Working Girls

Working Girls.
                                                                  Ottawa, November 8, 2003.

Trouble that evening in the rooming-house makes me a bit later than usual getting up to and  across the busy downtown street to Harry's Diner. Several of the girls who work the corner are already installed in the first row of low-backed booths that run half-way across the rear of the room, where a token divider cuts each booth into a pair of tables for two. Opposite them, on the right, I see Harry flipping burgers on the hot-plate behind the counter that runs the length of the restaurant, with its line of stools covered in the same deep-red leatherette as the booths.

I recognize most of the girls. They know me as a regular who drinks coffee most evenings over a book in the corner by the door. Like me, they're pretty shy with people they don't really know -- except customers,I suppose -- so we don't exchange greetings. When I started coming here a few weeks ago, some of them looked twice at me as if I reminded them of someone. I get a lot of that since the accident. The new face the doctors gave me makes me look like everybody and nobody.

I get a hint of a smile from Big Betty though, and a faint crinkling of the eyes from Jeannie. I'm glad Jeannie is there tonight: she always brightens the place up for me. Georgie ignores me, as always. Too busy admiring her long, black, wavy hair in the mirrored wall across from the counter. Harry's daughter, Chantal, brings me a coffee, with her usual greeting of "Hi, Sweetie." I get on well with Chantal; everybody does.

Suddenly the door crashes open,and a blonde girl stumbles inside gasping, holding her hand to her left eye, tears running down her cheeks. Big Betty bustles over to meet her. "What is it, Cassie? What happened?" Cassie wipes her face with her sleeve, and swallows a couple of times.

"A guy just hit me! For nothing! I'm on the corner like usual and this guy passing by says, 'I hate prostitutes!', and the bastard back-hands me in the face with his fist."

"What?" Betty bursts out. "Let's go sort him out!" She could do it too. She must weigh at least 18O pounds, a lot of it muscle. Looks like the former Queen of Tonga.

"He's gone by now," moans Cassie forlornly. "It took me a minute to get myself together enough to get over here." Betty rushes out to look, anyway, but soon comes back. The workers from all the upper-floor offices have dispersed long ago, and nearly all the stores have closed; but the street is crowded at this time of night with customers going in and out of the ground-floor bars and restaurants. That's what brings the girls here in the first place.

Jeannie comes over with a concerned, motherly expression, leads Cassie to the table next to hers, and gives her a tissue. They are all talking at once, consoling her and expressing contempt for the man who attacked her. Their voices are excited and angry. Chantal emerges from behind the counter with a cup of coffee. Harry brings some ice for her eye. Violence is not unusual down here in the Zone.

Slowly things calm down. Cassie gets into a low-voiced conversation with May, who is somewhat older than the others and looks as if she's been around.

Georgie has a slightly apprehensive look. I know she's been given a hard time on the corner before. She and Betty are the only two blacks who hang out here. Georgie is slimly built,over six feet tall in her high heels. She's the best turned out of them all, wearing a long olive dress with a neckline that draws your eyes down to her cleavage -- where they would have gone anyway. Jeannie is pretty, but Georgie is a true beauty. It's only when you see her from behind that you notice those slim hips and wide shoulders. Then you understand why her voice is so deep. It doesn't change a thing though: she still looks terrific. She's not the only one here wearing a wig. The rest is none of my business: I'm not a customer. Couldn't afford Georgie, in any case. 

I  see Georgie glance over at me. She senses the tenor of my thoughts. I give her my kindly-old-man smile, and look away. She turns back to the conversation, with half her attention on her reflection in the mirror.

I open my book. I'm reading The Imitation of Christ again. It's still not my style. Seems cold and abstract, even though Kempis is trying so hard to be human. Sometimes he gets it right, though: "It is better to feel compunction than to define it." I was always better at defining than at feeling. Teaching philosophy can do that to you. The pricking of conscience is only too familiar to me now though, at last. I used to be so sure of how other people should live, so harsh in my judgments. My hardness drove my daughter away years ago. My late wife never got over that. I know better now, years too late. My conscience does more than prick; it's an open wound.

Jeannie walks to the phone down at the end near the washrooms. I see her gesturing in animated conversation. In a lull in the general buzz, I hear her saying goodbye. Her voice becomes softer and softer, the pitch rising and then falling again at the end, "I love you; I love you baby; I love you."She comes back to her table, and says to Betty, "I hope I get an early  date  tonight. My daughter's been sick in bed all day. I don't want to get  home too late."

A moment later the phone rings and Chantal answers it. " For you, Jeannie." Jeannie has a brief exchange with whoever is calling and returns to the table. She doesn't sit down. "I got a date," she says with a big smile -- that wonderful open smile she has. Some of the girls are mostly expressionless, the way strippers often are. Not her. She doesn't seem to mind this life. "You too, Georgie. Let's go!" Georgie stands up eagerly, pushing her hair back over her shoulders and grimacing at the mirror to check her lip rouge as she does so. They sway down the aisle between the booths toward the door, heels tapping, Georgie looking sideways at the mirrored wall like always, smoothing her long dress down behind. Georgie looks as if she wouldn't want to be doing anything else but this. At the cash, Chantal and Jeannie lean together over the counter to hug briefly.

As they leave, the pair of them look excited and even happy, as if they were going to a party. I guess they are, at that. I drag my mind away from there. I don't want to think about  where they're going.

I hear Chantal behind the counter saying to Harry, "I really like Jeannie. Don't you?"

"Yeah. She's special."

I turn back to my book, but can't get into it. I wonder if the imitation of Christ includes hanging around with prostitutes. No publicans here, but plenty of sinners. Not that I remember Jesus' calling anyone a "sinner", especially women. He was always pretty kind to women.  He didn't talk much about sin at all, come to think of it. The Pharisees were the experts on sins -- other people's sins. He saved his insults for people like them -- people like I used to be. All the Christian sin-talk came later. "Hate the sin and love the sinner." All that stuff that's so easy to say, but usually means hating the sinner too. Are these girls sinners? I wonder.

A couple of cops come in, both young women.  Short hair dragged back and held on top with an elastic. So nobody can grab them by the hair, I suppose. They don't look aggressive, but you wouldn't want to tangle with them. They look as if they spend lots of time in the gym. They are obviously on duty -- serious, alert. Well trained too; this generation of cops are all college graduates. Had some of them in my classes, but not in this town. They go over and stand next to May.

"You're barred from this district, May. You know that. Better come with us."

May has a disgusted look. "Can I finish my beer?"

"Finish it quickly, then."

May sucks at her straw.

"Beer through a straw!", says one of the cops condescendingly. It doesn't occur to her what a make-up repair job May would be faced with if she drank beer straight from the glass.

May takes out a pack and pops a cigarette into her mouth. The nearest cop pulls it out again. "Let's go, May."

May shrugs and stands up. They don't hold her as they leave. May isn't going anywhere -- not on those heels.

The others don't draw attention to themselves by speaking. In any case, it's all in a day's work to them. They gradually drift out in ones and twos. I watch them through the plate glass going to the corner, Cassie is pale and a bit tearful, but still game.

What a way to earn a living! I think. Violence, jail-time, plus what they actually do when they're working. Seems like degradation, to me; but, then, what do I know? That's the kind of thing I used to know. Not any more.

A couple of hours later, the place starts to fill up again. A few of the girls are back at their usual tables. A car draws up in front and Jeannie comes in with Georgie in tow. "A glass of white wine, please, Chantal. Then I'm off home. That's it for tonight."

Sick child at home, of course -- the one she was talking to on the phone, telling her in that soft voice that she loved her.  I imagine her going inside, into the child's bedroom, leaning over the bed. I remember doing the same thing myself, all those years ago, when I still had a life, or thought I had. I forget the present completely, forget to be careful. I sit there sightless, tears coursing silently down my cheeks.

I catch myself before anyone notices, turn toward the window and cover up with a tissue. Chantal always sees everything, of course, but she won't say anything. Old men get to weep a bit in corners; it happens.

Time for me to move on, I think. I've seen what I came to see. It's a hard life, but it's a life. The girls support each other, as best they can, like friends do. There are people who don't judge, like Chantal and Harry. You can live this way and still be a good mother, even relatively happy. Happier than I ever was.

Winter is coming soon. Time to be moving south. A casa de huespedes near the beach in Mexico is way cheaper than a downtown rooming-house up here. Easily enough to balance the cost of the ticket.

I know she doesn't want me in her life; she made that clear long ago.
And I've seen tonight that she doesn't need me. If ever she does, she knows how to get in touch.

Would have been nice to see my grand-daughter; but it's better this way.

Time to go.


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