By the time I was twenty-two, I had worked every stroll in the city and several in two cities close by. By thirty-three, I had worked the streets more than half my life, looked fifteen years older than I was, and felt twenty-five years older than that. I survived two attempted murders, dozens of rapes, numerous beatings, attempted strangulations, pimps, police, the streets, the elements, frostbite, and an addiction or two along the way. But that’s never where it begins for any of us.
I had probably run away about six times before I ran for good; the first and second time for only one night before returning home in tears. The other attempts always ended with my parents or the police bringing me back. But at sixteen I became determined, and with money saved for other things, I bought a bus ticket and fled to the streets of a city far from home, joining the small community of others who found themselves there. There were only a few ways to make money on the street: the guys mostly panhandled, although some tricked; and the girls, well, the girls turned tricks — if not right away, eventually — it was almost inevitable. It was to be a decision I would later live to very much regret, and a decision that would lead me to where I was to remain for far too long a time.
I came from a good home, in case you are wondering, as opposed to a not-so-great one that some of the other girls talked about. And like most of us, I had been raised with morals and values, stories and fables of right and of wrong. This would be one commonality that we all seemed to share: stories and fables of the right, and of course, the wrong.
When I was a child I was sickly — at least that’s the word my mother had used to describe an ongoing lung infection that rendered me very weak. I spent several lengthy stretches of time in the hospital under a tent of plastic, away from home. While I have little memory of my time in the hospital as a child, as an adult I seemed to have a dramatically visceral reaction to being taken to one on occasion after a bad date; I wanted to know why, although I had begun to have my suspicions. By my mid-twenties I began to call my mother, usually after far too much to drink, to ask her about the hospital and why I was so afraid of them. What had happened to me there, I demanded to know, but was at the same time afraid to know. The phone calls usually ended with my mom sobbing and putting my dad on the phone. It always broke my heart to know I had disappointed him perfectly and so I usually hung up, staying on long enough to hear his kind voice but ending the call before I had to answer any questions or hear his pleas for me to come home. I felt conflicted about who I was in those moments, so far from what my father had hoped for; I would always need to get high after hearing his voice in an attempt to numb out all the emotions it evoked.
When we were kids my older sister, Wendy, and I would eagerly finish our dinner, take baths, and do our homework so we could curl up at our parents’ feet — by the fireplace in the den in the fall and winter, and under the stars in the warmer months — and listen as they each took turns reading books to us. Our parents were far older than other parents, and occasionally people assumed that they were our grandparents, but I imagine now that it was probably what made them so unique. Our evening stories before bedtime would become one of my fondest childhood memories; treasured and true, and completely perfect.
For the longest time, my sister Wendy was my best friend. I called her Winney, because I couldn’t pronounce the “d” and the name stuck. She was three years older than me and everything seemed to come easy to her; from ballet class to studies, she excelled at everything she did and I admired and looked up to her. But that same admiration eventually turned to jealousy and became a great source of frustration for me as I got older. By thirteen I had begun to realize that she did not share my struggles and difficulties, and I did not share her ease with friendships and simple conversation. I had been diagnosed with learning disabilities and felt my inadequacies profoundly; I began to withdraw. I felt unable to measure up, and my mother’s disappointment in me was always there, I thought, just beneath the surface. There was something in the way I would catch her looking at me from time to time. Disappointment? Pity? It sure felt like it.
But I always knew my father simply loved me and I never once felt his love waver, even as I began to wage war against my growing anxiety, insecurities, frustration, and anger. Somehow my father’s love seemed to make my mother’s constant disappointment and worry about me less stinging. My father would tell me that I had the gift of creativity and that I was special, and would often say he had great expectations for me. He urged me to be patient and said that my gifts and strengths were still developing, and he promised me that they would evolve in time.
But I was not patient; patience was definitely not one of my gifts. I became more and more withdrawn. I stopped rushing through after-dinner tasks to sit and listen to my father’s voice and stories. I had become far too awkward in my skin. I would take to the privacy of my room and lose myself in my own books, night after night, wrapped in blankets in the far corner of my bedroom on the floor, a small lamp stretched from the bedside table. I was fascinated by the lives and journeys of others, stories of adventure and tales of bravery that would move and touch me deeply. I began to write stories of my own, so many of them, and kept the pages between my mattress and bed skirt. I felt calm when I was safely wrapped in my blanket inventing stories and reading books. No matter where I landed, there were always the books. And there was always, always paper to be found.
Although I was probably not a kid anyone would have predicted to be destined for street life, there I found myself. There were many times I had wished for the sanctity of my home and family, but my raw adolescent will prevented me from returning to them. And so over time and through internalized anger, shame, and embarrassment, there I remained for far too many years. So far from where I had come, vastly removed from the safety and gentleness of evening story time.
The saga of my arrival and eventual tenure on the stroll wasn’t very different from those of many other working girls I came to know over the years. Of course some came from fractured childhoods of unimaginable violence, abuse, neglect, and poverty, but many came from middle-class backgrounds and families similar, in some ways at least, to mine. I don’t know why, but there was a strange kind of solace in that. And yet almost always the commonality to be found, when sought for with consideration, was a dark, tangled thread of molestation and abuse.
Our stories often mirrored one another’s when compared: how we got there, how we turned our first trick, and finally how we became stuck in a lifestyle that none of us would have wished on anyone else. And so with those ever-enduring thoughts of the beginnings and my first trick, I will try and describe my last — the very last trick.
It was on my thirty-third birthday that the attack happened. It was a bitter cold night, and March was going out in a fury with one last blizzard. Winds were whipping and circling making visibility difficult at times; I had been on the stroll for about an hour without competition, walking the same snow-packed path that other girls had already beaten down as though a trench, back and forth, back and forth, in the subzero temperatures until I felt as though my brain was beginning to freeze. My toes and fingers were warmed by carefully placed little inserts that had cost two bucks a pair at the corner store but lasted for hours. They were a good investment, and I tried to remember to buy them, to help protect my twice-frostbit fingertips. The old thrice-hand, long, brown fur coat did the job of keeping the rest of me warm, save for my face. Though I rarely wore a scarf out to turn tricks, I had worn one that evening. I pulled the long, red wool scarf a bit tighter and bit higher in an attempt to keep the wind from biting relentlessly at my exposed pieces. I knew it might be a slow night because of the storm, but it was becoming intolerable, barely a car to be seen anywhere. The plows were slowly making their way through the deluge of snow and making paths through the streets. But the back roads were always the last to be plowed and cleared. I listened in the distance to the sounds of the plow trucks scraping and willed them closer.
My landlord was a man named Steven, and he had earned the nickname “Thievin’ Steven” on the street. He did not discriminate when it came to renting to most of us, but instead had managed to capitalize on those who could not otherwise rent a place, either because of known occupation, or lack of identification and bank accounts. He charged more than double what the small, battered rooms or tiny bachelor apartments were worth; he only rented by the week and only accepted it in cash. It was as good a deal as many of us could get. I once calculated what he earned from the one property alone, and was astounded to figure out that it was about $4,700 a month. I thought about trying to organize everyone to refuse to pay the inflated costs of the rooms, but realized the futility of it before I ever uttered the thought out loud.
Vacant rooms were hard to come by in that building, and were filled within minutes of someone either leaving or being kicked out; they were sometimes filled even before Thievin’ Steven’s big fist banged on a thin door, and we all knew it. It was a powerful motivator to make sure you had your rent for him. Occasionally he would let some of the girls give him a blowjob in exchange for a few days’ grace, and I was no exception. But I had already had my days of grace, and Thievin’ Steven said that if I didn’t have the rent for him by noon the next day I would have to pack my things and leave. It was his final warning, and I had to admit he had been tolerant with me so far, usually cutting me a break sometimes for up to a week.
I was desperate not to lose my room. I had been without one too often, and had drifted from place to place over the years. I had spent nights — sometimes weeks or even months when I was lucky — crashing wherever someone had a spot they could share, whether it was one of the other girls, a dealer, a trick, a new friend, or the odd stray from the suburbs who’d rent a motel room and dabble with dope for a day or two. Someone usually had a place for a few months or so before they were kicked out or lost it because they shared it. Knowing what it was like to be without, it was hard to turn others away to preserve new-found shelter. But when you didn’t have anywhere to sleep, and you were still looking for a place when the sun came up for the second day in a row, those were the times when you might very well find anything in common with someone just because you knew they had a spot that you could talk yourself into. Even when there was nowhere, when I had stayed awake as many days as I possibly could — two, sometimes three, and a few times four days straight — as long as I kept finding dope to trick my brain into remaining half conscious just a while longer, I would wait until I could physically stand it no more before I would finally cave and go to a shelter.
Overcrowded and pungent-smelling city shelters, reeking with intermittent whiffs of vomit, Pine Sol, and bleach, would offer you a place to sleep on a little plastic-covered mat on the cement floor with an old, threadbare army blanket. I’d keep my shoes on and my jacket bundled under my head for a pillow, only to wake with both gone, stolen by someone who must have had less. There were unwanted advances, attempted and completed rapes, violence, fear, and anger, brought on by the overcrowding of already deeply frightened people. I swore I’d never again let myself endure that in order to attempt sleep, no matter what I had to do to prevent it. And so, in that spirit and with determination, I remained on the stroll praying for a few customers to see me through for another week.
A black Impala pulled up, and I slid easily in, a brief reprieve from the elements. It went the same as all the others usually did.
“Hi, honey,” I said. “What are you looking for tonight?”
His reply was blunt and to the point. “I’m kind of in a hurry. A blowjob would be nice, don’t you think?”
Well, no, I really didn’t think it would be nice — at least not for me, anyway — but smiled back and said, “Sixty bucks, honey.”
“Sixty dollars? Well, all I have is forty. Think you can work with that?”
I replied, “Oh yeah, sure, ’cause three-quarter blowjobs are my specialty, don’t you know.” We both laughed as he rummaged through his pockets and then the console, and found another ten bucks. I accepted. I was done and he was smiling; another briefly satisfied customer. I opened the door of the car to the cold, dense night air, and reluctantly got out.
Another thirty minutes passed and only a few other cars stopped; both refused me when I leaned in. The sting of refusal never lessened, but the thing was to act as if it was no big deal and to never show the hurt on your face where it would be visible. Internalize, internalize, internalize, and just suck it up; that was the secret. Happy fucking birthday to me! Just one more; all I needed was one more customer. But before I could stand out there any longer, I had to warm up.
I walked down the dark and oddly vacant street, around the corner, and stepped into Dottie’s Diner. I remember the strange feeling of déjà vu that night as the little bell at the top of the door rang, and Betty looked over at me with an odd look of concern on her face. But I shook it off and ordered my coffee.
“Hi, Betty. Think I could get a cup of special birthday coffee on my tab, please? It’s brutally slow out there tonight. Where the hell is everyone, anyway?”
Betty looked up at me and said, “It must be slow; this is the busiest I’ve been all night,” motioning to the few patrons. “You ask me, I’d say everyone is staying indoors tonight, dear. And I sure wish you could, too.” I shrugged and nodded.
I unwrapped my long, red scarf six times before it was free, shook the snow from my coat and threw it in the side booth, and walked back to the washrooms, noting the huge FOR PATRONS ONLY sign looming, as if daring a non-patron to try and use them. I had a creepy feeling as though I was being watched and thought I could feel eyes penetrating the back of my head. I turned around quickly and surveyed the few patrons; no one seemed out of the ordinary, or paying me any attention. There were only a few of the usuals: a couple of the girls, Jo-Jo and Kitty-Kat, were sitting in our reserved back booth eating and arguing, stopping just long enough to lift their heads to me and say hey. A few cabbies were talking quietly in a language I didn’t understand, and a blonde-haired girl named Candy who had just started working the stroll was sitting at a table with an older, grey-haired man, a trick I assumed. Other than that, there were two orange-vested city workers a few tables over sipping coffee and reading the paper. And Betty, of course; apparently an old pro who had gone straight and had gotten out of the life, or so the rumour went. But the feeling lingered. I tried to shake it off.
I returned from the ladies room to my table and the welcomed warmth of the large cup between my hands, and the sweet smell. The coffee was a little bitter, as usual, but it was hot and for that I was grateful. “Hey, Betty, how many days old is this shit?” I asked jokingly.
“Only a day old, birthday girl; only a day,” she replied with a warm smile, wrinkled by age and too many cigarettes. “How about a nice piece of warm apple pie to go with that, Becca? On the house.”
“Oh, wow; that’d be great, Betty. I’d love some, thank you.”
Betty brought the thick slice of cinnamon-smelling pie to the table, set it down, and reached out her hand to rest on mine. “So, how old are you today, sweetheart?”
I felt the kindness and warmth of her deeds and words, and it got caught all up in my throat as a lump. I took a deep breath and a gulp of brandy coffee, avoiding her gaze. “Thirty-three. Thirty-three; can you believe it, Betty?” I looked up at her. “I feel sixty-three.”
Betty smiled warmly and said, “Thirty-three: that’s an important number. Do you know some people believe that those numbers signify ascending angels?” She reached gently to a long, frozen strand of my red hair and moved it off my face. The simple gesture had a profound effect on me.
“What are ascending angels, Betty?” I had to ask softly.
“I have heard they are called to be protectors and champions of those who require them; they come to the scared and the lonely, and are especially skilled, I believe, at watching over,” she paused and looked toward the back booth and then back at me and said, “all of you.” I felt myself take two short, sharp breaths with no control, and for the second time in minutes, emotion got all bunched up in my throat. She had a way of making people feel genuinely cared about, at least people like me.
I finished the pie and coffee and lingered just long enough to thaw out. I set all the change I had on the table and got up to pull on my coat. And then the feeling of someone watching me hit me again. I whipped my head around once more, to one side and then the other; I tried to peer out the large frost-covered front windows, but couldn’t make anyone out. I finished putting on my coat, wrapped my scarf, shook the little inserts a few times before putting on my gloves, and headed for the door.
“You be careful out there, dear. You hear me?” came the familiar words from Betty.
I almost always remembered to never say goodbye — it could be a jinx — and so I said, “Yeah, I will, Betty. And hey, thanks for everything; see ya later.”
Back out on the street, the cold bit fast and hard at my face. I pulled my scarf up higher, covering my cheeks, and held my coat tightly as I made my way back to the stroll, through the blowing snow one street down, in the darkness, alone. Still I saw no one else working or around for company to make the time pass easier and the vulnerability seem less desolate. Slow, quiet times alone on the stroll were the worst; they left far too much space for thought and reflection on all those what ifs, should haves, could haves, and don’t haves. Fuck, and room for thought of all the things that could never be.
I tried to think about something positive, anything but the cold. I thought about all of the good tricks over the years, the regulars. Some brought girls small gifts once in a while; some took us to dinner, or the all-night breakfast joint downtown; these were the ones that really attempted to connect. I sure as hell wished one of them had been out there. And then I thought of some of the girls over the years, and the times I was glad I was there. Vicks, the one I pulled by the scruff of her neck from the car before the raping motherfucker could beat and strangle her, like he had me a few months earlier. Or when Audrey was finally ready to get away from her psycho pimp after the most recent violent beating, and a few of us, Betty included, pitched in to make sure she got the train ticket home. I thought of the times I was there when someone did the chicken and I was able to help stabilize them. There was the time I walked into the back room of a crack house and found a crumpled-up woman already dead, alone in a room; I made the anonymous call to the police so they could take her out of the filth. Or sketchy Kat, the girl I had lied for and vouched for on the street so everyone would finally just fucking stop picking on her. And I smiled as I thought about the time I took a sucker punch from a very drunk, older hooker for dragging her kicking and screaming from the car she insisted on getting into, who I knew was a bad date that had raped and beaten Kitty. She returned the next day to say she was sorry and gave me some dope to go with her apology; I of course accepted both easily.
Years earlier, Betty put up a list on the wall near the kitchen at the diner, so girls could write down bad dates and details. It didn’t take long for it to catch on.
Rape ’n’ dumps: now those are real special and are exactly what they sound like. Usually they start with tricks that maybe hand you extra cash and want to drive out of the way, far enough that you lose your way from the stroll and the familiar. Then they get the look; the one you hope you see before it’s too late. The look that says you’re fucked, right before they punch you in the face and rape you, making you feel like you’re being ripped open. When they’re done, they open the door and push, kick, and shove you out like a piece of bleeding, broken trash onto the ground. And if you can, you try and get their plates before the dirt from the spinning tires hits you in the face, leaving you in a frightened, painful heap, hoping you’ll be able to get up, willing yourself to get your legs moving and walk to anywhere that might lead you back to what is safe — the safety of the stroll as you know it. That’s a rape ’n’ dump; more common than anyone will ever tell you. It is what it is. Fuck, I hated the slow, quiet times as much as the reflection and memories that sometimes sneak up with them.
I just needed to turn one more trick and then I could get home and into a hot bath. I needed seventy more bucks, so the first vehicle that approached was at first a welcomed sight. The van pulled up beside me and slowly the driver’s window rolled down, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of him in the dark. I had a bad feeling in my gut that I couldn’t explain, but when he flashed his cash, two fifty dollar bills, and asked if I was working, I said yeah anyway, because the fear of not making the rent was far greater than the intuitive, almost primal sense that I felt urging me to walk away. Every nerve, every cell in my body was on heightened alert, but I could not allow myself the luxury of listening to what my body already knew. I pulled open the passenger-side door and hopped inside.
He was maybe in his sixties, about two hundred pounds, and maybe six feet. I couldn’t tell or remember what colour his eyes were, but he had a jagged scar just below the right eyebrow that I only noticed when the thumb of his hand brushed at it as if by reflex. I was overcome with a feeling I couldn’t articulate; I knew something was wrong, and I was regretting being so cold as to jump in too quickly in hopes of earning the rest of my rent.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said in a deep voice, and without hesitation stated, “are you ready for your close-ups?” in a dry, matter-of-fact way.
The words sent shivers down my spine and another wave of déjà vu overcame me; I felt something in the pit of my stomach but pushed the feeling away and said, “Yeah, and I’m watching you, too. I’m not going to have any trouble with you, am I darling?” feeling panic grip me and trying hard not to let it show.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said again.
I didn’t understand what he meant, and I tried to avoid eye contact and the piercing way in which he surveyed me, making my stomach feel sick. I said what came natural. “So, come on; you can pull over here. Let’s see what a hundred bucks does for us, handsome,” I managed to say, but he did not respond. Again I tried to engage him and asked, “What are you looking for tonight, mister? Come on, I have to get back out there to work. You know we only have a few minutes, right? I’ll give you a stormy night discount: full service for a hundred bucks. This is a one-time-only deal and the offer is about to expire, pal.” Again my words were met with his silence; he continued to drive slowly and purposefully through the blizzard and dark, snow-covered streets without saying another word.
Shit, I knew something was really wrong. As he slowed at the first stop sign, I tried the handle but it didn’t move. After trying with more persistence, harder and no longer hiding the fact that I wanted to get the hell out, he looked over at me with a grin and said, “It won’t open,” his monotone words dripping with sarcasm and purpose.
I turned around quickly and surveyed the back of the van to try and exit from another door, and he let out a guttural laugh. It had been less than three minutes. I turned to look at him, and tried to get my leg over the console toward the back of the van, shaking with the fear that was overtaking me. His arm was suddenly above me, and he struck me with something hard and cold, a steel pipe maybe, so hard that I felt as though my cheekbone had been shattered, and then there was nothing until …