Daniel Price - Slick

“You might want to be careful with that disapproving look,” said a man two seats over from me. “People might think you’re a cop.”

He was in his early-autumn years, husky, and dressed in denim from collar to cuffs. With his flowing white hair and beard, his kind and wizened face, he kind of looked like God, at least the Memphis version.

“Sorry. I didn’t know I was broadcasting it.”

“You’re not. I’m just observant.” He took the empty seat next to me and extended his hand. “Dave, from Richmond.”

I shook it. “Dave, from Brentwood.”

Clearly there were no true Daves in this conversation. We shared a brief, knowing grin and then moved on with the pleasantries.

“You think this is bad,” he said, “you should try going to a place like Club Starlight. There they keep the women in this big windowed room. You’re not allowed to approach them. When you see a girl you like, you point to her in the window and the matron goes to get her for you. It’s like a pet shop. I didn’t like it. Wasn’t very conducive to a social atmosphere.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Yeah. This place is better. My absolute favorite was Club Flamingo, but damn it, they closed it down to make way for the Staples Center.”

I scanned the faces of the many couched girls. Only a small percentage of them were black, which made my task easier. But those faces were so heavily dolled up that any one of them could have been Harmony. All I had to go by was that low-quality Polaroid.

“So I guess you’re a longtime customer,” I said, still scanning.

“Here? No. This is only my second or third time. But I’ve been going to places like this for thirty years now. Every time I’m in town.”

“And without inferring judgment, Dave, may I ask what it is you like so much about these places?”

To his credit, he merely smiled. “There are a lot of answers I could give you, Dave. Most of them would take an hour. And all of them, I imagine, would gloriously fail in converting your viewpoint to one that matches mine.”

I liked this guy. He had the sharp, knowing quality of a man who’s seen enough bullshit in his life and had no urge to add to the pile. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was cut from the same vocational cloth as me and Maxina.

He took a puff of his expensive cigar and then shrugged. “I’ve been married twice. My first wife broke my heart. My second wife broke my heart and took my wallet. I should also add that when you factor in legal costs, wife number two ended up costing me more than what they charge here. But in both cases, the love they claimed to have for me was nothing more than an illusion. Am I losing you already?”

“No. Not at all.”

That was my fault. As he talked, I studied every young black hostess who entered my field of vision.

“Now, I refuse to blame an entire gender for my bad experiences,” he continued. “I’m too smart and self-aware for that. But the problem is that I’m also too smart and self-aware to jump back on that proverbial horse and trust my heart to another woman. And why should I? Out of fear of dying alone? Please. That’s for insecure people. Out of the pain of being alone? That one’s more valid. I love affection and I love intimate conversation. Often times, I find them better than sex. And you’d be surprised by some of the smart and soulful women you find here, Dave. These are gals who’ve been through a lot. Even the young ones.”

He didn’t have to tell me. The one I was looking for had enough drama to fill a miniseries.

“I appreciate these girls,” he said. “And when I find the right one, I get the same kind of pleasure from their company that I did from my two ex-wives, when things were good. And when things aren’t good? Either one of us is free to clock out at any time. No theatrics. No lawyers. Why should I give my soul to another human being when I can just portion it out? On my schedule, on my terms, to whomever I choose. See, I’m renting myself out to these women as much as they’re renting themselves out to me. It doesn’t get more mutual than that.”

The door to the ladies’ room opened. A young black woman stepped into the lounge. She wore a tiny black spaghetti-strap dress, which was conservative compared to her coworkers’. Although her face was marred by layers of garish cosmetics, I recognized it immediately.

“It may seem like a cold transaction,” said Dave. “It may even seem like another illusion. But you know what? And this is the thing that very few people understand—”

“I have to go,” I said with a compunctious shrug. “I’m very sorry, Dave.”

Again, he only smiled. He looked to the woman, then me. “You didn’t come here for the usual reasons, did you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, I won’t pry. Go to her.”

“Thank you. It really was nice talking to you.”

“I believe you. But if you want some unsolicited parting advice, my friend, tread carefully. Just because she’s half as old and half as smart as you doesn’t mean she can’t hurt you.”

I had to stifle a laugh. For all his observational skills, “Dave” thought I was in love. My excitement and anxiety must have created a remarkable facsimile.

I left him behind and approached her. She stopped to fish for something in her little black purse, but soon gave up looking. As she started for the couches, I caught her by the purse strap.

“Excuse me. Hi.”

She eyed me warily. “Hi.”

“What’s your name?”

“Danesha.”

Smart. I guess there was something about this place that brought out the pseudonym in everybody.

“Danesha,” I said. “That’s a very pretty name. Do you mind if I just call you Harmony?”

This was how I officially crashed the world of the lovely young Harmony Prince. I could have been more delicate, I suppose, but I didn’t want to start our relationship out on a game. I didn’t see the need and I didn’t have the time.

“Who, uh, who are you?”

“My name is Scott. Scott Singer. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

She stared at me for a few long moments. Maybe it was the nature of her job. Or the sincerity of my smile. Or maybe it was just the fact that she’d seen enough monsters in her life to know that I was comparatively benign. Whatever it was, she grabbed the hook before I even had to add bait.

“Hold on,” she said.

She grabbed a punch card from the wall rack and fed it into the slot. Ka-CHUNK. The meter was running. Now we were both on a clock.

Technically our relationship did start out on a game.

“My first job,” I said while lining up my shot at the 1-ball, “was with a Republican polling firm in Bethesda, Maryland. I started out as a phone jockey, sitting in a warehouse with a hundred other pimply-faced peons, calling people in the middle of dinner to ask them what they thought about Ed Meese. I was your age, and I was perfectly miserable.”

From the other side of the decrepit pool table, Harmony watched me break. It was just the two of us here in the so-called fun room. Every so often, a gangly old security man buzzed by just to keep the fun level acceptable. From the telling stains on the worn red felt near the left side pocket, I had to wonder what they considered unacceptable.

By the end of the break, the purple 4-ball had become a casualty.

“Guess I’m solids,” I said.

Expressionless, Harmony batted her cue stick from hand to hand. Her relaxed stance was encouraging. She could see I wasn’t fixing to add more stains to the table.

I targeted the 1-ball again. “Anyway, in a job like that, I realized the only thing worse than being miserable was being complacent. I watched the people around me, one by one, get sucked into the drone life. I didn’t want to be next. So I decided right then and there that I would either become a spectacular success at what I was doing, or a spectacular failure. Shit.”