Chapter Twelve
Every car might be the last car a hooker ever gets into, but BMWs, Audis, and Infinitis felt safer than beat-up pickup trucks and unmarked vans. Especially the vans with no back windows. The skinny old guy drove a light blue BMW coupe and looked feeble to me.
“What’s on your menu, darling?” He winked and gripped my knee. “And just so you know, I’m a judge!”
“And just so you know, I’m a hooker.”
“Ha ha! And a comedian.”
“Where are we going?” I hated chit-chat. Men didn’t hire my mouth for words.
“I got us a room at the East Glen Motel. Somewhere I can keep an eye on my car while we do business.”
“What do you want?”
“That’s not very good customer service, Phantom. Maybe I want a little sweet-talking.”
“My name is Fantine. And talking costs more than other things, Your Honour.”
“You’re funny, so I won’t kick you out. I just want a quick blow job to get me hard, and then I’m going to fuck you doggy style.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sounds delightful.”
“Oh yeah! You have to call me Your Honour while I give it to you.”
“Tell you what, big guy! I’ll throw that in for free.”
The motel room felt icy, probably a lot like His Honour’s wife. I fidgeted with the thermostat. The judge cracked the curtains and positioned himself on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the TV remote and tuned it to what looked like a disco show from the seventies.
“That should work,” he said, glancing at his car. “I can see my baby while you pleasure my honour.” He grabbed his crotch, chuckled, and tossed a wad of bills on the floor.
I ignored him and kept working on the heat.
“Now strip those clothes off and spin around a bit so I can see what I paid for,” he barked, as if delivering a verdict. I pictured him banging a gavel on the half-assed nightstand by the bed.
I stripped naked but kept my shoes on. The floor was gritty, and high heels made my ass look better anyway. His eyes got that overdrive glaze, and he pulled his limp dick from his dress pants. I tried to get him hard with my hands so it would be easier to slip a condom on him. I stroked and stroked, but my arm got sore, and I felt like punching him. I closed my eyes and called him Your Honour, the Honourable Bad Boy, Biggy King, Biggy G, and whatever other monikers he demanded. When he finally got hard enough, I slid the condom on, leaned over him, and opened my mouth.
I paused and closed my eyes. I’m sorry, Blue. I love you, Blue. I put my mouth on him, replaying those words as I moved up and down. I’m sorry, Blue. I love you, Blue, like a mantra naming the strokes instead of my breaths. I kept telling myself that I was doing the right thing. It was the only way to fast-track us to our new lives in Nelson. It wasn’t Blue’s fault I’d made bad life choices. I was grateful he’d seen anything in me at all.
When I turned around and raised my ass in the air for the Honourable Douchebag, I bit my lower lip so I wouldn’t scream. He shouldn’t be in my body. Only Blue should be. I loved Blue. I hated the Honourable Jerk Off, sweating and singing along to the Bee Gees, trying to keep himself hard enough to finish the job. I bowed my head. I love you, Blue. I’m sorry, Blue. Maybe Blue and I could agree I would only give blow jobs, but no penetration. That way our sex could remain sacred.
“Say it, bitch. Say it!” The judge slapped my ass.
“Jesus Christ!” I shrieked and jumped off the bed. “I can’t keep babysitting that limp dick of yours from behind. It’s too easy for the condom to slip!”
“Too bad, slut. What are you saying? I’m diseased?”
“I should have charged you more. I’m a hooker, not a sex therapist!”
He grabbed the lube and sprayed it all over me. “Then get on your back and spread your legs.”
I closed my eyes, repulsed by his sweat dripping on my face and chest. When he finally blew his load, I wanted to high-five His Honour and punch him in the throat. I hopped off the bed and ran into the bathroom for a quick rinse, grabbing the cash from the floor on the way. The judge opened the bathroom door and told me to get the fuck out of his room.
“Can you drop me off downtown?” I hoped he’d agree so I wouldn’t have to spend any of my earnings on a cab.
“If you weren’t such a harsh little bitch, I might have considered it. Maybe next time, you’ll show a little more respect.”
“Maybe if your dick was as big as your ego, I would!”
I slammed the motel door and spat on his windshield. I could get a trick on 118th Avenue, but it was a rough strip, and the regular girls would beat me half to death if they caught me on their turf. I’d been ripped off and beaten in that neighbourhood when I was a rookie. I’d learned my lesson. I flagged a cab, which meant I’d have to work longer unless I could blow the cabbie in exchange for the fare. I chose to pay him.
I made $400 by midnight. The judge had paid me $200, and then I screwed a realtor who insisted on wearing a tacky mustard blazer that reeked of curry. He gave me $200 and got me drunk on a bottle of Baileys that “just happened” to be on the floor of his car.
I got to keep sixty percent of my earnings. The other forty went to Brenda and Milos. If I didn’t know what to charge, I’d call or text Brenda, and she’d make a “business decision” on my behalf. She charged an extra $25 for “business consultin’.” I had the option of not using condoms for blow jobs and penetration. I could charge a premium for “bareback,” but as suicidal as I often felt, I didn’t want to die of a sexually transmitted disease. On occasion, when I was forced, tricked, or raped, I’d been penetrated without protection. I usually went to the clinic to get tested every three or four months — if I remembered.
Milos circled around the Harbin Gate like a piranha. He shook his finger when he saw me texting. I quickly slipped my phone in my bag so he wouldn’t snatch it from me. He circled around a few more times before he pulled over.
“How much are you at, Jade?”
“My gross earnings are $400, so my net will be $240.” I smirked, not mentioning the shortage for cab fare.
“Very funny, smart-ass. Shut the fuck up and give me $200.”
“You only get $160 right now. Your share isn’t at $200 yet, Milos.”
“Get the fuck in car and suck my dick. You owe me. Remember nice man who trained you?”
“Don’t remind me! Go pay someone for your blow job. The only dick I suck for free is Blue’s.”
A black Camaro pulled up behind Milos.
“Gotta go!” I winked and walked to the car.
“Where we off to?” I asked the driver, a twenty-something surfer-looking guy.
“I wanna get a slush first,” he said, punching the accelerator.
“Okay. Is this your first time?”
“Yep!” He yanked the wheel hard, almost missing the turn into the Mac’s.
“Okay, get me a slush too. And when you come out, I’ll explain your options for spending time with me.”
He nodded and pulled the keys from the ignition.
I thought I’d puke if I had to stick anything else in my mouth, but I managed to give him a blow job before he kicked me out of the car. He paid $120 but told me he would only pay if I let him finger me too. I needed sleep and had a case study due in the morning, so I closed my eyes and spread my legs.
It was close to 2:00 a.m. by the time I had $500 cash on me. I sat on the curb waiting for Blue to pick me up. I’d get him to give Milos and Brenda their cut. For a moment, I considered telling them I’d made $400 — pocket a quick dollar to expedite my escape plan — but Milos made us believe he possessed supernatural accounting powers that he called “accounter powers.” He’d say things like, “I have nose of bloodhound — smell scams — slap it out of you.”
Three years back, I’d worked with a girl named Misha. She’d said, “There’s no fuckin’ way that fat moron knows what I make,” and tucked some bills in her bra. A few days later, Milos beat her up on the street in front of six other working girls. We never saw her again.
I went to sit below a streetlight and pulled out Les Misérables. I figured reconnecting with Jean Valjean and Cosette might erase some of the sludge from the men I’d been with. I flipped it open, and a folded piece of paper fell out. I opened the page and squinted to read the words under the dim light.
Chanie,
I shouldn’t like the smell of forest fires because they are deadly and destructive, but it seems to me that I like dangerous things. It’s like the smoke wakes me up, makes me appreciate clear skies and the rain a little bit more. It reminds me that when we think we’ve hit our lowest low, we can go much lower. Fires bring horrific destruction, but they also bring renewal and transformation. Because, either way, things will never be like they were before. And that, sometimes, is a blessing. Maybe that’s what we need — total destruction, because without it we would never renew ourselves. And only after all the pain and devastation, beauty somehow arises and new life blooms. Chanie, you need a forest fire …
Tuffy
I read it three times. It didn’t resonate with me the first two times because I thought I might have been hallucinating, or that Tuffy and Jeremy were playing a joke on me. But the message seeped into my chest, and for some reason, I started weeping. I kissed the note and tucked it tightly between the pages where Jean Valjean would keep it safe. I stood up when Blue’s truck rolled into the far end of the parking lot. I waved to him, grateful to finally go home. He punched the accelerator and sped toward me. I jumped out of the way. He laughed. I didn’t.
“Hi, Blue.” I leaned toward him.
“Get your filthy mouth away from me, girl. You need to clean up as soon as we get home. Don’t touch anything — not even that shitty kitten.”
“Nice greeting.” I felt like he’d punched me in the chest.
“Come on! Would you want to kiss me if I’d been out licking strange pussy all night?”
“I wouldn’t force you to go out and do that. This was your idea.”
“You better control your little cocksucking mouth, Chanie. This is our idea. I’m the one helpin’ you get away from Brenda and Milos, not the other way around.”
I wiped away a tear and nodded.
“Well?”
“Well what, Blue?”
“You want to run away, don’t you? Put this shit behind us?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I like it out here?”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
I bit my bottom lip to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want to fight.
Blue reached over and grabbed my arm. “Where the fuck is your bracelet?”
“Blue! You’re hurting me. Let go!” I yanked my arm away. “It’s in my purse. I didn’t want to lose it.”
Blue let go of my arm and shook his head. “Babe, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I flipped out. I think I’m just having such a hard time with you being out here with these guys touchin’ my girl! Makes me stupid!”
“It’s hard, Blue. Maybe we can find another way.”
“God, I wish we could, babe. But you know we need this, Chanie. You need this!”
“You know what I need, Blue?”
“What?”
“I need a forest fire.”
Blue squinted. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is right! Sounds like crazy talk!” Blue shook his head and put out his hand. “Where’s the cash?”
I handed him all my earnings and reached back into my purse. I stroked the cover of Les Misérables and traced my finger over the edge of Tuffy’s note.
Blue dropped me off in the turnaround in front of our building and sped off, claiming he had to go meet an old buddy of his. I went upstairs and scrubbed my body with raspy bath gloves and brushed my teeth until my gums bled. I rinsed and gargled five times with Scope, but the feel and taste of those nasty tricks lingered. Blue was right. I shouldn’t have tried to touch him after a night of whoring. But I’d missed him. I’d needed to touch him to bring us back to each other, to reconnect. Being with other men made me sick, but I’d had an auto-pilot switch built into me long ago. I could leave my mind and body, detach from reality, and go through the motions. Some guys sensed my absence and roughed me up to get their desired response. Most of the time I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t try to kill me.
The next morning, I was late to meet Ginger at the Mac’s.
“What the fuck happened to you, Chanie? I need a couple bucks so we can share a muffin. I’m starving.”
“I have no cash today.”
“Did you get all your homework done?”
My guts twisted. “Nope.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t get it done. I only got three hours of sleep.”
“Did that fuckface come home high again? He can’t keep doing this to you or you’ll flunk out!”
“What the hell do you think I was doing all night? I had to go out to work. I have to earn dollar for dollar to make our plan happen.”
“Oh my God.” Ginger rolled her eyes. “You don’t buy into that shit, do you?”
“It’s not shit! Where’s my share of the money supposed to come from? Jesus?”
“He’s taking advantage of you. If he loved you, he wouldn’t dare let another man touch you. He should be a man and save up the money for both of you while you get through this program. If you fuck up, you go to jail.”
“I know that! They promised me it would be online clients only, but he made me go out last night because he said they were having issues setting up the online page.”
“How do you believe this crap? There’s some fucking psycho out there strangling hookers, and that fuck is sending you out to work!”
“Please stop bitching at me. I’m not happy about it either, but what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“We need to find you a modern-day Jean Valjean! Save you from the gutters.”
“Speaking of modern-day Jean Valjean, Tuffy wrote me a letter.”
Ginger nodded. “Yeah, I know. He asked me to read it over the night before he gave it to you.”
“You knew?
“Yeah. And I agree with him.”
“What does it all mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
I forgot about my appointment with Rie later that day, but she tracked me down in Mr. Lavoy’s room.
“Did you forget about our meeting today, Chanie?”
“The one about my dad’s suicide?”
“Yes, honey. Come with me.”
We always began our sessions with meaningless chit-chat, but I liked that she showed interest in my life. I loved those moments. They felt as though I were hanging out in the living room of a good mom. Like the kind of place you’d come home to over the holidays to rest and eat all of your favourite home-cooked meals.
“How’s things, Chanie?”
“Things are good,” I said. “I’m still reading Les Misérables.”
“I loved that book.” Rie clapped her hands together.
“I love Jean Valjean. He’s my dream man. He could be my dad, or” — I raised my eyebrows — “in a different fantasy, my boyfriend.”
Rie laughed. “He’s a fine man, indeed.”
We smiled and nodded at each other.
“Speaking of dads … I’d like to talk about your dad. We’ve been putting it off for a while now, and I think it’s integral to your healing.”
I thought about saying I had somewhere to be, but Rie could outmanoeuvre my bullshit like a slalom skier. I took a long pause and chewed my lower lip.
“Sometimes …”
Rie waited for what seemed like forever. “Sometimes what, Chanie?” she said in a gentle voice, her expertise finely tuned to the rumbling tsunami inside me.
“Sometimes, I think it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.” I tried not to cry, but tears welled up in my eyes.
“Of course it’s hard to talk about, Chanie. Your father’s death is very tragic, and you weren’t supported through your grief.”
“Oh my God, not at all! My mother didn’t even feel sad. She said we were better off without that loser and to pull up my socks and move on.”
“That’s awful. You and your father deserved more respect. Was there a funeral service for your dad?”
“Yes.” I lowered my head. Rie handed me a box of Kleenex.
“Were you able to honour him at the service?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you feel your father had a proper tribute? A nice eulogy, perhaps?”
“Nope! No eulogy. My mom didn’t arrange for one. The pastor gave a generic speech about life and death. Some of his friends got up and told drinking stories.”
“That’s too bad. Is there a burial site where you can go?”
“My mom cremated him and told me she tossed his ashes out on the highway.”
“Oh my God! By any chance was that your father’s request?”
“What do you think?”
We took a break and carried our silence downstairs to the basement kitchen. Rie made a peppermint tea for me and chatted briefly with the cook. We walked back upstairs to her office, hot mugs in our hands, morbid silence still hanging over us.
“I totally understand if you want to leave our session here for today, Chanie. But I think we should talk about some ways we can help you process your grief.”
“How?”
“The first thing we have to remember when someone takes their life is that they are suffering. The person is sick, and nobody is to blame. Do you understand that your dad was unwell?”
I knew my dad had suffered. His brother Danny had committed suicide two years before my dad shot himself. Danny had driven his van to a provincial park, cut the seatbelt out, and hung himself from a tree. The park warden found him a day later. My dad never got over it. He said he couldn’t believe how desperate his bastard brother was to die. That if he would have been as determined to make a life for himself as he was to kill himself, he could have been anything he wanted to be. Then he made a weird comment about whether the seatbelt needed replacing before they could sell the van.
At first, I’d assumed that Danny had died in a car crash because my parents wouldn’t tell me how he’d died. I didn’t really understand my dad’s comment about the van and the seatbelt until the neighbour kids, who’d overheard my drunk dad crying to their mom in their garage, filled me in on the gross details. I remember I’d called them a bunch of sicko liars and then ran as hard as I could all the way home because I had to ask my dad if it was true. But when I walked into the house, my dad was staring out the window as though looking for his brother on the other side of the veil. I never spoke of it again.
“Chanie?” Rie steered my thoughts back to the moment.
“Yes, I know he suffered. His brother also killed himself.”
“Oh, dear. Your poor dad. That probably made things much harder for him.”
“For sure it did. And that bitch mother of mine just made it worse. She always yelled at him. Told him he was just as big of a loser as his brother. She didn’t care about anybody but herself. She’d been too busy fussing over her new breast implants to notice him fading away right before her eyes.”
“Your mom sounds like she has her own issues.”
“To say the least. She made my dad take out a mortgage on the house so she could get her tits done and buy a new wardrobe. She could hardly wait for the bandages to come off before heading to the bar to show off her new boobs in her skanky clothes.”
“How do you feel about your father?”
“Sometimes …” I didn’t want to say it, even though I’d thought it many times. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to determine if I really felt it.
“Take your time, Chanie.”
I opened my eyes. “Sometimes, I hate him!”
“Do you hate him because he left you?”
“I hate him because he left me to Clayton.”
“Clayton is your mom’s boyfriend, right?”
“Yes! And he’s the reason I’m a whore.”
“Chanie, you are not a whore. You have a past, but more importantly, a future. You are a student working toward your future.”
“Oh my God, Rie! I can’t be fixed. I’m too far gone.”
Rie pressed her lips together. “It may seem that way. But we’ll start small.”
“What do you mean, small?”
“We find things for you to hold onto. Simple things, like the smell of rain. The sun setting over a canola field.”
“That sounds like a dating site ad.”
Rie laughed. “Maybe. But the simplest things in life are pure and consistent. Like the sun, the rain, winter, spring. These are things you can enjoy and you can count on. Nobody can take those things away, and nobody can control them. They can help you build a library of safe places and favourite things to fall back on.”
“So you’re saying we can build a list of things to keep me from falling through the huge cracks my shit life has caused?”
“Yes. When someone has suffered loss and trauma, small but steady things help to build a foundation, get their feet back underneath them. We support them through acceptance, opportunities, and support. And these good things will begin to grow bigger than the bad things. And you will be able to stand on your own.”
“That’s how I got into hooking. I was told I’d be a strong, independent woman.”
“You are, Chanie. But you need some self-love and self-confidence to make healthier choices.”
“Simple things, you say?”
“Yes. Can you think of something you like?”
I chewed my bottom lip and looked out the window. “I like cats, but I think I need to stop for today.”
I started crying when I realized I hadn’t felt the sun or smelled the rain in years, though it had always been there. I cried for my dad, my grandma, for a mom I wished I’d had. My dad’s suicide, my rapes, Brenda, Blue, and all the unruly ghosts prattling in my head. I didn’t want to face those ghosts, but I knew they’d eventually confront me. I wanted to be free of all my memories. I wanted to run away to where those ghouls could never find me. A change of surroundings, a new life, new goals. A new beginning where I would no longer see the ghosts of dead hookers waving to me from lonely booths in all-night diners.
“Okay. Let’s just finish our tea for now and talk about what you’re going to do tonight when you get home. Let’s make sure we see each other tomorrow afternoon. But if things get bad through the night, call the crisis line, but tell them to page me. This is very traumatic for you, and we’re here to get you to the other side.”
I nodded but couldn’t speak over the lump in my throat.
“Chanie, I’ll say it again. We are here for you, and you’re not going to have to work through this alone.”
I nodded again.
“Tell me you understand, Chanie.”
“I won’t have to work through this alone.”
“And?”
“And I’ll text or call you or Pastor Josh if I have a meltdown tonight.”
“We are here for you, Chanie.”
If they knew I whored myself out at night, would they still be there for me?
I left Rie’s office and sat outside on the steps. I was so tired, the type of tired triggered only by traumatic death and complicated grief. I called it the death clutch. I’d felt that death clutch on the night of my dad’s funeral. It had felt like concrete in my torso and chains around my wrists. I guess our bodies never forget pain like that. It’s like it engraves itself into our sinew and bone marrow and digs trenches of sorrow into the soft spots of our bodies.
I gathered myself and walked over to the Mac’s to meet Ginger. We’d made plans to hang out after school. I had no idea what we were doing, but as long as it didn’t involve Blue, Brenda, Milos, or blow jobs, I was in.
“Hey, Sister Act,” Ginger said. “Let’s load up on some caffeine before we start this adventure.”
“Definitely!”
“You look like shit. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Tough chat with Rie today. My dad came up.”
“Oh, that’s shitty.” Ginger wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “Change of plans! Let’s go get some hair colour and dye your hair red! We’ll do it at my place.”
“Do I have to take off my pants?” I laughed.
“Not tonight, Chanie.”