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Jasmina
Among other things, Molly informs me that Sass disavows
my involvement in prostitution. It’s difficult getting used to these mental
gaps, but I am trying to think of them as hiccups – annoying but basically harmless.
On the other hand, I’m relieved to learn that I was not actually a hooker. Paul
does a terrific job of accommodating my checkered past, but I’ve always worried
that it would eventually cause a rift between us.
After the nine o’clock rush,
I leave Lexi to hover blank-eyed over the snack bar as I run the rounds of the
waste cans. I’m in the backmost hallway next to the Woody Allen movie when the
door opens and I feel a hand on my rear. I turn to find a patrician-looking
gentleman in a brown leather jacket.
He
gives me a sly smile. “I’m sorry. Seeing you at the counter brought back some
very pleasant memories.”
“So
you… know me?”
His
eyes light up. “How could I forget the popcorn girl? You were stupendous.”
I
force myself to focus – to think like a lawyer. I give him my fast-trigger
smile, the phony one.
“So
tell me…”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony.
What was it that you enjoyed the most about my… services?”
He
chuckles and traces a thumb along his jawline. “I suppose it was, well… you had
this way of seeming very innocent – awkward, even, like you had never done
anything like that before.”
I
tap his nose with my finger. “I know how you rascals are.”
He
eats it up. “Well, I’d best get back to the wife. Do you… Are you still in the
business?”
“I’m
afraid I’ve retired.”
“What
a shame. The world has lost an artist.” He kisses my hand, even though it’s
holding a garbage bag, and returns to the door.
“Anthony.
Tell Mack I said hi.”
He
tilts his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I know a Mack.”
“Oh!
Somebody else. Bye.”
“Ciao.”
He
slips into the theater. I stand there, running a Geiger counter over my memory
banks. Tick. Tick.
Molly’s
latest trick is to rub her earlobe like a worry stone. I imagine that
psychologists have seminars in this stuff: 25 Simple Gestures for Conveying
Deep Thought.
“So
you met this… gentleman at work.”
“Yes.”
“And
it appears that you actually did have relations with him?”
I
can feel the blood rising to my face. “I… yes.”
“Do
you remember that night?”
“Well,
yes. But I had sort of lumped it in with the rest of my made-up prostitutions.
It doesn’t make any sense.”
Ear
tug. “Was there any fallout? Any self-injury?”
I
find myself employing my own thought-gesture: reaching across to scratch my
shoulder. “Self-injury requires a boiling pot. In this case, the lid just blew
right off. I showed up at Paul’s door, sobbing my head off. He was an angel.
Actually, that was the beginning of our friendship.”
Molly
takes off an earring and tosses it onto her desk. “Damn things. Itchy as hell.
Okay. I’m going to paint a picture here. You tell me if I’m full of shit.”
“Gladly.”
“Smartass.
I think at some point in your murky past, somebody convinced you that you are
an evil girl. A harlot. A Jezebel. You internalized that image so completely
that you had to find ways to ease the conflict between that Inner Jezebel and
your actual, good self. When you met Sass, the world of prostitution gave you
exactly that, and a way to identify
with your foster mother. I also notice that most of your imagined clients were
older men, and don’t even get me started
on daddy issues.”
I
have to smile. “Sometimes I don’t think we’re paying you enough.”
“I know you’re not. But stay with me here.
Your brain did such a thorough job of rewriting your life that you evidently
saw this guy’s proposition as just another day at the office. Faced with the
actuality of a naked, horny senior citizen, the conflict between reality and
fantasy blew your circuits and sent you off, rather serendipitously, to the
very man that your good self deserved.”
Sparks
are going off in my head. “Okay.”
“Now,
Anthony said he didn’t know Mack, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.
I’m really stretching here. Bear with me. But after intensifying your
self-loathing Jezebel fixation with an imaginary foursome on a yacht, you
apparently decided to cut yourself a break. So you fabricated Mack: high-class
kept-woman thing, older guy who treats you nice. This allowed you to hang onto
the Jezebel ID, and to fight off your feelings for Paul – because your
self-image told you you didn’t deserve him.”
“That
poor man.”
“That
poor man loves you.”
I
laugh. “No, I mean Mack. I mean, the guy I thought
was Mack.”
“You’ve
had… encounters?”
“Yeah.
I saw him at the Depot one day and gave him a rash of shit.”
Molly
starts laughing. I swat her on the knee. “That is highly unprofessional, young lady.”
“Well,
you have to admit…”
“Well,
yes.”
She
lets out a sigh. “It’s all right, Jasmina. We’ve got a lot of unwinding to do. You’re not crazy, you’ve just got a brain
that’s done a lot of mischief on your behalf.”
I
start to cry, despite myself. “It’s just so hard.”
She
passes me a box of Kleenex and lets me go for a while. I return the box to her
desk and spot the earring, a tiny sun with a smiling cartoon face.
“Copper?”
“Gift
from my mother.”
“Weird.”
“Well,
it was a nice thought.”
“No.
Copper. It…”
“What?”
“I
have no idea.”
“That’s
all right. Kept your impulse log this week?”
“As
always.”
Paul
I
arrive to pick up Jasmina for Valentine’s dinner, but she doesn’t appear to be
home. After a full loop around the premises, I find her in the studio, seated
before Anna’s ceramic menagerie like a queen. She wears a red halter-top dress
that hugs her waist and descends to her knees in cloud-soft pleats. She sees me
at the window and gives me the good smile, the smile that wavers. She opens the
door and greets me with a kiss.
“Hi.
When I’m having a bad week, I arrange a conference with the animals.”
“Are
you having a bad week?”
“It
just got better.”
She
holds me for a long time, taking in medication. I look past her shoulder to the
puffin on a muffin, which always makes me smile.
I
have secured a waterside table at Horizons in Sausalito. We dine on artichokes
and Sauvignon blanc as San Francisco lights its candles across the Bay. Our
milk-fed blonde waitress arrives with our entrees: wild boar steak for me,
salmon filet for Jasmina. The waitress gives us a tired smile.
“It’s
the end of my shift, so I’ll be handing you off to another waitress. Have a
great Valentine’s Day.”
“Thanks,”
I say.
Ten
minutes later, we are greeted by a tall black woman with close-cropped hair and
pronounced cheekbones.
“Hi.
Are you ready to see the dessert menu?”
“I
don’t know,” says Jasmina. “I’m awfully…”
I
suppose all prostitutes are actresses at heart, and I give Sass a lot of credit
for staying in character. After ten seconds of stunned silence, however, even
Deniro would break. She unwraps a broad smile and says, “Hi, darlin’.”
Jasmina
stands too fast and sends her wineglass smashing to the floor. She buries her
face in Sass’s shoulder and begins to cry. The dining populace is divided
between the puzzled and the amused as the black waitress and the white customer
begin to sway. Sass strokes Jasmina’s hair and makes hushing sounds, exactly
like a mother.
Photo by MJV
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