breath
is what my father used to call it, and walk toward the hotel entrance, all determined like I’m one of those baseball managers stomping across the field to yell at the ump.
Julian stays in the same room every time. He told me once that he likes 1404 ’cause it’s high up and faces east, toward the ocean, and it’s not near the elevator or the noisy ice machine. And also the television is at a perfect angle to the bed and the shower has good water pressure, all of which is true. I strut through the lobby all confident, get in the elevator and press 14. But just as the doors are about to close, a man waves his arm between them and they stop real fast, shudder like they’ve just got punched, then open right up. In walks two men, and the second I see them I know all I need to know—’cause that’s how I am, super-observant and good at sizing up a man in a matter of seconds.
The doors close and I smell the booze, bitter and sick and seeping out of their skin, the same way you can smell when someone’s got the flu, and I figure that’s God’s way of protecting us, our senses telling us when danger and disease are close. The first guy in, the one with the goatee and the yellow tennis sweater draped over his shoulders, he says what floor you going to, like he’s being a gentleman and trying to help. I point to the panel, to 14, which is all lit up and I say already got it, thanks. And then the second guy, he’s got a sunburned face, a little purple on the tip of his nose, he’s wearing chinos and a golf shirt and his phone is clipped to his belt. And this is just not a good look. This guy says to me, get this, he says wanna come over to our room—we got a suite—and watch some porn? He starts laughing as soon as he says it and looks over to his friend all cocky like he’s got some game.
Now, I’m a little girl, thin and no more than five four in flats, but I
am
a stripper, and a Latin stripper, and I don’t take shit from anyone, especially a couple of middle-aged white guys with golf shirts and khaki pants. So I’m watching the floor panel blink in red numbers—four, five, six—and I step forward between the two guys and I put my finger in the chest of the one who suggested the porn and say . . . I pause to make it more dramatic . . . I say let’s do it, boys. How about I take the both of you back to the room and fuck you ’til you can’t breathe. Sound like a plan, Romeo?
Well, this is where you separate the men from the boys, and trust me, there aren’t many men when a girl like me does something like this. And sure enough, this boy gasps, turns redder than he was before, which I didn’t think was possible, and staggers against the elevator wall. He clutches his belt-phone with one hand and his chest with the other and says uh, uh, uh. Ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. There’s no thirteen ’cause of bad luck. The doors open and the two guys part, open up a path for me and I step out of the cab. I walk down the hall toward Julian’s room and I can feel their eyes pointed like lasers on my ass.
I stand in front of the room and press my ear against the door, which is cold, and I can hear noises inside. It’s Julian’s voice on the phone. Yes, a hamburger, please, medium well, with sweet potato fries and a club soda. There’s also the sound of a TV, sports I think. Here goes, and I raise my hand and knock all forceful, one time, two times, until I hear the TV go quiet and the squeak of the bed as Julian gets up and the slide of that stupid dangling chain out of the slot. And I wonder how it is that little chain is ever gonna stop someone from kicking the door in. I take a step back, fix my hair and straighten up my shoulders, try to get every inch out of my small frame.
The door opens and Julian stands there in his bathrobe, and he’sgot a look on his face that says
how the hell did the food get here so fast
,
’
cause I just hung up the phone
. But when he sees it’s me and not room
is what my father used to call it, and walk toward the hotel entrance, all determined like I’m one of those baseball managers stomping across the field to yell at the ump.
Julian stays in the same room every time. He told me once that he likes 1404 ’cause it’s high up and faces east, toward the ocean, and it’s not near the elevator or the noisy ice machine. And also the television is at a perfect angle to the bed and the shower has good water pressure, all of which is true. I strut through the lobby all confident, get in the elevator and press 14. But just as the doors are about to close, a man waves his arm between them and they stop real fast, shudder like they’ve just got punched, then open right up. In walks two men, and the second I see them I know all I need to know—’cause that’s how I am, super-observant and good at sizing up a man in a matter of seconds.
The doors close and I smell the booze, bitter and sick and seeping out of their skin, the same way you can smell when someone’s got the flu, and I figure that’s God’s way of protecting us, our senses telling us when danger and disease are close. The first guy in, the one with the goatee and the yellow tennis sweater draped over his shoulders, he says what floor you going to, like he’s being a gentleman and trying to help. I point to the panel, to 14, which is all lit up and I say already got it, thanks. And then the second guy, he’s got a sunburned face, a little purple on the tip of his nose, he’s wearing chinos and a golf shirt and his phone is clipped to his belt. And this is just not a good look. This guy says to me, get this, he says wanna come over to our room—we got a suite—and watch some porn? He starts laughing as soon as he says it and looks over to his friend all cocky like he’s got some game.
Now, I’m a little girl, thin and no more than five four in flats, but I
am
a stripper, and a Latin stripper, and I don’t take shit from anyone, especially a couple of middle-aged white guys with golf shirts and khaki pants. So I’m watching the floor panel blink in red numbers—four, five, six—and I step forward between the two guys and I put my finger in the chest of the one who suggested the porn and say . . . I pause to make it more dramatic . . . I say let’s do it, boys. How about I take the both of you back to the room and fuck you ’til you can’t breathe. Sound like a plan, Romeo?
Well, this is where you separate the men from the boys, and trust me, there aren’t many men when a girl like me does something like this. And sure enough, this boy gasps, turns redder than he was before, which I didn’t think was possible, and staggers against the elevator wall. He clutches his belt-phone with one hand and his chest with the other and says uh, uh, uh. Ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. There’s no thirteen ’cause of bad luck. The doors open and the two guys part, open up a path for me and I step out of the cab. I walk down the hall toward Julian’s room and I can feel their eyes pointed like lasers on my ass.
I stand in front of the room and press my ear against the door, which is cold, and I can hear noises inside. It’s Julian’s voice on the phone. Yes, a hamburger, please, medium well, with sweet potato fries and a club soda. There’s also the sound of a TV, sports I think. Here goes, and I raise my hand and knock all forceful, one time, two times, until I hear the TV go quiet and the squeak of the bed as Julian gets up and the slide of that stupid dangling chain out of the slot. And I wonder how it is that little chain is ever gonna stop someone from kicking the door in. I take a step back, fix my hair and straighten up my shoulders, try to get every inch out of my small frame.
The door opens and Julian stands there in his bathrobe, and he’sgot a look on his face that says
how the hell did the food get here so fast
,
’
cause I just hung up the phone
. But when he sees it’s me and not room
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