Jessica

Jessica had no intention of becoming a sex worker. In fact, she never dreamed her life would pan out that way.

As a child, she had formulated ingenuous fantasies of a modest future—a loving spouse, healthy children, a steady job with decent pay. This was despite her nascent years beginning with much taint. Her father was a drunk, her mother a whore. Her brother Robert assaulted her repeatedly, and, when his clandestine behavior was finally divulged, he hung himself in the attic. If that wasn’t enough, she witnessed her beloved chocolate Labrador, Maggie, being struck and killed by a mail truck.

In elementary school, Jessica attempted to keep to herself. She wasn’t bullied or harassed; on the contrary, she was quite popular—a pretty little girl with straight black hair and a beauty mark protruding adjacent to her upper lip. Her voice was calm and cute. The girls admired and mimicked her. The boys pinched and chased her. The teachers were satisfied with her academic performance, and, regardless of a defective home life, her mental health seemed adequate.

Upon graduation from secondary school, she was accepted, with honors, to the university of her choice. There, she studied, ate poorly, socialized, drank, vomited, had sex, wrote papers, and received her degree. She was then offered a job as an office administrator. Here, she answered phones, wrote emails, scanned documents and brewed coffee. Her boss, a man of about fifty, married with children, handsome and dark, decided one evening that he would like to have sex with her on his desk. Jessica, with much insensibility, acquiesced. During this encounter, his wife called. He paused between thrusts, answered, spoke politely, hung up (so he thought) and resumed, as his spouse of 28 years listened with petrification.

Jessica became pregnant with his child. He told her he couldn’t possibly leave his wife; in fact, she’d forgiven him—they were now set for marriage counselling. Nine months later, Jessica gave birth in a hospital all alone. She had a son. He was beautiful. She named him Jeremy.

Jeremy’s father was considerate enough to buy them an apartment on the east side of town. He deposited ample funds into Jessica’s account on the 30^th of every month, promising to do so until Jeremy turned sixteen. The years passed. Jeremy turned sixteen. The monthly deposits ceased. Now, Jessica needed a job. She wasn’t sure what to do. It was then that a friend referred her to a small escort agency in need of a chauffeur. This seemed simple enough. She was to drive the escorts to and from clients, collect a monthly salary, and receive 5% of the trick money. Normally, this position better suited a burly, bouncer-type, but their previous driver had quit without notice, and they were in a jam. Everything was fine with this role until one evening Savannah called in sick. Stacey had exams. Becky couldn’t find a sitter. Michelle was healing from chlamydia, and Erika was in rehab. Of course, Keisha, Sarah, Melanie, and Ludmila remained, but ideally, it was much better for business to have at least five working girls on any given shift.

“What do you think, Jessica? Can you help us out, dear?”

Cheryl, the madame, was a portly old woman with a bob haircut and a lumpy butt. Her breasts drooped and sagged diagonally past her waist. She had a grumpy face, which was deceiving as her demeanor was quite merry. Still, she kept her girls in check and would not tolerate drama, laziness, or substance abuse of any kind (hence Erika’s status). Jessica was fond of Cheryl and enjoyed listening to her tales, especially the ones of her previous vocation as a tarot card reader in Poland.

“Yeah, I guess I can do it. But just this one time, okay, Cher?”

Jessica hung up the phone and rummaged through a small wicker box filled with calamari-looking hair ties. She fished out a lime-green one and tied her hair up high and tight. She had long been indifferent towards sex, never attaching any emotion or sacredness to the act. This was likely due to her brother molesting her. Perhaps not just this though. Perhaps, it was also what she’d observed from her mother on more than one occasion.

INT. BUNGALOW – NIGHT

Jessica sits cross-legged in front of television set, sipping strawberry Nesquik through a red and white candy-striped straw. Dad is drunk and unconscious on couch. Poker pals now captivated by invasive, flirtatious mother. Shots poured. Lines cut. Sniffs. Coughs. Hints. Giggles. Then, backwards stumbling. Slithering. An inviting finger curl. A few possessors of conscience shake heads and exit. The remaining five march single file into bedroom. Sounds of amateur gangbang emerge, ricocheting off a Care Bears cartoon.

END OF SCENE

Sex, for Jessica, was kept in the same compartment as teeth-brushing, or grocery shopping. It was simply a thing one did or had to do—whether they wanted to or not. And it wasn’t just sex about which Jessica held such nonchalance. It was also relationships. It was life circumstances. It was weather, work, and menu options. She simply did not bother to exert much thought or energy into the people or things around her. She was not cold or indignant, nor was she rude or irritable. “Numbness” would be an unfair descriptor, as would “dullness”. She was far from being a simpleton, and she surely was not awkward or shy.

“You’re so fucking chill, Mom,” her son often said.

That was it. Jessica possessed a remarkable inner peace. A sort of Zen calmness. A genuine love for existence. A selflessness. Even when she was a child—a vulnerable, abused, neglected little child. She gave herself to all without complaint. Without resentment. Without offense, anger, or hostility­. And, if there was one word that could capture her essence fully, sum up her totality with eloquence, define her core with precision, it would be accepting. She simply accepted the world around her without any depth of emotion.

Perhaps this was a coping mechanism for post-traumatic stress disorder. Then again, perhaps not. What was irrefutable was that this unwavering acceptance of all people, all circumstances, always, enabled her to be the joy-filled ray of light that she was—the one who shone into the darkest of crevices, exposing whatever creatures may lurk there.

Her cell phone buzzed and skidded along the wooden dresser. It was Cheryl, texting the client details. His name was “Billy”, and his location was one Jessica was familiar with—just three blocks from Jeremy’s school. She would meet him for his pre-paid session, then head to the agency to collect and chauffeur the four other escorts scheduled that evening.

“Jer? I’m going out now,” she called rapping on his bedroom door.

The door swung open, releasing a sucker punch of weed smoke and cheap body spray. Jeremy stood shirtless in the doorframe, puffing out his chest, a stoned and goofy grin creasing up his face. A girlfriend lay curled up in his bed like a scrawny cat.

“There are leftovers in the fridge,” Jessica said. “Can’t say when I’ll be back, but don’t burn the place down, please.”

She looked over Jeremy’s shoulder to the expressionless female in her son’s bed. “Keep him out of trouble, would you?”

A useless reaction ensued. Jessica looked back at Jeremy and smiled. “Bye, Jer.”

“Bye, Mom,” he grinned.

***

When Billy Cundall finally built up the gumption that night to call the Silver Star Escort Agency, he’d been flying high on cocaine for close to forty-eight hours.

Exhaling shallowly, he ran a jittery hand through saturated hair, his eyes were bugged and bloodshot. His cluttered room was dense with smoke, windowpanes rattling from obnoxious music. A cat slept on a chair, its ears twitching with mild irritation.

When Billy was born, he was Mr. and Mrs. Cundall’s prized pig. They had married late in life and were told they would never conceive. Fortunately, the doctors were incorrect, and on May 25th, William Donald Cundall joined the land of the living.

Since the Cundalls had long expected to remain childless, Billy’s arrival filled them with elation as well as paranoia. Determined to protect this unexpected gift at all costs, they barricaded him from anything their neurotic minds perceived as a potential threat. They over-boiled his bottles and scoured his dishware. They vainly attempted to keep germs of any kind from entering the home. Playing in the mud and grass with other children was off limits. Skipping a bath for just one night was out of the question. They hovered around their fledgling incessantly, guarding and guiding his every step—at the playground, by the lake, to and from school—everywhere. They looked frantic and ridiculous.

This rearing method, ironically, had a detrimental effect on Billy’s development. At first, he enjoyed their obsession. He needed not to worry or think for himself, and as a result, became dreadfully spoiled, often protesting and throwing tantrums at any hint of discomfort or self-perceived threat.

The anxiety that comes with this destructive style of parenting led Mr. Cundall to the bottle. He began slowly: a finger or two of whiskey after Billy was tucked safely into bed. A little nip in the evening then became a generous splash in his morning coffee, more still with lunch, until Mr. Cundall’s whiskey bottle became a fixed extension of his right hand.

Mrs. Cundall now found herself solely responsible for Billy’s protection and well-being. This irked her, adding a daily dose of high-octane gasoline to her already raging fire of neurosis.

Naturally, Billy did not have many friends. He was simply too inconvenient to have around. All the things young children tend to enjoy were deemed too dangerous or unsanitary. Besides that, the other boys did not care to be bossed or manipulated by their self-entitled peer. As a result, Billy spent most of his time alone in his bedroom. Here, he read, drew, or conjured up ways to have his mother dote and serve him. In the beginning he liked this game very much, but he quickly developed a subterranean hatred for his father, mainly because the man was always too drunk or sleepy to play along. Conversely, an unhealthy affection towards his mother had germinated. He liked to imagine her whoring around, and this image stoked and fanned a bizarre flame now alit in his immature loins. Once, when his mother had given him his goodnight kiss, he groped her, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She denied him, but not with any obvious recoil or repulsion—just a simple “No, my dear,” which left Billy wondering if she only meant “not this time”. As the years progressed, Billy’s warped feelings for her took a turn towards resentment and loathing. His father eventually succumbed to a long battle with colon cancer, while his mother, after being diagnosed with severe panic disorder, died alone in a psychiatric ward.

When Jessica arrived at Billy’s home, the street was asleep. She parked her black Tahoe (courtesy of Silver Star Escort Agency) in front of his red-bricked bungalow and curled the rearview mirror towards herself, confirming some make-up was no longer vibrant. Popping the lid off a lipstick tube, she reapplied with precision, pursing her lips with a final muah. Exiting the massive SUV, she tightened the belt of her trench coat and clicked up the walkway in pump stilettos. Adjusting the purse hanging on her right shoulder, she rang his doorbell and waited.

When Billy heard his doorbell chiming, a tsunami of adrenaline surged through him. The events of this evening were to be a first for him. Not the conjuring of a desire or the commanding of others in its execution (this he had done countless times, ad nauseam), and certainly not the cocaine use—his frail physique and diminishing funds were evidence of that being a frequent theme—but rather the potential for an actual sexual encounter—this, he had never done.

For a moment, his true self bubbled to the surface. He considered ignoring the bell and hiding in his room, pretending he’d never made the call. But his coke-fueled veins grew fists, tightening the leash around his throat, leading him to peek around the drawn curtain.

Jessica was not impatient in the least. She had often observed her colleagues being made to wait by clients who were now reconsidering their initial boldness. She thought it cute how many bashful men there were in the city. And the girls just loved reporting when clients had trembled with awkward trepidation, cumming in mere seconds. Of course, on other occasions, the contrary was true. On these nights, the girls would ride somberly in the back of the Tahoe, some wailing and sobbing from the cruelty they had just endured.

Billy’s door began to click and vibrate from the many locks being unfastened. When thrust open, the warmth, stench, and stereo sounds ski-jumped over his shriveled frame, landing on top of Jessica.

“You Billy?” she asked in a gentle tone.

Billy, hoping to act suavely in this introduction, sputtered instead like a failing boat motor.

“Oh, um, ha! Hi there. Hello! Yes, welcome. Please, please come in, please.”

Jessica clicked past him with a sympathetic smile. He reminded her of a frightened dog—one who’d been kicked too often. A stained tank top hung loosely over his bony shoulders, while a pair of oversized sweatpants fought hard to stay aloft on his pathetic waistline.

Taking her coat, he zipped down the hallway, leading her into a kitchen that still held its 1980s décor. Jessica pulled out a vinyl chair and sat down.

“Care for a drink?” Billy asked, opening the refrigerator. “I have beer, Pepsi, juice, milk, water−”

“Milk, please.”

“Seriously?”

“You have any Nesquik?”

“Um, yeah. Strawberry.”

“Perfect.”

She watched as he rummaged, smashed, clanked, then stirred her pink drink.

“When’s the last time you slept?” she asked.

“How’d you know?

She shrugged. A buzzing, fluorescent light bounced off her silver pendant. She crossed her stockinged legs.

“Look, I even found you a straw,” he said proudly. It was red and white, candy-striped. Jessica took her drink and sipped.

Billy paced the mustard-colored linoleum before realizing he, too, could sit. He was conscious of his twitchy movements, amplified in contrast with Jessica’s tranquil demeanor. He’d never been in the presence of a woman who displayed such effortless serenity. She puzzled and vexed him. She was stunning, far beyond his league, and yet he felt the right to emit a condescending air towards her. He had paid for her service, after all, and if his years of pornographic indulgence had taught him anything, it was that she should be his plaything for the next hour. He was certain though, that his current cocaine marathon meant that he would be flaccid and impotent, and this exacerbated his vexation.

The beauty mark protruding adjacent to her upper lip further triggered him. His mother had possessed the same dot—although Jessica’s was much more aesthetically pleasing. Still, it was a reminder of the visage responsible for the snake-bed of conflicting emotions inside him. He felt an urge to destroy this face. Sleep deprivation, combined with drug-induced delusion, made for a poisonous mixture.

“Get up, slut,” he blurted. “Stop wasting time. The bedroom’s upstairs.”

Jessica placed the drained milk glass on the table and rose from her seat. Absorbing his agitation, she replied with a placating tone, “You lead the way.”

Billy did.

They entered his small, dingy bedroom. A streetlight shone through the window casting flickering shadows onto the wall. Jessica found herself being shoved onto a lumpy futon mattress.

“Get undressed,” Billy ordered, scurrying to a cluttered coffee table. He grabbed an unfinished beer bottle and gulped with vulgarity before chopping up two white lines with an old debit card.

Jessica had unbuttoned her plush sweater and was sliding her skirt down her legs, “None for me, thanks,” she said, mindful of Cheryl’s parameters.

“You’re pretty fucking chill, eh,” he snapped. “I reckon your job’s made you that way? Seems like you’d prefer Valium over blow.”

He quickly vacuumed up both lines, one in each nostril. Leaning back and panting, he fixed his eyes on Jessica, sitting collectedly in her red bra and panties. She waited as he continued to scrutinize her. The cat entered the room, smearing the side of its soft body against Jessica’s shin.

“You ready now, Billy?” she asked.

The beer bottle shattered against the wall.

The cat darted to the doorway.

Jessica sat still with her eyes to the dirty hardwood floor.

Billy shot up and began pacing the room ferociously. He screeched, and swore, and spat—unloading every insecurity in his body onto Jessica’s humble head. He ranted wildly about his claustrophobic upbringing. He vented all his bizarre sentiments regarding his mother. He raved obnoxiously with a false sense of accomplishment, vomiting grandiosity and self-delusion all over the room.

Jessica listened. And the more she listened the more hysterical Billy became. He didn’t realize this was precisely what he needed, perhaps, what he’d always needed. He hoped she’d react with fear and trembling. Tears. Hostility. Anger. Aggression. Violence. Something. Anything. Instead, she sat. Attentive and receptive. Accepting him. All of him. His baggage. His behavior. His inadequacies. Everything.

Billy upturned the coffee table, still determined to draw out some sort of explicit response. As he flung and flailed about, Jessica stood up and walked towards him. He stumbled backwards, sinking into the corner, tears bursting from brimming ducts.

“It’s okay, Billy,” she cooed, kneeling next to him. She wrapped her arms around his defeated head, inviting him to weep between her breasts. The shadows on the bedroom wall flickered on as he wailed. His helpless release, absorbed by her warm, accepting skin began lulling him to sleep like an over-tired babe. The wails turned into sobs, the sobs became whimpers, blending smoothly and softly into steady, sleep-filled breaths.

Jessica returned to her skirt and plush sweater. Something was buzzing inside her purse. Bending over, she rummaged through and removed her cell phone. The bluish glow lit up her face with a twenty-one missed-call notification. It was her son’s girlfriend. She had also sent a text. It read:

JEREMY 911! 911! 911!

Jessica slid her phone into her purse and pulled her skirt back up to her waist. She buttoned her plush sweater and glanced at Billy snoring soundly in his corner. Then, flinging her purse over her right shoulder, she blew him a final muah and clicked away.

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