There were lots of fantastic pieces that we just couldn’t fit into the anthology, but we’re happy to be able to share some with you here in the Tales of the Trade section of our site. Berta Avile contributed a story, Cynthia, to Hos, Hookers, Call Girls, and Rent Boys – but you’ll have to pick up the book to read it.
BY BERTA AVILA
It was freezing, all I could think about was getting out of the cold. Decembers in Texas were very cold indeed. Looking down at my feet to step on my cigarette, I realized my feet were hurting, on top of everything. Who cares, the stilettos were worth every ache. My mind started to recall certain childhood memories that I would much rather forget, as I nervously paced at the corner waiting for my cab. Ah yes, my ride to my predicated destiny. Mama was a self-proclaimed preacher woman, and she sure did predicate my future, “you little whore, I knew the moment you were born you were no good!” Yeah, guess mama was right, and tonight I was gonna show her, boy was I gonna show her.
How did I get to this point in my life? Well, it was a matter of being at the right place, at the right time. Actually, it was more like being at the wrong place, at the wrong time, al the time. Anyway, I had already been dancing for a year. At sixteen, I was a drop out with a child. My daughter’s father went back to his mom’s, he always was a momma’s boy and there was no way in hell ma would take me back. So, my options were limited. It went something like this; work as a maid, now that was demeaning, or dance, be glamorous, have fun, and make lots of money – needless to say, I made my choice. An older, by older I meant she was 24, friend advised me, with much enthusiasm and praise that my beauty was going to waste on that stage. There was a new business in town, an escort service and this would really pay me the bucks. So I met with the “manager”, who explained all I had to do was escort these gentlemen wherever they needed to go. This much, the service was paid for, anything else was…..well, entirely up to me. I already knew I’d probably be accompanying them as far as the closest bed. But hey, this was my destiny, right?
The yellow cab honked loudly snapping me back into harsh reality. Little did I know my downward descent into hell started when I pulled my second foot into that cab. “So where to muñeca?” the driver asked, oh – by the way muñeca means doll in Spanish, which truly offended me.” How dare he, I’m a woman, doesn’t he see me, all dressed up and definitely with somewhere to go?” So I gave him the motel’s address in my most adult voice. I realized my voice quivered a little bit and felt embarrassed. Here I was, a big girl now, on my first escort out-call. I had really arrived. As the car slowly entered the motel’s driveway, my anxiety grew, my chest hurt. “What am I feeling, no this can’t be, I’m not scared of anything”, started talking to myself. All of a sudden, there it was, a thunderous sobbing that took both me and the driver by surprise. “Shit”, I remember saying it out loud, “I can’t let my mascara run”. I wanted to stop crying, I really, really did, but couldn’t, the tears kept gushing out. Just about then the peppy, happy-go-lucky driver turned around and with a somber look said, “dis your first tym muñeca?” I nodded between sobs. He offered me some tissue, “is gonna be okay preciosa”, he said. Ironic, “preciosa” means precious and I felt far, far from precious at that moment. For a split second I thought of telling the cabby to take me home. Then, I thought about my child and my younger sister waiting for me at home. I couldn’t return without money, they, we depended on me. Mom had kicked my sister out after an over dose, way to go ma! So, now she was my babysitter and I the sole-provider. So, in a twisted yet very real way, I felt responsible for our livelihood.
Mr. Cabby, double parked at the motel’s entrance and said “lisen if u wan I wait for u”, his accent was thick, reminded me of my father’s. But, that’s a whole different story. So, there he was this fatherly, friendly soon to be stand-by driver, offering some kind of moral support. I nodded again, pulled the flask out of my purse and took a fast swig of scotch. My faithful liquid courage. I wiped my tears and my snotty nose and exited the cab slowly. Up the stairs I went, my heels echoing loudly off the cement steps. Still felt a knot in my gut as I knocked on the door which opened much too soon for my liking. He smiled, I smiled back. Small talk, “it’s a cold night, huh? You gonna keep me warm?” “Of course”, I answered, “I aim to please”. Where the f…ck did I learned these terms, oh well, they worked made me feel like a pro. The anguish and embarrassment I felt while undressing made my movements awkward. My lack of experience was showing. I feared rejection and humiliation not realizing that it was exactly that lack of experience, awkwardness and fear that fed the stranger’s hunger. Something like busting a cherry, initiation of a ho. His hands scorched my skin while I cringed and tried not to show it. I cried out in my mind, “God if you exist, please help me!” Didn’t realize it then, but my prayer was answered. I closed my eyes and suddenly found myself in another place. There it was a peaceful meadow that reeked of jasmine and fresh cut grass where I walked barefooted. I glanced back as if looking at a movie screen behind me. There she was, suffocating under the weight of the stranger. I looked away, couldn’t bear to see anymore less I might feel her pain. Thus the prayer was answered, though I didn’t know it at the time. Many years down the road I found out the exact definition of it. Its called d-i-s-s-o-c-i-a-t-i-o-n: “to separate from association or union with another”. As in insanity, as in “dissociative disorders”. Wow! I actually did some research and one descriptive phrase stands out; “an individual presenting with this disorder is often a demoralized and suspicious person who believes the world is unjust or that he/she is an evil person”. HELLO.
I conveniently snapped back into reality as he was handing me the crisp bills, lots of them, and a tip to boot! It was over, done. My initiation into whoredom, commemorated with blood, sweat, snot and tears. The cold night’s air struck me sober as I walked downstairs. Much to my relief, Mr. Cabby was there, patiently waiting. Alas, a perfect relationship, a dashing duo. Something along the lines of “Driving Miss Daisy”, or maybe more like driving miss daisy all night long, as she bangs all around town. Whatever, I just needed to go home, take a shower and count my money. I took many a shower those early years.
As time went by, it became easier, in a mechanical sort of way. One minute there, the next I’m gone. Never get personal, and never, absolutely never, kiss on the lips. That was much too personal.
Decembers are still dark and cold in Texas. It’s been a long, long time since the days of “wine and roses”. I don’t live in Texas anymore.
BERTA AVILA is a Chicana from El Segundo Barrio of El Paso, Texas. Some of her work can still be found splashed in loud colors on many an abandoned building in the barrio she grew up in. Graffiti, true, but there are some truths that must be said, especially when oppression, compression, and depression is the daily bread. Her present occupation as a translator pales in comparison to her past occupations, which include exotic dancer, escoert service worker, brothel worker, waitress, medical-legal assistant, and instructional assistant for elementary school children. She considers herself a spiritual warrior, a survivor, who long ago found salvation by passionately expressing her rage, her despair, her resilience, and her hope through her poetry and her artwork.
