5

PAINT CHIPS

Story by Susie Finkbeiner Illustration by Jackie Dumbleton

’ d been walking the track for over a month. It didn’ t take me long to figure out where to go to meet the men who paid higher prices to use me. I learned how to look at them, what to say. Every day, before going out, I wondered about my future. If I even had one. How long could I do the drugs before overdosing. When the date would come that got pleasure from strangling me. How long I had before Mack got tired of me and dumped me under a bridge. No one would care about one more dead whore. Every once in a while a girl disappeared or rumors spread about how she was murdered or moved away. Sometimes, they did it to punish the girls. Other times, they moved them or killed them because someone was poking around. Asking too many questions. Trying to rescue their daughter or friend.

I tried to mind my own business. I didn’ t become friends with the other girls in the motel. Early on I realized that it was important to switch up dealers and neighborhoods just to keep myself safe. Survival wasn’ t easy. But I knew I had to do it by myself.

One night a man pulled up and rolled down the window of his SUV.

“ Hey, you want a date?” I asked, flipping my hair and swaying my hips. I wore a pouty smile.“ Get in,” the man said, unlocking the doors.“ What ya want, handsome?” I asked, climbing in.“ What all do you do?” He licked his lips, ogled my body.“ Everything,” I said.“ Anything you want.”“ Tell me.” He wrinkled his nose. I listed everything I did and how much I charged.

He touched me as I spoke.“ Hey, I get paid first,” I said.“ Sounds fair.” He handed me a few twenty-dollar bills. As soon as I put the money in my pocket the door opened and someone pulled me out.“ You’ re under arrest for solicitation,” a woman in uniform said as she handcuffed me.

She stuffed me in the back of a squad car and drove me to the station. She glanced back at me every few minutes. Her eyes squinted.

At the police station they took my mug shot, fingerprinted me and told me to sit in a small room. The officer who arrested me entered the room. She sat on the edge of the table, looking down at me.

“ Can we get a bigger room?” I asked.“ I’ m a little claustrophobic.”

“ Nope,” she answered, flipping through a file.

“ What’ s your name?”“ You want my real name or my street name?”“ What do you think?”“ My name’ s Dorothea Schmidt.”“ How old are you?”“ Thirteen.”“ A little young to be out selling yourself, huh?” she asked, harsh voiced.“ Walking the track like a big girl, huh?”

“ Yeah. I really enjoy my job,” I said, rolling my eyes.“ How long have you been a prostitute?”“ I don’ t know. Almost a year maybe.”“ What’ s your pimp’ s name?”“ I don’ t have a pimp.”“ Really.” She pointed at the tattoo on my arm.“ You don’ t happen to work for Mack? Big fat guy?”

“ I don’ t know what you’ re talking about.” I paused.“ Seriously, lady. Do you really think that a kid like me wakes up one day and just decides that she wants to be a hooker?”

“ Oh, honey,” she said, her tone patronizing.“ Do you know how many times a day we hear that?”

“ Then maybe you should start listening.” I leaned forward.“ If I stopped doing this, they would kill me. Do you even understand that?”

“ Well, you don’ t look like you have a leash around your neck.” She pointed to the track marks on my arms. The proof of my heroin habit.“ And I see you aren’ t too good to party.”

“ I’ m not talking to you anymore.” I folded my arms across my chest.“ So either lock me up or let me go.”

I spent the night in jail. They released me before the sun broke the darkness of the morning. That day Mack beat me up for not bringing him enough money. He didn’ t care that I’ d been arrested. He told me I should have been more careful. ◆

susiefinkbeiner. com / paint-chips