First few pages...Meeting Maggie

‘Would you ever get somebody's name tattooed on you?'
Maggie's voice was like music to my ears. I'd been sat alone in Embers for almost an hour, I had read the menu back to front at least three times, and been coaxed into ordering a bottle of wine by the pushy waitress. Two glasses later, Maggie arrived.
‘Um...I don't know.'
Sitting down, and lighting a cigarette, Maggie sighed at my non committal answer.
‘I had this client today, and he was actin' really coy. I mean, I'm used to this...especially with first timers. But this guy, well, he was no first timer. In fact, he's a regular on the books-'
‘Excuse me miss, you can't smoke in here!'
The pushy waitress had returned, and was looking in horror at Maggie's cigarette. The ash, was gathering at the bottom of the second wine glass.
‘Ok..ok!' Maggie said in annoyance ‘Don't get your panties in a twist!'
She stubbed the rest of the cigarette out inside the glass, and passed it to the waitress with a false smile.
‘Jeez, I hate places like this.' She snarled after the waitress had left.
‘Maggie, you wanted to meet here. It was your choice!'
‘Yeah, well I am meeting a client at 8, and he lives just five minutes from here. A girl's gotta eat, and I don't have time to get any place else. Don't complain Bertie, you're getting a free meal!'
It was useless pointing out that I hadn't actually complained. It would have been a waste of time...and we didn't have much as it was.
Five minutes later, after our orders had been taken, Maggie continued her story about her client.
‘So anyway, this guy...he was bein' real shy. I couldn't understand it, because like I said, he's a regular. But whenever I tried to take his shirt off, he pulled away! And well, you can imagine, this ain't the usual procedure. I was there, totally naked and he wouldn't even take his damn shirt off!'
Maggie is on the books of Scarlett Alabama. A ‘high class service for the Alabama elite'. Basically, she's a call girl.
‘After almost half an hour, I was gettin' kinda frustrated. He only booked me for an hour, and by this point...well, I'm normally on round two. So, I ripped it.'
‘You ripped his shirt?'
‘Yeah, I ripped it. I mean, I figured that he wanted the dominant approach, because some guys like that! But I knew I'd done the wrong thing, when he started cryin'.'
‘He cried??'
‘He sure did,' she said, drinking from the wine bottle, ‘Big fat tears. And at first I thought, maybe it was like a really expensive shirt. But then I saw it.'
‘Saw what?'
‘The tattoo.'


The waitress brought us our food, as Maggie explained to me how this guy had his wife's name tattooed right across his chest.
‘Isobel, in huge fucking letters,' she said ‘Turns out, that's the name of his wife who died last year. He got it when he was drunk on a bachelor night in Vegas a couple of weeks ago. He got so depressed at one of his buddies getting married, that he trailed off alone to this 24hour tattoo place on the strip.'
‘God, that's so sad.' I said. ‘It must be so hard for him.'
‘Yeah, whatever. The point is, the guy needs to get his rocks off some way or another, right? I'm sure old Isobel wouldn't deny him that. Before he got the tattoo, he used to see one of the girls, fuck, and leave. He'd put her to the back of his mind, just for an hour or so. But now, well he can't do that can he? Because every time his shirt comes off, there's her name. He will never be able to forget her.'
‘Is that such a bad thing? I mean, this was his wife Maggie.'
‘Look, they were meant to love and cherish each other until death did them part right? Well, she's dead. So, he should part with her now.'
‘God Maggie, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you had no heart.'
‘You can't afford heart in my job baby,' she said with a wink. ‘I'm not saying that he should marry somebody else, have 5 kids and throw his wedding ring into the river. But come on, he's only human. We all need affection from time to time, and he will never be able to lose the guilt while her name is across his chest. And also, which girl wants to think about the dead wife of the guy she's screwin'? It's a total passion killer.'
‘Does he have a hand?'
‘What?' she answered, looking confused.
‘Hands? Does he have them?'
‘Of course he has fucking hands. What kind of dumb question is that?'
‘Well then, he should learn how to use them. He can get himself off. I'm sorry Maggie, but if I died. I don't think I would want my husband to go and fuck somebody else. Tattoo or no tattoo.'
We quickly finished our dinner, and Maggie left in a hurry for Mr 8'o clock.
I hailed down a taxi, and went back to our little house in Tuscaloosa.
I lived in Maggie's basement. I moved in on my second day in Alabama, after seeing her ad in the free newspaper. The same newspaper which protected me from the rain, during my first night in Alabama.
I was 19, and I left home after my Momma moved in Dad Number 6. He was an alcoholic bum from Tennessee, who seduced her in a rodeo bar. There were no hard feelings when I left, I couldn't face hurting my Mom, but I couldn't stick around to watch somebody else do it. Not again.
So I got a greyhound bus, and told Momma that I was staying with a friend in Alabama. She saw me to the station, and kissed me goodbye. I could see it in her eyes that she knew I was lying, but she was too afraid to question it. Just as I was too afraid to tell.
My plan was flawed in that I only had $30 with me. It was enough to eat, and to get where I needed to. But it wasn't enough for a motel.


So, I found the cleanest bus shelter I could, and settled down for the night.
The next morning, I noticed Maggie's ad in the paper.

Roomie wanted.
Female, who can hold
a conversation, with GSOH.

It struck me as a little bizarre; it sounded more like a personal ad than anything else. And there was no mention of rent. But desperate for somewhere to live, I dialled the number, crossing my fingers that I wasn't about to speak to a humorous pervert with room in his bed.
I was relieved when a female voice answered. Her speech was slurred, and after asking me what ‘the hell kind of time it was', she asked me to go round at 2.
So I did, I used the last of my money to get a cab, and at exactly 2pm I was knocking on Maggie's front door.
The house was a small detached place on the corner of the street, the garden was untidy and there was an old bath lying against the fence. But for some reason, I liked it.
After knocking several times, Maggie answered. To say I was taken aback by her would be an understatement. She stood in the doorway, her red hair dishevelled, in nothing but pink panties. One arm held the door open; the other half-heartedly trying to cover her chest.
‘Who are you?' she asked with a scowl.
‘Um...I'm Roberta. We spoke on the phone. I'm here about the room.'
She looked me up and down, and then glanced at my bags.
‘I thought I said three?'
‘No. I'm pretty sure you said two...'
‘Fine,' she sighed, ‘Gimme five minutes.'
She slammed the door shut, and I sat on the step. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a big guy with glasses came out. Without meeting my eye, he rushed out of the garden. His face was red, and his shirt was buttoned up wrong.
‘Ok, let's get this show on the road,' came Maggie's voice from behind me.
I stood up to face her;
‘I'm so sorry if I interrupted something there. I was-'
‘What did you say your name was?'
‘Roberta.'
‘Yeah, I'm gonna call you Bertie.'
‘Right, erm-'
‘It's much more funky than Roberta. I went to this diner on Daytona Beach once, that was called Bertie's. Have you been there?'
‘No, I haven't.'
‘Hm, too bad. Anyway, come on in.'
She led me into what she said was the ‘lounge'. It consisted of a shabby old sofa, which was practically falling apart. And a small TV, which sat on top of a milk crate.

She sat on the sofa, and patted the space next to her. I sat down, and smiled nervously.
‘Ok, so...you're not like a cop or anything are you?'
‘Erm...no.' I said, wondering how much more bizarre this whole scenario would get.
‘Good. Right, well basically...I'm looking for company more than anything. Do you like Bruce Willis?'
‘Yeah. I guess-'
‘I love him, which do you think is the best Die Hard? Put them in order.'
‘I really-'
‘Come on, it's not a difficult question!'
‘Ok, ok. The first one was best, hands down. Then number three, and then...well, I didn't think number two was that great.'
I watched Maggie's face as she processed my answer. Wondering nervously if she was an absolute loon. To my relief, she began to smile.
‘Great. Great! I had to ask. So, shall we go look at your living quarters?'

My living quarters were Maggie's basement. The wallpaper was an 80's nightmare, and the ‘pink' carpet had some very questionable stains. However, the bed was a double, which was a welcome change to the concrete I'd slept on the night before.
‘So,' she asked, lighting a cigarette, ‘What do you think?'
‘I think,' I said, taking another look around, ‘that this is really nice.'
‘Nice?' she sniggered, ‘Honey, this isn't nice. But it's free, so it doesn't have to be.'
‘Free?'
I had to check I'd heard her right.
‘Yeah. Do you think I'm gonna charge you to live in this dive? I'm looking for company, not a second income.'
‘That's really generous, and well, I'm not working myself at the moment, so this is pretty perfect. Just out of interest though, you said you're not looking for a second income? Well...how exactly do you make your first?'
Maggie bit her lip, and took another deep pull on her cigarette. One hand was propping her up against the wall, and her robe was falling open.
‘Ok. Well, if you must know. I'm a call girl.'
For some reason, this didn't shock me as much as you would think. I guess, I was already learning to expect the unexpected where Maggie was concerned. But then a frightening thought occurred to me. I took another look around the dingy basement, and then back at Maggie.
‘Wait a minute. You're not trying to...pimp me, are you?'
I mean, it would make sense. The discreet and somewhat mysterious ad, in the newspaper would only have gotten a response from somebody as desperate as I was. The free room, the seediness of it all. But to my utter confusion, Maggie began laughing hysterically at my question.
‘Baby' she said, gasping for breath, ‘do I look like a pimp?'
I had never met a pimp, which was surprising given some of the colourful men my momma had brought home, so how was I to know what one would look like?
‘Bertie, if I was a pimp, I'd be living in a nicer place than this.'

That night, we went to Bob's Beer Barn for dinner. A tacky steakhouse, which had cheap beer and loud music. It was Maggie's treat. And despite the gristly meat, and flat beer; I enjoyed myself a hell of a lot.
It was during this dinner, Maggie explained more about how she'd come to be a call girl. She too had left home, two years before, at the age of eighteen.
‘Yeah, it was the typical story. Abusive daddy, crackhead momma...blah blah blah. So as soon as I was old enough, I got outta there. Left em both to self destruct,' she paused to take another large swig of beer, ‘Anyway, I came down here and I didn't have a fucking clue what to do, I had no plan.'
I waited for her to continue, but she slammed down her glass and looked at me.
‘Why you lookin at me like that?'
‘Like what?' I asked nervously.
‘Like everything I say is so god damn important! You haven't even touched your beer!'
She gestured to my full glass, and I realised that she was right. During the whole time Maggie had been speaking, I had been totally absorbed in her story. Which, I guess was kind of strange considering it wasn't so different from my own.
‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘It's just been a long day. I think I'm just enjoying getting lost in somebody else's life.
She peered at my suspiciously, but then took another sip of beer and carried on.
‘I found work in a bar. It was a quiet place, nice customers, it would have been perfect. But the owner, Carl, he was such a bastard. I worked there for a year, and I don't think we ever said one nice word to each other. He was a real shady character; always closing some deal or another.'
Our food arrived; Maggie had ordered a huge steak, with cheese fries. And she was on her fourth beer. For such a little lady, she had a big appetite.
‘God,' she said, stuffing fries into her mouth, ‘I need this. I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast yesterday; I've had ten clients since then. I had seven yesterday, and three this morning. It's exhausting.'
‘Yeah,' I say, trying to be nonchalant ‘I can imagine.'
Well, no...I couldn't imagine. Up until then I'd only ever slept with one guy. His name was Vince, and we had ten minutes in the back of his truck one night. It was highly forgettable, and certainly not exhausting.
‘Anyway,' she continued ‘one morning I got a phone call from one of the guys I worked with at the bar. Carl was dead. He'd been involved in some drug thing, which ended up with him being murdered. So after that the bar went into liquidation. I had no money, and couldn't find a job anywhere.
Then I ran into this girl Susie, who I'd been friends with at the bar. And it was her who introduced me to Mrs P.
‘Who's Mrs P?' I said, between bites of my burger.
‘She owns Scarlett Alabama.'