Instant Glamour

It was 2 am, and Lisa was taking Marti home after meeting a john at a hotel across town. She had driven for Marti many times, and it was always easy money — no worries. Marti was one of the two or three girls Lisa drove for, and she liked her, because Marti was smart about it. She refused to meet johns in bad places, and she never went with random guys. Tonight, for instance, the date had run late, and Marti was slow to call down, but it had been a nice hotel and a classy guy so there wasn’t much cause for worry. Now, there was just the ride home, and Lisa was listening to Marti talk about Bruce — one of her regulars — a recently divorced club owner who wanted her to quit turning tricks and marry him.

He’s handsome in his way, Marti said. Big. I like big guys. But he needs a woman around — he has this awful toupee he wears — he needs someone to tell him. When will these poor guys learn to just shave it? Lisa kept her eyes on the road. But, he’s nice to me, and he’s got money enough to take care of a girl.

Unlike the other girls Lisa drove for, Marti was more talkative on the rides back. She was in her mid-thirties, though she looked somewhat older. There were lines under her eyes — thin, deep creases. But she had an established clientele. She took on fewer new clients each year because she had a customer base of men who talked about marrying her one day, men that gave her expensive clothes and jewelry. Bruce, though in his sixties, was a leading contender.

You think everything’s forever when you’re young, she said, then laughed. At least I did. Never thought about a retirement plan. But this work is tough on a girl after a while. She pulled the visor down, checked her make-up in the mirror, closed it. I want to tell your friend about it, she said. Heidi. She needs to think down the road some — not spend it all on new clothes and coke — but she wouldn’t hear it. Not right now.

Heidi, who Lisa met taking summer classes at the community college, was the girl who got her started driving for hookers. Working girls liked to have someone waiting on them, someone who knew to call somebody if they weren’t out by a certain time. Heidi had worked as a waitress at a strip club, which was how she knew the girls who turned tricks. In the two years Lisa knew her, Heidi had gone from waitressing to stripping, from driving to turning tricks herself.

You, though, babe — you’re smart, Marti said. Still in school. You’re a good girl.

Not that good, Lisa said, but it stuck in her throat.

Lisa was set to graduate at the end of the semester with a master’s in public health. She started driving girls to meet their johns the summer after she graduated with her bachelor’s, and soon quit her job waiting tables. It was easy money, and what’s more, there was a certain allure in the proximity to danger — a rough glitter that made her think of asphalt. It often gave her a little bit of a rush.

Proximity to danger was something Lisa had craved ever since her mother had died, shortly before she graduated high school. It was only proximity though, she was careful not to let herself go too far. While Heidi eventually started turning tricks, Lisa had been driving working girls for a year and a half now, and hadn’t given into the temptation.

It was not that she couldn’t imagine herself doing it. It was great money, and she felt like she could detach her body enough from her experience that she wouldn’t feel scarred after. It was mainly that she never felt glamorous enough.

Implants, Heidi had said, when Lisa told her this. Instant glamour.

But it depressed Lisa to remember her friend’s perfect B-cup and to think of the insanity of a culture that would have made that inadequate. It was that aspect that made her feel distant from it. Otherwise, the idea of prostitution didn’t really bother her. Sure, it was easy to cry foul for women enslaved into it — junior year, she had interned in the U.S. office of a nonprofit that sheltered these women — but for women born here, it was a choice. At least as much as anything in life was.

They were on their way back to Marti’s apartment building in Midtown when Lisa hit something small in the road. She slowed, not seeing what it was, and she didn’t really think about it until the car started getting resistance from behind, and there was a loud thumping.

You’re gonna have to pull over, honey, Marti said. You got a flat.
Lisa slowed down, pulled off to the side of the road, then saw a street maybe twenty yards ahead. She drove the extra distance slowly, turned off on the side street. She got out, surveyed the tire on the back driver’s side, not entirely sure what she was looking for. This was the first time she had a flat. Lisa looked around. They were on North, but it was a residential stretch, and early morning besides, so there were no other cars in sight.
Marti got out and came around. It was October, and the nights were getting cooler. She zipped up the dark blue hoodie she wore over her short, black evening dress. She had a collection of furs and leather coats that she wore between the car and the john, but she would usually trade them out when she got back to the car. It was a trick she learned to not look like a prostitute if pulled over, to keep from getting harassed by cops and getting her cash stolen.

She took out a pack of Newports, lit a cigarette. She stood smoking, watching the girl crouching to survey the tire. After a minute, Lisa stood, walked around to the trunk and opened it. She pulled out the jack and the ratchet and came back and laid them out on the asphalt next to the tire. She stood over them.

You’ve never changed a tire before, have you? Marti said.

Lisa shrugged, embarrassed. Not only could she not change a flat, she had never had one, and she hadn’t known for sure what was happening, not until

Marti told her to pull over.

We could call Triple A, she said. I’m on my Dad’s membership.

Marti laughed. She took a drag of her Newport 100. All the girls smoked 100s — they were more elegant.

First, Marti said. You need to get the spare out. They keep them screwed down tight in the trunk, and you don’t want to be trying to get it out with your car balanced on a jack…

Lisa nodded, went back to the trunk, and unscrewed the tire. She hefted it from the trunk, and Marti held the cigarette out as Lisa rolled the tire back around. She balanced it against the flat tire, took the cigarette, dragged on it, and handed it back to Marti.

She couldn’t help being impressed as Marti started rattling off directions. She had known Marti to be such a girl’s girl — she was Martinique to her clients — and she was always complaining about chipping her nails, which she religiously had manicured every time she met a john. Marti explained to first loosen the bolts, then described the notch where the jack fit the frame of the car. Then, she told her how to fit the spare on, and replace the bolts, the whole time looking out at the deserted street, chain-smoking.
It took about half an hour to change the flat. Lisa was sweating, tired in her muscles, as she finally tightened down the bolts of the spare.

And that’s that, Marti said, as Lisa stood to use her foot on the ratchet. You just changed a tire.

Just then, a squad car passed. The blue tops flashed briefly as it cut a U in the middle of North, pulled into the side street behind them. Lisa held her breath, hoped Marti was clean. She knew the woman to be a sometimes speed junkie and to dabble in coke — though she seemed sober enough that night. A patrolman — maybe in his forties, tall and hefty in the middle — got out of the roller. He lumbered up to them.

You ladies having a problem? he said, shining his flashlight in their faces, then over their bodies. He cut it off.

No, officer, Marti answered. Problem solved.

He grinned, his teeth white in the amber light of the streetlamp above, the rest of his face a shadow under the brim of his patrolman’s cap

You don’t need a ride somewhere? he said. Don’t want a DUI now.

No sir, officer, Marti said, slow and easy. It was a voice that had dealt with cops before. She was playing with the zipper of her hoodie, zipping it down past the neck of her low-cut dress, then slightly back up. Nothing like that. We just had a flat on the way home from the Waffle House. We got it sorted out.

Never a cop around when you need one, he said.

Marti laughed. He handed her his card.

You could change that.

I’ll keep that in mind, she told him.

You girls be safe, he said, turning back to the patrol car.

Lisa cringed. She had always hated that phrase –the way it implied that life could be lived absent any risk. She always preferred take care — a phrase her mother used — as it seemed to acknowledge that danger was inherent in anything and only that a person should be mindful of it.

Surely, officer, Marti said, then under her breath: Pig.

The cop sat in the patrol car, waited as they got in their car and turned around. He waved as they passed back by him turning onto North. In the rearview, Lisa saw him back out onto North in their direction. He followed them at a distance for maybe quarter of a mile. He caught up with them when Lisa made a last minute decision to stop at a traffic light as it turned yellow.
Breathe, honey, Marti said. He’s just showing us what a big guy he is.
Lisa realized that she was holding her breath. She hadn’t known Marti knew he was behind them, felt relieved that she had noticed.

Finally, the light turned green. Lisa accelerated slowly through the intersection, watching him in the rearview the whole time. The cop did not move at first, but once she was through the light, he cut another sharp U turn and drove off the way he had come.

They were quiet the rest of the way back to Marti’s apartment. She lived in an old three-story brick building on Charles Allen. There was a drive going down around back to a side door and off-street parking. Across the drive was the building’s twin, making the drive into an alley. Sitting in the car, between the buildings, Marti gave Lisa a cigarette from her pack, then passed her a thin roll of bills.

There’s fifty too much, Lisa said.

There’s always more when police are involved — even if it’s nothing.

Lisa nodded.

He didn’t scare you, did he? We were fine, y’know.

I know, she said. I was feeling bad about the tire, actually.

What? Marti joked. Thought I was the kind of girl who couldn’t change a flat

It’s more that I thought of myself as the kind of a girl who could…

It’s okay, Marti said. Besides, now you know, right?

Yeah, I guess, it’s just — She paused. I was always a tomboy, y’know?

Daddy’s girl, huh?

Yeah… Lisa said, but her voice cracked, broke as the word trailed off.

Believe it or not, babe, I was too.

Lisa cleared her throat. Then, senior year in high school, she said. My mom gets sick… cancer.

Awful. She didn’t make it?

The doctors gave her two years with chemo, but she researched what itwould do, refused it. She took one last drag from the cigarette, threw it out the window. She died after six months.

That doesn’t give a girl a long time. You have to get used to the idea of life without a mother. Lot of things need sorting out, forgiving. ‘Specially at that age.

Lisa swallowed.

Anyway, she said. My dad treated me like I was fragile after — has ever since.

Afraid of losing his other girl, I bet. Marti was smiling sadly, her eyes soft. She was looking through the dark into Lisa’s eyes. Lisa felt her own face, expressionless. Marti reached over, ran her fingers through Lisa’s hair. It was pulled back, but she pulled lightly at the stray hairs around the ear, brushed them back.

Come inside, Marti said, stroking the girl’s cheek. I could use some company. I’m always wired after a trick.

Lisa turned her head. Marti’s hand hung in air for an instant, then she let it down onto the center console of the car.

I — Lisa started. I need to get home… get cleaned up.

I can run you a bath, Marti said. I have some wine.

Lisa didn’t answer.

Or I could make tea…

I can’t… not tonight.

I understand. Class tomorrow?

Yeah, Lisa said, though it was Friday, and Fridays she was off.

Marti smiled.

You have such lovely blue eyes, she said. Even in the dark, you can tell how blue they are. They remind me of my little girl. Eyes like her daddy.

She opened the car door, and the dome light came on. Under the dome light, Lisa saw the lines in Marti’s face. The crow’s feet and creases in her forehead were apparent.

I didn’t know you had a daughter, Lisa said.

She doesn’t live with me. She’s been with my sister going on four years.
Lisa didn’t know what to say.

She’s going to be seven in November. Wait, no, eight… Jesus.

Marti turned, pulled herself out of the car. She groaned.

This business is hard on the body, she said. Nobody ever tells you that.

She dug in her purse, found her cigarettes again. She lit one, then closed the car door. She started walking down the drive, towards the side door of the building.

Lisa wondered if she misjudged the situation. She knew that Marti had been in relationships with women — a lot of the girls she drove for preferred women after the way they had been treated by men they serviced — that Marti was one had made her nervous. She did like Marti, felt bad that the only way out for her seemed to be to marry a former john. She wondered if there shouldn’t be a retirement plan for hookers.

As she turned to back out of the drive way, she looked, saw Marti’s fur in the backseat. She rolled the car window down, called her name.

Marti turned, and Lisa rolled down the drive to meet her.

Your coat, she said, out the window.

Oh, rats! Marti said. She took the fur through the open window.

Lisa was taken aback by the expression. It seemed too quaint.

Marti, Lisa said. Marti bent down to lean her head in the window. Thanks… for showing me how to change a tire.

Sure thing, kiddo, she said. Take care, now.

*Note: This story was originally published in The Bayou Review. It is also available on Amazon in my story collection Punchlines here.

*Photo:Michael Ruther