows her time is coming, but she’s saved by the few loyal customers she has, plus the few cougar chasers that she occasionally gets.

She is so lost, my own mother, and there is nothing I can do to help. “Let me make you up tonight,” I offer with a smile, knowing that it might not be much, but at least it’s something. Besides, my makeup skills are better than hers, and I know a few tricks to hide her wrinkles.

With a glisten in her eye, she smiles at me, and for a moment I see the beautiful woman I once knew. She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Aww, baby, that would be lovely.”

“Let me go grab my makeup kit.”

I take off to my room and quickly grab my overstuffed toiletry bag. Makeup has become my “thing” over the years, and I’ve acquired quite the collection. Books may offer me my escape, but makeup makes me feel human. Hiding my true, ugly self behind a layer of gloss.

I hear Momma change the Elvis tune to
In The Ghetto
and I pause. Of all the Elvis songs in the world, this is Momma’s favorite. You’d think I’d get used to hearing it, but every time it plays the words strike me like the first time, sending chills down my spine. The irony of the song tugs at my heart, and my back presses against the wall as I try to pull myself together. Taking a deep breath, I clutch the makeup bag to my chest and go into her room again. She’s still perched in front of her vanity, brushing her hair while she hums along.

“Momma, this song is too depressing.”

“It’s only depressing if you let it bother you, but if you own it, well then it’s beautiful.” I know what she’s trying to say, but it still hurts. The ghetto won’t be my life forever. There will come a time when I’ll be able to leave it all behind.

The song plays out and switches to one of Elvis’s more enjoyable tunes as I paint Momma’s face. Using my pore minimizer to fade her lines of wisdom, she slowly starts to look younger as I contour her face, listening to her hum as I work, and I become envious of our role reversal. I want to be the naive one, the one who gets taken care of. But that has never been in the cards for me . . . and it probably never will.

Once I’m done she leans forward and admires my handy work. “You need to teach me how to do this. I look gorgeous. At least ten years younger. It’ll be a good night for me now.”

I sigh, hating that I know what a ‘good night’ constitutes for her. It will include some hair pulling, fake orgasms, being tied up, and surely a money shot.

“I’m glad I could help, Momma.” I’m really not, but it feels good to do something nice for someone for a change.

Standing up she wraps her arms around me, pulling me tight for a hug. “You’re such a good girl. I’m so lucky to have you as a daughter.”

I agree with her to a certain extent, because she is lucky. Who would be taking care of her if I wasn’t around? No one. She would have been thrown out on her ass a long time ago. But if I’m admitting her luck, aren’t I also agreeing that I deserve this life to a certain extent? I dunno. It’s all so confusing. Day in, day out, you’d think the older I get the more I’d be able to understand, but I swear each day just muddies the water more. It’s like I’m destined to remain in limbo; torn between what I’ve been given, and what I want.

“I’m working the desk until two tonight, Momma, so stay after your shift and I’ll walk home with you.”

She nods, and I know it’s useless. She never heeds my suggestions because if she did that she wouldn’t be able to get hammered before I got home. Instead, she’d have to go to bed sober and allow the memories to creep in. Self-actualization never brought Momma anything good, but it would be a challenge for anyone who’d been cursed with her past. I don’t know all the details of her early years, but I know something major had to have happened to lead her here.

Alone.

With a daughter who struggles with her hate and love everyday.

Kissing her on the cheek, I leave her to finish her nightly preparations and head into the kitchen to see what I can scrounge to fill my stomach. As if on cue, it growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten much today, which is not unlike any other day. But instead of making it into the kitchen unscathed, I hear a crash just as I reach the door.

I can already guess what might be waiting for me on the other side, and opening the door, I see that I’m right. One of the younger, newer girls lies in a heap near the counter, still with the belt around her arm, the needle hanging precariously from her skin. A normal person would probably be frightened by the sight, but for me it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Despite my lack of reaction, it still bothers me that these girls have such a disregard for their lives.

I go to her, bending down and removing the needle while unfastening the belt. She moans and her eyes roll in the back of her head. I try to remember her name, but I can’t for the life of me think of it, but I do know that she’s so new that this is her first stay at Menses Mansion. Obviously she’s a real winner. Big Earl sure can pick ’em.

I try to rouse her, slapping her face until she finally manages to open her eyes and they loosely focus on me. “What’s your name?” I ask dryly.

“Peaches.”

Sure it is. “All right, Peaches. I know you’re new, and probably not used to rules, but around here we have them. This isn’t the street.” She looks up at me, confused, like she can’t believe I’m lecturing her. “If you want to get high, at least have the decency to do it in your own room.” I hand her the spoon and lighter that she’s used to cook whatever it is she’s shot into her arm. “You can keep these.”

She continues to stare at me, and I stare right back. I may not want anything to do with this life, but this life has hardened me. I’ve seen it all. There’s only one thing that scares me, but since it seemingly only exists in the books I read I don’t worry too much about it.

Truth is, I’m scared of love.

KILLING TIME IN THE LIBRARY
seems like it could be fun, though it’d probably be way better if I wasn’t by myself and I had someone to study with.

Casting a glance over at the table next to me, I watch enviously as two girls giggle, pretending to be looking in their textbooks. I’m jealous of their ability to live a carefree life. Certainly it was something I’ve never known, and at times like this, I question if I ever will.