Darla stood awkwardly leaning over the edge of the fire escape. She was
always awkward. Always. No one interrupted her and no one came out onto the
escape to ask what was wrong. She was utterly alone. She was not looking at
the stars or the people below. There were no people. The city was asleep.
But still she sat on the fire escape to watch the sky turn from grey to
lighter grey as the sun rose. Everything was hopeless.
As she climbed back into her lodging house through the window, a familliar voice interrupted her absent thoughts. "Wishing or praying?"
She glared. "Wishes and prayers are the way we leave the lonely alone and push the wounded away," she said, silencing the hopeful stupidity. She meant it. This whole idea, this whole place was filled with ignorance. She looked at her bunk bed. her small satchel. Her meager posessions. She peered into a slab of mirror at her greasy black hair, her dirty face, ragged clothing. She looked into other beds where girls slept, hoping that one day, Jack "Cowboy" Kelly might just look at them and fall in love and then they'd run away together.
Darla did not hate Jack Kelly, exactly, she didn't know what she felt about him. She did not even hate being dirty. She just wondered why everyone had chosen this life. This life was ugly and unfair. This life was too hard to imagine. There was never enough food. Bread and coffee from nice nuns only went so far. The younger ones always ate first and being nurturing, Darla always gave her portion to someone who needed it more. As a result, she was bone-thin with gaunt hollows in her cheeks and in between her ribs. She glared into the mirror again. Dirt in her fingernails. Lice and fleas in her hair. Newsprint stains on her hands. The hands that used to bake brownies, used to nurse birds and kittens back to health. All before this wretched life.
Darla thought about babies. Children are born with blood on their whole bodies. As soon as they touch the air, life begins to infect them. And they end up dying. She touched her slightly bulging stomach. Just a few more weeks. The child would starve inside her, she knew. Would be born shrivelled and shrill sharply, assaulting her ears and heart with oh hope! hope! Hope lost. The child would die. She would not fade. She would choke and stab and hurt and starve. Not fade. Fading is peace. The child would die. Violently alone.
She vomited into her hands; it splashed onto the floor. It was clear, tinted brown, only water and acid.
Like everyone in this infested house, she had once lived in a world of dreams where selling newspapers was the answer to all one's problems. Drama and mock tragedy had followed her and them everywhere she went. Darla, for once, felt like a part of something bigger than she was. There was this comraderie that came with living in such a tight group. Fights and arguments always ended in hugging and a realisation that they were all there to meet the same end- to get by. Now Darla knew there was more to life than getting by. More to life than phonographs, nice things, good smells, good tastes, good words. More to life than pleasure, much more.
Of course, she mused. All good things have endings. Darla was looking back on a good thing and wondering why she'd thought it was so good.
She remembered thrillling at his gaze, squealing to girlfriends. She remembered the pinkish tint of her past life with all these other girls who wanted something more, but never realised it. She remembered when he saw her in the alley and asked if she was allright. She remembered the stench of whiskey on his breath. She remembered the way he stood too close to her with his hands clutching her arms. The sloppy way he kissed her and slapped her when she turned away. She remembered crying softly, down on the gravel, rocks digging into her buttocks and legs. She remembered his hot breath and his sweat and the feeling of everything inside her tearing in half. She remembered this was supposed to feel like magic and she had dreamed of him. She remembered the edge of all good things- he pushed her off. And when he was finished the slippery feeling inside her. He looked more sober now and a little embarrassed. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you." Kill. You. The words echoed. She had vomited into her hands.
**
As the sun rose, another girl with shining black hair was preparing for an audition at the local stage- Irving Hall. She winked to Frankie, one of her best customers, who often paid to lie on her bed and listen to her read or sing or dress herself. Frankie was mostly talk, she thought, but so beautiful to look at and listened to her so well. "So what do with think- the voluptuous red?" she held the dress up to her chest and giggled when he made a face, "...or... the slinky purple?"
"I vote slinky purple, Rox. Ain't nobody gonna turn down a siren like you in a dress like that!" he said.
"Aww..." Roxanne cooed, leaning down and kissing his forehead, "You are too nice to me, you know that Frankie?"
Frankie knew. Roxanne had a lot of men after her, being such a beautiful young one. She never turned them down. At almost-fourteen years old and so experienced, the seventeen to twenty five set seemed to adore her. Frankie was a different sort. He'd pay just to have someone to sleep next to and cuddle with. He'd pay so he knew she wasn't getting paid by someone else.
He was an apprentice at a jeweler's shop in Queens, where they both lived. He had inherited a great townhouse from his grandfather where Roxanne rented a room and lived a mostly quiet life, selling her body. It helped that her landlord was madly in love with her. He was a different sort though, at twenty-one years old, and already so wealthy. It wasn't his money, though, but his smile and his eyes that made Roxanne's stomach get queasy sometimes. They way he gazed at her and gently kissed her eyes and placed stray hairs behind her ears. She loved him, she really did.
She sat down on the bed beside him, "Do my buttons, will you?"
"What do I get for it?" he teased.
Roxanne giggled, "Oh, I don't know... If I get this job, you get to see me on the stage, men swooning..."
He interjected, "They do that already!"
"Right, I mean, but..." she sighed, "you know what I mean!" Frankie knew. He put his fingers to her lips and they shared a moment just looking at one another. "I"m gonna be late," she said, moving to the doorway. But before she turned away, "You know what Frank? If I could afford it, I wouldn't charge you a dime."
She regretted saying it. His eyes got all big like he was scared or surprised or something. Sometimes other men got that look on their face before they finished up. She hated it. "You really mean that Roxanne? I could take care of you! I can open up my own jewelry shop, get some real diamonds to go around that neck... or... your finger..."
Roxanne smiled an winked, "I'm gonna be late!" She rushed down the hall and outside, breathing fast. Gosh, could he really have meant all that?
But he stuck his head out the window and called, "I love you!!" as she headed in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
But before she had even made it a block down the road, someone with a familliar face stopped her. "Jasper!" she said, "I can't right now- got a previous engagement down at the hall!"
But Jasper shook his head, "You be careful, you hear me? One of my boys is talking big down at the bar. You watch out for your old man, you hear me?"
As she climbed back into her lodging house through the window, a familliar voice interrupted her absent thoughts. "Wishing or praying?"
She glared. "Wishes and prayers are the way we leave the lonely alone and push the wounded away," she said, silencing the hopeful stupidity. She meant it. This whole idea, this whole place was filled with ignorance. She looked at her bunk bed. her small satchel. Her meager posessions. She peered into a slab of mirror at her greasy black hair, her dirty face, ragged clothing. She looked into other beds where girls slept, hoping that one day, Jack "Cowboy" Kelly might just look at them and fall in love and then they'd run away together.
Darla did not hate Jack Kelly, exactly, she didn't know what she felt about him. She did not even hate being dirty. She just wondered why everyone had chosen this life. This life was ugly and unfair. This life was too hard to imagine. There was never enough food. Bread and coffee from nice nuns only went so far. The younger ones always ate first and being nurturing, Darla always gave her portion to someone who needed it more. As a result, she was bone-thin with gaunt hollows in her cheeks and in between her ribs. She glared into the mirror again. Dirt in her fingernails. Lice and fleas in her hair. Newsprint stains on her hands. The hands that used to bake brownies, used to nurse birds and kittens back to health. All before this wretched life.
Darla thought about babies. Children are born with blood on their whole bodies. As soon as they touch the air, life begins to infect them. And they end up dying. She touched her slightly bulging stomach. Just a few more weeks. The child would starve inside her, she knew. Would be born shrivelled and shrill sharply, assaulting her ears and heart with oh hope! hope! Hope lost. The child would die. She would not fade. She would choke and stab and hurt and starve. Not fade. Fading is peace. The child would die. Violently alone.
She vomited into her hands; it splashed onto the floor. It was clear, tinted brown, only water and acid.
Like everyone in this infested house, she had once lived in a world of dreams where selling newspapers was the answer to all one's problems. Drama and mock tragedy had followed her and them everywhere she went. Darla, for once, felt like a part of something bigger than she was. There was this comraderie that came with living in such a tight group. Fights and arguments always ended in hugging and a realisation that they were all there to meet the same end- to get by. Now Darla knew there was more to life than getting by. More to life than phonographs, nice things, good smells, good tastes, good words. More to life than pleasure, much more.
Of course, she mused. All good things have endings. Darla was looking back on a good thing and wondering why she'd thought it was so good.
She remembered thrillling at his gaze, squealing to girlfriends. She remembered the pinkish tint of her past life with all these other girls who wanted something more, but never realised it. She remembered when he saw her in the alley and asked if she was allright. She remembered the stench of whiskey on his breath. She remembered the way he stood too close to her with his hands clutching her arms. The sloppy way he kissed her and slapped her when she turned away. She remembered crying softly, down on the gravel, rocks digging into her buttocks and legs. She remembered his hot breath and his sweat and the feeling of everything inside her tearing in half. She remembered this was supposed to feel like magic and she had dreamed of him. She remembered the edge of all good things- he pushed her off. And when he was finished the slippery feeling inside her. He looked more sober now and a little embarrassed. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you." Kill. You. The words echoed. She had vomited into her hands.
**
As the sun rose, another girl with shining black hair was preparing for an audition at the local stage- Irving Hall. She winked to Frankie, one of her best customers, who often paid to lie on her bed and listen to her read or sing or dress herself. Frankie was mostly talk, she thought, but so beautiful to look at and listened to her so well. "So what do with think- the voluptuous red?" she held the dress up to her chest and giggled when he made a face, "...or... the slinky purple?"
"I vote slinky purple, Rox. Ain't nobody gonna turn down a siren like you in a dress like that!" he said.
"Aww..." Roxanne cooed, leaning down and kissing his forehead, "You are too nice to me, you know that Frankie?"
Frankie knew. Roxanne had a lot of men after her, being such a beautiful young one. She never turned them down. At almost-fourteen years old and so experienced, the seventeen to twenty five set seemed to adore her. Frankie was a different sort. He'd pay just to have someone to sleep next to and cuddle with. He'd pay so he knew she wasn't getting paid by someone else.
He was an apprentice at a jeweler's shop in Queens, where they both lived. He had inherited a great townhouse from his grandfather where Roxanne rented a room and lived a mostly quiet life, selling her body. It helped that her landlord was madly in love with her. He was a different sort though, at twenty-one years old, and already so wealthy. It wasn't his money, though, but his smile and his eyes that made Roxanne's stomach get queasy sometimes. They way he gazed at her and gently kissed her eyes and placed stray hairs behind her ears. She loved him, she really did.
She sat down on the bed beside him, "Do my buttons, will you?"
"What do I get for it?" he teased.
Roxanne giggled, "Oh, I don't know... If I get this job, you get to see me on the stage, men swooning..."
He interjected, "They do that already!"
"Right, I mean, but..." she sighed, "you know what I mean!" Frankie knew. He put his fingers to her lips and they shared a moment just looking at one another. "I"m gonna be late," she said, moving to the doorway. But before she turned away, "You know what Frank? If I could afford it, I wouldn't charge you a dime."
She regretted saying it. His eyes got all big like he was scared or surprised or something. Sometimes other men got that look on their face before they finished up. She hated it. "You really mean that Roxanne? I could take care of you! I can open up my own jewelry shop, get some real diamonds to go around that neck... or... your finger..."
Roxanne smiled an winked, "I'm gonna be late!" She rushed down the hall and outside, breathing fast. Gosh, could he really have meant all that?
But he stuck his head out the window and called, "I love you!!" as she headed in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
But before she had even made it a block down the road, someone with a familliar face stopped her. "Jasper!" she said, "I can't right now- got a previous engagement down at the hall!"
But Jasper shook his head, "You be careful, you hear me? One of my boys is talking big down at the bar. You watch out for your old man, you hear me?"