Broken Glass



(Broken Bottle by Shag)

Damn, It's Just Not My Day!

One day when I arrived to work, Honey was sitting topless in a chair in front of the mirror. She had a local Clear Channel clone blaring the daily mundane drone. She turned as I walked through the door, giving me a look as if I were a pariah. “Huh, you’re working today?” she asked, turning back toward the mirror, drawing a perfect arch over one eye.

“Yeah, I got called in,” I said, walking over to my locker.

Honey was a beautiful girl: dark creamy skin and black curly hair cut short to her scalp, which accentuated her amazing bone structure and large full lips. She was a tough girl; you wouldn’t want to cross her. She was like a ticking bomb. She had a cache of bad memories spanning time, festering under that placid surface. But it was there and we all knew it was waiting for the right person . . . the right situation to unleash it’s violence upon. We all had gotten a taste of the acrid spew: wigs thrown, lockers kicked and yelling . . . lots of yelling. But most of us were understanding of her mental condition and would just ignore her fits. Besides, she had been there a long time for a peep show girl--five years or more. And in the sex industry, years are different. They more closely resemble those of dog years, meaning one year working at the same place in the sex industry is much, much more than working the same amount of time at a “normal” job. We learned to deal with Honey . . . very, very gently.

Honey was also poor and was barely making it at the peeps. Unlike some girls, it wasn’t due to her looks, body or personality. She had it all. She’d often get nostalgic and tell stories about back in the day when things were different. She was once “the girl” who made all the money. “The girls hated me.” she’d say, laughing. “I’d walk out of here every night with at least two hundred dollars.”

“But,” she added. “No matter how hot you are, you’re only on top for so long. It is just a matter of time until the next new hot girl comes along to knock you down.”

After several years, she was still down, hoping to regain her place at the top. But the new girls kept coming, climbing over her, and she just got tired. She was now happy just to make her stage and maybe $60 as this meant she would be able to get a room at the finest roach motel in town and something to eat. Otherwise, she would have no other place to stay and would have to go home to her mother just to listen to her scream, “Honey, you make any money today? What kind of stripper comes home with no money?”

Honey wanted to get another job, but she was the first to admit that she didn’t have many skills, especially for her age. When she did go out and try for another job, no one wanted to hire her. The few jobs she did get, she got fired from right away due to her temper. The longer you stay in this business, the harder it is to get out of and this was definitely the case for her.

I got ready for work and quickly jumped into the first booth so I could watch Honey get ready. It was quite a transformation. When she came in, she could pass for a homeless woman, which she sometimes was when she didn’t have a place to stay and couldn’t face her mother. Her hair was crazy and her face was hard. She’d often come in wearing an old stretched-out tee and some leggings. But once Honey passed through the dressing room door, her world changed. She became a diva. She had a gift for doing a lot with a little. Her makeup may have been Wet-n-Wild, but she wielded the instruments she had, how shoddy they may have been, with utter brilliance. She was like Picasso, transforming herself from a hardened woman to a goddess. She also was never without her suitcase, which she drug behind her wherever she went. It contained everything she owned, everything she loved: makeup, shoes, wigs, costume jewelry, matching bra and panty sets in bright shiny colors with matching boas, glamorous gowns, PVC outfits, and everything else in between. Given her situation, I often wondered how she could afford all this. I came to learn that she was the beneficiary of many things, which had fallen out of favor with a particular girl. She also claimed to have received many of her things from customers. She’d often hold up a new outfit and say, “Look what I got from a customer last night.” However, she was often full of shit, too. She once held up a necklace I had given her some time ago, stating, “I just got this from a customer. They’re real diamonds,” she smiled. The necklace of course was costume, but if real, it would have surely captured at least fifty grand as the faux stones were several karats.

When Honey was at work, I sensed it was a safe place for her--a place where she felt equal, a place where she fit in. She looked as good, if not better, than most of the girls. She was meticulous in her appearance there, often matching her lipstick and finger nail polish color to her outfits. She couldn’t afford to have her nails professionally done like many of the other girls, so she did them herself. Where she was lacking in money, she had the creativity and will to do it herself.

This preoccupation with perfectionism meant that Honey often took a couple of hours to get ready. She’d lounge languidly in front of the mirror, missing shows right and left. She didn’t seem to care as if she’d learned long ago that sitting in the booth was not enough to guarantee a show. She was like a child playing dress up and this seemed to be satisfying in itself. When she was finally ready, it was time to eat. She was the queen of canned food--the kind whose smell hits you in the nose like an open can of Alpo. She was always proud of how much she saved eating canned food and would often share how much a particular can cost. “Bartells is having a sale on sirloin steak and potato,” she said, holding up a can, smiling. “I got two cans for one dollar.” She poured the contents into a bowl and walked toward the microwave to heat it up. Something happened and the bowl fell from her hands, glass and brown slop went everywhere, covering the floor as well as her shins.

“Fuck!” she screamed, jumping back.

I retreated into my booth waiting for the bomb to go off.

She bent down to clean up the mess, her face twisted up in rage. “Damn . . . it’s just not my day.”

“Do you need help?” I asked.

Her face softened a little. “No, thanks. I got it.”

When Honey finally made it to her booth she fell asleep, which she often did. It was not uncommon for a customer to walk by and knock on the glass in an effort to rouse her from her slumber. I eventually was to learn that if she didn’t have enough money to get a hotel room, she’d often ask one of the clerks if they could drop her off at a casino where she’d try to drum up some work, or at least get a guy to buy her something to eat or drink. If all else failed, she would have a warm place to hang out while the evening passed. She could always sleep in her booth the next day. Unfortunately, this was a vicious cycle. The more she slept at work, the less money she made, which meant she couldn’t face her mother, and so would end up at the casino.

I learned that she used to sneak into the dressing room at the end of the night shift. She would knock on the dressing room door and the girls working would let her in. When they left, she would slip into a closed booth and go to sleep. However, management soon got wind of what was going on and put the kibosh on this arrangement. Honey was not the first girl to spend the night in the dressing room. The lucky girls just partied too much downtown, couldn’t drive, and decided they would just crash in the dressing room. It was not out of pure necessity.

Honey and I lay in our booths--she asleep and I, painting my toenails. It was slow and the customers that did come in came to me naturally as I was the only conscious girl on shift. When 1:30 a.m. rolled around, Honey awoke. “Damn it’s been dead,” she said from her booth. “I haven’t had one show tonight.”

“Yeah, I had some regulars, but no one new,” I said

We both jumped out of our booths and started getting ready to leave.

Honey sat down in a chair and started to undo the mirrored straps of her clear plastic heels. “Damn, I didn’t even make house tonight,” she said. “What am I suppose to tell my mamma? I can’t go home without any money. Do you know what it’s like to be a stripper and to not make any money after working eight hours?” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s fucked up,” she yelled, throwing one shoe across the room.

I didn’t say anything. I had heard this all before. I learned it was just best to listen. I knew this place had problems, but I also knew that she had slept all day and that if she had put a little effort into working, she would have surely had some money in her pocket. Unlike some girls who don’t make money here, she had what it took: the face, the body, and when she was in a good mood, the personality.

I’d seen Honey go home with other girls at the end of the shift when she had no money and couldn’t face her mother. I never had to offer my place, but it was just the two of us tonight, and it seemed like the right thing to do. Besides, I had invited other girls to crash on my couch for the night when rides failed to show up and taxi fares would have eaten up what little money they might have made that night.

“Why don’t you come home with me?” I smiled.

Her eyes brightened. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s small, but I can make you a nice bed on the couch.”

“Won’t your boyfriend mind?

“No, I’ve had people stay over before. We’ll just have to be quiet. He has to get up early to go to work.”

She smiled and nodded. “Wow, thanks . . . thanks a lot.” She walked over and picked up her shoe. “You have cats don’t you?”

“Yeah, three.”

“Cool, I love cats,” she said, smiling.

Honey took off her wig and brushed it out. She proceeded to undo her handiwork, taking off her makeup with baby wipes, and then brushing her teeth in the bathroom. Off came the boa, the bra and panty set and on went the tee, leggings and flip-flops. She scratched at a spot on her shirt. “Man, I need to do some laundry. I’ve been wearing this outfit for a week now.”

“You can wash your clothes at my place.”

We left the dressing room and made our way to the front desk to call a cab and cash out.

The clerk looked at Honey as if he was waiting for her to ask him for a ride to the casino. She didn’t say anything. He looked at the computer and started counting my money. He looked up at Honey. “You know, management is changing the rules. We’re gonna have to start charging house even if you don’t make anything. No more freebies,” he said, handing me what I made.

Honey put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “You expect me to pay you,” she said, her eyes narrowing. "It’s not my fault this fucking place is dead. I can remember back in the day when all of us girls were making bank. You tell those cheap-ass bastards they need to start advertisin' or somethin'. There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said, grabbing her tits.

The clerk’s hands flew up in defense. “Hey, I’m just saying what they told me.”

“Well, if you think I’m giving you $40.00 to work today, you’re fucking crazy.”

“Hey,” I interrupted. “We should get downstairs before we miss our cab."

“I won’t charge you tonight. But next time, you’re gonna have to pay."

"Thanks, you’re so kind,” she smiled sarcastically.

When we arrived at the apartment, it was fast approaching 2:30. I heard my boyfriend stir when we walked through the front door. I rushed up to the bed to let him know that I had brought someone home. He was familiar with the names of most of the girls as they often came up in conversations recapping day’s events. He perked up a bit, looking at me with one eye opened. He looked past me, trying to make out who was with me. However, Honey was out of sight, waiting in the entry instead, sensing that she might not be welcome.

“Cool,” he said and growing weary, laid back down, falling back asleep.

I walked back to the entryway and grabbed some extra blankets and a pillow from the closet. “If you need to use the bathroom, it’s right there,” I said, pointing to a door to my left. She nodded.

I led her to the couch, which sits across from our bed. I laid out a bottom sheet, along with a blanket and comforter. I put a fresh case on the pillow and laid it down at the head of the couch.

“There you go,” I said smiling. “Can I get you anything else?” I whispered.

“No, thanks,” she said, collapsing on the couch.

Bennicio--our friendliest cat--jumped up on the couch next to her. She reached down and started stroking him. The other cats were out of sight.

“What’s his name?” she asked in a whisper.

“Bennicio.”

“Hi, Bennicio,” she whispered.

“Good night,” I said.

Honey didn’t look up. “Good night,” she said as she continued stroking the cat.

I got ready and climbed into bed next to my bf, closing my eyes and succumbing to the powers of sleep. I had just slipped to the other world when I was awakened by the sound of rustling. I looked over to see Honey sitting straight up in bed going through her bag. Like a bag lady she went. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle went the plastic. Bennicio lay in a ball at her feet. What was she doing at this hour, I thought. I imagined she must be looking for something and once found, she would go to sleep. However, she continued pulling things out of her bag, opening and closing containers and zipping and unzipping bags. Her movements were energetic, lacking any hint of subsiding. Any frustration I may have felt due to her seeming rudeness were squelched by the reality of her situation. That is, the fact that she stayed up at night and slept during the day because she didn’t have a place to stay. Witnessing this truth in my apartment hit me in the gut like a wrecking ball. It was like watching a starving child throw up a plate of food set in front of him.

I felt my bf stir and I knew the rustling was getting to him, too. “What’s she doing?” he whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, she’s being rude,” he said and with that, he fell back on his pillow and went back asleep. Honey finally seemed to settle down into her bed. She was still awake, but quiet, just stroking the kitty.

I fell back asleep.

But the sleep was to be short-lived. I awoke shortly thereafter with Honey standing over me, whispering, “Natalia, Natalia do you have any tampons?”

God, I thought. She doesn’t even know my real name. “Yeah,” I said with one eye open. I slowly got out of bed and walked to the bathroom with Honey and Bennicio in tow. I opened the closet and pulled out a box of OB Super-Soakers and handed it to her. “Help yourself.”

She took the box and I went back to bed and thankfully, there were no more incidents that night.

When I awoke the next morning, my bf had already gone and Honey was fast asleep. I got up and took a shower. I had just finished getting ready when Honey woke up. She sat up and stretched her arms to the sky, yawning. “Good morning, Bennicio,” she said, stroking him at her feet.

“Good morning,” I said, sitting down on my bed across from her. “How did you sleep?”

“Really, good. Thanks,” she smiled, still stroking the kitty.

“I put out some towels in the bathroom for when you take a shower. Not to rush you or anything, but I am going to have to leave pretty soon to run some errands.”

She stood up. “Oh, sure. No problem,” she said. She grabbed her suitcase and made her way to the bathroom.

I heard the shower start up and I could hear her over the water moaning. It was not the type of moan one exerts while masturbating, but the type that is drawn out by a delicious meal or a sensual message or in this case, a hot shower. It appeared that she had been deprived of such mundane rituals. An hour past and the shower still ran and the apartment was starting to fill with steam. I started to worry a little so I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m going to have to get going soon.”

The water turned off. “I’ll be out in just a minute,” she said.

It was shortly after two in the afternoon, when we were fed, laundry was done, and we were out the door. Honey decided to tag along with me as she didn’t have anything better to do until she started work at 6:00.

Our first stop was at the Fred Meyer on Broadway. As I went down my list, filling my basket, Honey was across the store, perusing the makeup isle. I was in the bin section, filling a plastic bag with Basmati rice when I heard glass shatter, followed by Honey screaming, “Fuck!”

I ran over to the makeup isle to find Honey and a cashier standing over a puddle of brown liquid and broken glass.

“Damn . . . it’s just not my day,” said Honey, her hands balled up in fists at her sides, her eyes full of rage.

The cashier smiled. “It’s OK,” she said, sensing Honey wasn’t quite all there. “This happens all the time. I’ll clean it up, hun. Don’t worry about it.”

Honey just stood there in a daze. “Thank you,” I told the cashier and we left.

Our next stop was QFC across the street. Again, we went our separate ways. When my basket was full, I walked toward the front of the store, looking for Honey. I found her looking over some packaged cuts of fresh salmon. She held a container of lemon-pepper seasoning in one hand.

“You like salmon?” I asked.

“Yeah, I was thinking about bringing some home to my mamma. She loves salmon. You like salmon?” she asked.

“I’m vegan,” I said.

“You can eat fish, can’t you?”

“No meat, dairy, or eggs,” I said.

“Damn you're crazy,” she said, picking up a large package of salmon.

We walked to the check out counter. Honey went first. She put her lemon-pepper and salmon down. The checker smiled and asked her how her day was going. “Fine, thank you,” Honey replied stiffly. As she waited for the checker to tell her the total, she reached in her pocket for her money and in doing so, dropped her umbrella on the top of her foot, which was exposed as she was wearing flip-flops.

“FUCK!” she screamed, reaching for her foot.

The checker’s face went pale. The people in line stared. “Are you OK?” the clerk asked.

“Yeah, I’m OK,” she gasped. “Damn . . . it’s just not my day,” she said shaking her head.

“That will be $8.43,” the checker said.

Honey counted out the exact change and handed it to the clerk.

After I checked out, we decided to go back to the apartment as Honey’s foot was hurting. It was a little after 3:00 when we got back to the apartment. I gave her some ice for her foot and made her some tea. She asked if she could watch television.

“Sure, help yourself,” I said, handing her the remote. She turned on Judge Judy. I sat next to her, wanting to engage her in something else . . . something worthwhile. Maybe have some stimulating conversation. I wanted to help her. I looked over at her watching the television. Her face was expressionless, her lips taunt, her eyes dead. TV eyes. We sat in silence for the next hour and a half until it was time for her to go. I walked her to the bus stop in front of my apartment.

“Thanks for coming over,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, softly.

“I guess I’ll see you at work,” I added.

She turned away to open her umbrella. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I left her standing in the rain with her suitcase.

I didn’t go to work again until the following week. When I came back, the dressing room was abuzz. The girls were telling stories about Honey and how she was going on and on about staying with me and about what a good time we had.

One girl said, “Yeah, I had to work with her yesterday and she wouldn’t shut up about your cat. She went on and on about how cool he was and how he slept with her all night.”

Another girl chimed in, “Yeah, she’s been bringing this piece of raw fish in every day for the past four days. It’s messed up. When she comes in, she puts it in the refrigerator and when she leaves, she puts it back in her bag. It can’t be good.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she finally asked me yesterday if you can microwave fish.”

It was a week later when I worked with Honey again. She was quieter than normal. I noticed when she was changing, that her legs were badly bruised and cut up.

“What happened to you?” I asked, pointing to her legs.

“Oh, that,” she said, smiling weakly. “I fell down the stairs at my mommas.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I don’t remember.” she said. “But my momma said that we got in a fight and I freaked out--started breaking things. She called the police and when they came, she said I started yelling all kinds of crazy things. I told them my father molested me and that my mother sold crack. My mom said I took off my clothes and started swearing at the cops. The cops tried to handcuff me and that’s when I fell down the stairs.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Yeah, they took me to Harborview and kept me there for a few days. I blacked out. I don’t remember any of it.” She looked me in the eye with the innocence of a child. I could tell she was telling the truth and she was scared.

What did the psychiatrist character on the Sopranos recently say? "Depression is rage turned inward." Maybe she wasn't a ticking bomb about to go off--maybe her bomb went off a little bit every day. It blew out and in. I realized my simple act of compassion toward her was like applying a band-aid to a gushing wound.

Still, I try.

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