Jasmine printed off the confirmation number. Another bursar bill paid. She wasn’t sure why she continued participating in this humiliation ritual. Stubbornness, maybe. Three credit hours of “Dissertation” each semester—just enough to avoid being a true dropout. Maintain her all-but-dissertation status so that perhaps—maybe someday—she might finish it. Might be called Dr. Kopernick. Stupid.
The idea that escorting could provide a real therapeutic benefit for clients felt further away than ever. Most clients weren’t consistent anyway. After a few months, they usually stopped scheduling. More importantly, there was a limit to what her body, mind, and spirit could take on each week. That’s why John had been a breath of fresh air. Consistent, weekly, easy money for two years. The dream client. Until recently.
This bursar payment was money that should be applied to student loans with interest rates that made every payment—no matter how large—feel like two steps forward and one step back. Next semester she would formally withdraw. She had to.
As she closed the laptop, her phone rang.
“Hi, Dad. I can’t talk long. I have work shortly.”
“Honey, you are always working. You must make a million dollars a year.”
She laughed. As the youngest child and only daughter, her father had always maintained an exaggerated confidence in her abilities and prospects.
“Dad, that’s never going to happen.”
“Well, it should. You are worth a million bucks. I don’t understand your finances. You work all the time but live like a pauper. When are you going to finish what you started? Become a doctor?”
There it was. The bursar bill. The outline of a dissertation. An annotated bibliography. Unfinished. Probably forever. A dream of a younger Jasmine who knew nothing about life—just like her father. He still thought she was the smartest woman in the world because she was valedictorian at a school with fewer students than a freshman college seminar. Believed she could be an Oscar-winning actress after playing Mary in the church nativity scene. Well-intentioned, but wrong.
She had been a medium fish in a puddle—dropped into the ocean. He couldn’t understand the Everest of expectations he was asking her to leap over gracefully, without question.
“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe. Maybe not. I need time. Money, time. It takes a lot.”
Jasmine poked at a bowl of oranges on the kitchen table and began to peel one.
“Okay, kiddo. Speaking of time and money, are you coming to visit this Christmas? I checked—the flights don’t cost nearly as much as last year. Take a break from working. See your dad and mom. Of course, Jason and his family will be there. I think Jordan might come too.”
Jasmine hesitated. “Maybe. Do you need my answer now?”
“Of course not.”
Glancing at the clock on the stove, she said, “Hey, I have to go. But I will think about it.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Hanging up, Jasmine saw that the call had lasted only two minutes. Two minutes, and he had managed to shine a spotlight on all the cracks in her life. Those nooks and crannies you ignored as you pushed forward to laundry day and reordering your prescription.
She did need to get off the phone, but she didn’t need to go anywhere just yet.
Time and money. The two things she never had enough of. Time was finite—the same hours everyone received. But money crept everywhere, permeating every corner of life. The present: rent and food, like everyone else. But the past lurked in high-interest payments on a degree she had pressed forward with, never questioning if maybe, perhaps, for a second, she wasn’t nearly as great as her father insisted.
But even worse was the looming future.
She could manage the present. Perhaps even the past. She had paid down quite a bit over the years, and the halfway point seemed in sight before the year’s end. But the future? There was no overcoming the future.
She had witnessed it happen to too many friends. Colleagues, if she could use such a term. She was thirty-five and luckily still looked young for her age, but the day would come, like it did for all the girls before her, when she was too old. Clients moved on to younger, new, fresh faces. Even if you specialized in cougar fetishes, the body would eventually give out. The mind too.
She had seen these women fall into two futures: poverty or a man. Neither appealing. The latter was a better option.
No. That was not today. That was for future Jasmine to deal with. Just as in her youth she had assumed future Jasmine would deal with the debt. Now here she was, trying her best.
Pulling into Hanerty’s Furniture Galleria parking lot, Jasmine was determined to maintain control of the situation. For the past few months, she had blurred boundaries with John. Lost control of the basic scripts. For years, most clients had been simple. Even the difficult ones—she knew how to exit stage right and move on to the next prospect.
Throughout her career, if she was to call it that, she had maintained a polished image: manicured fingers and toes, a contoured face, a character she had developed that was fun, flirty, free. Easygoing. Nice girl—but not too nice. Not too smart. Just right for most men.
But she was finding it harder not to be the scared girl who could never live up to her or her father’s dreams when she was with John. Today she was going to be in control of herself and the direction they were going.
John’s old red truck pulled into the spot next to hers. Rolling down the window, he called out, “You waiting on anybody?”
She laughed. “Only waiting for you, handsome!”
Yes. On the way to regaining control of the reins today.
Inside the store, Jasmine meandered through the large pieces: sofas, chairs, bookshelves. The price tags surprised her. She had initially suggested IKEA—affordable—but John had asked to meet here. Each piece had customization options John read aloud to her.
“Jasmine, you’ll be pleased to hear! The goose in the yard has a new outfit. I bought it a little Packers jersey.”
She smiled at him. The bird had worn a faded Fourth of July outfit since she first saw it.
“I love that!”
John stroked a tall bookcase. “Yeah. It’ll always be in season, right?”
A salesman dressed in a well-fitting suit and tie, his slicked-back hair heavy with gel, approached them.
“Does the Mrs. like this bookshelf?”
Jasmine’s eyes caught John’s, which bugged out in panic and horror. She could hear the stuttering struggle in the depths of his throat. Time for her to intervene. She would take the lead. This was going her way today.
“Oh, Cliff,” she said, reading the name tag on the man’s left lapel. “I love it. Perfect height. We’re doing a library. But the carpet is green. Surely you have something in a darker wood?”
Cliff began showing them wood options. John landed on mahogany. They played the roles for the employee.
“Oh darling, I love the brass bedframe, but we have to have a king size.”
Jasmine ignored the prices and simply enjoyed the thrill of being in control of the narrative again.
Finally, after an hour, the salesman excused himself to tally the order and print the invoice. In addition to the shelves, they had chosen a pair of mid-modern style floor lamps, a driftwood coffee table—unique and custom carved—a large genuine-leather chair with big brass rivets, a plush overstuffed sofa with Tiffany blue jacquard upholstery customization, and a wool rug.
Sitting on a deep burgundy velvet sofa, they waited for the invoice.
“So, Jasmine. I have been meaning to ask you. I, uh, am scheduled to give my lead on January 12th. It’s a Saturday. At the hospital downtown. A lead is like an AA meeting, but I would be the only one talking… sharing my, uh, story. It’s also my tenth birthday… of sobriety.”
John shared this like a nervous boy describing prom before asking a girl out.
Jasmine immediately felt the shift in the air.
“That’s great, John. An honor, yes?”
“Yeah. It’s an open meeting. Anyone can come. I wanted to tell you. In case you wanted to come. Hear my story.”
Jasmine wanted to be firm. Tell him no. Perhaps say something coy and playful, like whenever she dodged invitations. A lie. Busy. Anything but what came out next.
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Just like with her dad. She knew the answer was no, but she was too cowardly to disappoint him. So she bought time on credit and spun herself into new debt.
John moved to hold her hand. “Only if you want to. No pressure. January 12th. 7 p.m. Hospital downtown.”
Cliff, with big white teeth as bright as the paper in his hand, strode toward them.
“Sir, here is the estimate. As is, the total comes to $25,000 before taxes.”
Panic caught in Jasmine’s throat as John studied the invoice. Lost in the fun of playing pretend, she had forgotten to consider the reality of John’s finances. He was frugal. Probably scraping pennies together for their weekly meetings.
“Uh, Cliff… can I have a moment with… my man?” Jasmine smiled at the gleaming grin of a salesman contemplating the commission he was about to earn.
“Of course.”
“John, can you afford this? Like the rug… it’s nice, but we can remove things.” She pleaded as she touched his hand.
His amused face seemed to disregard her concern. A look she was used to seeing on men who tried to order her food and drinks for her before they called the valet. A expression that belonged to cocky, rude men.
“Oh. I have plenty of money. Always been my nature. Even when I drank. I always fall into more money than I spend. I’ve been co-owner of the warehouse for awhile. My trust has a solid return. Of course, no mortgage, low expenses… I don’t need much. Really my biggest expense is…”
His voice trailed off as he glanced over at the salesman pacing nearby.
It’s her.
She had always suspected she was a luxury in his minimal, frugal life. But she assumed he was pressed on every side. That his finances mirrored hers. That he was counting cents to make it happen each week.
It had never occurred to her that he was more like Ebenezer Scrooge rationing coal simply to increase the balance on his… trust? Investments? Return?
How this man continued to puzzle her.
To him, was interest earnings and profit—not a weight dragging him back into the past?
Yet he clearly loved the splurge of spending. Choosing this store. Every customization.
She could see all the seemingly contradictory facts about John she had learned over the years turning in new and different directions—overlapping, then parting, then turning again—fitting into an increasingly clearer image. But still too foggy.
“Cliff!” John called out. “We are missing one thing! I promised her she could pick something out just for herself. A gift. What do you have?”
What was this? A absent-minded joke backfiring. Jasmine vaguely recalled her joke about a gift when she had first suggested furniture shopping as Cliff led them to a door in the back.
“We have specialized in only the highest quality home furnishings since 1932,” he said, “but in the last twenty years we have expanded to include a sister company—an art gallery. Perhaps the lady might find something suitable here?”
Her eyes scanned the walls of paintings. Large abstracts. Smaller portraits. A monstrous resurrection-of-Jesus-Christ scene that encompassed an entire wall. Various statues on platforms with recessed lighting pointed at each. A modern, avant-garde piece of twisted metal. A brass lion roaring as an African warrior pierced its haunches…
And a beautiful white nude carved from stone.
“Ah!” Cliff followed her gaze to the piece. “A lady of taste. This is Aphrodite. Pure Turquin Blue marble. The artist utilizes only the tools and methods available during ancient Greece. The way artists did before Jesus walked on water. A labor of love. True craftsmanship.”
“Jasmine, isn’t she beautiful?” John said softly. “Just like you. Worthy of being placed on an altar and worshiped.”
Laughing, playfully poking John’s shoulder, she quipped, “John, would you kneel before her?”
But John’s face became earnest and intent.
“Yes. I would. For you.”
Cliff shifted from side to side and pulled a small notepad and pencil from his blazer pocket. Scribbling quickly onto the first sheet, he handed the pad to John.
“The price, sir.”
John nodded and handed it back to Cliff.
“Add it to the invoice. Can you box it up? Can we take it home today?”
“Of course, sir. Just a moment.” Jasmine could feel the electric excitement in Cliff's steps. Walking away with the statue. No doubt tallying the fat commission he was making on two suckers.
Alone in the gallery now, John brushed a curtain of hair behind Jasmine’s right ear. He didn't even ask. He just bought it.
“Uh, I hope that was okay, Jazz. I could tell how much you admired it. Beautiful. Like you. Well almost.”
Jazz? No.
She stepped back from him at the sudden, familiar childhood name. Staring at the obnoxiously large painting—Jesus stepping out of the rolled-away stone to the happy and exuberant faces of his followers—she slowly moved further from John and toward the wall in silence.
The control she had intended with this little expedition was gone. Dead on arrival really.
It was all her fault. She should have planned. Thought through something beyond the same tired banter and scripts. Not been on autopilot.
“Jasmine,” John’s voice cracked following behind her. “Wait up.”
Looking at the ground, he seemed to try to backpedal the situation.
“I thought you liked it. Whatever you want. Tell me what to do. What should I do? How do I make this right?”
His begging tone and slumped posture made Jasmine aware that he was dangerously close to getting on his knees before her. She glanced at his eyes, brimming with what appeared to be the start of tears. No.
As John continued to plead with her, the seemingly contradictory pieces of him—slowly revealed over the years—shifted in her mind: the sheepish man who was content just to be held, and the man with investments that apparently compounded interest into an abyss he never used. The mother he feared but patiently cared for until she died. A fucking Boy Scout who built a playground. The prisons he circulated like a circus act on tour.
She saw an emergency exit in her periphery as she heard John say, “It’s not too late. I can tell Cliff we don’t want it.”
Suddenly, as if a savior were really rolling back a stone, the emergency exit door opened. Bright, blinding sunlight bathed the room, and an older woman walked in, tall black pumps clacking loudly on the tile floor.
Perhaps in her fifties, she looked sophisticated. Put together. A patron of the arts.
It took Jasmine too long to realize she had met her before. Interviewed her.
This was a piece of data in her abandoned dissertation.
Monica.
Her first mentor.
Not exiled to poverty post-escorting, but seemingly now in the same place as Jasmine, trailed by an elderly man who walked softly behind her. Entering through an Emergency Exit like rules didn’t apply to her.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Jasmine blurted out. “I want it, John. I want the statue. I’m just…”
Jasmine struggled to find the right word on the spot.
“I am just…”
Again, every autopilot response she relied on failed her. All she could do was be honest.
“It’s much more than I expected. I don’t own anything that costs that much.”
John whispered, “You can’t know that. You don’t even know how much it costs.”
She waved off his truth, “Trust me, John. I don’t need to know how much it costs to know it will be the most expensive thing I have ever owned. He wrote the price on a piece of paper. Like a movie.”
She watched as John frowned and looked toward the floor in thought.
The things she didn’t know. The cost of the statue.
“Jasmine, I… you should have nice things.”
From the distance, the snap of fingers echoed in the room.
Both of them turned as Monica directed Cliff to put a box into her companion’s hands.
“I will get this into the car right away, Mon.” the man said, scampering back through the emergency exit, arm heavy with a wooden box.
Jasmine watched, transfixed, as Monica chatted with Cliff, catching only stray words.
A new shipment. New artist. Nothing you’ve seen before. You’ll love it. Exclusive.
“Like her,” John said softly into Jasmine's ear. “You should have nice things like her.”
Jasmine smiled.
Maybe she just needed a new script. A new character.
Maybe the new character wouldn’t be so far off from the real thing.
She needed time.
Time. She had work to do. Money to make. Bills to pay.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so too, John.”
John, satisfied with this answer, said, “I'm glad you agree. We should get your present to your car now, yes?”
“Yes. And John, I just wanted to say… I liked that you called me Jazz. You should know that I am taking a few weeks off—visiting family. Won't be able to meet with you. But I’ll text you when I get back.”
“Will you be back before the 12th? That's my lead.”
“I think I will.” She would be sure of it.
