I knew our job meant Buggy and other gross men like him. I thought I’d rather go into that pit, so I climbed down. I was surprised because it’s not deep at all. It’s a tight space and to get all the way in I had to slide my legs out in front of me and worked my way down onto my back. The floor is bare earth and rocky. Painful on my hands and knees.
Ricardo told me to lie down. On the dirt? I asked. On the dirt he said. I guess my back was sticking out the hatch door. Soon as I got flat, Ricardo slammed the door shut and I was plunged into darkness. I panicked and tried to sit up but my head smacked against the metal door so hard I got dizzy. I reached up to feel for the hatch, but my hands scraped only the rough cerement above my head. It was as if the hatch was a magical portal that vanished when it closed, leaving me in this womb of darkness. I couldn’t see anything. My hands were an inch from my face and I couldn’t see them. The hole was wide, just not deep. Maybe it was the size of the apartment building? I didn’t know. I squirmed into the darkness thinking there might be another way out, but I got worried I’d get lost down there if I went too far. It was like a SCUBA diver going under the arctic ice (I watched a Nature episode about that with my dad once and it’s the only way I can explain the feeling). If I swam too far out from the hole, I’d drown down there.
I didn’t want to move away from the only way out. I was suffocating on fear. I started to hyperventilate and got all sweaty. I. Couldn’t. See. A. Damn. Thing. I mean it was pitch black, the blackest black imaginable. I waved my hand in front of my face, but couldn’t see it. This is what being buried alive must feel like, I thought. There was barely any room to lift my head or my arms. The pill Tasha gave me couldn’t make the horrible smothering feeling go away. I felt the ceiling until I finally found the hatch. I have no idea how long I was down in the hole before I started banging on the door and screaming for Ricardo to let me out. Nothing. No response. I banged harder. Nothing again.
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, I screamed. GET ME OUT OF HERE! OPEN UP THIS MOTHER F’NG (INSERT EVERY CURSE WORD I KNOW) DOOR. PLEASE! I listened. I listened so hard my ears hurt but didn’t hear a sound. Did they leave me? Were they going leave down me there to die? My skin, my head, everything buzzed strangely. Each second felt like forever. I couldn’t breathe right. My back ached from scraping against the hard cement. I tried to lift my legs, but I got maybe a few inches off the ground before they hit something hard. I think I wet my pants. Oh hell, I know I did. I was shaking beyond belief. I just kept banging on the door. PLEASE RICARDO! PLEASE OPEN UP! No more cursing. I was sweet to him. I’ll do anything for you baby, that kind of sweet. Anything. How many times did I say that? I can’t remember, but it was a lot. Then I heard laughter, and finally—OH, THANK GOD, FINALLY—the door opened and light spilled in. I’ve never loved light more.
I couldn’t catch my breath and I couldn’t move, either. Ricardo said that was only five minutes and then he laughed. Five minutes! He said he keeps girls down in the hole for days with just water. Those were the longest minutes of my life. Tasha wasn‘t laughing. She looked sorry for me and helped pull me up. And that’s the hole. Ricardo said don’t break the rules and I won’t go in.
After that experience, I changed my mind. I’d let Buggy screw me a thousand times before I’d go back in there.
I live upstairs in a one-bedroom apartment with Tasha. I feel so lucky that she’s my roommate. She’s the only good thing about being here. The drugs aren’t good, but they’re necessary and they’re everywhere. I’m high all the time now. It’s the only way I can get through my day. Writing helps, too, I guess. I keep my diary hidden inside the futon cover, but I think Tasha knows about it. I sleep on the futon because Tasha has the bedroom. It’s only fair because she has more time here, more seniority. I asked her how long she’s been here and she can’t really pinpoint a number. The answer though is in years. I asked her if she likes it here and she said no. I said we should leave and she pointed to the door. “Go ahead,” she said. So I turned the doorknob but it wouldn’t budge and that’s how I found out the apartment is locked from the outside.
The apartment (other than that locked door) is a lot like the other place I lived in when I thought Ricardo was my boyfriend, back when I thought he loved me. There’s a small kitchen, small bathroom, small living room with a TV, the futon (aka my bed), and an old armchair that’s seen better days. The floors are wood, but pretty scratched up. We’re on the third floor of an apartment complex that has a lot of units but not a lot of activity. The girls live in the upstairs units. There are bars on the window but no fire escape. Who’s going to rob us? Spiderman? But then I remembered the locked apartment door and the bars made more sense.
Men don’t come and go from the front entrance all day long. They go to a basement entrance in the back and their arrivals are spaced out so there’s no lines or anything. The basement is where the work happens.
That’s what I call it . . . the work.