Sub Rosa, page 10
“Men got no problem sexin’ a girl who hates ’em, then tossin’ her away after. Plenty of men visit the skids and do just that. But a Glory … a Glory can turn these devils good again. We get right inside them and pull out their deepest wants. We become more than sex, we nurse their deepest insides, the parts that aren’t covered in city filth. We make them good again.” First was still working the ladybug over with her chubby fingers. “And since we do this, we never have to be ill-treated no more. We get everythin’ we want. Sub Rosa never dries up. Its wealth is endless, and it’s all for us. Glories rule Sub Rosa, you’ll see, Little. Soon you’ll have everythin’ you ever wanted.”
Second appeared in the doorway with a snort. She’d been standing there long enough to catch the tail end of First’s speech. She had a rip in her blouse and maybe a fat lip, or maybe she was just wearing too much makeup again. I hoped it was the former.
“You two should bring an offering to the tar to undo the bad luck you probably caused with your fightin’,” First told us.
I looked into the armoire at the clothes I hadn’t even had a chance to wear yet and tried to act indifferent. The hangers chattered and chimed as I ran an aloof hand across the dresses. I didn’t want to sacrifice any of them. I reached for my lump of a duffle bag, stuck my hand in and stirred the contents as if I were bobbing blindly through a whole pile of goods. I pulled out my old stuffed rabbit. Second eyed it. “Why’d you buy that ratty thing?” she asked. I shrugged, and she crossed her eyes at me like I was some sort of idiot.
“I didn’t buy it,” I said. “It was a gift that I’ve kept since I was a kid. And it wasn’t always this ratty.”
“Are you serious?” Second rushed toward me and I raised my fists at her again. She held her hand low, palm up. “Can I hold it?” I figured she’d draw her hand away, like we were playing a game of slaps. She cupped the rabbit in two hands, rubbing its matted fur with her thumb. “What is it?” she asked.
“Rabbit paw, for good luck,” I said slowly. I suspected she was tricking me with her stupid question.
“You can’t offer this. You’ll never get it back again. Don’t let First make you do it.” I turned toward First, puzzled. She too peeked over at the rabbit with the corners of her mouth turned down.
“Offer that pleather dress. Both of you together. It got you fighting in the first place.” I didn’t want to offer it. I had just earned it. I would rather have given up the bunny.
“How about this?” I found the green velvet stripper’s dress from Johnny-V’s stag. The dress was too long for me, anyway.
“It would fit me!” Second snatched it from my hands.
“It’s a city dress.” First ripped it away from Second. She balled the dress up and tucked it under her arm. “You’ll offer the city dress,” she said. “It won’t fit none of us right.”
First wore an uneasy expression as we pushed the dress into the tar. “Filthy thing,” she mumbled. Good thing she didn’t know I got it from a stripper, a drunk stripper, if I remembered right. When the last bit of neon green was sunk, First stopped tsking, cocked her round hip to one side, and before very long had cars lined up waiting to see her.
The other Glories were busy enough. I watched Ling down the street guiding plenty of men in and out of the Mayflower Diner. Next door to us, I saw Second Man go for several car rides with live ones, taking his Third, a baby-faced Glory named Dearest, with him. And in front of the old Victorian house, a row of black lace appeared, Glories dressed like paper dolls, hand in hand. First called them the orphan children. One by one, they took live ones into their sad-looking mansion. Even Second had a live one come for her, with a teddy bear and a bunch of yellow roses. But First had the most.
“Do you do duos?” a live one called from his car.
“Honey, I am a duo,” First said, turning around for the live one to look her over. “I’m practically a threesome all on my own.” And at that he followed her up to our apartment.
“I like a firm touch,” another one said to First when she’d returned to the track patch. First showed him her hands, big enough to strangle an ox. I watched her push that live one up the steps as they went.
Later, another said, “I like a gentle touch,” and I saw, with my own eyes, First’s hands soften until her fingers were like the plumes of her ostrich feather duster. It was then that I realized First gets what she wants. If she’d really wanted that pleather dress gone, it would now be sunk down into the tar patch.
She had me shadow her so I could learn more about being a Glory. I sat in the corner of the working room trying, at first, not to stare. The wall-to-wall mirrors didn’t provide any privacy. First sounded nothing like the yelping waitress in Nino’s bedroom. She did not fumble like I did when twisted inside sleeping bags with drunken runaways. She had her live ones spinning like a lumps of wet clay on a potter’s wheel.
One man said, “Bury me alive.” He lay on the bed with his arms dead-man crossed over his chest. First knelt at his feet and dropped her body down, little by little. I imagined it felt like heavy clods of sod covering him from the ankles up. She unhooked her bra, and her breasts fell over his face. I heard his gasps, his muffled “yes”; I watched her hold her breath and her body grow even bigger so that not a hint of him was left.
“Do you want to revive our dear departed man here?” First signalled me over as she rolled off of him. His eyes were closed, his skin purple. A smear of semen on his thigh. I blew into his mouth.
“Come toward the light.” What else could I have said as I propped his head on my lap? First nodded in encouragement. “Come to the light,” I repeated in what I hoped was an ethereal voice.
“I’m a new man,” he cried as the colour returned to his skin. I bit down on my disbelieving smirk as he pressed a hundred-dollar bill into my hand. The money seemed alive, like I was holding a baby bird; it pulsed.
Unlike Arsen, First let me pocket the money if I promised not to tell. “Stash it somewhere private,” she advised.
IX
If we can claim the air around Sub Rosa has a calming effect in the day, it can only be described as intoxicating at night. At eight o’clock the street turns into a corridor of light. The sun makes a special appearance on Sub Rosa before setting, blazing in windows on either side of the road, blanching the cobblestones, cleansing them in its white heat. Glories become overexposed silhouettes in the glow. My favourite thing was watching the lamps go on—the neon, the strobes, the hanging paper lanterns. Sub Rosa streetlamps are masters at their jobs. They know not to flood us; they never leave any corner darkened. They don’t pull our shadows into unsightly forms. After midnight, the street gets a second wind: The sidewalk warms. The air sweetens. Our most valued live ones visit then.
This was the hour I paid my first visit to the Pawnshop. Six minutes past twelve o’clock; I was a bit late because of First. “I’m not done with you yet.” First motioned for me to hold still under her gold powder makeup brush. She kept re-doing my makeup, saying my appointment with Mr Saragosa, the Pawnshop owner, was the most important date I’d ever have. I could tell by the way she wielded the hair spray over my head that she was serious. I really had become more beautiful. Nothing of my sallow fly-speck self was left. That girl seemed to have lived a lifetime ago. I couldn’t even think of a single ugly trait I used to have. I just knew I once was ugly. And now the ring would complete me— that’s what First said.
She’d put on her finest too. Even though it was a warm late-summer night, she was wearing embroidered calfskin gloves as she shook hands with the barrel-chested man waiting outside the Pawnshop. Even Second was wearing a silk shawl; she sang, “Good evening, Mr Saragosa,” and pulled the shawl across her chest modestly.
“So, this is the two-day miracle?” he asked First, lowering white panel doors down over the Pawnshop windows with a turn crank. It felt strange and outdated to be called a two-day miracle. The Dark already felt so far away. I stood and puzzled as to whether it had been a week ago, or two.
“Yes, sir. She has been a wonder child. And she’s got a real knack with the live ones already. Arsen wants to show her off. He wanted me to remind you that a Tiffany setting is still the most popular kinda ring in the city.” First nudged me toward the man.
Mr Saragosa held the shop door open for me while the girls said farewell, First in her elegant gloves and Second waving the corner of her shawl like a handkerchief. Barely in the door, I heard a half dozen locks twist into place behind us. The Pawnshop owner had reason to be cautious. I had to squint at the brightness of the sight before me: gold. Long glass display cases snaked around the room like a labyrinth. “I’ve had my business here since I was a young man. ’Course, I didn’t know then what I know now, that Sub Rosa would be a haven for such fine ladies and fine jewellery.” By the hunch of his shoulder and the drag of his gait I guessed the shop had been open for a very long time.
“There is a trick to buying and selling jewellery. Sure, you’ve got to know your green amber from your peridot, yes, yes, yes. You mustn’t confuse glass for crystal.” He was already waist deep in the jewellery maze. I hurried behind him, but the glimmering collection of necklaces and bracelets made me slow on my feet. After a few steps my nose was pressed against the jewellery counter. The display was almost as tall as me and the glass warm and spotless. “The trick is to understand the life of each piece. This eternity band, for example—” Mr Saragosa leaned over the countertop with a ring of square-cut sapphires in his outstretched hand. “This simple classic began its life on the tiny, tear-shaped island of Sri Lanka. Some fine miner, a braver man than I, sank twenty, maybe thirty feet into the earth—rice farmers working the land over his head, his feet wet and cold from ancient underground rivers—to find these little cornflower-blue sapphires.” He took my hand. No surprise, the ring was loose on my slender finger. He moved it to my thumb. “A divorcée brought it to me in January. Her husband left her one night and never spoke to her again except through his lawyers. She never saw it coming. Nice lady. Mad as hell.
“Filigree,” he told me, as he next worked a band of curled gold leaves and red garnets imitating fruit onto my index finger. “It must be four times your age. Women were smaller then, like you, my dear. I spent hours cleaning the soot off of this one. House fire.” He made the sign of the cross and quickly moved on to an Irish wedding ring. Softly, he tapped my middle knuckle and the ring slid on effortlessly. “Married in sin,” he said, crossing himself a second time. “Doomed to fail, the poor dears.”
An emerald ring found my pinkie. “The girl grew up and didn’t want her father’s gifts anymore. She left quite a few items with me— tennis bracelet, gold locket, and the jewellery box they all came in, if I remember right.”
Mr Saragosa paced around the display, returning to the same spot again and again, before he reached into the glass. He was after a diamond solitaire. His fingers trembled as he hovered over it for several seconds, then scooped it up. The stone was blue and deep, a prism of infinite angles and shapes. “A person can get lost in it.” His breath was misty against my cheek as he put it on. A zap shot through my finger. I didn’t care what unhappy story was attached to it, it was tremendous. I didn’t care that he unzipped his trousers. We wordlessly watched the ebb and flow of my jewel-bedecked hand. His cock a minor detail, obscured by the diamond’s firefly trial. For the shortest second I worried that the rings might have rubbed him too hard. His teeth clacked like he was cold. He slowed me down, showed me how to run my knuckles across the head of his penis, rings bumping the tiny slippery opening there. After a few seconds of this, he slumped against the display. I stood quietly with a handful of precious stones and his sticky ooze.
He only needed a moment to recompose himself and return to the rings. I balled my hand in protest as he attempted to take them off. “These are not for you. As I was saying earlier, the trick to buying and selling is in the life of the jewellery. All of these rings have been sitting in my shop for far too long. I’ve had customers ask for an Irish wedding ring; I show this, at a bargain price, and they won’t buy. An imprint of pain is stamped on each one of these things. However! What I have discovered is a new Glory, like you, my dear, newly unburdened from the woes of the life you’ve left behind …” He slid off the Irish wedding ring. “You have the power to restore my rings. Depending on the girl, the rings might even go up in value.” I handed him the filigree and the emerald. He inspected them with one eye.
“I’d like to wash my hands now, Mr Saragosa,” I said, backing away with the diamond still on my finger. There was no way I’d get away with stealing it, but maybe if I wore it for awhile, he’d see how well it suited me.
“Only the Dowager wears a diamond,” he said with a firm hand on my shoulder. I stared at him incredulously as he stripped me of the solitaire.
“First has a diamond,” I argued, picturing her monstrous gem jutting out from the long-pronged setting.
“Candy, your First, wears a fancy yellow sapphire. It’s an expensive stone, mind you. The very best in sapphire. Yellow Indian gold band. Expensive, but not a diamond. Look closely at it when you get the chance; you’ll notice it doesn’t have that same fire as a diamond.” He brought the solitaire before me again, tilting it in the light. Rainbows lived inside that stone. My index finger ached for it. “A Glory hasn’t worn one of these since the Diamond Dowager was wed.”
“Why does only she get one?”
“Sit here and let me explain something to you.” He attempted, with some trouble, to boost me onto the countertop. I scrambled up most of the way myself, thanking him anyway. I still hadn’t been offered a ring, and unless I wanted to walk out of there with a cubic zirconia I knew to be on my best behaviour. “If it weren’t for Diamond and her late husband, Royal, none of you girls would be here. I might not even be here myself. You young Glories, gifted as you are, have a bad habit of overlooking history. Good thing we old folks still remember some truths about this place. Now, I remember Royal. I shook his hand on many occasions. Do not go thinking that Royal was just a man.
“Royal was no man. He was an angel. A benevolent angel from heaven. But he was restless. Rather than residing in heaven, Royal watched over the downtrodden and mistreated people on earth. He would disguise himself as a human to test the decency of us humans. I suppose nothing gave him more pleasure than rewarding those in need, the good and honest ones, that is, with happiness and wealth.
“Once he dressed himself like an old alcoholic widower and set off—in a run-down Ford is what they say—for the skids, searching for any woman who might accept his patronage at a fair price and offer kind service.
“He began his search on the main streets where there were supper clubs and ballrooms. Quite similar then to how it is now. Rows of young women wearing their finery smiled at him as he circled. He stopped for several of these women, but when he named his price they demanded more money. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to insult you. The price is fixed; you see, I am only a poor man,’ he told them. And one by one they waved him away, yelling rude words and insulting his weathered skin and gin breath as he went.
“Royal decided he should try another, more destitute neighbourhood, where perhaps the women would better understand hardship and sympathize with him. He drove the industrial streets where the girls wore ill-fitting clothes and had vacant stares. It didn’t take long for Royal to find a taker on his offer. He took the woman to a shabby apartment, which he pretended was his. Together they lay in bed and the woman draped an arm over Royal, but after only a few minutes she excused herself to powder her nose. Royal heard her dash down the hall and out the door. Not only had she taken the money he paid her, she had stolen his wallet from the nightstand.
“Any other man might have thrown in the towel. Royal was no man, I say, and so he kept searching. He must have driven every street from here to the Number 4 Highway and back again. This is when he found Diamond. She was sitting on a bench on a secluded street, an unlikely spot for a prostitute to attract any customers. Royal wasn’t sure if she was working, so in the politest manner he approached her. To his surprise, Diamond accepted his offer.
“No one can say for sure what took place that night. Some say they made passionate love. Others say Royal, being the kind soul he was, only asked Diamond to lie next to him. Some believe that they stayed up late into the night discussing the troubles of the world, human suffering and such. I bet Arsen’s stocked your library with a several books on these kinds of matters. As I was saying, whatever happened that night, so long ago, Royal vowed to forever protect and care for Diamond. He blessed the street, this very street, where he found her and, in a little time, it became the haven for the Glories and live ones that you see today. Men who are searching for good, as Royal was, even if they don’t know what good they seek, they’ll find it here at Sub Rosa.”
Mr Saragosa touched my nose with his finger, playfully, like a grandparent might touch their grandchild. I wasn’t sure how to respond to his remarkable story, and so I just shifted uncomfortably. The display case was hot against my thighs. “After watching over Diamond for many years as an angel,” he continued, rapping his wrinkle-skinned knuckles on the glass beside me, “Royal fell in love with her. The love a husband has for his wife. He sacrificed his place among the angels and took human form so that they could be wed. This is when Diamond received her ring. Understand? She was the first Glory to wear a ring.
