Sugar & Salt (12 page)

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes. Tell me that, and I’ll tell you everything.”

He sits on one of the backless benches in the middle of the Modern Art exhibit and stares at her, frustration and confusion warring on his face. “You are a lunatic.”

“Yes.” She settles next to him on the bench, curls her legs under her, and waits.

“I don’t recycle because it’s useless.”

“Useless? Are you—?”

“Let me finish.”

“Fine.” She pulls bobby pins from her hair and combs it straight as they talk.

“It’s useless because that’s not how the end of the world is going to play out. By the time three cardboard boxes from IKEA make a goddamn difference, we’re going to be fucked. Honestly, we’re already fucked—there’s no sense investing all that money and effort on fucking aluminum cans.”

“I think that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

“I was expecting some smartass, it’s-not-my-problem bullshit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, who carries around that kind of fatalism, but still fucks like you do?”

He laughs with an open, unhindered guffaw that fills the empty hall. “It’s kind of freeing, actually. When you know, absolutely and for sure, that the world is doomed, all that remains is to live.”

“But you work at the UN.”

“Population Fund.”

“Right, so you’re one of those green assholes trying to make the world better.”

“Nah, the world isn’t going to change—it’s done, cooked. Pull the toothpick out and nothing sticks.”

“Did you just make a baking analogy?”

“No, shut up. I’m just trying to keep going. When you can see the end so clearly, nothing really matters.”

“Like recycling.”

“Exactly.”

“So why bother at all?”

“Because there’s some kid out there whose mom was raped in front of him, and it wasn’t the first time. He’s got AIDS, or malaria, or fucking smallpox, and no one cares. If I can do anything before we all shrivel up and die, I’m gonna show him that not everyone is a shitbag. There are people who will try to, I don’t know, help.”

“Then why not recycle?”

“Because it doesn’t matter. What I do doesn’t matter either in the big scheme, but it matters to that kid. The IKEA boxes don’t know life is shit. That kid does.”

She contemplates that for a moment. “You can’t cure AIDS, or malaria, or smallpox.”

“Nope, but maybe it’s enough to try.”

They sit in sullen silence. Colorful, abstract art full of deeper meaning surrounds them, mocking their attempt at connection. The surface may be beautiful, but everything within runs black.

“I run a brothel,” she blurts.

“What?”

“A brothel, a whorehouse. You know, people come, pay money, and fuck.”

“You.... What?” He stands and steps away from her, narrowing his eyes as though trying to force his vision back to black and white now that she’s turned on the color.

“I told you it was better if you didn’t know.” She stretches her legs out and faces him, waiting while he reorients to her revelation.

“Are you a hooker?”

“No.” She rubs her hands together. How much should she reveal? An old feeling of shame washes over her and she soaks it in, pulling strength from how far she’s come since then. “I used to be. Now I run things.”

“This is impossible.” He runs a hand through his sex-ruffled hair.

She scans the taut muscles beneath his unbuttoned shirt, and regret churns in her heart. “I know.”

He sits next to her with his legs turned in—intimacy still within reach. “I mean, I spent all last week working on an initiative to fund training for former sex workers in South East Asia, and you’re a fucking hooker?”

“No, I’m a madam.”

“Right, that’s so much better. You’re the pimp.”

“In a way, yes.”

“I have to go.” He stands, buttons his shirt, and pulls on the jacket he dropped on the bench.

“Wait, Salt—”

“What? What can you say now?” He glares at her, anger and judgment pouring off him in waves. “You’re right, this is impossible. I can’t.... Fuck! Do those people in there know what you do?”

“Some of them. Some of them don’t just know, they partake.”

“So you’re what, the Manhattan Madam?”

She laughs. “That article was so awful. I’m not on the Governor’s speed dial.”

“That was about you? Shit, I was fucking kidding!”

“You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“What?”

Janice stands, facing off against her lover. “You stand there judging me and what I do after you basically doom the world to the apocalypse, and don’t think it’s worth doing anything to make things better.”

“And providing blowjobs for five dollars makes things better?”

“First of all, try five thousand. Second of all, fuck you. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I run a clean house—my staff is safe, healthy, and taken care of. They come and go as they please, and if someone dares treat them badly or does something outside of the agreement, they don’t get away with it. I pay their childcare, their medical bills—I take care of my own.”

“Of your prostitutes.”

“My family. Everyone.” She points toward the main hall. “I keep their secrets, take out their trash, and fulfill their fantasies. I know how their minds work, and dig into the deepest recesses of repression to pull out just what they need. It’s not about sex—never has been. It’s about power.”

“Jesus, does your father know what you do?”

“What do you know about my father?”

“Julian Cane isn’t exactly an unknown entity in U.S. politics.”

“Are you threatening him?”

“No. What? I just... how did you end up like this?”

“Right, because I must be broken or damaged in some way to do this for a living. There must be something wrong with me to force me down this dark road of depravity.”

“You know, I put people like you out of business.”

“No, you put people who exploit women out of business. I’m making lives better. Do you think every fetishist finds love in the same place they find pleasure? Do you think men and women in power positions don’t need someone else to be in charge sometimes? Do you think sex has ever been anything other than a commodity? You’re fooling yourself.”

“I think women deserve more than being a piece of meat available for trade.”

“You’re regurgitating the things you’ve been taught. You’re full of feminist bullshit about subjugation and the patriarchy. Yeah, I went to college. Put your wide eyes away and use your own brain for a minute. We’ve been running the world from between our legs since the first man discovered the orgasm. And I don’t just employ women, by the way.” She turns her back on Salt and takes a few deep breaths. “Sometimes, I hate what I do. Sometimes I fall into the traps society has laid, too.”

“Then why do it?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, defiant.

“Last week, a girl came to me. She’d met one of my boys at a leather club and he’d told her to talk to me about a job. She’s a natural sub, but she’s never found anyone she can trust. So she’s been working at a club where guys pay twenty dollars to spank her, or use her mouth.”

“Sick.”

She rolls her eyes. “Who are you to decide? She likes it, he likes it, and she gets paid. Everyone’s happy. It goes bad when people don’t take care of their own. Some guy slipped the bouncer fifty bucks to leave him alone with her for an hour. The bouncer took the cash, didn’t give any to her, and this asshole beat the shit out of her.”

“And her not getting paid is the problem?”

“No! Will you fucking listen? She showed up at my house with a swollen face, bleeding, and hardly able to walk. She couldn’t go to the hospital, and you know what the prick who runs the club did? Hit her so hard he broke her cheekbone, and told her not to come back until her face was ready for him to cum on.”

The color drained from Salt’s face—the horror of what the world is capable of reflecting back at him. He sits back down on the bench and looks up at Janice. “What happened?”

“I cleaned her up, called our doctor, got her stitches, and set her up in one of our client rooms for a few days. We took care of her until she could go home.”

“So she works for you now.”

“No, I’m not some fucking slave owner. She doesn’t owe me anything. If she wants a job, I’ll consider it—plenty of our clients would love her. But that’s not why I helped her.”

“Why then?”

“Because no one else would.”

“So you’re a saint. You’re the Mother Teresa of pimps.” He shakes his head and snorts.

“I’m the one who understands the value of what we offer. I protect it and charge accordingly. I take care of my own. Do you want to know what happened to the owner of that club?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah—” Her demeanor darkens as the light of vindication shines from within. “—I don’t think you have the stomach.”

“No, I don’t think I do. I don’t have the stomach for any of this.” He gestures around the room, finally fixing his gaze on her. “I can’t—”

“Yeah, I knew that when I first met you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You’re busy saving an unsavable world. I’m just a whore.”

“That’s not what I—”

“It’s not?”

He stares back in silence.

“That’s what I thought.”

A Clean Break

Outside, the night air chills Janice. Her hair is in disarray, with tendrils falling around her ears and chunks hanging limp down her back. She’s an image from a fairytale: the princess reduced to rags, her dress wrinkled, her heels dangling from her hand, and her makeup smudged with sweat and kisses.

A group of men stand around the side entrance smoking cigarettes—catering staff sharing a light with a tuxedoed gentleman. Addiction: the great unifier.

For a split second, she considers going back inside. There has to be a point to her suffering this way. Is God taunting her with the only thing she really wants? A good man sits in the debris she left in her wake, his sense of self and morals crumbling around him.
What is the fucking point?

She drops her shoe and watches it tumble down the steps. “Damn it!”

Her outburst draws the attention of the smokers, but they soon realize she’s not in danger—just another lunatic screaming at the New York skyline.

She stumbles down the polished marble steps that stand out against the grime of New York. Not unlike Janice. No matter how much she polishes, she’ll never fit in.

A lifetime of trying to escape her father’s influence led her right back to the same parties, the same concerns. Rebelling begat nothing but more of the same.

She slips her shoes back on. Her toes slide right to the tip of the finely made shoe and she readjusts her balance, regaining her composure by re-donning her armor. She steps forward and raises her hand to hail an oncoming cab, but quickly drops it to her side in frustration upon realizing her purse is still inside.

Disheveled and annoyed, she ascends the stairs again. At the top, instead of heading to the brightly lit main door, she veers toward the second class smoking area.

As she approaches, sex-tussled hair and all, the men stand a little straighter, suck their guts in, and smile in her direction. Aside from cigarettes, sex is the other great unifier of men. There is no difference between how the rich and poor fuck. Insecurities and desires transcend things like paychecks and welfare.

“Need a light?” one of the caterers asks.

Janice rewards him with a broad smile before shaking her head. “I left my purse in the coat check, but I
really
don’t want to go back in.”

“Sure, give me your ticket and I’ll grab it for you.” He’s young, with hair styled to look like he spent no time on it in that I’m-a-bad-boy-let-me-save-you way.

“I don’t have one.” She gestures to her dress. “Nowhere to hide it.”

He laughs, and the two wealthy men standing nearby shuffle their feet.

“What’s your name, then? I’ll see what I can do.”

“Janice Cane.”

He nods and delivers a devilish smile, which on another night would have earned him a good night of fucking, but she’s not in the mood. He disappears back into the museum staff entrance, and the wealthy men resume their conversation about a meeting they attended that day.

She half listens, but doesn’t really care. The door of the main entrance swings open, which sends a slice of light cutting through the warm summer evening. Salt runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. The door closes softly behind him, leaving his silhouette outlined against the massive building.

She steps toward him, and then regains control of her body. The magnetism that connects them is too strong to ignore, but she can’t. There’s nothing left between them but heartbreak. She’s done this before: trusted someone who could never understand her. The same trap lays her to waste time and again. The situation may vary, but the song remains the same.

She ducks into the staff entrance before he notices her, determined to make a clean break this time.

Two for the Money

Salt’s eye is drawn to the staff entrance door, and a flash of green fabric appears before it swings shut. He knows it was her. Two men remain, flicking away the evidence of their addiction.

He could go after her, open the door and make his way through the maze of hallways until he finds her. He’d tell her none of it matters, and that he’s able to see past what she does.

He jams his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo and heads out into the city. Henry has the night off, and he could catch a cab, but the fresh air helps to clear his head. Tourists and hipsters line the streets, taking in the view or hustling off to their next place to be.

With nowhere to go and no one waiting for him, he takes to wandering.

Danger lurks in the corner of his mind. No one is exempt from their demons, whether they are childhood monsters in the closet, or memories of regrettable decisions. With too much time on his hands, a man can go insane dwelling on the past. Or on a woman.

He crosses the street and heads downtown toward the bars. He sits on his high horse in the Emperor’s Clothes, but in truth, he’s far from innocent. Are the one night stands and half-truths he’s told over the years any better than what Janice does? There’s a transaction, an agreement, and mutual benefit.