The Waiting Room

"How long have you been waiting?" asked the well-to-do man dressed in his rain hat, suit-jacket and leather shoes, which were shined to perfection.

"An hour," replied the man with his pocket-journal as he wrote in between his forward glances around the room.

"You wait that long?"

"Of course I wait that long. Service is everything, and in order to get service, one must know that patience is a virtue." The man with the pocket-journal paused, then added, "besides, I like the heat and I like to write about the atmosphere."

The countenance of the well-to-do man sincerely changed to a lack of respect. His eyes relaxed in the back of his head in order to show his apathy as he let out a sigh. But the well-to-do man came back to the man with the notebook in forced interest caused by the unnerving silence. "Do you mind if I read it?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

The well-to-do man was astonished at such a response, yet in his fury he snatched the notebook from the other man's hand simply expressing, "don't you know? Nothing is private in this place- nothing at all."

The man without his notebook was not ready for such a thievery, nor was he ready to reclaim it. He knew that there was no need to fight as he compared his clothes to those of the well-to do man and realized that a man of his social class had no right to refute the pleas of a man as well-to-do as the well-to-do man. And with that realization of his standing compared to the well-to-do man, the man without his notebook just sat and listened to his own words being read from another's mouth. The voice filled the syntax with mockery as it pulsed through the room:

"I sit here in this room, in a corner, in a chair. On that chair is the red, velvet tapestry that cushions my ass as well as cushioning the feeling of regret that corners me in this disturbing room. The red and black walls oppress me in such soft and indistinct lighting. The smell of cheap perfume can't stop invading my nostrils as I breathe in that stale air mixed with sex and cigarettes. And with that smell is the aura. The room's aura dims my senses as it brings that vision of lust to my mind. It's not that I want that lust, or do I even know if I can attain it, but some instinctual nature responds to the rose-tinted, see-through fabric draping the door-ways and lamp-shades. They fog my thoughts as much as they fog my surreal and squalid visions. It's all just vexing. You put me in a trance, room. And this is just the place where I wait. Oh, if you could only see what was past this room. There are two doors on either side of me. On the right one might find women with scant clothing playing a game of bridge or poker, and on the other side you'll find women with invisible clothing as they dance atop a man in a similar disposition. Those women are the unlucky women. The dancing ones, I mean. The lucky ones are just in the kitchen playing their games as they wait for a man with whom they can sleep. One might say that they are fish just waiting to be caught. But not your typical fish that gets cooked and eaten. No, they don't get cooked, but they do get eaten. They get eaten just enough to sustain the predator, yet barely enough to keep the fish alive. The predator walks away refreshed and the fish walks away having lost more than it has received- barely breathing, but in no way enjoying life. And the predator leaves with a lighter wallet as if money can represent some sort of physical morality to justify the whole situation."

The well-to-do man stopped there for a second just to add add his own comments to the monologue saying, "if I wanted free sex, I would have just stayed home with my wife!"

All that the man without his notebook could do was look at the well-to-do man in disgust. He thought of a father- husband- dad coming to such a place like this. Even if this was the Ritz of all brothels, this man couldn't see that sex as a side-dish could, in fact, ruin the sacred sustainability he has at home. The stomach of the man without his notebook churned in disgust at the thought of one man doing the disgusting act of destroying his relationships. Because of this, much to the well-to-do man's surprise, the man without his notebook rocketed from his seat and headed through the door on his right. Upon the door's closing, high-pitched screams could be heard resonating throughout the entire house. But soon enough they quieted down and the well-to-do man was left sitting there as he looked around the room comparing his abode to the words written on the notebook in his hands. His eyes were shifty as they imitated an elevator. Look down on the page- look up at the room- look down on the page- scratch head- look up at the room and squint a little bit. He started to mark criticisms in the margin as he grabbed the discarded pen left on the wooden floor in front of the man's chair.

His writing became fervent as he started to believe, more and more, that the man without his notebook would at any point in time walk right back into the room. This indeed did happen with a flourish from one of the scantly dressed women in a black brassiere as she was poking and prodding the man back into the waiting-room.

"Tommy! I told ya that ya ain't got no privileges here durin' operation hours! I don't wanna see ya waltzin' in here like that! If ya gotta use the bathroom, just knock and we'll let ya in- maybe."

"Sorry, Darcy. You know I know the rules, I just had an emergency!"

"Well, how many times do I gotta tell ya to stop sittin' around here for so long waitin' for yor shit to settle? I feel like yor mamma how I gotta tell ya what to do and hold ya hand all the time."

The well-to-do man and Darcy could both see that the fight in Tommy's eyes was leaving as he moved those gray orbs down to the floor and stared at his raggedy shoes- fidgety in the manner as the anxious nerves used them as a release valve. Tommy took a couple of deep breaths as Darcy started to walk away in a somber silence and the well-to-do man slowly and discreetly put Tommy's notebook on the magazines covering the short, little table.

"I saw you writing in it."

"You shouldn't have left your pen," said the well-to-do man as he picked up a magazine and started to browse through it with a look of disinterest polluting his countenance. But the room was still heavy as the squeak of Tommy's nervous, tapping foot filled the tender air. The well-to-do man had to ask. It was plaguing his mind. He tried to think of something else, but he just needed to know.

"Tommy- it's all right if I call you Tommy, right? Tommy, what was your fix back there with running into the bathroom. Did you really have to shit that bad?"

"No," he responded dryly as his eyes stared fixedly at the ground even more than before.

"Aw, you ain't mad at me for looking through your book, are ya?"

Tommy's feet stopped. His whole body stopped, and he fixed his gaze for a split second before he rose to his feet just to pivot and stare down the well-to-do man. "What the fuck does it matter to you!? You didn't ask to take it from me. When one must yank an item out of another man's hands, I doubt there ever is much asking involved! So what do you care if I'm mad about you taking my book? What do you even care about me running into that restroom to puke my guts out because I am sitting next to a slob. The vilest of vile. The lowest creature to walk upon this Earth. A-"

"Buddy, buddy, buddy-!"

"Oh, and don't you fucking dare call me buddy. In no way have you even been a buddy to me." Tommy was erect as he pointed his finger accusingly at the well-to-do man. They both stared at each other. The well-to-do man waiting in anticipation as he sat in his chair with perfect posture. The dust began to settle, though, which brought the two men back into reality as they drifted back into a slouching position in their respected seats. Their was some waiting until the either of them wanted to show their realization of the fact that they were both two lowly men waiting for their hookers and will probably never see each other again. And when that idea of the cosmos finally exploded in their minds, after looking at their surroundings at the most glorified hell-hole (a sin-bin of sorts), they finally decided to speak to one another.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't say that. Don't say it, you have a point. Let's just move on to a new topic."

"What did you write in my notebook?"

"Just a few things here and there."

Tommy opened up his notebook and noticed scattered ideas written along the margins of his writing. One being "why don't you write about that asinine bird?" and "how about that couch that's just sitting on the other side of us?" Tommy looked at these and considered them, but he ultimately closed the book.

"You didn't like my suggestions? I thought they might be good things to add to your description."

"No, I hate them. I thought about writing about them both, but it's no big deal."

"A parrot sitting in the waiting room of a brothel shouting out sex noises? I guess you're right, that's not a big deal. It's genius! You have a guy waiting in here getting aroused just from this damn bird making the noises a girl would make if she's getting laid. You take the guy back there and he's just about ready to go when he gets in bed with the girl. Of course he does go, prematurely, and that guy's not going to try again, he's just going to leave and the chick can move on to her next guy in hopes that the same thing will happen."

Tommy started to chortle after hearing the well-to-do man's philosophy on the talking bird making his sex noises. "You know where that bird learned how to talk?"

"I have a feeling I don't want to know."

"Ha! No, you really don't. An old man named Hewitt Jenkins owned him. He was a great guy- he was the only guy with whom these ladies made house calls. He was charismatic, affectionate- everything a woman could ever want in a guy- but his old age soon prevented him from coming back to this place. Hence why they started making house calls for him. Anyway, this bird never talked until one instance- the last instance anyone ever made a house call to ol' Hewitt's place. It was actually Darcy who made this call. All she had to do was walk over a couple blocks."

"Oh, it was that guy?"

"Yeah, it was this guy. The same guy you heard about in the newspaper, but of course they had to cut some things out in order to make the story for... all audiences. So Darcy heads over there to facilitate his needs, and he asks if his little Toodles (the bird) can watch. There was, of course, some complaining, but she couldn't turn down such a cute old man, especially because the bird didn't know how to talk. So they're burning the midnight oil as they do the no-pants-dance, and all of a sudden the guy starts having a heart attack while he reaches the point."

"The point?

"The point! Yeah, he reaches it, but starts screaming like a girl gettin' taken to town. The bird then starts mimicking him as if it's been talking for the entirety of its life. So Darcy, poor little Darcy, runs back to this here house in tears. Lady Minerva (the mother of this place, if you didn't know) sits her down with some tea and asks her what happened. It takes about four hours for her to calm down, but by that time the police are knockin' on the door to ask questions."

The well-to-do man was sitting at the edge of the side of his seat staring at Tommy waiting for more as he asked, "well, how did they know it was her?"

"Oh, the cops have to know everything. They have some sort of network out there. I guess some lady tipped 'em off, though, and said she saw what appeared to be a hooker going into his place." Tommy then added in a hushed voice, "it's tough for anyone to look at Darcy and not think that she's a hooker, if ya know what I mean." His voice then went back to normal, "so after all of this happens a couple weeks go by and when the cops question Darcy again she asks them what they ever did with that bird. They tell her that they're gonna kill it cuz nobody wants a bird that makes dying sounds that are very close to mimicking a climax. Now, Darcy has the biggest heart, and being that she couldn't let a living creature die like that, she decides to take it in. Cause and effect: it's been this here brothel's mascot ever since."

The well-to-do man still sat in anticipation still holding onto his naivety that there was still more to the story. He then realized that Tommy was done talking and proceeded to ask, "that's it? I don't believe it."

"What? Are you callin' me a liar? That's one of the truest stories I've ever told and you can confirm it with anyone in this house."

"Naw, I'm not calling you a liar, but if the cops came to the place, why aren't all these ladies behind bars right now?"

"You act like these cops here aren't pigs like you and me. They're humans too. They're all guys. They like women, like most guys do- as it should be, ya know? And whenever these ladies got tracks to cover up, all they have to do is get these guys into beds, take off their clothes, have a romp, put the clothes back on and get 'em out- pro bono."

"Ha! And you're fine with that? You know, some of those cops might have wives and children too."
Tommy shot the well-to-do man a look significant of his disgust, but this was interrupted by Darcy as she brought out two cold glasses of ice water. Tommy and the well-to-do man were in no way thirsty at the time, but to see those glasses sweating all over themselves instantly dried their throats as if they were choking on hot coals. The well-to-do man took his before Tommy, although when Tommy took his glass he knocked the tray over as the water dumped all over Darcy's brassiere. The look on her face was an open mouth of shock that made her lipstick crack in certain spots. She started to shake her head in anger as she tossed her blond curls back and forth. Tiny drops of water were falling off of her skin as if there were no way to get through that impenetrable border of flesh. It then ran down to her brassiere and clung to it unwilling to let go. As if the water knew that there was something behind it to gain. Maybe the water was just like the two gentlemen waiting in the same room for the same hooker.

"Tommy! Why you gotta mess up everything!? You know that I just bought this thing!"

Tommy looked at the wet, black lace as he spied a lump trying to break free from the threads. Without thinking, he took out a rag from his back pocket to try to help Darcy dry off. "here, Darcy, lemme help you out here."

Darcy slapped his hand away and stormed out of the waiting room in complete anger. Tommy called out to her saying, "can you get me another water?" And the door slammed- probably even harder than it would have if Tommy didn't ask that question.
He then sat down next to the well-to-do man and dug his hands in his palms. He almost started to cry, but the fact that there was a rather large and well-built, rich man sitting next to him stopped the tears.

"Have some of my water, Tom. Go on, you can have some."

Tommy gave the well-to-do man a shady look, but he knew that the intentions were in the right place. They would be sharing the same woman, so why don't they just share the same glass of water.

"You are waiting for Roxy, aren't you?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Well, Roxy is one hell of a lady. She treats me right every time."

"Yeah, she is" Tommy agreed as he took another sip from the well-to-do man's glass of water. Darcy then came out of the the kitchen again with another glass of water and a dish towel.

"I didn't think you would bring me another."

"Well, I wouldn't have, but I needed to clean up your mess and also tell this fine gentleman that Roxy should be ready soon. I can hear Mr. Nelson in there and he's almost done- after an hour! That guy is a stallion, though. He can go all through the night, and lemme tell ya, he's as looooooong as the night." As Darcy said this she gave Tommy a foreboding look of sadism as she bent over to clean up the water off of the wood floor before it could make a stain.
"Tommy, you never told me why you didn't put the couch in your little story," inquired the well-to-do man as he picked up a magazine and sipped from his reclaimed water.

"Not right now. We're among mixed company."

"Oh, I'm sure Darcy wouldn't mind you telling why you won't write about that couch over there in your story."

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, Tommy, I would absolutely love to hear what you would have to say about that couch."

Tommy felt cornered, and he just stared at that mocking couch. It wasn't even a couch, it was a love seat. How cliché for a brothel to have a love seat. He just stared at it and couldn't stand to replay its story in his mind. He could do it backwards and forwards and it would all turn out the same. There was a reason nobody sat on that couch. It is the most luxurious of the furniture in this room, but people still choose to sit on the chairs. it's the most inviting too with its shade of off-white and the way the contours could fit the body. It bends down at the feet, comes up behind the knees of the legs, dips down again at the butt and rises one more time to give added back support. Tommy just stared at it, but his audience caused him to snap out of the trance and finally tell the story he didn't want to tell.

"That chair has a history. That couch used to be black, actually. If you can tell, it doesn't very well compliment the red walls and the see-through, rose-tinted sheets covering the lamp-shades and the door-frames. It was black, and it was better when it was black. It used to have a painting above it of Jesus after the tomb was emptied. He had a halo over his head, but not anymore, because that picture isn't there anymore. I tore it apart after I saw her there with that man. I saw them on that couch with their invisible clothes doing their little dance and I took out my knife and threw it at that picture. And when I pulled my knife out of it I slit the canvas along with that couch and a part of that man's leg. I told her. I told her not in front of me. I said that it's all right to do it, just not in front of me. That's how all of you treat me, though. All of you!" and as Tommy said that he started to look at Darcy with tears coming down his eyes. He still didn't expect to cry in front of the burly, rich man, but he did. Nothing could stop him.
Tommy tried to keep going with his story but there were no more words forming in his mouth. Darcy and the well-to-do man both looked at him. Darcy's face containing a smile. Her eyes glowing- anticipating Tommy to show more of his pain. The well-to-do man's eyes were scared and disturbed to see a man crying over a hooker dancing on the couch, naked with another man.

The whole ambiance of the room was suddenly thrown off, though, as Roxy finally entered with Mr. Nelson. Mr. Nelson straightened out his suit, grabbed his briefcase and hat and walked out the door without a sound.

"Who's next?" asked Roxy as she looked at the different faces flooding the room. She lingered her gaze on Tommy as he sat between the hooker and the well-to-do man with one in confusion and the other in mocking.

Tommy wiped the tears from his eyes and pointed to the well-to-do man. Roxy saw the signal and nodded as she walked away to get ready.

"Naw, Tommy, you've been waiting here longer. Don't let me go first."

"I insist. You have a wife to get home to. I'm just a poor writer who spends his days in a brothel pissing off sluts like Darcy."

Darcy stormed out of the room with a "humph" as she once again slammed the door behind her.

"Well, don't you have a family to get home to?"

"Yeah, I do. But I like to be the last guy my wife fucks, which is why I want you to go before me." And with that Tommy picked up his notebook and started writing again as the well-to-do man walked through the door that didn't lead to the kitchen, in order to do his business. He knew that he would see Tommy one more time after he finished and that would probably be the last time, but that didn't bother him too much. He knew that there was no reason for them to salvage a friendship with the well-to-do man, except under the forced circumstances of meeting him in the waiting room of a brothel.