seventy-two : the brothel
i was barely nineteen. i walked along a road between factories and mechanics, my heels kicking up water as i went. rain was ice cold. it fell in sheets. my hair was soaked, my clothes stuck to me. as i walked up the narrow driveway a man was pulling out in an expensive car. he stopped and smiled and let me pass.
the building had a sign on the front, but i didn’t read it. instead i went straight up the steps to the door. i rang the bell, and a few seconds later a woman appeared on the other side of the screen. she was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she was wearing too much make-up. before i could speak, she pulled the door open and gestured for me to come inside.
‘you look freezing! come in out of the rain.’
‘thanks.’
i wasn’t used to people being so welcoming. around this part of town, most doors closed in my face. i followed her inside. i could hear low voices coming from another part of the building as she led me into a dimly lit room. it was set up like a doctors waiting room, complete with chairs along one wall and a low coffee table covered with magazines. but it was dark. two men sat in the chairs. one flicked through a copy of rolling stone, the other stared at his hands. the woman glanced back at me over her shoulder.
‘i’m lily, by the way.’
‘cassi.’
‘nice to meet you.’
there was a counter directly in front of us, and she walked around the other side. behind her on the wall was a glossy red board with the word menu written across the top in curled letters. beneath it were descriptions and prices of the services offered. this is when it clicked in my head. i was in a brothel.
‘so what can i do for you?’
‘what?’ i looked back down from the menu to lily. she was smiling pleasantly and had her head tilted to one side. for a second i forgot why i was there. all i could think of was the fact that there were prostitutes in the building. and creepy old men. and i was in a brothel. how the hell did i get here?
finally i remembered.
‘i’m here to talk about your phone service.’
Tonight while I wrote I listened to Enfilade by At The Drive-In. This isn’t fiction by the way. I once worked in door-to-door sales for a phone company that nobody has heard of, and this was the afternoon that I accidentally went into a brothel without realising it. I’ve had a few particularly shady jobs, but this was the worst.
Incidentally, the woman at the brothel seemed like a pretty nice person, and actually switched phone companies.
