Subway

 

I

 

“Why do we work?” A repetitive, clinging phrase ran across the walls of a subway train in downtown Boston, so nastily adhesive that Melanie’s brain couldn’t get rid of its teasing, annoying penetration. “Why do we work?…” In fact, why? Melanie was standing in the middle of the train, holding on to the upper handrail and squeezed securely between an old lady in jogging pants and sneakers, loaded with a backpack and two grocery bags, and a fat black guy wearing a headscarf, hooded T-shirt, huge yellow boots, and low-hanging jeans that seemed to fall off his buttocks. Melanie Scott was tall, almost six feet, good-looking and - we can dare to state this! - an attractive blonde in her twenties, with a skinny face showing multiple traces of the excessive use of makeup, green eyes, thin but passionate lips and a miniature, though quite seductive, nose. She was wearing very little, if any, makeup at that moment, because she had an evening off and was returning home after having done some shopping.

She was renting a luxury loft apartment on Newbury Street that was running her almost three thousand bucks per month; but she could afford it. Wasn’t it also part of the reason she worked? Her attire included fashionable jeans, high-heeled Italian shoes and a light-blue blouse, with her tummy left half-naked. It was summer and steaming hot in Boston; so, why not? She had a fine pearl necklace on her neck: to tell the truth, she couldn’t remember who the “he” was who gave her it. Lately they all have been mixing up together in her mind, forming a sort of a monstrous, infernal, animal creature, which due to some unclear circumstances bears the name of a “man”.

She looked around for a moment and saw that the black guy was staring at the curves of her upper body. “What a shameless jerk,” she thought, and looked back at him in the hope he’d turn away. She realized, though, that she still felt a certain pleasure from being looked at, from being desired, voluptuously desired. The subway car was dirty and smelled bad. She felt something touch her left foot. “That’s too much,” she thought and glanced down, ready to yell, but it was the old lady’s grocery bag that slid into her because of movement of the train. “How nervous I have become!” she thought.

Melanie was not a “feminist” kind of girl. Since her high-school years she knew that men liked her, that they were ready to do her favors in exchange for her attention or company. So why miss the chance?! Melanie went to college as her mother insisted, had some good times there, but couldn’t see too many prospects in life for her when the graduation parties hangover faded away. What would she do? Work in an office? Reply to phone calls and send faxes? Receive customers in a shop or in a hotel? Big chore, low pay. However, her mom was pushing her to “settle down”. She said she wouldn’t send her checks any longer, once Melanie graduated from college. Her mom was a pastry chef at a four-star hotel in one of the western suburbs, a woman in her mid-fifties, divorced ten years ago, and was just about to pay off the mortgage for their shabby, paper-like three-floor house painted poisonous violet. At the same time, her daughter’s tuition and maintenance costs during the four college years had eaten almost all Mrs. Scott’s savings by the time of Melanie’s graduation, so she forced herself to be firm and demanded that her daughter work. Melanie attended a bartender course and found a job in a small bar in Back Bay.

She worked shifts, usually five to five. It was hard to get Saturday, because everyone wanted to be placed on that day of the week. They knew that you could make on tips almost four times as much as on a regular day: more people would come on Saturdays, and these people would get more drunk. What a stupid world, she thought sometimes, in which everyone always goes out exactly on the same day! Why couldn’t the guys be more entrepreneurial and take us out on a different day? Well, they work Monday to Friday, that’s what they always say. And they don’t have to get up hell knows how early on Sunday, so they can dedicate some more time to us on Saturday night. But she would forget about all of this and continue serving drinks, making cocktails, breathing in cigarette smoke and subjecting her ears to the deafening noise of a hundred drunk voices shouting together at the same time within the small space of the establishment.

Then, one day, she was at the Filene’s Basement department store hunting for some bargain clothes that would make her look more pretty and probably earn more tips at the bar. Somewhere there, among skirts and panties, she suddenly heard a female voice coming from behind her back: “Excuse me!” She turned around. A lady, elegantly dressed, around forty years old, was facing her and looking straight into her eyes. Yes, she was talking to Melanie.

“Excuse me,” repeated the lady. “May I ask you a question?” Melanie’s face expressed surprise, and she nodded.

“I am the manager of a modeling studio,” said the lady. “You are tall, and you look pretty.  Would you like to come for a tryout?” Melanie hesitated. She remembered her mother had advised her against accepting offers from strangers. “But she is a woman,” Melanie thought; “she can’t do me any harm.”

“You don’t have to decide now, dear,” the lady added, having noticed her confusion. “Here is my card. Call me when you feel like.” The lady left a card in her hand and almost instantly disappeared from her view. Stumbled, Melanie stared at the card. “Angelina Lorenzo. ANGELINA Modeling Studio,” it read. She put the card into a back pocket of her jeans and, perplexed, walked out to the street.

Melanie thought about it for about a week, and never could flee from the idea. “After all, why not?” something kept saying inside her. “I don’t risk anything. If I don’t like, I can always leave.” And, most importantly, an idea of being a model revived in her heart the girlish dreams about famous actresses, surrounded with luxury and glamour, and about the most handsome clothes and jewelry, that would adorn her body if she got to be one. Now, it seemed like a chance, maybe a unique chance in her entire life.

So a week after that mysterious encounter passed, she called. The lady was polite and inspiring trust in the exact same fashion as at Filene’s. They set up an appointment. Melanie arrived at the studio, walked in various ways across the room and danced to several different tunes that Mrs. Lorenzo put on a stereo system. Melanie was asked to call in the end of the week and, when called, learned that she was accepted.

Melanie felt very happy at that moment. Her dreams seemed to start coming true, finally. Melanie called her mother over the phone and was unpleasantly surprised that Mrs. Scott didn’t share her excitement. Melanie didn’t care: it was decided. She dropped the job at the bar in anticipation of the future high wages, promised by Ms. Lorenzo. For now, she had to attend a one-month long training course taught by Ms. Lorenzo at her studio. She didn’t have the money to pay for it, but Ms. Lorenzo graciously agreed to postpone her payment, that would be deducted from her future salary.

The lessons were dull and repetitive, mostly about walking, again and again, and also about keeping the chin high and thighs swinging. There were eight more people in the class, all of them middle-class girls. After a month, Ms. Lorenzo told her students to prepare for a “final exam” that would be extremely important for whether or not they would be hired for a new fashion show scheduled in Boston the coming spring. On the day of the exam, a gentleman came to the studio, dressed in a dark suit and a tie. He introduced himself as a producer from Canada, an old friend and colleague of Ms. Lorenzo. The girls tried to do their best, walking and dancing. They even presented a march in underwear. The man, though, remained silent and just watched, never changing the expression of his face, not for a single moment during the whole thing. He then thanked Ms. Lorenzo and everyone and left, having instructed them to wait until they hear from her about the final selection results. The days stretched long, while Melanie was sitting at home and waiting. She was impatient, because she had to pay her rent for the Back Bay apartment she was sharing with a Thai girl that was going to Suffolk and, most importantly, to pay for the training course, for which she had signed a promissory note. She needed a job as quickly as possible.

Finally, Ms. Lorenzo called. There was a short piece of silence on the line. “I am very sorry to say,” said Ms. Lorenzo with an air of compassion and sighed, “that although your performance was very strong, you did not make the shortlist for the coming show. But I might have another job for you, in the meanwhile. Let’s meet tomorrow at noon at the entrance to the Prudential Center. Nothing illegal, don’t worry.”

Melanie agreed. What else could she do? She was feeling completely devastated: “Why? How could it happen, if she was always such a strong candidate?”

 

II

 

Jimmy Scott was not Melanie’s sibling. He was just her classmate in high school. However, the things used to be turning romantic between them. They kissed, went out together for a while, and then split. The classmates couldn’t help teasing them saying that they had already changed their last names before they were married. Jim was a robust, average-height young man, he liked baseball and reading about the polar expeditions of Robert Scott, who, as he would fantasize in his kid years, was definitely one of his great grandfathers. Jim also went to college and was much more fortunate than Melanie in getting a good job. He was not sure if it was because he was more eager and dedicated, or had a GPA slightly higher than average, or because he was a man and it still mattered somewhat even in the United States, where it has arrived to be a real embarrassment not be a woman, a gay, a black Hispanic, or at least a handicapped. In brief, Jim was offered a position of a junior associate at a renowned financial services company headquartered in downtown Boston.

Everyone considered that a success. His friends and acquaintances were calling him to congratulate. His parents took him out to a dinner at a fancy restaurant in Cambridge, close to Harvard Square. His father told him that he was very proud of him and toasted his future brilliant career. “You’ll have to work hard, my son,” said his father. “But it’s through hard work that people become successful, they become leaders, and they make big bucks.” And everyone cheered. Big bucks. Big? So far, it was nothing big. His family hadn’t been able to pay his tuition upfront, so he took a student loan that now had to be paid back from his salary. He also got tired of dorms and shared apartments, so he rented a cozy studio in one of those brick buildings on sloping streets of Beacon Hill. The realtors were charging him twelve hundred a month just for the rental, and in addition he had to pay his utility bills (especially the oil heat that was just eating money in winter), cell phone and to buy all the furniture for the place when he moved in. He still couldn’t afford a car in Boston, mainly because of parking costs. So, he was also doomed to plunge at least twice a day into this infernal, dirty and full of clashing metallic noise subway, listening to the annoying announcements about “no smoking, please” and “thank you for riding the MBTA”.

The workplace produced a twofold feeling in Jim. On the one hand, he was proud of his job. He had to wear a suit, a white shirt and a silk tie every day and his self-esteem was flattered by the consciousness of having an affiliation to the “important business”, to negotiating and signing multimillion-dollar deals and, more generally, to the world of corporate finance, which, as everyone in his industry likes to believe, “rules all other worlds in the human society”. On the other hand, he definitely liked going home in the evening. He definitely felt relieved every time he was crossing the office threshold, done for the day. The work was definitely a routine that had lost its initial fascination and appeal after a month or so. His position and the responsibility entrusted to him were definitely low, and his opinion definitely didn’t count for too much. His boss definitely wanted him to be complacent, conforming and serviceable, almost servile. He wouldn’t have ever imagined his job like this. He started suffering from a heavy doubt that everything around him was a fake, a soap bubble. His fat boss who always talked loud on the phone and shouted at the employees. The calculations he was making, attached to his laptop screen for hours and hours. The papers he was printing, carrying from one office to another and then throwing into trash. White, virgin white paper. Trees cut somewhere in Brazilian rainforest; but who cares! We have dollars to pay for it. We are doing big things here. We are tough, we are running the world.

His office was located on the 31st floor of a God knows how tall building. They are stacked together in Boston’s Financial District like herrings in a barrel, all glittering with glass light-reflecting walls. His office was nothing special, just like other offices on the thirty floors below him and so many above: white interiors, standardized hardwood-finished office furniture, laptops, printers, fax machines, presentation boards and trash bins for paper to be recycled. Coffee-making machines for lunch breaks. And, of course, overtime hours without pay, whenever the boss deems necessary. “There should be a corporate culture,” he liked to say. “We are like a big family. Each of you should be loyal to the company, be a member of a family. And in reward for your loyalty and hard work, I will assign you bonuses at the end of the year.” In a few words, it was no fun: it was just work as it is meant to be.

For the first several months Jim couldn’t even think of anything else: so tired he was getting at work. On weekdays he would wake up at six in the morning in order to be in the office at eight and would normally stay there until seven or eight in the evening, coming back home around nine. Then he would eat something, watch TV and go to bed. On weekends he would visit his parents who lived in the Eastern Massachusetts or hanged out with friends at some bar until late on Saturday night, recovering from it during the whole following Sunday. He even started thinking of getting a girlfriend again. Last time it was in college, in his sophomore year. She was pretty, but silly enough to mess with other boys at the same time, so they split.

Actually, among all the girls he met in his life, he always remembered Melanie. He had never really been in love with her, but had always felt something for her, as for “someone special”, as people used to say. They didn’t keep in contact deliberately, but occasional news about each other reached them from time to time. Melanie knew, for example, what job he was doing. He also knew that she was serving drinks at the bar, when one of his friends mentioned to him once that she quit. “Well, you must be sure our lovely Melly has found something better, pal,” his friend said with a somewhat malicious intonation. “Guess who I heard she’s employed now with? Give up? “Private Angels” escort service. Sounds expensive, doesn’t it? Letting rich folks take her out for a few hundred bucks a night! And a few hundred more, of course, if they want something more than company.”

 

III

 

The train jerked and stopped. “Park Street,” a remote voice announced through the wheezing loudspeaker. Melanie swam out onto the platform; she had to change lines here. And suddenly she saw Jim. He must also have been commuting from work. At first she thought she’d rather get lost in the crowd pretending she hadn’t noticed him at all. In fact, so probably he’d rather do too. It was the first time they met after he heard of her new “situation” some time ago. The talk would be awkward; they both knew it. But there was no escape: the crowd pushed them and put them face-to-face.

“Hi,” said Melanie reluctantly, without looking him into the eyes. “Hi,” he replied and broke off. He suddenly felt slightly dizzy. He was seeing the ads from the Yellow Pages, seeing them so clearly just as if they were blinking in front of his eyes. “Discreet and confidential… College cuties working their way through school… Travelers checks accepted,” the ads were saying. “OK,” he thought, “even travelers checks. Very well.” He breathed deeply and said abruptly: “Melanie, is this true? Just tell me: yes or no, please.”

 “This what?” She lifted her head in a sharp motion and looked at him defiantly.

“You know WHAT, Melanie!” Jim’s eyes opened wide, full of tears and fury. Melanie pulled back and then suddenly exclaimed:

“And you? I know WHAT, Jim, yes, I do! I know what you are in! Doing useless things! Burning like hell in your ten by ten foot cell! Pleasing your boss so that you get your bonus and your promotion! Isn’t it what you are working for? Isn’t it what YOU are doing?!”

She saw Jim appalled and struck by her affront, as she saw he couldn’t counter-argue. So she went on. She decided to tell him, to tell the people on the subway, to tell the world what she has come to, what she has thought of for so many times when she encountered contempt and disrespect for what she was working in. And, immediately, she stopped caring anymore about what was going on around. People, trains, subway – all seemed to fade away for an instant, to dissolve in the air, to stop existing.

“You are a prostitute, Jim!” she yelled with all the strength of her lungs. “Didn’t know that, yeah? You sell what you have; I sell what I have. You hate the job, but you do it to get paid, and sometimes you even get a little pleasure on the side. I hate the job, but I do it to get paid and sometimes – yes, why not? – I even get a little pleasure on the side. You are a prostitute, Jim! You ARE prostituting! And you will be for your lifetime! You’ve already accepted it, because ‘so is the life’!”

Another train came, and the people who had just been troubled by the scene quickly became indifferent to it or, maybe, many of them actually felt a great relief on the appearance of a “legitimate” cause that liberated them from the necessity to witness such a personal and embarrassing occurrence on the subway platform. “You are just ashamed to acknowledge your prostitution,” Melanie tried to add, but no one heard that already. Daunting metallic noise filled the time and space completely, the crowd carried Jim away from her, and she totally lost sight of him. She started to cry. She sat down on the damn dirty floor and covered her face with hands. No one seemed to be noticing her, though, nor tried to comfort her; not even dared to look in her direction, as if she were an outcast. Maybe that was because they heard what she said and because somewhere in the depth of their souls, dull from everyday routines, they felt that they were prostituting, too.

 

----------------------- The End ----------------------