“That never happened before,” Cindy said. “Marta just opening the door and bursting in that way. I couldn’t imagine what was happening.” They were walking from her car to Manolo’s sidewalk café. “Of course, I knew there was something weird about you. Something different. Remember my asking you if you were a cop?”
“You asked me to bust the Friend Service, but not you personally.”
“Just in case you were a cop. You need the sense of privacy that that closed door gives you, you know? Set the right mood, control the client.”
“Satisfy him, too.”
Fletch carried his jeans and his T-shirt rolled up in his hand.
When he was about to get dressed, Cindy had walked into the bathroom and tossed him a T-shirt and a pair of light shorts. “Marta said you were to wear these. She said you understand about public relations.” Across the front of the T-shirt and across the front waist of the shorts was written, in small letters, YOU WANT A FRIEND? and across the back of the T-shirt and the back of the shorts, BEN FRANKLYN.
Cindy had suggested lunching at Manolo’s Café. Fletch suggested someplace else, but Cindy said Manolo’s was the in place at the moment.
So they went along the sidewalk, Fletch a walking billboard, hoping no one knew precisely what the commercial message he was flashing meant.
Marta had been pleased to see him wearing the shorts and shirt. His job was secure.
“Of course, Marta can watch us through the mirrors anytime she wants.”
“The mirrors are windows from their reverse side?”
“Not all of them. Just some.”
“What does that do to your sense of privacy?”
“It’s good. Makes you feel safe, you know, in case something goes wrong. In case you get some kook in there, who turns violent or something.”
“You get kooks often?”
“No. But when you sense something might be wrong, there’s a little button you can push in the bar that signals someone to come watch through the mirror.”
“I see.”
“And, of course, Marta sells the seats, and there are the cameras.”
“What?”
“Behind the big wall mirrors, there are seats, in one or two of the gyms, you know, for voyeurs. Old, fat, repulsive, I don’t know what they are. People who would rather watch it than do it.”
“Men and women?”
“Sure. Marta nicks them one hundred bucks a seat.”
“You perform for them?”
“We like to. I mean, supposing we get a reasonably young, healthy guy in there. Like yourself. Marta would have invited you back for a freebie, say, Friday night. You would have come back, and I would have put you through the routine, the only difference being that people would have been watching.”
“And I wouldn’t have known it.”
“All you would have known was that you were getting the routine free.”
“And what would it have meant to you?”
“More money. Also, having people watching somehow enhances the experience, you know? Especially when you’re doing it all the time.”
“Beats the sense of privacy?”
“Sure it does. Haven’t you ever done it in public?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Sometimes Marta rents us out for parties. We do it on the floor, after dinner. A guy and a gal, two gals, two guys. Really turns the old dears on. It’s fun. You’ll see. And the tips are marvelous.”
“You said something about cameras.”
“Yeah, that’s necessary. To avoid difficulties. They’re behind one of the smaller mirrors, in every gym. A videotape camera and a still camera. We get shots of every client.”
“Why?”
“Well, sometimes they’re drunk, or angry, or get frustrated. You know, clients are the same in any business, I suppose. They complain, threaten. If they seem truly dangerous to us, Marta shows them the pictures. That quiets them, you bet. It’s not just that they’re doing this, you know, it’s that the pictures make them look so ugly and clumsy, big, gray guts hanging out, hairy asses sticking up, being beaten by the exercise machines.”
“And the pictures are used for blackmail sometimes, right?”
“Sure. Especially if the client stops being a client, and we know who he really is. Once you walk in the door of the Ben Franklyn Friend Service, a piece of you stays there forever.”
“You’ve made a friend for life.”
“It’s a good business.”
“Yeah,” said Fletch. “It’s up there with a solid law practice.”
“Oh, look. There’s a free table.”
“So,” said Fletch, stretching his legs under the shade of the café table. “Are you the prostitute with the heart of gold?”
With his arms folded across his chest, all his commercial messages were out of view.
“I don’t think a heart of gold would pump very well,” Cindy answered. “I have a better place to put my gold.”
“Have you made much gold at Ben Franklyn?”
“Enough to leave the stupid place. Marta doesn’t know yet. Please don’t tell her. We want it to be a surprise, end of the week. Friday’s my last workday. Got something else to do Saturday. Sunday, we’re off to Colorado. For good.”
“You’re escaping.”
“You bet.”
“But, if you’re making so much gold…”
“It’s not very nice of me to say this. I mean, you’re just joining the service, and I’m leaving. I should say only good things, I guess. You may not believe this, but, frankly, Fletch, the Ben Franklyn Friend Service is sort of a sleazy place.”
Fletch tried to look surprised.
“I’m just fed up with it,” Cindy said. “You remember when you were in the reception area that frowsy blond who came in and started kicking up a fuss?”
“That was Carla. She was jealous because I got you as a client. She wasn’t even expected in this morning, for cryin’ out loud.”
“She gets first pick of the clients?”
“She gets the first pick of everything. Hours, clients, gyms.”
“Seniority has its benefits, in any business.”
“Seniority! She’s been there three months. I’ve been there two and a half years, since it opened, for cryin’ out loud!”
“There’s jealousy in every business, I guess. What’s she got you haven’t got?”
“Didn’t you hear Marta say something about her wanting Carla to sleep late this morning? Guess who crept out of a double bed, and tiptoed out of a bedroom this morning, so Carla could sleep late?”
“I see.”
“Marta.”
The waiter Fletch had had the day before recognized Fletch. He looked around hopelessly, probably for another waiter. Reluctantly he approached.
Cindy leaned forward and said to Fletch with great vehemence: “I don’t care what business you’re in. No one should get special perks or advancement because of sex!”
Fletch cleared his throat. He looked up at the waiter.
The waiter said, “So interested to see you’re alive and well today.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“And what will your ‘usual’ be today? I can’t wait to hear. In fact, I’m sure our chef, who didn’t sleep a wink last night, reliving your order of yesterday, cringes in his kitchen this noon upon the possibility of your return.”
“You ate here yesterday?” Cindy asked.
“A memorable experience, Ms.,” said the waiter. “In fact, we’ve asked the dining-out critic of the News-Tribune to pass us by until this particular customer either moves out of state or passes on to his eternal damnation of hiccups.”
Fletch said to Cindy, “I just ordered a—”
The waiter held up his hand. “Please, sir. It does not bear repeating. Having heard your order yesterday, I barely got through the rest of the day and the night myself. If we can’t believe each day can be better than the last, where would we all be?”
Fletch said to Cindy, “Do you think he’s insulting me?”
“Oh, no,” said Cindy. “I think he’s trying to instruct you in the finer points of fast food.”
“Fast food takes refinement?”
“You bet.” She said to the waiter, “Anyway, I’m ordering for him today.”
“Oh, thank God! Sir, someone has finally taken you in hand!”
“He’ll have five scrambled eggs.”
The waiter looked at her, astounded. “That’s it?”
“And a chocolate egg-cream,” Fletch muttered.
“Yes,” Cindy said. “You see, from now on, a certain kind of demand is going to be made upon his body, in his new job.”
“He doesn’t want to hear,” Fletch muttered.
“And you, Ms.?”
“I’ll have a banana split, three kinds of ice cream, fudge sauce, marshmallow, and chopped nuts.”
“What will that do for you?” Fletch asked.
“Make my tummy happy.”
Fletch said to the waiter, “I’ll have you know this young woman this morning has already fed me a dose of ground elk’s horn.”
The waiter said, “I could have guessed that.”
“It was not,” Cindy said. “That’s a fake. I think it’s really pulverized cow’s horn.”
“Oh, sigh,” said the waiter. “What happened to those nice people who used to say, ‘Just a Coke and a hamburger rare’?”
“Young people can’t get any respect from waiters,” Fletch muttered, “no matter what they do for a living. No matter what they talk about.”
“What’s my job description?” Fletch asked between sucks of his chocolate egg-cream through a straw. “Call boy?”
“You’re a whore, sir, like the rest of us, and don’t you forget it.” Cindy picked up her spoon. “If you think anything else, you lose control, of yourself, of your client. It’s a profession, you know. You must not lose control. Losing control can be dangerous.”
The waiter had brought their lunches announcing, “Five aborted chickens and a bowl of frozen udder drippings.”
Fletch asked of Cindy, “How did we end up here?”
“We were brought up the same, I expect. All Americans are, to some extent.” With her spoon she was spreading the whipped cream and the marshmallow evenly over her ice cream. “We were brought up primarily as sexual objects, weren’t we? I mean, what were all the vitamins, pediatrics, orthodontistry really for? Why did parents and schools make us play sports? To learn a philosophy, to learn how to win, how to lose? Nonsense. Parents and coaches protested, complained, argued with referees and each other more than we did. For health reasons? Nonsense. How many of your friends survived school sports without permanent knee, back, or neck injuries?” Cindy put a heaping spoonful of ice cream, fudge sauce, marshmallow, and whipped cream in her mouth. “Must be outdoors, doing things, but not without sun blockage, to preserve the skin. Lotions morning and night. The sole purpose was to create beautifully shaped legs, arms, shoulders, flat tummies, in gleaming, fresh skin.”
“I’m a sex object?” Fletch asked.
“That’s all you are, brother. Growing up, what was the intellectual discipline you were given? The theology? philosophy? culture? Me, a thirteen-year-old girl, comes running home from school, bursts into the house, and says, ‘Mama, Mama, I got an A in mathematics!’ And Mama says, ‘Yes, dear, but I’ve been noticing your hair is losing its sheen. Which shampoo are you using?’ ”
Quietly, Fletch was eating his plate of eggs.
“Who were held up to us as heros?” Cindy asked. “Teachers? Mathematicians? Poets? No. Only those with beautiful bodies, athletes and film stars. They are the ones interviewed on television continuously. And are they ever allowed to talk about how they really become so fast on their feet, or how they get themselves into the character of a role they’re playing? No. All they’re ever asked about is their sex lives, how many times they’ve been married, and to whom, and what each affair was like. Prestige, Fletch, is in how many people you can attract to your bed.”
“Therefore, you become a whore.”
“Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
“Very clear-sighted of you.”
“I think so.”
“You enjoying your banana split?” It was half gone.
“Very much.”
“I can see that.”
“Very much.”
“But, Cindy, I, uh, have some qualms, about, uh, actually doing it, uh, you know, for money.”
“I hardly ever actually do it. At the spa, the machines beat the clients. They get all stressed and strained, and I see that they get excited, and I jerk ’em off before they know what happened. Then they get apologetic that they couldn’t contain themselves and I ‘missed a really good time,’ in quotes. When I’m out at night as an escort, mostly I sit in the restaurants and the clubs watching some old boy drink himself blue in the face. I just listen to him, sort of. Usually, that’s all he really wants. It’s very boring. When he’s totally drunk, I hustle him back to his hotel room, strip him, and put him in his bed. Next morning, he thinks he’s had a wonderful time, done wonderful things with a wonderful girl. He hasn’t. You’ll learn. I’ve probably made love to fewer men, or, fewer times with a man, than that secretary over there.”
She nodded to a young woman at a nearby table with an older man. On their table, besides their lunches, were notepads, pens, a folder of papers, and a calculator.
Cindy said in her throat, “’Cept I get paid more.”
Fletch said, “Maybe I mean emotionally. How am I supposed to handle, you know, being paid for being intimate, emotionally? I worry a little about that.”
“That’s so much bullshit handed out by the psychiatrists. And let me ask you: Who’s more intimate with a client, a whore or a psychiatrist?”
“Uh…”
“I know their text by heart. The guilt trip. Whores have an enormous need for love, but we don’t know what love is. Our only way of valuing ourselves is by setting a price on our affections, our attentions. Isn’t that true of psychiatrists, too? Man, they’re just projecting. I don’t care. They have to make a living, too. I just wish they wouldn’t lay their own sickness off on us.”
“But you, Cindy, after two and a half years of this, how can you ever really, truly relate to a man again, have a genuine experience?”
“I don’t want to. I never did before. I never will.” She was scraping her ice-cream bowl clean with her spoon. “See, that’s where everybody’s wrong, at least about me. About many of us. I mentioned a friend to you, a real friend. She works at Ben Franklyn, too. We’ve made our money. Next week, we’re splitting. We’re going to Colorado, going to buy a dog-breeding ranch, and live happily ever after.”
“You’re lovers?”
“You bet. See, making love to a man means nothing to me. Emotionally. Morally. Whatever those words mean. I don’t care about men. Going to bed with a man doesn’t bother me any more than it would bother you to go to bed with a boy, or a dog.”
Fletch said, “What kind of a dog?”
Cindy sat back from her empty bowl. “The way I was brought up, eating that ice cream was more of a sin for me than going to bed with a man. Or men. Or a whole track team.” She looked at her empty bowl. “I enjoyed it.”
“Things are different, for me,” Fletch said.
“I suppose so. That’s your problem.”
At the corner of the block, walking toward them, was a yellow skirt familiar to Fletch. So was the dark blue, short-sleeved blouse above the skirt.
“Oh, my God.”
Cindy stretched her arms a little. “But, for you and me basically it’s the same thing, I expect. I was developed into a supposedly brainless, cultureless beautiful body, a sexual object, and told men are materialistic oppressors and making babies is a no-no. I’m not really an athelete. I’m not an actor.”
Fletch had sat up straight. Under the table he had moved his feet into a sprint position. His eye measured the distance between his table and the door of Manolo’s. “Oh, wow.”
“It comes time to make a living,” Cindy continued. “What am I supposed to do? Pretend I’m a big intellect? Or, worse, pretend I’m a worker-ant?”
The woman approaching them spotted Fletch.
Then she spotted Cindy.
Fletch said, “Oh, no.”
With certainty, Cindy said, “I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing. I am exactly who I am supposed to be.”
“Fletch!” the woman said.
“Uh…”
Then she said, “Cindy!”
Cindy turned around. Delight came on her face.
“Barbara!” she squealed.
Cindy jumped up and hugged Barbara around the neck.
Barbara hugged Cindy.
Fletch stood up. “Ah, Barbara…”
When the hugging and squealing abated, Barbara looked at Fletch. She was still holding Cindy’s hand.
Barbara said, “I didn’t know you two know each other!”