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“Hey Mr. Brown, something for us today?” I asked, poking my head out into the narrow hallway. We live in public housing, one of those giant developments which hasn’t been updated since the seventies, so the walls were a dirty-looking faded grey, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering unsteadily.
And Mr. Brown knows me, he knows that we depend on those disability checks. So kindly, he searched through his bag, flipping through stacks and stacks of mail bundled together.
“Here we are,” he said, handing a flyer to me. “That’s got your name on it.”
And I looked at the glossy cardboard, stupefied. It was for a check cashing place down the street, the type that takes twenty percent of your salary in return for dollars at your fingertips. I didn’t even have a paycheck, so this was no use. Slowly, I shook my head.
“No, I’m sorry, is there something else?” I asked once more, unable to keep the strain out of my voice. Mattie hadn’t had real food in so long, we were down to crusts of bread dabbed with peanut butter, the cupboards empty.
And seeing my desperate expression, Mr. Brown searched again, digging through his canvas bag.
“No, I’m sorry Becky,” the elderly man said, shaking his head. “Nothing more for you folks today.”
“Oh thanks,” I said faintly, ducking back into the apartment and shutting the door softly. Shit, shit, shit, what was going on? The disability check always arrives around this time, and yet today it hadn’t come. What were we going to do? My mind whirled, pulse jumping with fear. How would we feed Mattie? How would we feed ourselves, for that matter? Nana was looking even more frail recently, I suspected she hadn’t been eating so that my brother and I could. What the hell, what the hell?
But it was no use to ask Ellen, my mom was probably with her latest boyfriend, up to no good. And Nana can’t work, she’s seventy-five if a day, babysitting for Mattie when he gets back from school. So what were our options, realistically?
And after two more days of helpless, breathless waiting, I realized that we were out of choices. Our mailbox was disappointingly empty, my stomach growling with a mix of terror, fear and hunger when I peered into the narrow metal box once more and saw a gaping nothingness. So out of desperation, I dialed a number that I’d been saving, trembling and afraid.
“Hello?” came a neutral female voice.
“Hi, I’m looking for Maria,” I replied, trying to keep my voice low. Nana was in the apartment right now, and I didn’t want her to hear what I was doing. “We’ve been corresponding?”
That wasn’t exactly true. I’d seen an ad in the Village Voice for escorts, requesting pictures from interested applicants. And taking a deep breath, I’d sent a couple selfies, nothing sexy, nothing revealing to the email address in the ad. Gratifyingly, a reply had popped into my inbox within a few hours requesting an interview. But I dunno, I got spooked and never called back, leaving the email untouched in my folder, like a hot potato. But the time had come. There were no more options, and it was do or die.
“What was your name again?” asked the female voice once more.
“Be-Rebecca,” I said quickly. “Rebecca Wright.”
Some papers shuffled before the female voice came back on, this time much warmer.
“Oh right, Rebecca,” she said. “Well, I’m Maria and we were expecting to hear back sooner. Did you get my reply? We’d love to meet you, are you still interested?”
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if “interested” was the right word. Maybe “desperate” or “hopeless” was more accurate. I was scrabbling to find something, anything, that would help my family survive, let us live another day. So I nodded, voice breaking.
“Yes, I’d be happy to come in for an interview,” I rushed. Shit, this was bad, I was sounding like an eager puppy instead of a mature woman. So I took a deep breath and tried to come off calm. “Happy to stop by, just let me know when.”
And Maria paused for a moment, keyboard clacking.
“How about tomorrow?” she asked. “I have some time tomorrow, could you come in for a one-hour interview? Our offices are in Midtown.”
I nodded furiously although she couldn’t see.
“Yes, I’ll be there,” I said, scribbling the address she gave me with a trembling hand. “Thanks, see you then.”
And after hanging up, I sat back, taking a deep breath. Me, an escort? I was an eighteen year-old virgin with no experience, I’d never let any boys touch me given that Linda had had me at sixteen, and look how her life had turned out. I wanted to go to college, I wanted to make something of myself, become a professional. But instead, I was flying out to Vegas to be an escort at some club. What had become of me? Was I destined for a life of sin? How could this even be legal?
