Anyway, I kept walking around the room, waiting for this prostitute to show up. I kept hoping she’d be good- looking. I didn’t care too much, though. I sort of just wanted to get it over with. Finally, somebody knocked on the door, and when I went to open it, I had my suitcase right in the way and I fell over it and damn near broke my knee. I always pick a gorgeous time to fall over a suitcase or something.
When I opened the door, this prostitute was standing there. She had a polo coat on, and no hat. She was sort of a blonde, but you could tell she dyed her hair. She wasn’t any old bag, though. “How do you do,” I said. Suave as hell, boy.
“You the guy Maurice said?” she asked me. She didn’t seem too goddam friendly.
“Is he the elevator boy?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Yes, I am. Come in, won’t you?” I said. I was getting more and more nonchalant as it went along. I really was.
She came in and took her coat off right away and sort of chucked it on the bed. She had on a green dress underneath. Then she sort of sat down sideways on the chair that went with the desk in the room and started jiggling her foot up and down. She crossed her legs and started jiggling this one foot up and down. She was very nervous, for a prostitute. She really was. I think it was because she was young as hell. She was around my age. I sat down in the big chair, next to her, and offered her a cigarette. “I don’t smoke,” she said. She had a tiny little wheeny-whiny voice. You could hardly hear her. She never said thank you, either, when you offered her something. She just didn’t know any better.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele,” I said.
“Ya got a watch on ya?” she said. She didn’t care what the hell my name was, naturally. “Hey, how old are you, anyways?”
“Me? Twenty-two.”
“Like fun you are.”
It was a funny thing to say. It sounded like a real kid. You’d think a prostitute and all would say “Like hell you are” or “Cut the crap” instead of “Like fun you are.”
“How old are you?” I asked her.
“Old enough to know better,” she said. She was really witty. “Ya got a watch on ya?” she asked me again, and then she stood up and pulled her dress over her head.
I certainly felt peculiar when she did that. I mean she did it so sudden and all. I know you’re supposed to feel pretty sexy when somebody gets up and pulls their dress over their head, but I didn’t. Sexy was about the last thing I was feeling. I felt much more depressed than sexy.
“Ya got a watch on ya, hey?”
“No. No, I don’t,” I said. Boy, was I feeling peculiar. “What’s your name?” I asked her. All she had on was this pink slip. It was really quite embarrassing. It really was.
“Sunny,” she said. “Let’s go, hey.”
“Don’t you feel like talking for a while?” I asked her. It was a childish thing to say, but I was feeling so damn peculiar. “Are you in a very big hurry?”
She looked at me like I was a madman. “What the heck ya wanna talk about?” she said.
“I don’t know. Nothing special. I just thought perhaps you might care to chat for a while.”
She sat down in the chair next to the desk again. She didn’t like it, though, you could tell. She started jiggling her foot again — boy, she was a nervous girl.
“Would you care for a cigarette now?” I said. I forgot she didn’t smoke.
“I don’t smoke. Listen, if you’re gonna talk, do it. I got things to do.”
I couldn’t think of anything to talk about, though. I thought of asking her how she got to be a prostitute and all, but I was scared to ask her. She probably wouldn’t’ve told me anyway.
“You don’t come from New York, do you?” I said finally. That’s all I could think of.
“Hollywood,” she said. Then she got up and went over to where she’d put her dress down, on the bed. “Ya got a hanger? I don’t want to get my dress all wrinkly. It’s brand-clean.”
“Sure,” I said right away. I was only too glad to get up and do something. I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up for her. It was funny. It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell — I don’t know why exactly.
I sat down again and tried to keep the old conversation going. She was a lousy conversationalist. “Do you work every night?” I asked her — it sounded sort of awful, after I’d said it.
“Yeah.” She was walking all around the room. She picked up the menu off the desk and read it.
“What do you do during the day?”
She sort of shrugged her shoulders. She was pretty skinny. “Sleep. Go to the show.” She put down the menu and looked at me. “Let’s go, hey. I haven’t got all—”
“Look,” I said. “I don’t feel very much like myself tonight. I’ve had a rough night. Honest to God. I’ll pay you and all, but do you mind very much if we don’t do it? Do you mind very much?” The trouble was, I just didn’t want to do it. I felt more depressed than sexy, if you want to know the truth. She was depressing. Her green dress hanging in the closet and all. And besides, I don’t think I could ever do it with somebody that sits in a stupid movie all day long. I really don’t think I could.
She came over to me, with this funny look on her face, like as if she didn’t believe me. “What’sa matter?” she said.
“Nothing’s the matter.” Boy, was I getting nervous. “The thing is, I had an operation very recently.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“On my wuddayacallit — my clavichord.”
“Yeah? Where the hell’s that?”
“The clavichord?” I said. “Well, actually, it’s in the spinal canal. I mean it’s quite a ways down in the spinal canal.”
“Yeah?” she said. “That’s tough.” Then she sat down on my goddam lap. “You’re cute.”
She made me so nervous, I just kept on lying my head off. “I’m still recuperating,” I told her.
“You look like a guy in the movies. You know. Whosis. You know who I mean. What the heck’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” I said. She wouldn’t get off my goddam lap.
“Sure you know. He was in that pitcher with Mel-vine Douglas? The one that was Mel-vine Douglas’s kid brother? That falls off this boat? You know who I mean.”
“No, I don’t. I go to the movies as seldom as I can.”
Then she started getting funny. Crude and all.
“Do you mind cutting it out?” I said. “I’m not in the mood, I just told you. I just had an operation.”
She didn’t get up from my lap or anything, but she gave me this terrifically dirty look. “Listen,” she said. “I was sleepin’ when that crazy Maurice woke me up. If you think I’m—”
“I said I’d pay you for coming and all. I really will. I have plenty of dough. It’s just that I’m practically just recovering from a very serious—”
“What the heck did you tell that crazy Maurice you wanted a girl for, then? If you just had a goddam operation on your goddam wuddayacallit. Huh?”
“I thought I’d be feeling a lot better than I do. I was a little premature in my calculations. No kidding. I’m sorry. If you’ll just get up a second, I’ll get my wallet. I mean it.”
She was sore as hell, but she got up off my goddam lap so that I could go over and get my wallet off the chiffonier. I took out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Thanks a lot,” I told her. “Thanks a million.”
“This is a five. It costs ten.”
She was getting funny, you could tell. I was afraid something like that would happen — I really was.
“Maurice said five,” I told her. “He said fifteen till noon and only five for a throw.”
“Ten for a throw.”
“He said five. I’m sorry — I really am — but that’s all I’m gonna shell out.”
She sort of shrugged her shoulders, the way she did before, and then she said, very cold, “Do you mind getting me my frock? Or would it be too much trouble?” She was a pretty spooky kid. Even with that little bitty voice
