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REVERSAL OF FORTUNE
by
C. Lakewood
The smartly dressed young woman strode
nonchalantly through
the outer office
and into Dean Malcolm Heywood's inner sanctum
without a
by-your-leave or even a perceptible hesitation.
As she
passed, the
dean's secretary, looked up, startled, and opened her
mouth to object,
then closed it again and shrugged. Dr.
Barbara
Lang was slated
to take over as dean in a few days, and there was
no point in
making waves.
Relishing her impending triumph -- another
big step up the
career ladder --
the dean-designate gazed about the spacious,
mahogany-paneled
room, so redolent of savoir faire. But
she was
not totally happy
with what she saw. Drawing herself up to
her
full height
(5'9" in heels), she addressed the dean in a phoney,
saccharine tone.
"Afternoon, Mal. You haven't even STARTED packing up yet?
It won't take me
long to get completely up to speed, but I WOULD
like to settle in
ASAP...and, since your offical duties don't
amount to much
anymore...."
"Mmmm...I understand that, but I have,
in fact, managed to
keep fairly
busy. Research...." He paused.
"I really hadn't
planned on
retiring so soon, but perhaps I am too old to function
well in these
times. I don't think, for example, that
civilized
adults should
address their superiors familiarly unless invited
to do so -- or,
indeed, barge into private offices unannounced
and without even
knocking.... But I am pleased that you
did
drop
by." He picked up a manila folder
from his desk. "I was
looking over your
official résumé. Exemplary. National Honor
Society and high
school diploma at age 16, Phi Beta Kappa at
18 -- and those
degrees: Bryn Mawr B.A. (Magna Cum Laude) at
19, Chicago M.A.
at 20, Harvard Ph.D. at 22 -- an assistant
professorship at
Stanford, and then leaving there to come here....
Yes, except for
that curious final item, it's a résumé of which
its owner can
certainly be proud. He slid the folder
across to
his visitor. "Of course, yoU aren't the real owner,
are you,
'Barbara'?"
Stupified, she blanched and began
stammering.
He held up his hand. "Please don't try to deny it. I have
photographs and
fingerprints -- all of which will hold up in
court very
nicely. And, we can get DNA evidence if
there's still
even a scintilla
of doubt (which there won't be). It's
obvious
that you're
guilty of identity theft...and possibly murder."
"Not MURDER! It was an accident, I swear. On vacation...an
allergic
reaction...anaphylactic shock. I didn't
kill her...just
switched
purses.... It was...."
Heywood made a dismissive gesture. "I'm not concerned with
the details,
though I'm sure the police will be."
B-but, I didn't hurt her...just seized my
chance. I'd been a
very good
student, with pretty good prospects, but she was truly
extraordinary. Her future was bright...and assured...."
He shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
Everything having collapsed, she gathered
herself to make
a run for it, but
he spoke up, saying, "And don't think about
attempting to
flee -- your purse is no longer in your desk,
and your car is
no longer in the parking lot."
"Please! I-I...."
He leaned back and steepled his
fingers. "But I must also
think of the
college's reputation. We might avoid a
scandal...IF
you agree to be
treated like the arrogant and treacherous tramp
you really are --
instead of the responsible academic you have
been masquerading
as. Of course, you'll also have to give
up your
stolen
identity...AND your 'ill-gotten gains,' as it were."
"But she was buried as me."
"You will, naturally, need yet another
identity. That can be
arranged. And I won't inform the police or any of the
references
in this
supposititious résumé. In return, you
will resign at once,
and I'll place
you in the custody of...well, let's call her a
'tutor.'"
"Tutor?"
"She's an intelligent, no-nonsense
young lady. She will
provide you a
place to stay for a while. If you mind
your
manners and
improve your behavior, it won't be long -- only
until we can tidy
up your affairs -- likely not much more
than a
month. When business is concluded (and
she's satisfied
that you are at
least minimally repentant), she'll give you new
ID, some money,
and a job referral. Then you'll be free
to go
your own
way...anywhere but here. So, which path
do you prefer?"
His hand moved
toward the phone on his desk.
"I-I'll...submit."
He nodded.
"Very well. I've taken the
liberty of drawing up
your
resignation...for unspecified 'personal reasons.' Just sign
there.... Yes.
And now this power of attorney, so that your
assets can be
liquidated properly...."
"Power of attorney? Oh, I'd have to think about that."
He shrugged and reached for the phone. "Of course. You can
think about it
from your jail cell."
"No!
Wait! There...I signed it."
He made a brief, cryptic phone call and
then drove her across
town to a seedy,
deserted playground. After a few
minutes, a
yellow van
arrived and parked nearby. A dark woman
in sweatshirt
and jeans got
out; she carried a ratty shopping bag.
"That's your 'tutor,'" Heywood
said. Her name's Rosie Toler;
she's part
Latina, part black, and part who-knows-what.
She's an
experienced
fighter with a short fuse. I'd mind her,
if I were
you, Barbie. Oh yes, your new name is 'Barbie Goldberg.'
She looked stunned. "A Jewish name?"
"Yes.
Now, out." ("What a
package," he thought. "Thief,
imposter,
bigot...and, I suspect, a coquette, as well.")
The two women approached each other and stopped
face to face.
"Barbie"
said something, and Rosie immediately slapped her.
Heywood nodded and watched the two head off
toward the
restrooms. Rosie was a couple of inches shorter than
Barbie --
and apparently
much lighter -- but he knew she could handle
herself against
far more formidable opponents.
He sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking
pleasant thoughts.
At length, Rosie
reappeared. Her bag seemed somewhat
heavier,
now. A moment later, he saw Barbie -- sheer pink tube
top, black
polyester
micro-skirt, and cheap flip-flops -- the very picture of
"trailer
park trash." It was obvious she was
braless, and, from
the way she was
walking, probably pantyless, as well.
Satisfied, he started his car and drove off,
without a
backward glance.
******************************
Rosie easily impressed upon Barbie (with
the aid of a strap)
that she should
accept her reversal of fortune. There
wasn't any
way to escape --
she no longer possessed money, checkbook, credit
cards, ID, phone,
or car. And she had no clothes, other
than
those provided
for her: everything cheap and trashy, most of it
much more
appropriate for someone years younger and several social
strata
lower. Not that the appearance of her
clothes was of much
immediate
concern. Barbie spent virtually all her
time naked.
She also spent hours every day working out
-- aerobics,
treadmill,
stationary bike -- and toiling at a long list of
recurring
household chores, all of which she was expected to
do under STRICT
supervision.
******************************
So, for a while, she did hard labor. She went to sleep each
night exhausted
and woke up...extremely horny, for some reason.
But, being
intelligent and adaptable, she quickly learned to
submit without
seeming too resentful.
It was, of course, an act. She was seething inside.
("Damn mongrel bitch! I don't deserve this! I was only
trying to better
myself. Nothing wrong with that. Prissy Barbara
Lang had always
had it too easy, and then she just died.
Not my
fault. But it was time that I got a taste. Who could truly blame
me? I'm not really a bad person, just tired of
seeing others get
all the
breaks. That goddamn bastard
Heywood.... What right did
he have to stick
his long nose into my business? And
this...this
squinty-eyed,
slave-driving bitch...probably a goddamn dyke....")
Later on, Barbie was taught how to prance
and shimmy and bump
and grind....
After 44 days of this regimen, she was
declared "free" and
allowed to
dress. She was sent on her way, with a
new ID card,
a dollar bill,
the address of a strip club said to be expecting
her, and a small
canvas bag with some clothes and toiletries.
She didn't look back.
******************************
It was named "The Rat Hole." She felt defiled just by walking
into the place,
but she knew she had little choice.
She'd been
warned and didn't
dare subject her fake ID to much more than casual
scrutiny. She knew a place like "The Rat
Hole" wouldn't be nearly
as picky as even
the average fast food joint, and, without a résumé
or references,
those were her only chances for employment.
In
fact, without
better ID, she couldn't even get welfare.
Besides,
here she had a
"referral" (whatever THAT might realistically mean).
So, at length,
she found herself standing slightly pigeon-toed in
front of the desk
of one Otto Triandos, manager of the club, and
feeling rather
like an errant schoolgirl sent to the principal.
The office was suitably grim. Under foot was a threadbare
rug over faded
lineoleum. The drab walls were plastered
with
old posters,
magazine centerfolds, and photos of dancers and
pornstars. The atmosphere reeked of cigar smoke, cheap
liquor,
garlic, and B.O.
The big man behind the desk was all jowls
and boredom.
He looked a lot
like Broderick Crawford.
"Whatcha want?" he growled,
barely giving her a glance.
He went back to
idly flipping through a dog-eared issue of
"Hustler."
"Mr. Triandos, s-sir...I was told you
might h-hire me...."
It took some
effort to suppress the quaver in her voice.
"My
name's...Barbie
G-goldberg."
"So what?"
"So...so I need a job...sir."
He looked at her more closely now. Despite her clothes,
there was a
certain...something...about her. (The
first
term that had
occurred to him was "prude," and that was true,
but it was more
than that. She stood too straight, her
accent
was too highbrow,
her expression was too disapproving....
If
his active
vocabulary had been larger, he might have termed
her
"prim," "vain," "self-absorbed," and
"disdainful." Yet,
he did have her
character pegged, even if he didn't have all
the right words
to describe it. He also recognized that,
over
all, she had an
air of desperation. It was an
interesting
combination.... And all of it could be of value.)
"Yeah, maybe.... We can allus use new girls.... You're not
bad
lookin'...tits okay, legs good.... But
you jus' don' seem
like the type,
honey."
She felt herself getting red.
"No!
I-I COULD be.... I c-could
be...um...anything you
wanted me to
be. I do really need a job, Mr. Triandos.
Please."
He shrugged and passed her a pen and an
application form.
"Maybe. Sit.
Fill this out." He returned
to his magazine.
Filling out the form was quick enough. Name, sex, age
(31), SSN (from
the bogus ID), hair (auburn), eyes (hazel),
vitals (5'6"
138lbs 35C-26-36), marital status (divorced,
à la her cover
story), no illnesses, no allergies, no criminal
record, education
(out-of-state high school, nothing beyond),
no address, no
phone, no job history. Her degrees, honors,
experience, and
accomplishments had been buried with Barbara
Lang.
Triandos looked it over and sniffed. "Pretty thin. You
runnin' from the
cops? Some kinds of trouble don' matter;
some do."
"N-no, sir, I swear!" She hoped her prepared story would
sound plausible
enough. "I've been a h-housewife
since high
school, b-but I'm
divorced now and broke, with nowhere to turn...."
"Maybe. There's some questions I need to ask that
ain't on
the
application. Had sex with men,
right?"
"Yes."
He squinted at her, and there was an
awkward pause that
stretched out
longer and longer until it finally dawned on
her what he was
waiting for.
"Um...yes, sir."
He nodded.
"With women?"
"No, sir."
"Animals?"
"N-no, sir!"
"Oral?"
"Yes, sir.... But not often."
("Twice," she thought. "And that was TOO often. Of course,
both times there
was something I wanted out of it...and I got
it. Oh, god!
And now I want this job...desperately.")
"Anal?"
"No, sir." ("Asshole!")
He looked thoughtful. "You say you could be ANYTHING we
want you to be,
yeah?"
"Yes, sir. I'd work real hard, Mr. Triandos. I...."
"Stand up. Show me whatcha got."
She stood up.
("When that Rosie bitch told me the
name of this place, I
was afraid of
what might happen, and then, when I first saw it,
I just KNEW it
would come to this. From Dean-Designate
to strip
club
slut.... God! That pig is so loathesome! I ought to spit
in his ugly
face...but I'm out of options. I just
CAN'T become
a bag lady or a
street hooker. The 'Rat Hole' might not
be much,
but it's better
than that.")
She took off her clothes, mechanically. It didn't take long.
She kicked off
her flip-flops, slithered out of the tube top and
dropped her
miniskirt -- and was naked.
"Hmmmm. Nice nips.
And it's good you're shaved.
Lotsa guys
like
that."
("Shit! That fucking Rosie Toler MADE me shave. My nipples
are so goddamn
stiff! What's the matter with me? I've actually
got to beg this
cretin for a chance to-to...strut my stuff for
strangers.")
"Please, sir.... Just give me a chance to show you, Mr.
Triandos."
"O-kay, you got a audition. If the payin' customers like
you, you got a
job. You'd be a part-time trainee; 37
hours a
week. We'd pay you less than minimum -- but you'd
get to keep
half of what you
make doin' lap dances, hustlin' drinks, and
turnin'
tricks.... You'd live
upstairs."
He pushed himself back from the desk.
"Before you go out there, though, I
gotta try you out...test
your 'work
ethic,' honey." He chuckled. "So get down here and
suck me off. Do what's called a 'bad girl blow
job'...lotsa spit
and
enthusism. Slurp it up. Moan.
Make me believe you jus' LOVE
doin' it. Make it last for a while. And, when I cum, you swallow
it all,
understand?"
She understood.
She knelt in front of him, unzipped his
pants, and nervously
extracted his
half-hard prick. It smelled
awful...musty and
over-ripe...but
it didn't taste TOO bad. She followed
his
instructions,
slurping and moaning in what she hoped was a
good enough
imitation of passion. When it was over,
when she
had swallowed the
last vile gulp of his cum, she sat back on
her heels,
feeling completely debased.
"You ain't through yet, babe. You gotta lick it clean, kiss
it like you love
it, and put it back. And do it gentle...."
She'd been wrong before. She was just beginning to learn to
depths of
debasement.
Triandos pressed a button on his
intercom. "Get Miranda in
here."
A moment later, the door opened and
"Miranda" entered. She
might have been
Rosie Toler's bigger, meaner, and less refined
sister. She looked like the same indeterminate racial
mix and
had the same
café-au-lait skin...virtually all of which was on
display, since
she was naked, except for a red garter around
her right thigh.
She was scowling, but not at Triandos.
"Miranda, this here's...uh...'Barbie
Goldberg.' She goes on
next. Get her squared away." He fetched a red garter from his
desk drawer and
tossed it to Barbie. "That's your
costume."
And so, his "Human Relations"
duties having been taken care
of for the
moment, he went back to his magazine.
(Naked?
I have to dance totally NAKED?)
Miranda was saying something snarly, but
Barbie couldn't make
much sense out of
it. Her mind was spinning and her body
starting
to sweat as
Miranda propelled her along the corridor.
"Put your
garter on,
bitch," the big dancer ordered.
(She did understand
THAT.)
"No, yours goes on the LEFT leg."
Just before they reached the curtains stage
right, they passed
another nude
girl, her hair in pig-tails, heading in the opposite
direction. There was a moment of silence. Then the PA crackled,
"And now,
please welcome our newest. Bar-bie
Gold-berg!"
Barbie barely had time to recognize the tune
that started up
-- "Girls
Just Want To Have Fun" -- when she was thrust roughly
out onto the
small stage.
There weren't many customers in the place
that early in the
day, but what
there were, she despised. Swarthy lower
class
types, barely
above the homeless -- very "ethnic," with cheap,
sweat-stained
clothing, facial stubble, bad teeth, and coarse
voices.... The emotional combination -- her loathing of
her
audience, her
embarrassment at being on stage naked, and her
fear of screwing
up and losing even this crappy job -- had her
practically
paralyzed.
She took a couple of tentative steps toward
the brass pole
up front, then
froze. She was supposed to know some moves,
ones
Rosie had taught
her, but her mind had blanked and her body was
zombified.
The customers were pleased at first at the
sight of fresh meat,
but their
patience ran out quickly, and they were becoming restive
(abusive would be
next) at Barbie's inaction, when Miranda suddenly
swept onto the
stage with a formidable switch in her hand -- and
began using it on
Barbie's butt. The audience, usually
rather
blasé at this
hour, responded with genuine enthusiasm, real
applause -- and,
by the end, more than a few dollar bills.
Miranda
pranced Barbie
around the stage for twenty minutes, winding up
by forcing her to
hump the brass pole until she orgasmed...twice.
And a new act was born that day on stage at
The Rat Hole -- one
that would be
repeated often, by popular demand.
(And they shared the cheers and applause,
though Miranda kept
all the money.)
Afterward, even Triandos looked as pleased
as he was capable
of. "O-kay.
You two done pretty good. Guess
you're a team...so
you can be
room-mates, too."
(He'd be looking in on them later --
through the CCTV in their
room -- and,
knowing Miranda, didn't expect he'd be disappointed.)
"Miranda, you fill her in on her other
duties, and make sure
you keep her in
line, now. Okay, scat!"
Barbie spent the rest of the day primarily
hustling drinks and
performing as an
apprentice lap dancer, with occasional turns on
the stage (during
which she got her ass and thighs thoroughly
switched
again). In addition, she turned two
tricks....
In the small hours of the morning, when she
was finally allowed
to drag her weary
carcass off to bed, she quickly learned that
she'd be sleeping
that night (and for the foreseeable future) with
her face between
Miranda's thighs. Triandos had asked
several
questions earlier
regarding her sexual experience. Viewing
the
tape, he made a
mental that one of her answers was no longer true.
For starters.
******************************
Four months passed. It was mid-autumn, and the year was dying.
Barbie was firmly
in the grip of an apathetic inertia. She
hated
what she was
doing, feared her bosses, and loathed her clientele.
But she couldn't
see a way out. So far, she'd managed to
hide only
$57 from her
greedy co-workers, and she'd need a lot more getaway
money than
that. Clothes, transportation, reliable
ID, basic
living expenses,
a cash reserve -- all that would add up....
But
she was finding
it easier anymore to just be a "Rat Hole" girl...to
wake up with the
pungent taste of cunt in her mouth and go to bed
with the
lingering, musty taste of prick...and, in between, to
prance and coo
and hustle drinks and turn tricks....
Oh, god! It
was better than
the alternatives, better than prison or the
streets, she told
herself. She could still dream, though,
and
she dreamed of
someday, somehow crashing out. Those
dreams,
however, were now
beginning to get a bit shop-worn, and sometimes
she had difficulty
convincing even herself that she'd ever get
back to anything
like the good life she'd once had.
And then, an implausible white knight
appeared. He was a
short, plump,
middle-aged, Buddha-esque Oriental, inscrutable,
but with a
polite, almost deferential manner. He
introduced
himself as
"Mr. Soong," and seemed content to pay lap dance
prices just for
conversation with her.
Barbie was captivated by the man. Finally, someone civilized
in that
dump...mannerly and perceptive enough to appreciate her
for her
mind. (He also seemed to be quite
well-to-do...maybe even
rich. He owned some sort of import-export
business.)
She began to perk up, to increasingly
resemble her old self --
that is, the
woman she'd been as Barbara Lang -- cool, crisp,
confident,
articulate....
They talked about everything -- literature,
history, current
events, political
theory, taste and manners, music, theatre,
architecture --
though, in fact, she did most of the talking
while he
listened, spell-bound. (Seemingly, at
least. Though
he wasn't
married, Mr. Soong had the ability that most husbands
eventually
develop of appearing to be absorbed in listening to a
woman babble,
while actually thinking of other, more pleasant
and/or more
important things.)
She was devastated when, after barely a
week, he told her that
his business
there was concluding and that he'd be heading home
to the Far
East. But then he invited her to come
with him. He
scoffed at her
lack of a passport. Laying a finger
beside his
nose, he reminded
her that he was experienced in importing and
exporting -- and
in circumventing officialdom. And he
promised
to give her a
life filled with everything that she truly deserved.
Yet another reversal of fortune! This time, light at the end
of a long, dark
tunnel.
She accepted, of course.
******************************
"Well, whadaya think, Mr. Soong?"
Otto Triandos asked, already
sure of the answer.
"You have surpassed yourself this
time, Otto. The woman is
quite
amazing.... So pretentious, so
delusional. A self-absorbed,
would-be
bluestocking...and so supercilious a snob that I sometimes
fear her eyebrows
will disappear into her hairline."
Triandos, sensing that this last was some
sort of joke,
chuckled. "Well, she's adaptable."
Mr. Soong inclined his head. "Not TOO adaptable, I hope. She
is perfect as she
is. I expect we can curb her
adaptability to
a sufficient
extent to preserve her marketability."
He made a
dismissive
gesture. "It should not be an
insurmountable problem."
Otto blinked. Mr. Soong was a good guy, but talking with
him
for any length of
time tended to give you a headache. More
out of
courtesy than
real curiosity, he asked, "So...where'll you send
her? Manila?
Bangkok?"
"Hong Kong first, for
'processing.' From there...." Mr. Soong
shrugged. He handed Triandos a thick envelope. "I have included
a substantial bonus,
Otto. Well done."
They shook hands. Mr. Soong then resumed his mask of
inscrutability
and left to collect his latest export.
Otto yawned and opened a magazine.
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