Everything I needed to know about life I learned in a whorehouse.
Before you leap to any conclusions, it's not what you think. Even though home was a rambling pink and purple Victorian called Mona's, the self-styled Best Whorehouse in Pahrump, Nevada, I didn't work there.
I grew up there.
My name is Lucky. And, to my continuing consternation, Mona, the brothels' namesake and madam, is my mother. I arrived when my mother was fifteen—an 'oh shit' rather than your normal, run-of-the-mill, 'oops.' And knowing I was the product of poor protection did little to instill confidence.
For that, it took our bouncer, Lenny the Slicer.
To know Lenny was to underestimate him.
Stretched to his fullest, Lenny barely reached five foot three. Whippet thin, perpetually twitchy, with small slits for eyes, thin, dark hair he wore slicked back, and a sneer, Lenny made his life's work out of being overlooked. As the lone guy standing between one of my 'aunts' and a whacked-out john, Lenny looked like an easy mark—a misperception he had no trouble correcting.
Lenny's 'equalizer', as he called it, was an eleven-inch shiv strapped to his calf. He said the blade was slightly shorter than his pecker. I believed him.
As you can imagine, I gave Lenny a wide birth for most of my childhood—he wasn't exactly the warm fuzzy type. But all that changed in seventh grade.
Being the only female child of a former hooker and current madam in a small town in the middle of Nowhere, Nevada wasn't exactly a cakewalk. It's a funny thing, prostitution: most folks rail against it, or turn-up their noses, and all the while they are livin' fine off the tax revenue generated through county licensure. To say hypocrisy was born in my little corner of the universe might be stretching things, but it sure burrowed in like a tick on a dog. And somehow, I became the lightening rod for all those mixed emotions.
Jesus found Pahrump when I was in the seventh grade. Jesus himself didn't actually show up, that might have made the news. Instead, He sent his minion. Reverend Watkins showed up the second week in April, just in time for Easter. Every Wednesday evening at the Elk's Lodge and twice on Sundays at a vacant space in the strip mall, he railed against sin—more specifically against prostitution. Mind you, I never attended one of these verbal lynchings, but word got back to me.
While the Reverend ran his mouth at every opportunity, the Missus lived life as if she'd taken a vow of silence and poverty. If she ever spoke, now that would've made the news. Instead, with hands clasped in front of her as if hiding a hole, wearing the same threadbare frock, eyes lowered, and a look on her face that vacillated between fear and insanity, she wandered through town like a wraith. I sorta understood—if I'd been married to the Reverend, I would probably have ended up in jail. At least there one could get clothing and three squares—a darn sight better than Mrs. Watkins appeared to get.
The world of a child is pretty myopic, so the two elder Watkins didn't impact my life much, although they did poke the beehive of public opinion and the resulting attention stung a bit, but I was used to it. If that had been the extent of it, I would've been fine. However, there was a third Watkins. Billy, their only spawn, was the devil incarnate. Red headed, snot-nosed, his hands perpetually curled into fists (I fully expected in another year or so his knuckles would drag on the ground), the scion of the Watkins clan spent most days flanked by three young Neanderthals as he wandered the halls looking for a fight.
Every school had a moron; we had four.
By seventh grade I was nearing my full height of six feet and Billy's voice had yet to change, so I had size and weight on my side, which kinda balanced the four against one thing and kept an uncomfortable sort of peace. However, I found neither weight nor size could protect me fully. You know that whole sticks and stones thing about words never hurting? Well, whoever said it was flat wrong. Words could slice quicker and deeper than Lenny's shiv. I learned that the hard way. By the time Pahrump was in my rearview, my hide was thicker than a bull elephant's, but I guess we all carry our scars. And, little did I know, Billy Watkins was about to sport a few, compliments of me.
One Sunday Reverend Watkins decided that not only were whores the minions of the devil, but Mother was their queen. And, if she was their queen, then Billy figured that made me their princess. I soon attracted more attention than a buck during hunting season.
It was a Wednesday. Why I remember that, I don't know. But, like any other weekday, Billy and his cronies had chased me home. They never caught me—I had the benefit of local knowledge, long legs, and abject fear. Slamming the front door behind me, I hurled my book bag across the foyer then sagged against the cool wood trying to catch my breath. I didn't hear Lenny. I didn't even know he was there until he grabbed me by my collar, which, at his height, was hard to do.
"Come with me," he said. "I need to teach you a thing or two." His voice, gravelly from too many unfiltered cigarettes, wormed its way inside me like a snake, wrapping itself around my heart and squeezing.
Meekly, I hunkered down so he didn't have to strain to reach, and followed him out back.
He let go of me and gave me a little shove. "You're a pansy ass. Nobody likes a pansy ass." He reached down and slid the shiv from its sheath. The cold steel glinted in the sunlight, stopping my heart. Lenny ran his finger along the flat of the blade—a lover's caress. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the blade end-over-end until it embedded itself in the wood siding with a lethal thunk.
"Christ Almighty," I whispered, my voice choked.
"Lucky girl, you don't need no divine help with pipsqueaks like that preacher's kid. What you need is a short course in the finer arts of pest control." Lenny grinned at that last part. I was taken aback—I didn't think I'd ever seen him smile before. His teeth were yellow and long, like a rodent's—sort of appropriate, but help was in short supply, so I ignored the comparison. Instead, I smiled at my pun.
Lenny's eyebrows snapped into a frown, chasing my smirk away. "Somethin' funny?"
I shook my head and kept quiet. Even I was smart enough to know there was no way out.
My tiny Prince Charming hitched up his pants. The worn leather belt showed he'd already tightened it two holes, bunching the fabric. "Girl, you can't change people's opinions. They're gonna do what they're gonna do." When I opened my mouth he held up a yellow-stained finger, silencing me. "For the record, most people are sorta decent on some level, you just gotta keep 'em outta your grill… without gettin' caught. Know what I mean?"
A faint rustle in my chest, a quickening of my pulse, hope whirred to life. I nodded.
"Let me show you," he said.
His lessons changed my life.
Who knew you could drop someone with an elbow to the nose?
That little pearl of wisdom from Lenny the Slicer has saved my ass more times than I'll admit to.
Well, perhaps after a Wild Turkey or two…
