Cornbread & Caviar (3 page)

That evening, T.J., one of Spider's guys, pays me a visit. I'm washing dishes when he kicks in the door of my apartment. Although I protest, he pins me to the wall with his enormous hands. Feelings of dread waft over me. This man could care less about me or my home. He only wants the money Mama owes Spider.

T. J. is biting his bottom lip as he holds me captive. Strong cologne leaps from his body as he prepares to take care of Spider's business. Menacing eyes are bulging, and his nostrils flair. "I suggest you find a way to pay your Mama's tab, know what I sayin'."

Pulling at his fingers laced around my throat, I plead heedlessly. "But, I don't have any money!"
"Yo Mama's dried up ass ain't worth two cents on the street, but yours is nice and plump. Spider can get a fortune for your juicy ass."
My voice is strangled and drawn. "But—but, I'm not a prostitute. I can't possibly earn enough money to pay Spider off."
T. J. tightens his grip around my neck, and I pull my chin snuggly against his fingers. "That's not my problem, bitch." He casts his gaze toward Tory's bedroom. "You gotta cute kid in the other room. I think you'll be able to figure something out."
Thinking of my ailing son's life, terror grips my soul. "You wouldn't hurt my son, would you? He—he's already sick."
T. J. sneers and curls his top lip. "There's nothing like a mother's love."
Blinking wildly, I look toward Tory's bedroom and make another desperate plea. "Please—please," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Don't hurt my son."
His voice is frightening and cold. "If you can't come up with the green in one week, you're going to need a black dress, all right?"
Sweat beads on my brow, and my heart races. I place my hands into a steeple. "No-no, please, don't." I yank at T. J.'s shirt and beg for Tory's life.
He pries my fingers from the cotton fabric. "Cute kid. I doubt if Boogie would care if he had one less child to support."
Tears roll down my cheek. "Please, T. J. He's my only son. He's just a child."
"You know what? I loves my Mama too. But in your case, she's outlived her usefulness. I can put a bullet in her ass, instead."
He releases me, and I crumple to the floor. I realize none of T. J.'s threats are to my liking. On his way out, T. J. conveniently knocks my television off the stand to make his threat good. It topples to the floor with a tremendous impact. Taken aback by his lack of compassion, I sit on my knees and wince with horror. While I sob uncontrollably, Tory opens the door to his bedroom. Sleep clouds his vision; his small voice is groggy from the strong medication. "I heard a noise, Mama."
"Go back to bed, son. Mama knocked over the television trying to kill a bug." I wipe back my tears and straighten my face. "It's okay, baby."

By the time I call Mama, I'm fuming. Now I want to wring her neck. It's Tory's life or hers. She promised she'd never mess with Spider again, but she lied. There are always lies upon lies!

Tory is a sweet boy. Hopefully, he was asleep when T. J. made his bitter threats. There's no way to take care of Mama's bad habits and keep my head afloat. How could she sink so low?

Because Mama is too high to comprehend my conversation, I ask Sasha, my neighbor, to stay with Tory. Though he isn't feeling well, he's a big boy. Within minutes, I drive back across town, hoping Satin's recruiting crew is still there; they were.

However, when I arrive, she's finished the work-ups. Everyone has been scheduled for medical exams, a fitting, a drug test, and a photo shoot. Of course, I could have passed them all, but Satin had no idea I could.

Instead, she scolds me for walking out in the first place. For a middle-aged Caucasian, she has a vicious attitude. Standing about six-one, Satin struts down the hallway, ushering me before her. Her red stilettos click noisily against the darkly painted cement floor. She walks fast and talks even faster. With each step, she spews yards of profanity.

"I don't know who you think you are, driving off when I sent for you. I don't even play like that. Satin's Dolls are the best, dammit!"
Designer nails hover from her fingertips as she slaps me sharply on the rear. I wince, wanting to jerk that blonde wig off her head.
"You should be glad I even let you
through
the door at this hour."
After opening the door to an empty room, Satin shoves me inside. "Now, turn around and show me what you're working with." She walks over to a CD player and puts on some music. "Dance, damn you! I ain't got time for this shit!"
Surprised by her demands, I stretch my eyes and part my lips. Lenisha didn't mention this part. I haven't danced in quite a while. Work demands too much of my time. Plus, I doubt I can move my body under such tremendous stress. "Give me a minute, please."
Satin folds her arms. "Give you what?” She scowls and her mouth hangs open. “What da hell? —I don't believe—, Coco!" she calls desperately, craning her neck toward the hallway. "Coco, show her crazy ass out!"
"Wait!" I plead, throwing my hands up to halt her instructions. "I really need this money."
"We all got sob stories, bitch. I was going to school to be a damn brain surgeon. Coco!" She bellows again, calling down the hallway.
"Please Ms. Satin!" I cry. My gut lurches and my knees feel weak.
"Well, move your tired ass, or get the
hell
out!"
My head starts to spin; a pep talk starts to clatter in my head. Feel the music, it said. Pretend you're at home in front of the mirror. Suddenly, I pulled my hands over my head, bent my knees and put my rear end in motion.
Satin is pleased. "Now, that's what I'm talking about," she snaps, impatiently.
After turning off the music, Satin says, "Tell Coco to give you a full work-up. Then bring your stubborn ass back here." She places her hands on her hips, walks toward me, then turns sharply. "And do something with those lips. They need to look appealing. Not like glistening earthworms. Add some damn color!" she screams. Satin pulls a tray of makeup from a drawer. "And, do something with those lashes. Nubs are out!"
As instructed, Coco does my work-up. She's a sleek Caucasian with all the earmarks of a Victoria's Secret model. However, there is nothing secret about Coco. It's my luck she's a sympathetic type. Though she's young, she's been around the industry a long time.
Holding a bowl of hairpins, I pass them to Coco as needed. She seems levelheaded. While she curls and styles my thick tresses, she gives sound advice.
"You know what, Randi? You're pretty. Satin will like you better if you loosen up. You're stiff as a corpse."
I wince as smoke pours from the hot curlers. "But, this is
so
not who I am. It's difficult for me, Coco."
Coco rolls her green eyes toward the ceiling. "This must be your first time."
"Yeah."
"Well, just relax. Your body will talk for you. All you need to do is walk out there. You can smile, or you can look seductive, whatever works for you." Coco reaches for a hairpin.
My gaze is averted, but I see her reflection in the mirror. "I'll try." I give her the hairpin.
"You're lucky. We have a rich bunch coming Saturday night. This crowd will include a few dignitaries."
"Oh, really." I brighten.
Coco puts the hot iron down and leans against the counter. She softly claps her hands. "That spells mo money—mo money." She sweeps her eyes over my body, then grows solemn. "By that look in your eyes, you're really scared, huh?" Shaking her head, she then folds her arms. "Don't worry, I've done this before. It's easy. Don't talk. Use your eyes to say what you want."
Gazing in the mirror, I squint. "My eyes?"
"Yeah, girl, that's why Satin wants you. You have those adorable lost kitten eyes."
"Lost what?" I grimace.
"You know what I mean. Look in the mirror and say, I think you're hot."
I repeat the phrase. Opening my mouth wide like a codfish, I mouth the words. "I think you're hot," I say, making my lips quiver like a horse's butt.
"Watch me." Coco bends over, sticks out her rear and gives a cheese cake shoulder drop. "Now, part your lips, sweep out your tongue, and flutter your eyes."
I stretch my eyes in the mirror; they were okay but not that great.
"Yeah, now say,
I want you
, by using your eyes."
Stretching my eyes, I concentrate on the words.
Coco smiles softly. "Now, is that hard?"
"Yes?" I admit, shaking my head. "I can't do this," I state emphatically.
Coco places her hands on her hips, stands up and tosses her blonde tresses behind her. "It's too late, Randi. Satin wants to see you here on Saturday." Looking in the mirror, she grooms another stray hair. "We'll have all your results back by then, but remember, you're not allowed to have sex."
"No problem with that request," I declare, easing from the padded swivel chair.

Thursday, I went back to work with new confidence. Just the thought of being one of Satin's Dolls makes me feel better about my finances. However, when I gaze into my son's eyes, I question my sanity.

By the time Saturday arrives, I feel sick. I had switched shifts with someone just to get Saturday night off. After all, this job is very important to my son's life.
As instructed, I meet Coco at the club. Out front, a white stretch Hummer waits to take us to our destination. Out of sixty girls, only twenty survived the cut. I didn't think I was late, but Coco treats me as such. She meets me at my car, snatches me out and drags me toward the Hummer. "Come on, Randi!" she insists, pulling me along. "We've gotta leave on time."
As she yanks, I pull against her, my heels digging into the gravel. "I thought we were supposed to leave at eight. I'm not late, am I?"
"When Satin says leave at eight, that means this vehicle will burn rubber three seconds after. If you aren't here, someone will be disappointed."
Seated in the luxury ride, Coco goes through our portfolios, then gives us our assignments and uniforms. One girl is given a French maid's uniform, another, a preppy schoolgirl's uniform. I'm given perhaps the worst costume of all, and I'm mortified.
Why in the world did Satin choose a dominatrix costume for me? That doesn't fit my personality at all. Here I sit, gawking at the shiny black leather costume. How am I going to bring ten pounds of leather alive? I don't know the first thing about acting.
As a final insult, Coco tosses a black leather whip in my lap and shoves a studded leather motorcycle cap on my head. Tears sting in my eyes; I turn toward the window to keep them hidden.
After we leave the limo, we're ushered into a dressing area where we prepare to take our walk. Women are getting dressed, practicing their best moves, spraying on extra perfume and brushing their hair.
Just to throw in a little variety, two of us are black and two of us are male. Coco claps her hands, and we line up like soldiers. Shortly afterward, Satin opens the door. While we stand still, Satin walks about looking us over.
She’s wearing a wireless microphone. Her long, black gloves fit snuggly over her gaunt fingers. A red, strapless, floor-length, sequin gown clings to her aging body. Signature platform stilettos are her favorites, and they completed the picture.
Luminous sparks flicker from her dress and send spears of color shooting throughout the room. "You whores had better make this good. Strut your stuff! Pretend you're horny little asses. Now get out there!"
Before I can be dismissed, Satin stops me cold. Although I'm standing erect and my breasts spill over the top of my leather bra, something about me catches her eye. "Fish nets go with that outfit, young lady, and where is your damn cap and jacket?"
Satin gets directly in my face, nose to nose. I can smell the fish she had for dinner. "When-I-come-back-I expect you to be completely dressed, not partially dressed, not halfway dressed, completely dressed. Coco!" she squalls loudly. "Where are her thigh-length boots and whip?"
Like a dutiful assistant, Coco pulls me together. And after Satin's speech about not screwing up, I peer nervously from behind the large, cardboard screen.
Testosterone scents the air with pungent layers of excitement. The room has the look and feel of an exquisite dining facility. White tablecloths, flowers, drinks, and hors d'oeuvre sit liberally on each table. A large screen displaying pornography blares openly above the catwalk. Erotic moans and screams waft over the horny mob.
Surveying prospective clients, I notice that some are elderly, and some are middle aged. They talk loudly among themselves, antsy, anticipating a good lineup. Coco is right; I do recall seeing some of these men in the society column of the newspaper. They own businesses, and most are married. But all of them are worth a small fortune.
The first girl is dressed as a preppy schoolgirl. Wearing a plaid, pleated skirt and a revealing white blouse, she prepares to work her magic. After giving herself a pep talk, she hoists her ample breast, then takes her walk.
Red stilettos and bobby socks drive the men crazy. Her heels strike the floor with the stride of a Tennessee walking horse. She flicks her two ponytails, sucks her thumb, and makes large goo-goo eyes. The music is fast paced, and the men go absolutely wild.
When she reaches the end of the runway she turns her back to the crowd, stands wide legged, then bends over to touch her toes. Because her skirt had no length, the men ogle her exposed bottom, which reveals ruffled baby doll panties.
Shouts and howls fill the air. Some of the men nudge each other with sharp elbows. They leap from their seats, and cheers and shouts of glee fill the air. A few hold their chest, coughing as they holler, while others whistle and jeer.
With a wave of her hand, Satin hushes the crowd and starts the bidding. The platform starts to rotate.
Number one stands up with her thumb in her mouth. She pouts and makes seductive gyrations. Periodically, she slaps her rear or raises her skirt innocently. A price rings out from the crowd, then shortly afterward, number one maxes out at six thousand dollars.
Although I'm impressed, that price is only three thousand for her services. She giggles gleefully, steps off the stage, takes the hand of her sponsor, and disappears from sight.
Number one has her stuff together. I feel a twinge of jealousy; she makes cash, using what her Mama gave her. That's all good. Number one is hot, but I need to bring in more money.
Anticipation is great, and because I'm number seven, I have to watch the other girls as they strut down the walk, slapping their rears and stroking their long thighs. Mouths are opened and fingers are suckled, tongues even lap their own breasts.
While electrical excitement dances throughout the room, I realize my thighlength boots are much too small. Pacing from side to side, I try to make myself comfortable in the tight fit. I had practiced at home, but now I doubt I can actually be a seductress in front of that crowd, or any crowd. Humming nervously to myself, I try to let the music guide my scattered mind down the catwalk.
However, when Satin calls, "Number Seven," an electrical spark shoots through my heart and makes a hasty retreat through my trembling tailbone. My son's life is in danger. I have to do this. Pulling confidence from Coco's joyous expression, I step onto the catwalk with confidence, but stop midway. As soon as I glance over the crowd, my body refuses to cooperate with my mind.
Faces sneer and become frozen in disgust. A few of the men hold their noses; some throw thumbs down and some boo my efforts. It's obvious; I've diminished their enthusiasm for the game. One man even places his hand shamefully over his face then pulls it slowly downward. They're as embarrassed for me as I am for myself.
Like a frightened animal, I feel my heart leap wildly in my chest. From their gestures, I'm sure fear is etched on my face. Feeling as if my rear end belongs to a scared pup, I pull my buttocks inward. Boot-clad feet hardly move as I scoot slowly across the wooden stage dragging my whip.
Lively music vibrates in my ears with the annoying buzz of radio static. I can't feel the energy—I can't feel the rhythm. My brain simply will not register the sound. Summoning my will, I make my eyes look down at my feet. I'm actually taking baby steps, slouching, and forgetting to hold in my gut. Periodically, I step on the whip, tripping myself up.
Taking in their humiliated stares, I know things are not going well. Inexperienced, I admit I'm out of my league. Folding my arms across my breasts, I hug myself, reeling with embarrassment, the whip follows along behind me. Flitting my eyes from man to man, I realize they're old enough to be my father or grandfather.
Satin is standing rigidly behind the podium. When I hear the anger in her voice, I become paralyzed with fear. "What the
hell
are you doing?" She sneers, striking the podium. "Move your dumb ass,” she curses. “Pop the damn whip, damn you.”&&&&&
Seeing I am too petrified to walk, she lowers the music to start the bidding. Suddenly, the platform starts to rotate. I'd been instructed to remain still while the men look me over, but that phenomenon never occurs. The platform rotates clockwise, and I move counterclockwise; as a result, I'm always facing forward. Satin slaps her forehead and covers her eyes.
"Who would like to start the bidding?" she squawks. "Do I hear one hundred?"
I can tell by the horrified look on Coco's face, Satin has started a low bid. Unfortunately, no one matches her.
"Show us something, girly!" one man yells.
I stick out a boot-clad leg. At least, I showed them my sexy new boots, which is something. Satin gives me the sign to return to the rear. She intends to give me a good chewing out, of that, I'm sure.
As I storm off the stage, anger burns like acid inside my chest. I snatch off the heavy earrings, then throw them on the stage. Spiked wristbands are unsnapped and thrown into the hostile audience. I don't care who they strike.
While aggravation sets flames to my body, the whip and the short leather jacket are the next things I hurl into the audience. My black studded bra is exposed when I fling the jacket high into the air. Immediately, the men go wild!
"Yeah, baby, take it all off!"
But this isn't an act. I know better than to put my character on the line and I want to kick myself.