Interview with a Teenaged Prostitute

http://www.oprah.com/tows/pastshows/200309/tows_past_20030925_c.jhtml

It was my first assignment and my editor wanted real, raw, heart wrenching and graphic. These were the requirements but no story idea came to me. I had writer’s block. I couldn’t believe it!

I had a deadline to meet in twenty-four hours and if I couldn’t prove myself, I’d be out of a job before I could say “spell check”. I wandered into my favorite coffee shop on
N. Main Street around 9:00 pm. hoping a cup of java and a donut might give me enough of an adrenaline rush to make my inert synapses start firing again.

While I sat stirring a little sweet-n-low into my coffee, I thought about every other deadline I’d met by the hair of my chinny chin chin in college. But that was college and this was now the real world. This deadline meant continuing my job and my ability to pay the rent. It was for real this time and I sat in muted silence concentrating on the world and its various wordly issues and still could not come up with anything.

I twisted a piece of my donut off and dunked it into my coffee. The mix of hot coffee and warm, sweet glazed donut hit my mouth and I mellowed momentarily. Licking the glaze off my fingers, I noticed a young girl walk in and up to the counter. She would have looked to be about fifteen if it weren’t for all the makeup she had on her face. Green eye shadow, black liner and red lipstick ruined her otherwise youthful freshness and gave her a somewhat older and bawdier look.

Her short skirt had a small tear in the back denim pocket, probably from a lot of wear and tear or maybe just the style of today. Her black polka dot jacket hugged her body in all its vinyl glory but looked like it failed to offer much real warmth or protection. Her bright red stilettos appeared painful to walk in. Hell, as a woman, I had never in my life attempted to walk in any heal higher than two inches and even then, I’d sometimes stumble. I was more a jeans and sneakers kind of gal. Comfort was the name of the game for me and being rather athletic, it just felt more than right to buy Nikes instead of Minolo Blahniks.

The girl ordered one of those exotic coffees that defy pronunciation and a muffin and went over to the corner bistro styled table and sat down. She placed her oversized shoulder bag over the back of her chair and with her back against the wall; she looked out the plate glass window at the people passing by in the night. I noticed a discoloration around her left eye that even makeup couldn’t quite hide. She’d been hit, maybe sometime within the last two weeks. Her painted nails were chipped and looked in great need of either a fresh manicure or at least some nail polish remover.

Although her legs were crossed, I could see the rough abrasions on the knee showing. I continued to stare covertly at her while finishing off my glazed donut, piece by piece. She devoured her muffin in record time and then sipped her frothy coffee. A couple of times, the girl looked at the cheap watch around her left wrist. The right wrist was encircled by what looked like about twenty of those cheap silver bracelets that you can buy for your kids in a Dollar General. My eyes traveled up to her hair. It was a mousy brown with some pink and green streaks painted in with that horrible Halloween hair spray. She left her hair down and while she drank her coffee, the hair swung forward to hide her face. She looked, at that moment, like she wanted to hide away from the world.

After a short time, a tall black man entered the shop. He looked like a THUG. He looked like the kind of guy you always see on the news when they’re warning the public to be on the look out for a suspect. His black doo-rag was wrapped around his head and several gold chains hung around his neck. He wore some kind of flashy looking jogging suit that wasn’t really meant for jogging and his pants hung low around his hips. A real cliché, he was. He stopped and looked around at the tables until he spotted her. Then, he walked over to her and the look in her eyes changed from sad to blank in an instant. That blank look said more to me than any words she could have uttered.

They exchanged words briefly and then she got up and walked out the door, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she went. My eyes followed her as she walked down the side-walk and disappeared around the corner. The thug stayed behind and finished off the girls coffee.

I took out my little notebook and started writing down all that I had been observing. I wondered where the girl had gone and why the thug appeared to just be sitting around. A couple of times, he made a call out on his cell phone. Other than that, he simply watched everyone in the joint, including me a couple of times. His assessment gave me the creeps and for a moment, I felt like getting up and leaving but some inner voice told me to stay; so I waited.

About thirty minutes went by and the girl came back into the coffee shop. I saw her through the window when she stepped from around the side of the building. It had started raining in the last ten minutes and I could see she had got caught in it. Her hair hung in lank plaits around her small head and she kept her eyes down. She walked in and right past me and I saw that her lipstick was smeared nearly off her lips and her legs were shaking as she proceeded to the corner table.

The thug stood up and held out his hand. She handed over some cash that was wadded up in her small fist. He counted the cash quickly and didn’t seem happy with whatever number he came up with. His hand came up lightning fast and smacked the girl right across her face. Strangely, no one turned around or said or did anything to help this girl. More muffled angry words were exchanged and the thug marched out of the shop.

It took almost five minutes before the girl moved and then she went straight into the ladies restroom. I took that moment to get up and walk in behind her. Inside, there were two enclosed stalls and two sinks. The bathroom had a white tile floor and brown and beige walls. It was fairly clean for a public facility. I didn’t see the girl so I knew she had to be in the stall with the closed door. I waited.

The door opened as the toilet flushed and the small, broken girl walked out to the sink. I stood at the other one applying a little chapstick. As she washed off her hands, her eyes lifted and met mine in the mirror. I smiled at her. Her eyes dropped down again, shame written all over her little face.

I said “Hello”. She mumbled a quick “Hi”. Then my mouth started running on its own.

“I’ve been watching you tonight” I said. “He hit you. Why?”

She looked like she wasn’t going to answer. I stood between her and the only door out. I watched as her thoughts marched across her face. I saw her deciding whether to be honest, bitchy, or just run. My heart almost broke at the sight she presented to me. She looked like a battered and cornered squirrel; a wild animal that had been abused by the humans around it.

She must have noticed the sympathy in my look. I never could hide what I felt. Tears welled up in her overly made-up eyes and spilled down her cheeks. One cheek was still red from being smacked so hard. Answering tears spilled out of the corners of my own eyes and she began telling me a story that left me horrified.

She had run away in a fit of anger at her parents one night nearly a year ago. Not knowing where she would go, she hopped the first bus out of her small town and ended up in the big city. She had no money and no where to go and about three hours into her arrival, the thug had approached her. He was nice to her. He listened to her story over pizza and coke at a local eatery, his treat, and when it was all said and done, he had offered her his place to use so she could call her parents, tell them where she was and wait for them while they came to get her. She was scared and alone and just naïve enough to believe his lie about being an outreach counselor for troubled teens. He even showed her his card (a fake, of course) so her fear gave way to trust and she followed him home.
http://suicidehotlines.com/national.html

Once there, the very minute she was inside, he hit her; over and over again. He was much larger and stronger than she and so she could not even begin to protect herself. When she could no longer see clearly or scream, he locked her in a bedroom where he kept her for the next three months. There were bars on the windows and the door remained locked. He took her clothes from her and she was fed once a day. During her first two weeks locked inside the bedroom, he came in and raped her. This went on for almost a month and then in the second month, he brought other men in. These men had paid for the privilege of raping her.

By the sixth month, mal-nourished, broken and scared for her life, she started cooperating with him. He told her if she ever ran from him, he’d find her and kill her and her parents. When he knew he had completely brainwashed her, he started taking her out on the streets and pimping her out. She been a prostitute ever since.

“It’s not true, you know” I said. “What’s not true?” she answered.

“He won’t try to track you down if you leave. He's just a bully. You can disappear back home. You can tell the police. Hell, you can go to the police right now. I'll take you!”

“You don’t understand. He’ll kill me if I leave”. She looked so earnest and so frightened at the same time.

“He won’t” I said, shaking my head.

“I don’t have any money. All I’m allowed is the few bucks he gives me for coffee. Besides, he’ll be coming back soon”. She looked down at her chipped nails. I could see the resignation to her situation in the posture of her body.

I couldn’t stand it. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and called information for the number to the local police department. I asked for Sergeant John Bailey. He was a regular source of information for me during my college years here and I knew he would be able to help. When he answered, I explained what was going on.

Almost an hour later, I sat at my little table again, with a new cup of coffee and the girl was back in her corner. Her face was cleaned of all makeup and she looked fifteen again except for the clothes but she did have a pair of old converse high tops in that big bag of hers. I had advised her to put them on and throw the stilettos away in the bathroom trash can.

She sat silently, fear all over her. More patrons had entered the coffee shop and sat down to their papers and coffee. It was almost 11:30 p.m. when the thug walked back in. The rain had stopped and he looked less than pleased to see his little star prostitute sitting there looking like a little girl again.

He walked over to her and this time, I listened more intently at his words. He wanted to know why she didn’t have on her “game face” anymore. She didn’t reply so he just threw his hands up in the air and proceeded to tell her she had a john waiting around back and she was to be really nice to him because he had paid up front. If she messed up or back talked him, he’d beat her to a pulp.

The girl got up and grabbed her bag. She walked out the door and went around the corner. As soon as she was out of sight, five undercover police officers stood up from their tables and rushed the thug where he sat. Two of them held him down as he fought to get away and one of them put the cuffs on his wrists. The fourth radioed the “john” out back (another undercover officer) and the fifth, Sergeant John Bailey, began to read the thug his rights.

I stood up, exchanged looks with the Sarge, and then I walked outside and around the corner to the girl, whose name, I knew by now, was Tracy. A squad car was waiting to take her to the station where her parents would be notified and once her statement had been taken, she would be sent home. Because of my connection and my nosy interference, special arrangements were being made for Tracy to receive help once she gets home so maybe, just maybe, she could live a normal life again.

She was crying when we hugged goodbye. She thanked me for being there and for helping her. She said she’d never leave home again and after seeing the traumatized and haunting look in her eyes, I knew that was a true statement. She climbed in the back seat of the car and gave me a small wave. The car drove off and out of my sight. I prayed that, in time, she’d be able to sleep at night without fear.

I made my deadline, as you can see. My job is secure, for now. Somehow, I’d managed to save a life while struggling to pursue my own. It seems those sayings about “one person making a difference” and “being in the right place at the right time” aren’t just expressions. They’re profound facts.

Authors note: If you are reading this and you find yourself in a similar situation or you just need help, please don't hesitate, out of fear or misplaced loyalty, to reach out and ask for help. No situation is hopeless. The more difficult the decision to get out of a bad situation, the more right it is to do it. Doing the right thing is never easy and it takes tremendous courage but there is always a willing, helping hand to guide you. Check either link listed for help or call 911 and report your situation. Good luck and God Bless.