A Forgotten Tomorrow (3 page)

I’m not close to Big Jon in any way, but we are at least acquaintances and Elijah knew that. I have spoken to him in passing during the midnight hours plenty of times, and he has always been polite to me in his own way. Of course he holds no respect for anyone like me; that’s the way it works, I know that.

That night I made the worst mistake by telling Elijah that I would talk to Jon. I seriously didn’t think Jon would go for it, though, and so felt quite safe making that promise. Also, I guess I was afraid that I would lose Elijah as a friend if I didn’t. That was a stupid way to think. He probably would’ve understood. Maybe he would still be here today, sitting next to me, joking around the way we always did. I can’t help but blame myself.

I really need to snap out of it! With all of the thinking about that particular night, I’ve ruined my buzz, and now it’s already time for me to go to work.

Normally my high doesn’t make me obsess about any certain thing, but lately I can’t help it. I just miss him so much. The only friend I ever had.

Walking to work isn’t exciting either. There is nothing spectacular to see, it’s miserable. The street lights are dim and the cobblestone roads are filled with trash in this part of town. It’s as if this area is forgotten, far from the world of executives, desperate housewives and children at play. It appears to be a ghost town, except for the gang of men and young boys joking and carrying on by City Liquors, and
clown-faced
women who are walking around in six-inch heels, looking for a catch.

Getting through the night feels like forever sometimes, evoking misery and the
anxiety that I’ve managed to hide all day long. At night, I must become someone that I’m not. But I guess that after a year of being out here on the streets, I really am that other person.

Most nights it takes at least an hour of standing at my post on the corner of Benz Street until work starts coming my way. I call it work for a few reasons. One being because it sounds more appealing – to me. What I do disgusts me, so it is a lot of work on my part to make it through the night.

The other women that walk this street don’t seem to mind their job at all. They happily talk to one another and speak to every man that drives their way. It takes me a while to ground myself, control my mind and become appealing to those who pass by.

I don’t have a certain technique, but I do have something the other women on this block don’t – I’m young and reasonably attractive. I lie about my age frequently. I have even managed to get away with being
twenty-one years old, when I am really only sixteen. I would never get any clients if I was honest about my age. Besides, this job isn’t about honesty, it’s about money and that’s it. There is no satisfaction.

Once I manage to get over the nauseating feeling in my stomach, I am able to make myself available. I will walk towards the street and down the sidewalk at a slow pace in a way that I would normally not walk. I have to actually concentrate on swaying my hips for appeal. I gaze into almost every car that slows down when passing, batting my eyes and smiling in a way that is sure to catch someone’s eye.

As horrifying as it may sound, I do have a couple of regular clients. It doesn’t make the job any better, it still disgusts me, but at least I know what they are about and how they treat girls like me. They also don’t make me do anything out of the ordinary, like some men do. People are sick and want what they want, sometimes the unspeakable. I guess that’s why they come to the block, instead of asking their
girlfriends or wives – which many of our clients do have. If their wives knew what they were doing, they’d be devastated.

I am getting off track. The point is, it’s a horrible job and I am ashamed to announce what I do. But, just in case I haven’t been very clear, I’m a prostitute. I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined I’d end up out here on the streets like this. When I ran away from home a year ago, I had a plan – and this was not it. But life is hard. Survival is the key and I was starving, freezing and withering away to nothing. I did what was needed to survive – and still do.

It has been a slow night tonight, with no work for at least two hours. There are normally close to ten girls out on the block, but tonight there are maybe six of us out here. I think Michelle, the oldest, is the only one who has been picked up. In many ways I am relieved, yet at the same time I’m really in need of some money. I haven’t managed to eat anything all day and I need a shower. If I gather enough money tonight, I can get
a cheap room during the day tomorrow and clean up a little. I need it, bad.

Through the thick fog that has settled in, I manage to see a set of headlights coming my way. When the car slows down and pulls up to the curb next to me, I can tell by the outer appearance that the driver is probably hideous. I have learned over the past year that a car actually says a lot about a person. The chocolate brown, beat up and rusted El Camino looks about fifty years old, and cars like that are never a good sign.

I walk over to the car with my lips curled and a scandalous smile upon my face. I place my hands above the passenger side window and bend down, revealing my cleavage and face to the driver. At first, I can not see his face because he leans over to wind down the window. Once he does, the scent of stale cigar smoke and rotten fast food reaches my nostrils quickly. I try hard to stand my ground, seeming interested in the overweight, unshaven and obviously unclean man who is looking up at me. His smile only makes his appearance worse.
His teeth are chipped and rotten, which I am sure is not helping the smell that seems to surround me.

I bend down even closer to the window and give him a quick wink. With that, he jolts with excitement.

“You lookin’ for some fun tonight?” I ask, while quickly stroking his arm.

It is always best to tease the men a little bit, give them a small taste of what’s to come. This almost guarantees that they will want your services. Anyway, once I touch his sweaty arm he surely is ready to get me into his Camino.

“Get on in here,” is all he says to me, as I open his rickety door and sit down on the coffee-stained seat.

He decides to drive a couple of miles down the road to the cheapest motel on this side of town. Even though it’s only a short distance to the motel, it feels like an eternity. Every time I look over at him, his
beady eyes are focused on me. Of course, I try to keep his attention by occasionally touching his leg or giving him a flirtatious wink, but honestly, his gaze makes me feel a bit sick.

The Sunny Days Motel isn’t charming in any way. It looks more like a roach hotel. I don’t even know how it stays open, because there are always vacancies – there are never more than three cars in the lot. The rooms always smell like mildew and the beds are very old and worn out. None of this matters to me though; it’s not like I’m going on a summer vacation. I will go in, do what needs to be done and hopefully leave within the hour. I only give my customers an hour, unless they are paying me very well.

After he parks his car, I get out and wait for him to return with the key. Ten minutes seem to pass until I see him walking towards me. In those ten minutes I have been able to smoke a couple of cigarettes and touch up my makeup. I only started smoking a few weeks ago. I realised that it helps calm my nerves, because even though I appear
serene and collected on the outside, I am truly full of anxiety.

As he gets closer to me, I am able to see the grin on his face. He is like a kid in a candy shop, anticipating the moment he will get his goodies. I walk towards him a bit, smiling and once again giving him a flirtatious wink.

“All set, sexy?” I ask, getting even closer to his sweaty body and putting my fingers through his hair.

Not a word escapes his mouth, but his body language says it all. He flashes the room key and then walks a few steps down to room number eight. I stand back only a little and rub his back as he wiggles the key to open the door.

Once the room is revealed, my stomach turns. I walk in behind him, take off my heels and close the door. He quickly sits on the bed and stares directly at me with the most sickening look upon his face. I hope the next hour passes quickly – yuck.

It took me an hour and a half to get back to Benz Street. He ended up dropping me off two blocks away, and why wouldn’t he, considering he’d got what he wanted, right? Like I said before, I don’t expect any of my customers to respect me. Anyway, once I make it back to my post there is only one girl left on the block. Two in the morning is the witching hour out here. You never know if work will pick up or stay at a standstill. I don’t mind waiting a while to be picked up again though – I need time to rejuvenate.

The man who picked me up earlier was pretty gross, but at least he wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. I managed to weasel thirty bucks out of him, so even if I don’t come across more work tonight, at least I will have enough cash to check into a roach motel for a quick shower tomorrow. Or maybe grab a bite to eat.

Every night I manage to stick to one major rule in the hope of keeping myself reasonably safe. Some girls out here don’t have any self-appointed guidelines, which I think is crazy. They all tell me that keeping
any restrictions on what I am willing to do will make me lose money in the end. I don’t care though, I’d rather be safe – protection is always needed. One day I am getting out of here, and I don’t want to go into the real world with some sort of STD or a kid in tow.

Most nights, Benz Street is full of ruckus. Often the noise comes from a group of guys standing across the street drinking liquor and fooling around or fighting. Occasionally I get pestered by an addict of some sort, or the homeless, asking me for money. But tonight it is very quiet.

I will be out here for another hour or two, hopefully getting a little more work. I try to leave the area before dawn, avoiding any police officers that might pass through.

I’m not sure what I am going to do yet. It’s a hard decision. Do I shower and rest, and starve for the day? Or get a little bit of food? Sometimes it is hard to decide between the two. Showering is needed, and meth and food don’t really go together.

One thing crosses my mind though; if I do go see Jonah again tomorrow I can probably score some food, which would save me for the day, making it possible to get a room and shower. I don’t know, though. I’m not so sure it’s worth it, having to tell him all the sappy stories of my life. Also, I don’t see how revealing my past to him makes a difference in him helping me. I didn’t say I wanted his help anyway.

I stopped at a little sandwich shop on my way back at about four in the morning. The shop isn’t twenty-four hours, but opens at the crack of dawn. It’s very small and doesn’t get a lot of custom, which I like. I try to stay away from places that are filled with people, because they look at me as if I have the plague or something. My breakfast of choice is a bagel with sausage, egg and cheese. It fills my stomach and is dirt cheap, coming to only five dollars with a drink.

Once I get back to the bridge I grab my bag, which is hidden behind a slab of broken-down cement. There is nothing
spectacular in there that anyone would want to take, but I hide it anyway. It holds all the necessities, my toothbrush, toothpaste and some shampoo that I stole from a luxury hotel a few weeks back. Oh, and Elijah’s blanket.

It has become a habit for me to take in a line or two before I take a nap each morning. Honestly, it’s the only thing that relaxes me enough to even try to sleep. It only takes five minutes or less for me to enter a euphoric state of being. Without that I would obsess about my night’s work and the disgusting men I came across. Before I found meth, it was hard for me to even think about sleeping.

By the time I cover myself with the blanket and get comfortable, my eyes begin to feel heavy. I never sleep more than a few hours because I’ve learnt to quickly rest, and then move on for the day.

I’ve never been caught sleeping out here, and I don’t want to risk it either. I really shouldn’t call it sleep. It’s more like resting
my eyes. It’s never happened, but you never know when some weirdo or crackhead may wander over my way, and I’d surely want to be awake for that! A little sleep is better than no sleep though, right?

After a while, an odd sensation comes upon me. I know that I am lying here with my eyes closed, sleeping. But I feel like I’m awake. I feel everything that is happening as I fall into a vivid and surreal dream-like state.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it.

I know that I am in a small room, but I don’t recognise it. It’s dark – too dark – and I feel utterly alone, even though a presence is with me. This presence isn’t pleasant, though. Nothing in this room is. There isn’t any kind of familiarity, just dark shadows that seem to hover above.

At first I realise that the room is empty, except for the small bed that I am lying on. I try to scream, but I can’t. Not a sound
escapes my mouth, even though it is open. Tears flow as I jerk my body to escape the shadows that come near me. They are not happy, whatever they are.

A flash of a wooded area then comes into view. It looks familiar, but I can’t quite make out where I am, as I lay in the brush. The trees are swaying with force, screaming out to me, telling me to run while I can. But I can’t. The trees come alive as tiny branches wrap around my ankles and wrists, forcing me to stay on the ground.

The shadows have followed me into this dark wooded area now. Their laughter is almost demented as they come into view. They are pushing me down too, laying on me, forcing me to be immersed in their dark silhouettes.

I smell it. Their stench resembles the smell of old, rotten beer – it seems to consume my entire being. They don’t stop either. They only push me lower into the ground, forcing themselves upon me. I squirm. I shake, trying to escape. Maybe I should scream?

I manage to make a sound that echoes through the trees. The branches loosen their grip and I somehow manage to pull myself away from the shadows. Again I scream, even louder than before.

I now hover above them. Looking down I see the one shadow begin to morph itself into human form. It’s Johnny. His dark, angry eyes seem to pierce my skin and his demented laugh only gets louder as he reaches for me. Not again! I scream.

I wake up under my blanket, screaming for my life. Sweat pours off me and tears fall quickly from my makeup-smeared eyes. I quickly touch my face to make sure that I am really here, underneath the bridge, far from my past, far away from Johnny.

What the hell was that? I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a nightmare that extreme, especially about Johnny. Not for years, I’d say. Why would I even dream up such a thing? Why now?

That damn Jonah, he brought this to the surface! What good is that? I was managing well without the memory, and now it’s here with me again. See, that’s why I don’t know if a visit to Jonah this afternoon is such a good idea. I mean, maybe he can help me – but do I really need it? And why is he stirring up old memories, things I’d rather just forget about? If you ask me, it’s not a good thing at all. It will probably only make me feel worse.

The only reason that I would go see him today is for the food. If I manage to take in a good hearty dinner, I will be set until tomorrow afternoon. Whatever saves money works for me. I hear the City Community Center has great meals sometimes, like fried chicken and beef stew. And I miss fried chicken. I’m not quite sure yet, but I may go down there later this afternoon after all.

Until then, I’m not sure what I will do. I might go to the park and take a walk. It’s never too crowded there, so I don’t draw attention to myself. Drawing attention to
me is one thing I really try not to do. I can’t handle all the empty stares and implied criticism. I may look funny in my ratty clothing, but I’m still a human being with feelings.

The park is huge. It holds a giant pond where many ducks and geese rest. It might sound lame, but I like to sit on the benches and watch them as they go about their day. It relaxes me a little, I guess. They are so innocent and free, and don’t need to worry about anything. And if they get tired of where they are, they simply fly away. I wish I could do that. Fly away to a place where I can be normal again, or anywhere I want for that matter.

Some days I try to go to the library. Well, I think about going, but never do. Again, strangers stare too much and it makes me uncomfortable. It is probably weird for them, though, seeing me. I guess it’s abnormal to see a prostitute picking up a book or two, but there is no law saying that because I work on the streets I can’t read. Although I’m sure many can’t.

I miss reading. I haven’t picked up a book in over a year. Books used to be my escape. Now I have no escape whatsoever, just reality. The reality of my life isn’t so great, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now. It is what it is.

Hours have passed, and I’m on my way to the Community Center. I’m not looking forward to it. I hate the walls of Jonah’s office. They feel like they close in on me, and I’m not looking forward to his stupid questions, either. But right now that doesn’t matter. I need something to eat and I’d rather not pay for it if I don’t have to.

The walk to the Center is a little unpleasant, because I have to pass through the poor side of the city, where everyone avoids eye contact. People have been killed out here, just because they might have looked at someone the wrong way. I’ve never had a problem, though – I just make sure that I keep my eyes to the ground.

It’s sad actually. I hear this area used to be the centre of entertainment. Music shops, coffee houses and diners attracted many, before the crime rate increased and a group of gangs moved in. Most of the gangs out this way are affiliated with Big Jon’s business – another reason why I try to walk unnoticed.

He has a secluded warehouse a few blocks down from the centre. A warehouse that holds pounds upon pounds of cocaine and meth, not to mention a load of weapons. As far as I know he has never been spotted by the authorities, so I guess his tactics work – as far as him staying hidden is concerned.

I managed to see the inside of his warehouse once. Of course Elijah was in there loads of times, once he started working for Jon. How I wish I could turn back the hands of time, but it’s too late for that now.

It was about two months ago when Elijah and I walked into that warehouse. Two long months ago.

On the night before the meeting I ran into Jon on the corner of Benz Street where I was working. Secretly I prayed that I wouldn’t ever see him again. I didn’t want to go out of my way to hook Elijah up with him. But no such luck.

I remember it well, because work was scarce that night. It was too quiet. Most of the girls on my block walked to another area where they were sure they could find work. But I decided to stay. It’s always better for me to work alone anyway. Steering clear of a group of girls makes it much easier for me to get picked up anyway, and yet stay unnoticed.

That night, a couple of hours passed until I heard the sound of life. A sound system was blaring and only got louder as a black Cadillac Escalade crept towards the intersection where I was standing. It was so loud, in fact, that I could feel the vibration of the bass against my skin.

I knew who owned the truck right away, with its chrome twenty inch rims
and dark, tinted windows – Big Jon. He is the only person out on this block to own a decent car. Everyone else either uses public transportation or travels on foot. This is another reason why he stands out in the neighbourhood.

Anyway, he parked his Cadillac a few feet away from me, with the stereo system still blaring. Two young kids dressed in black, probably no more than seventeen years old, walked across the street to greet him. Jon stepped out of the car and talked to the boys briefly, before they handed over two brown paper bags. I figured the kids probably worked for him and were handing over their daily earnings.

Jon is in no way suffering for money. He takes the majority of the earnings, only leaving a small percentage for his workers. But when you are a kid, that small percentage seems like a lot of dough. That is exactly what Elijah thought, not thinking about the consequences. Money seems to rule the world.

After the kids left, I couldn’t help myself. I gathered enough courage to talk to him. He didn’t notice me at first because he was busy stashing something in his truck. I decided to walk towards him, in the hope that he would realise I was there. It only took a moment.

“Damn, girl! I didn’t see you standin’ there,” he said, as if shocked to see me. “You quiet as a mouse,” he said, setting his baseball cap straight. “Gettin’ work?”

“Nothin’ to brag about,” I remember saying. “Tonight is slower than ever. How’s your business?”

“You know everything is always gravy, baby!” he replied with a chuckle.

We talked briefly about nothing remotely serious. I remember him joking around about my work in a way that irritated me, but I didn’t dare show that it was getting to me.

While we were talking, Elijah kept coming to mind. I really didn’t want to help him get into trouble with Jon, but that was his decision, right? I should’ve stood my ground, but I didn’t. I wanted to give Elijah what he wanted, just because I wanted to please him.

Before Jon got back into his Escalade, I decided to ask him if he was looking for help. At first he thought that I was inquiring for myself, which only made him laugh. He told me that he didn’t work with tricks. I hate that word.

I had to force myself to laugh along with him for a minute, before telling him that I was asking for a friend of mine. He seemed to be a little leery about the idea, but agreed to meet with Elijah the following night to talk. He knew I was someone who kept my head down, kept out of trouble. I guess he thought Elijah would be the same. Then, he looked dead serious.

“You better not be playin’ with me,” he said.

The tone of his voice made my insides turn. I was scared for Elijah, and even then that should’ve given me a fair warning about what could happen – and what eventually did happen.

I really have to stop thinking about it, but I can’t. It’s my fault Elijah is gone.