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“They’ll eat you up alive this time of year.” She is brilliant at bargaining. Quiet. Relentless. She could turn her talents to high stakes poker or chess, but chooses to be a madame instead. She has no biological kids that I know of and I suspect this is her way of mothering.
“Re-think the timing on your vacation, Evie. The new client requesting your services has specific needs,” she says, clicking off her tablet. “His people are not looking for an average escort. We ran his profile through the software and the results indicated that he’d best be matched with someone like you. Someone who heals.”
I cleared seven figures last year. I’m one of the highest paid escorts in Chicago. I’m twenty-six years old and on a good day I feel like I’m going on forty-six. I need a break before I explode in a million bloody pieces splattering everyone within splattering range.
Madame Germaine purses her lips and lifts a white 8 X 10 envelope from her desk drawer. This is where she tries to talk me into doing something I don’t want to do. Something that will earn us both more money in a month than most people make in a year. She clears her throat, a tell before she hard sells. But the last two years working as an astronomically-priced escort with a rare expertise has turned me into a decent negotiator.
“If they specifically requested a healer, Madam, a few other courtesans are excellent with that,” I say. “Scarlett is great with emotionally damaged men. Lily knows how to help those who are physically broken.”
“Yes, yes. The three of you are a small but potent division within Ma Maison,” she says. “But this client specifically requested you. Sit.” She points to the chair assuming she has schooled me like an expensive, well trained dog. Funny, I could say the same about her.
“Specialty. Ha,” I say, making my way toward her desk. “Teaching five-year-olds was a specialty.”
A few years back I was a kindergarten teacher with a Master’s in Education. It didn’t matter how much insight I had into what made people tick—my education left me with staggering student loans and creditors crawling out of the woodwork like determined termites chewing their way through a rotting fence.
I worked hard. I pulled a fifty-hour week, squeezed out the minimum loan payments every month, along with the last drops of soap from bottles, recycling them for cents on a dollar. I told myself that I was making a dent in my loans when the reality was 90 percent of that went to interest. I told myself I did it to save the environment, because plastic parts killed ocean animals. But the sad truth was I needed every nickel collected because the electric company had this sneaky habit of turning off the electricity on the exact date stamped on the pink notice.
One day over pudding cups in the teacher’s lounge my new pal, Amelia, third grade teacher and best margarita maker ever, confided she’d started moonlighting as an escort. Not only was she paying her rent in a timely fashion, she was squaring off her credit card debt, and hacking away at student loans. “I’ll set you up with my agency, Evie,” she said. “It’s just like dating. You don’t even have to have sex with the guys.”
“But they want to, right?”
She licked the remainder of the butterscotch from a spoon. “What guy doesn’t want sex?”
Being an escort sounded creepy. Tawdry. Dangerous. “Thanks, but I’m going to pass.”
“I hear the judgment,” she said. “Come on. If you join, I’ll get a commission.”
“Do I have to buy a three month supply of laundry soap too? No thanks. Everyone does whatever to make ends meet. No judgment. It’s just not for me.”
But a month later Mom’s insurance company doubled her premiums, stopped paying for half her treatments and a chunk of her pricey prescription drugs. As her proxy, I argued with them over the phone and fired off letters. When none of that made a dent, I scheduled an appointment at their local branch office.
I took half a day off work, and caught the bus downtown to plead Mom’s case. I wore my most sensible suit, fashioned my long hair in a neat bun, and waited an hour past my appointment time for the adjustor. He drummed his fingers on the particleboard desk and talked nonsensical bullshit for five minutes. He was just an innocent pawn in this difficult situation. He’d do what he could do, but please don’t be angry, he was only the messenger. We stood up and eyed each other.
“Thanks,” I said. “Anything you can do, I appreciate it.”
“You got it.” He passed me his card, but it slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. I bent to pick it up and upon arising discovered his dick had magically busted out of his zipper. He clutched it in his hand and yanked it to and fro in my direction, a ridiculous look on his turtle face.
“Ugh.” I gagged, raced out of his office, and tried to delete the ‘squishing’ sound from my brain. I made it home without puking only to find an eviction notice plastered on my door.
“Aw, fuck.” I peeled it off the threshold, pulling the paint along with it. Not only was I soon to be homeless, but my douche landlord would deduct the ‘property damage’ from my security deposit.
I was twenty-four-years old. I could either crumple into a ball on my sorry mattress, or clear my head. It was spring and the Chicago weather was a psychotic ride between chilly, spring showers, and warm, sunny skies. Home sweet home. Ha. Yeah, thanks a bunch, universe.
I hopped on my bike, pedaled on the path adjacent to Lake Shore Drive, and rode for miles like a madwoman. I biked past sailboats dotting the harbor and sleek condos – the constellation of wealth gathered like members of a private club hovering around a mahogany bar at Lake Michigan’s edge.
I braked at a stop light, watched the cars pass in a blur and wondered how, after four years studying to get a liberal arts degree, a year and a half to earn my teaching certificate, all the hours I’d spent learning alternative therapies and eighteen thousand different ways to meditate — how had I landed like last year’s fashion in life’s bargain basement bin once again? More importantly, how could I get out?
And then Amelia texted me:
Amelia: In a bind. Pretty please double with me tonight. 8 pm. No funny biz. I’ll pay you five hundred. Cash.
Evie: Yes.
I shot back.
I biked home, showered, and flipped through clothes in my closet at lightning speed wondering what kind of dicey situation I’d signed up for.
Now, two years later, in Ma Maison’s posh corner office, I take a seat next to Madame Germaine’s desk. The white envelope resting on her immaculate table contains details of a potential client –a high profile client. I can feel her desire for coin depositing into Ma Maison’s bank account with a hefty clink.
