Meet Chester

My first exposure to prostitution was in the mid-1970s, a time when seatbelts were an accessory—not a necessity, bangs were feathered like Farrah’s, and phones were plugged into walls. Considering my irreverent childhood…a nice way to put it, I was smarter about the world than most my age. My new, freshly printed driver’s license didn’t hurt my confidence. The small, laminated square gave me the freedom to go places and see things, as well as to get away from things. This included my mother. And…Chester.

Chester was a jowly, older man with sparse, weed-like hair, though he was probably only in his 60s at the time. It’s funny how years change perspective, especially as it relates to age. Either way, he was ancient in my sixteen-year-old eyes. And he was one of the many peculiar people who had wandered into my life via my mother. She collected characters like others collected porcelain figurines. But Chester seemed different. Quieter. More reserved. Typically, he sat in a chair in the corner of the room as my mom’s other friends puffed on long, thin cigarettes and worked on their disco moves.

It was a warm, summer evening as I sat at my dressing table willing the phone would ring. My mom was out, not that it mattered. She had little interest in keeping track of her kids, which suited me and my brother just fine. All of my friends had plans that night, but it was better to be prepared if things changed than to get caught without my trademark blue eyeshadow and spidery, thick lashes. 

Then it happened…the loud and sharp ring of my bedroom phone. I ran for it, taking a breath before I answered. It was always important to act casual, of course. Being cool required work.

“Hello,” I said, more like a question than a greeting.

“Is this Annmarie?” Dammit, I thought to myself the minute I heard his familiar, raspy voice. 

“Hi, Chester. My mom’s out. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

“That’s okay.” He paused, leaving awkward silence to hang.

“So anyway—” 

“What are you doing, darling?”

“Me? Ahh, not much.”

“Would you like to meet me out?”

“Me,” I said, sounding like an idiot as I repeated myself. But these things can take you off guard.

“I’m up the road at Joe’s, sitting at the bar.”

Joe’s—a nickname I’ve given the restaurant to protect it from whatever needs to be protected, which isn’t entirely clear to me, was a family joint known for heavy food and heavier drinks. And it had been around for decades. I had no desire to meet Chester or anyone else, for that matter, at Joe’s, but saying no to people was difficult—especially an older man who seemed absolutely innocent. And lonely.

“I suppose,” I said, “but I can’t stay long. I have plans tonight.” At least I was quick enough to put in a safeguard, limiting expectations.

“Wonderful,” Chester said, his enthusiasm shining in the lilt of his voice.

As I walked into the restaurant, I could see him sitting in the last stool at the bar. The one beside him was empty, reserved by his windbreaker. He was twirling a spike of cherries in a dark-colored drink. I wasn’t sure what it was. My mother drank vodka. It was easier to disguise in orange juice in the morning. 

“Hi, Chester,” I said, struggling with a heavy barrel-back stool.

The bartender gave me the up-and-down, though I wasn’t sure if it was because I was clearly underage or because I was meeting a man old enough to be my grandfather. He slipped a napkin in front of me without taken his eyes off me. I hesitated. The rules were more relaxed back then. Carding was not a regular practice, and driving drunk was just the way someone got home after a night out. But I never felt comfortable breaking rules, much less the law.

“Rum and Coke,” I said, doing my best to look cool and confident.

We sipped our drinks and talked about nothing memorable. I just remember how happy Chester seemed to have someone to engage with. But after an hour of seemingly meaningless banter, the vibe of the night began to change. I’ve always been adept at reading people and situations, intuition the strongest tool in my survival box, and I knew something was up.

“So, you and your mom…you’re close?”

“I suppose,” I said, not interested in sharing the complex nature of our relationship.

“Huh,” he said, his hands beginning to tremble. “It’s uncanny how much you look like her. And you…are alike?”

Oh no, I thought to myself, he must think…

The one thing in my life I could count on was not being able to count on anything. From as far back as I could remember, unpredictable was predictable. But no matter how many curveballs I’d dealt with, I was never prepared for the next one.

My mind raced as Chester rattled the ice in his glass and side-eyed. He pushed a stack of money toward me as casually as if he was sliding a dinner menu my way. 

“What’s that for?”  My shoulders tensed. 

“For us,” Chester said.

“Us? You think I—” I started to push the money back, but his hand stopped me. 

“You know—”

“No, I don’t know, but I’ll tell my mom you said hi,” I said as I pushed the heavy stool back, careful not to brush against Chester’s chair.

My legs felt weak as I walked through the sea of tables, old folks commiserating on this and that. If only I’d had a memorable retort ready. Something. Anything

The parking lot was well lit with tall lamps, and every space seemed to be filled. People out enjoying themselves. I sat fingering the bills, tears stinging my cheeks. Maybe I should have left the money, stealing any chance he had of convincing himself he’d just tried to do something nice. Then again, maybe he owed it to me for my gas, my time and, most of all, for breaking my trust.

 I looked up at myself in the rearview mirror, mascara pooled in the troughs of my eyes, my cheeks reddened. 

“I’m not her,” I said out loud. “I’m not her and never will be.”