Forgive Me(43)
The apartment (other than that locked door) is a lot like the other place I lived in when I thought Ricardo was my boyfriend, back when I thought he loved me. There’s a small kitchen, small bathroom, small living room with a TV, the futon (aka my bed), and an old armchair that’s seen better days. The floors are wood, but pretty scratched up. We’re on the third floor of an apartment complex that has a lot of units but not a lot of activity. The girls live in the upstairs units. There are bars on the window but no fire escape. Who’s going to rob us? Spiderman? But then I remembered the locked apartment door and the bars made more sense.
Men don’t come and go from the front entrance all day long. They go to a basement entrance in the back and their arrivals are spaced out so there’s no lines or anything. The basement is where the work happens.
That’s what I call it . . . the work.
I found out that Natasha is eight years older than me but she looks a lot older than that. I hope she doesn’t ever read this because I feel bad writing it, but it’s the truth. Her skin is pasty and a bit loose. Her face looks hard like my mom’s and I know it’s from drinking and smoking. I know that I’m going to look that way too because I’m drinking and smoking as much as she does. I haven’t seen Ricardo in a few days. He’s busy. That’s all I’m told. I think he’s with another girl like Mandy . . . or maybe another me . . . another JBar in the making, and I bet he can’t get her photos right either.
The girls are my family now. Tasha, Katrina, Ashley, Nika, Daphne, Lulu, Daisy, Olyesa. Just some of the girls I know. There’s one American who is around my age. Her name is Erin and she’s a runaway like me. Oh wait, there’s also Jade. She’s older. MUCH older. Like thirties or something, but I swear she looks older than that. I think she’s pretty though. She doesn’t talk very much. She just gets high and keeps to herself. Maybe she knows something I don’t.
The other girls have accents and I think they’re from Eastern Europe somewhere. Russia, I think. That’s Eastern Europe? Right? I hope Ms. Margo doesn’t read this. She’s my history teacher and I’m supposed to know this stuff. Whatever. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, as my mother liked to say.
The girls, we look after each other. Doesn’t matter where we came from, if we were rich or poor, the color of our skin (and all the colors are represented). What matters is we’re here, in this life together. This place forces fast friendships. Some of the clients can be difficult, but you can’t say no to them unless you’re really scared. If you do get scared then you scream, RABBIT RABBIT as loud as you can. Tasha told me people say Rabbit Rabbit at the start of a new month. I guess it’s supposed to bring good luck or something. Down here it brings Casper. Casper’s a big fat guy who shuttles the clients from the waiting area to the girls’ rooms. Casper always wears loose black T-shirts that are as big as sails and black pants and a black baseball hat. He has lots of tattoos and so many gold chains I can’t believe he can walk, let alone run, but boy, can he move fast. Nobody really messes with the girls because nobody wants to mess with Casper.
If you do scream Rabbit Rabbit you better have a good reason for calling him. If you’re not getting hurt real bad, or cut, or something like that, you just have to do what’s asked of you, do what the client wants.
That’s the job.
There’s a waiting area with a sofa, TV, and refrigerator full of beer. Buggy sometimes works with Casper, bringing clients to the girls, taking money, that sort of thing. I’ve seen Ricardo a few times. He’s back, but I don’t know where he’s been and he won’t say. He’s been super sweet to me though, like the old Ricardo. We’ve had sex a few times. I don’t even think about all the things he’s done to me. The sex means nothing. It’s empty. It’s like a cough, something that happens, something I can’t control but I know will end at some point. I don’t feel anything when we’re doing it. I don’t think I feel anything at all anymore.
When I’m not locked in the apartment, I’m in the room down below. I wait for the clients to show up and do what’s asked of me. I always close my eyes during it, unless they tell me to open them. If I have to look, I pretend it’s Ricardo on top of me and we’re back in the other apartment, back when I was JBar and he was my photographer.
It’s become a bit of a routine, this life of mine. Sleep. Pills. Smokes. Coffee. The room. The men. How the hell did I get here? I keep asking myself that question. I don’t even know where I am. Baltimore? DC? Some other city? The girls won’t tell me. They’ve been told not to tell me, I should clarify. But that’s okay. They’re still nice to me. I need them as friends so I don’t get mad at them for keeping it a secret. Sometimes we go out to dinner, me and the other girls. But of course somebody is always watching us. Ricardo, Buggy, Casper . . . somebody is always watching.
The other girls all look like Tasha—hard, worn out like the armchair in my apartment. Worn out like the springs on the metal bed down below. I get whatever money Casper doles out, which isn’t much for the work I’m doing. But I take it and I don’t complain because if I do, I might get burned, or choked, or hit, or threatened with a knife, or Ricardo and Casper might do all the things they said they’d to do to my mom or my dad if I tried to get away. What choice do I have? I guess when I’m out to dinner with the girls I could go to the bathroom and sneak out a back door or something and just start running. But what if I get caught? What if they come looking for me? What if they catch me? I know whenever I get back home, if I ever get home, people will ask me why I didn’t run. But what do they know?