Lingerie For Felons (19 page)

My eyes took in the scene in fractured flashes as the place descended into chaos.

The floor was littered with dirt, trash and pieces of broken equipment. Heavy black machines whined their deathsong across one half of the space. A hot, smoky smell snaked into my nostrils and I almost gagged. A dozen or so small, dark men and women jumped up from where they had been sitting, at tables too close to the machines, upending chairs as they did. Cigarettes, drink cans and bowls of food spilled onto the floor. Some of the workers started screaming in Spanish. My eyes flickered up a narrow staircase to the next level, where a grimy viewing window overlooked the scene. I saw more faces appear at the glass, and then disappear.

And then there was the noise we were making.

A massive stereo, perched on the shoulders of Jose, blared out abrasive rap music. With the box on his shoulder, the ghost mask and his long grey beard, the old man looked like a spectre from
Pirates of the Caribbean
. Others of our group squeezed horns like mine, or rattled homemade noise-makers. Some started to work with the spray cans. I placed myself between our group and the workers, who had moved back against the wall, and gave Milosh the signal. He sprinted towards the back of the machines. My breath was coming hot and hard in my chest, and I felt like everyone could see my heart pounding a tattoo inside it.

I watched the cowering workers and squeezed my eyes shut against the memory of hundreds of others I'd seen sick and broken, coming to the centre for help. Not so different from these people. I pulled Maria from where she was scrawling the word ‘TORTURERS' across the flat black wall of one huge machine.

‘Come with me.' I pulled her towards the workers, pressed against the sidewall.

I started speaking urgently to the group, telling them not to worry, that we would be gone soon. This was not about them. Maria was translating in rapid fire Spanish. My heart squeezed again as I watched the women crunching in behind the men, trying to make their bodies small. The men were screaming back at me, but I couldn't understand their words.

Maria yelled in my ear. ‘They're telling us to go away. That they will get into trouble. They are worried about the police coming. And the IRS.'

At those words, three of the men who had been looking out from the upper window thundered down the stairs, wielding baseball bats. The largest of them, a huge man with ragged black stubble and a filthy cap, waved one of ‘The Things' in the air and bore a smile that looked like he was heading to a party.

‘Get out!' the big man screamed ‘Get out, you fucking hippies. The cops will be here any minute!'

I looked at my watch. Thirty seconds. Milosh needed thirty more seconds.

‘We're not going anywhere,' I screamed back at him, pushing my glasses up my nose and Maria back towards the machines and the rest of the group, who continued to yell, spray and make noise.

The man advanced on me, smiling like he was inviting me to tea. He held the modified prod aloft and waved it menacingly. ‘You know what this is, girl?'

My fingers tingled and the noise died in my airs. It was like the whole scene shrank to this. This big man. And his ugly weapon. I opened my mouth but, as I did, I saw Milosh out of the corner of my eye, emerging from the tangle of machines. He gave me the thumbs up.

No violence.

I gave three short blasts on the airhorn, and the protestors stopped their noise and moved as one towards the exit at the front. I started away from the men but as I did the big man grabbed me, holding the long silver rod close to my face.

‘Wanna get a closer look?' he sneered, so close I could see the red tracks in his eyes and pieces of spittle landed on my face.

‘No thanks, asshole,' I spat back at him, seeing Milosh race towards us, his face dark with fury. I closed my eyes and thought about the Kosovan man and what he had been through. I could not let him get caught up in this. But...
no violence
.

I twisted my body backwards and brought my elbow up to the big man's face. The blow caught him, surprised, and he released his grip for a second. I wriggled free and sprinted towards Milosh, the last one left.

‘Go,' I screamed as I heard the petulant whine of sirens. ‘I'm right behind you.'

He nodded quickly and did as he was told. I followed him, feeling bodies behind me and hearing the big man scream at the workers.

‘You fuckin' wetbacks better get outta here too if you know what's good for you. You'll be on the first boat back if the cops catch you.'

My brain registered the screams and chaos as the workers tried to move as one towards the back entrance. I knew I had only seconds to get out before the police were in, but something cold seized my heart. I turned and watched the people, the workers, scrabbling to gather their things and make for the exit. I rounded on the big man with the prod.

‘You fucking asshole,' I screamed. ‘They're your people.'

‘Plenty more where they came from,' he shrugged, showing even white veneers.

I had to get out. I'd planned this whole thing carefully so we'd be in and out before they got us. This time I had planned it like a military operation. This time evading the police had been an integral part of my plan. I could not get caught. I had to get out.

I knew that, by now, my people would be out through the secret route we had planned so meticulously. It was time for me to follow them, to get away before the police came through that door. But I couldn't go. Not yet.

I had to give these other people, these workers, time to get away.

Third time unlucky — Another holding cell; October, 2006

The ones who got me this time reminded me of Benson and Stabler. You know,
Law and Order: SVU
. They were kind of sexy, in a TV sort of way. The woman was sashaying around in these really tight pants. And I'd never been arrested by a woman before. I was kind of intrigued, to tell you the truth. I would've loved to hear some of her stories. But she wasn't really interested in sharing. The guy was kind of sexy too. He was almost bald, like Stabler, strutting around, all big and cross-looking. And he had this great Jersey accent.

But neither of them had eyes for me. In fact, they seemed pretty into each other. She was giving him these big eyes, and banging the table dramatically: my partner this, my partner that. ‘Mentionitis', Heidi would have called it. A dead giveaway.

I could see it in her eyes. She had a thing for him. Big time.

But not so much for me.

When she looked at me, those big, soft eyes would narrow and go cold, like I was what the TV cops call a ‘perp', instead of just me. In bad underwear, as usual.

Actually, the lingerie wasn't too tragic this time. I must have known in my heart we were going to get into trouble, despite all my careful planning, because I was in very sensible, very clean underwear. Grandma briefs, almost. The full waist-to-thigh deal. Not glamorous, but no shame in them either. Kinda made me sad to think that this is how I'd evolved — from red lace to grandma underwear.

***

I called Mom and Dad when it became apparent that the whole thing was going to be much more serious than the last times. I needed their help with logistics. I was waiting for them in the interview room and was getting kind of nervous. The cops had been asking lots of questions and kind of freaking me out with what might happen to me this time.

I'd been doing my best French Resistance number, all tight-lipped and cool, lest I get any of my fellow break-and-enterers into trouble.

Mom looked like a third-time Oscar winner when she arrived at the 104th. She was all dressed up in a cocktail number, and had this look on her face that said ‘no autographs, please, I'm just here to pick up my famous daughter'. Dad had obviously been under orders to look the part, too, because he had his tux on. I swear I have the only parents in the world who get more thrilled and proud of me each time I get arrested.

Mom swanned into the interview room with the female cop — Benson, I'd mentally named her. Benson was walking behind her with a gentle smile on her face and a hand solicitously under Mom's elbow. I swear she looked like Mom's publicist. If Mom had a bridal train, she'd be holding it. How the hell Mom had managed to make friends with her when I had completely failed I have no idea, but you can always rely on Mom to do the unpredictable. Benson settled Mom into a chair.

‘Coffee, Mrs Murphy?' Her voice was pure honey.

‘Thank you, Julie dear,' she said softly, patting the female cop's hand and waving her other hand as though dismissing the cop like a butler. ‘You can go now. We had better meet with our dear daughter alone.'

Was I imagining it, or did she actually produce a handkerchief and mime wiping a tear from one of her devious eyes? Julie, in turn, patted my Mom's shoulder sympathetically, gave my Dad a little half smile and nod, and left. Just like that.

‘Julie?' I stared at Mom. ‘What the hell is going on?'

‘Don't get all uptight, sweetheart,' Dad said. ‘Mom was planning tactics all the way here. She decided against blowing a hole in the door with that stash of gelignite Uncle Larry keeps in the basement in case the government turns bad. This is the next best thing.'

‘But what the hell is it?' I asked.

‘Humph,' Mom sniffed. ‘God, you can be ungrateful. You have no idea how much I resent sucking up to cops.'

‘Well, why are you?' I insisted.

Mom looked at me like I had the tactical genius of a cabbage. ‘Can't you see we're trying to make sure they go easy on you?' She reached across and held my hand. ‘Absolutely marvellous action today, sweetie. Your father and I are just so proud of you. But the cops don't quite see it that way, unfortunately. So I've been working Julie.'

‘Working her?' Talk about the understatement of the century. ‘Julie' had looked like she wanted Mom and Dad to adopt her. ‘What the hell did you do? Offer her your rent-control apartment?'

‘Oh, my love,' Mom murmured. ‘You really do have a lot to learn. Don't you remember what I always told you? Everyone can make a difference and —'

‘I know, I know,' I snapped. ‘God, Mom, of course I know. I've heard it a million times. And “together we can change the world”.'

Mom humphed again. ‘Well, you may have heard it, but you obviously weren't listening. Together, darling. To-ge-ther. You don't have to fight every battle by yourself. Sometimes you need to call in reinforcements.'

‘Julie is not a reinforcement,' I corrected her. ‘She's a pawn in your malevolent plan. You're trying to turn her, make her a double agent.'

‘Desperate times…' Mom mused.

I had to give it to her. She really was a wily old fox. She had come down here looking for pliant souls to bring across to her way of thinking. But I was still curious.

‘How, Mom? How did you turn her? She hated me.'

‘Oh, don't worry darling. She had some funny thing about her partner. Was sure he was interested in you, or something ridiculous.' Mom snorted and I felt myself get kind of offended. ‘Anyway, I fixed it. Told her you're a lesbian. She bought it too. You know cops. They think any woman who cares about the world is a lesbian.'

I had nothing against lesbians, but something inside me died then and there. I've always had this sneaking superstition that every woman only has so many orgasms in her. You know, they're like a non-renewable resource. You know how in Peter Pan they said that every time someone says they don't believe in fairies, a fairy dies? A bit like that. Like maybe when something particularly nasty happens, one of your potential orgasms dies. In my mind, they kind of pop, like soap bubbles blown by children. Like when I found out that my gorgeous math tutor was a Young Republican, and I thought:
there goes one.
Or when I walked in on the supervisor in our building making out with old Mrs Clyde from number five, I thought:
oh God, there goes another one.
Anyway, when I found out Mom told the cops I was gay, I thought:
How many are left? Lucky I'm not really using them right now.

Mom went on. ‘Anyway, making connections with people is basic psychology. Share a secret. Evoke sympathy. Explain a tragedy.'

Dad was nodding sagely, like it was all his idea. This was the man who could barely buy milk without getting embarrassed if people engaged him in conversation for too long.

Anyway, I was still confused. ‘Yeah, Mom, that's all great, if you've actually got some tragic news to share but —'

We got called then to go in and start the bail processing, or I might have paid more attention to the funny little look that passed between my Mom and Dad, and the way he squeezed her hand and whispered something to her. But I didn't. Instead, we all just went where we were told.

Mom and Dad signed the recognizance. Actually, to tell you the truth, ‘bail' sounds a bit lofty. I don't think I was considered much of a risk to the community, because I even had enough cash in my checking account to cover the bail, which is saying something. The main thing I recall about the bail processing was that it gave Mom another opportunity to do her tragic heroine routine with Benson. I swear, the way she transformed her face as she shakily inquired when we would know about the final charges, I could have sworn I was looking at a chameleon.

And Benson ate it up.

Wonder Woman and the pirates — Che's Café, East Village; the next day

‘Not yet. I don't want to talk about it just yet,' I said. Heidi nodded. I smiled at her. ‘Thanks. Just give me a few minutes, okay? Let's talk about something else.' She nodded again and I took her hand. ‘So, tell me. Did they really make him do it in a paper cup?'

I knew Heidi wanted to talk about the arrest, not the IVF, but I needed to take a moment. And, also, I did really want to know. I knew it made me sound like a teenage boy, but there's a part of the human condition that is genetically programmed to find weirdo sex or poo things fascinating. We all deny it, claim a higher, more evolved nature, but let's face it, whenever we meet someone who works in a real life emergency room, the first thing we always ask is: ‘So what's the weirdest thing you've ever seen anyone stick up their butt?'