So I was on the phone last night with one of my dearest friends, Elena. She is among a very exclusive and intimate group of my girlfriends whom I believe knows everything about me and, in spite of it, still likes me. During a reference I made about my early history of spending about 5 minutes in the sex trade industry, Elena stopped me and said, "Okay Carrie, now I know you had quite a technicolorful promiscuous part of your youth, but I don't remember anything about money exchanging hands...do tell."
Where do I begin? I thought. I was way too sober to tell the one at the end about almost being murdered - so I hit her with the most memorable story I could think of. You won't believe me, but I will tell you anyway. Here it goes:
THE RED SHOES
It was the early '90s and a couple of months into my unintentional whirl in quasii-prostitution as my own free agent. As it always began, I was contacted by a client who asked if I was interested in "helping a friend of his out" in somewhat the same way I aided him. Consistent with my hollow sense of self, I responded with a disassociated "of course" and told him to have his friend give me a call. Minutes later the phone rings and "Mr. Jones" gives me a time and address for our rendezvous, then strangely asks for my home address and shoe size.
Two days later I made my way out my door on my way to my real job and I stumbled over a medium-sized Fed-Ex box addressed to me. The return address was some sort of high-techy sounding corporation, so I figured it must be some kind of stereo or television component that Cosmic Charlie (my dope growing boyfriend), had mailed to my address in order to "stay off the grid" and remain anonymous to "THE MAN." Luckily I took the time to actually open the box and I realized this was definitely for me.
Inside was a very fancy shoe box with a note which read, in handwriting similar to David Kaczynski's, "WEAR THESE AND NOTHING ELSE - MR JONES." Now you must understand it this was several years before Carrie Bradshaw's designer shoe fetish had made Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin, and Jimmy Choo household names. Expensive shoes to me was paying full price at Nordstrom for Etienne Aigner loafers, and never more than $80.
The shoes I held in my hand were truly a piece of art: candied-apple red, patent leather, stilettos with some foreign words I cannot remember written on the inside sole. These were definitely not from Pay-Less Shoes or even Nordstrom for that matter. They didn't have the stamped factory inspection detail or size identified anywhere. Looking back, I kinda think they may have come from outer space - or I also like to picture a little Italian cobbler in Le Marche furiously working with his tiny elves to complete a special order for "that eccentric American" in time for the Fed-Ex pick-up. So just like Cinderella on her way to the ball, I slipped on the perfectly fitting magical gift in anticipation of my own upcoming encounter with two balls. (At least I hoped there would only be two.)
It was early afternoon on a rainy Thursday when I left my urban apartment wearing my sleek London Fog trench coat, panties, and Nike tennis shoes. The red shoes were way too high for my klutzy self to walk or operate a clutch and drive in, so I kept them in their treasure box on the passenger seat of my two-door economy car. As for the panties, well I guess I thought it wouldn't look as bad if I was in a car accident on my way to the gig as long as I had underwear on. I could see the paramedics say something like, "Well Joe, she couldn't possibly be a whore - look she has her Hane's on!"
I drove in the rain past my appointment location and parked around the corner in an attempt to be discreet. After pulling off my panties, chucking the Nikes in the backseat, touching up my overdone make-up, and popping up my umbrella I walked the half a block of 19th century mansions which to my knowledge were only inhabited by historic homes committees, students from the art institute, or crack addicts. I had never been to this side of town before and the contradiction of old family money and 20th century poverty in this midwestern metropolis was disturbing.
Luckily Mr Jones's residence was very cozy and safe looking from the street. It even had a high-end children's playstructure in the back. So, I took a deep breath, left my body, and watched myself walk up the stairs and knock on the door. With relief that he was not a formidable looking man I flashed my toothy smile and entered the two sets of doors into the foyer. Before I get to Mr. Jones, I think it is important for me to describe the character of this house. It was definitely at least 100 years old and looking around I noticed it was completely empty of furnishings and accessories. Also, it had absolutely no smell. I don't just mean it didn't smell like a very old home, it didn't smell like food, or pets, or smoke, or new carpet, or cleaning chemicals, or dead bodies - it just smelled like nothing. Not even the scent of rain outside made it's way past the threshold.
As for Mr. Jones, he was just a guy - like all the rest. If I were to liken him to a famous person it would have to be John C. McGinley - the actor from the TV show Scrubs who plays the obnoxious and sarcastic Dr. Cox. Although, Mr. Jones was in no way obnoxious or sarcastic, in fact he looked down at his feet for the most part and mumbled as he spoke. I told him he had a beautiful home and he asked if I would like a tour. At this point he could have asked if I would like an axe through my skull and I would have just smiled and nodded my head completely unattached to reality.
Throughout the three-story home were rooms vacant of anything other than a mattress on the floor. Several doors were closed and Mr. Jones would knock and say, "Hey cuz, I'm coming in." Then I would see small groups of people or just a couple sitting on the mattress with books all over the floor looking stoned out of their minds and nodding to Mr. Jones. Now, I know this sounds strange, but this was not a crack house - or a drug den for that matter. These stray people very well may have been Nobel Prize winners just looking for a place to hang out and meditate on their way to reaching enlightenment. I felt a very nurturing and safe presence throughout the tour and realized Mr. Jones collected people while living in a dimension far from mine.
Stumbling in the red shoes we made our way down the back staircase which had been reserved for servants during the dawn of this home, and into a beautifully updated and remodeled kitchen which shined with impeccable sterility. Again, no smell whatsoever. There was an iron skillet on the cooktop, a pack of Camel cigarettes and an ashtray on the countertop, and a command from Mr. Jones telling me exactly what he wanted me to do. Here we go: he wanted me to scramble eggs on the stove, completely naked (except for the shoes), and sing nursery ryhmes while I smoked cigarettes. Sure - no problem I thought. I removed my coat, sucked in my stomach, stuck out my chest and went to work.
As I started to cook the eggs I went to the fridge for milk and noticed it's contents were like none other I had seen before: glass containers full of raw fruits and vegetables, what looked like home grown wheat grass consuming an entire shelf, and a six pack of eggs which were brown. Now today I only eat brown, organic eggs, but 20 years ago if an egg wasn't white then it was VERY strange. As I reached far back into my childhood to recall the tunes about dishes running away with spoons Mr. Jones sat across the kitchen island countertop on a stool, with his bottom half tucked up under the bar, where he did my work for me with his left hand. The more I smoked and sang, the more he stared at me bug-eyed and quivering until he finally let out a somewhat disturbing moan then fumbled to get his pants belted up again.
By this time the eggs were well done and I didn't really know where to go from there, so I asked him if he wanted me to feed him. He said no and that would be all, then handed me my coat. He wouldn't even let me clean up. I was feeling extremely nauseous and in such a cigarette smoke stupor that the only thing I could focus on was getting out the front door and into some fresh air. I cared nothing about fee for service at this point and decided to b-line it straight to my car and then to any convent willing to take me in.
As I walked through the foyer, Mr. Jones came up from behind me and handed me a well worn brown grocery sack with what felt like the weight of a dead cat in it. I don't even think he said, "here you go" or "thank-you" or "good-bye" - he just kept his head down, mumbled something and shoved the bag into my arms. I popped up my umbrella, walked-ran to my car, kicked off the shoes, and drove aimlessly around the historic neighborhood barefoot in the rain. I was trying to return to my body, but it wasn't so easy this time. Everything seemed way too heavy to process so I pulled over, remembered the grocery bag on my passenger seat and looked inside.
Monopoly money? That mother-fucker gave me a bag of fucking fake money!!! I picked up one of the what amounted to five stacks of twenty dollar bills and flipped through it. Wait a minute...this looks really good for fake money. Now this is the part where you really won't believe me. One, two, three...forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty! I actually had five stacks of $2000 worth of honest to goodness, bona-fide, twenty-dollar bills! Ten fucking thousand dollars sitting in the front seat of my standard transmission economy car whose entire worth was a fraction of the cash contained in it. Not to mention I was driving in the direction of high class boogie town and needed to make an immediate u-turn in order to avoid a potential carjacker's windfall by choosing me as his next victim.
Now, you must understand that although I had been taking cash for sex for the past several weeks - I never spent a dime of it. It wasn't money I needed for survival or even amusement and it came with such a heavy energy attached that I honestly dropped it in the offertory box after Saturday confession at the church across the street form my apartment All along it had been a few hundred dollars at the most and never any amount requiring bundling. But this time - $10000 was way too much to fit in the slot of the offertory box without being found out and I wanted this blood money as far away as possible - as soon as possible.
Driving back home in the early evening rain I remembered a place nearby which had impacted me deeply on a high school field trip once. It was also a place I had done some service work in order to attain the required service hours for graduation and I remembered the name of the place's director. I turned my car around, drove past the art museum, past Planned Parenthood, past the YMCA, and parked on the street in front of a non-descript urban home with no identification on it's front door. I put the shoes in the bag with the cash, walked in my Nikes and trench coat up to the doorstep, and rang the bell. A woman's voice through an intercom responded to my bell ringing and I told her I was leaving a donation on the doorstep and would she please see that Ms. Smith gets it. I didn't even wait for a response after I dropped the bag on the doorstep and walked-ran to my car for the second time that day.
This takes me back to my conversation with Elena. She remembered the field trip and knew exactly where the money wound up. It was a battered women's shelter and to this day I still don't know if the cash ever really made it to Ms. Smith's hands - all that matters is it is out of mine. As I told Elena the part of the story of donating the money to the church in my old neighborhood which then became her neighborhood in recent years, I couldn't recall the name of the church. Elena reminded me the name of that church and it proves my constant theory that there is no such thing as coincidence. "Carrie, you mean Guardian Angels Parish" said Elena. Of course it was Guardian Angels - it was the only thing that kept me alive to tell my story.
This gave me shivers!! wow! I love your blog!!
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