Taboo

Keywords: of, Lust, Jewel,

"You'll be paid five dollars a week, with room and board." The Lord of the House led him down a maze of dirty corridors. They passed doors lying off their hinges, and some barely affixed. The plaster was falling from the walls in places, oil lamps left carbon stains on the low ceiling. In short, the place was a dump. But that wasn't to say it was beyond repair. The foundation was good. He'd noted that the moment he set foot inside. The floors were surprisingly solid, and it was a start. As they rounded a corner an unshaven man lay across the floor, a sprawling obstacle. His trousers were down, hugging his knees and based on the profound odor hanging over him, he had to be drunk, and must have been for some time. A young woman was trying fruitlessly to get him pulled up against the wall and out of the way. His inebriation proved daunting to the task.

"Take it to a room!" ordered the Lord of the House. She delivered a swift kick to the man's exposed rump. It was enough to wake him, and with the girl's coaxing he managed to drag himself into an adjacent room. The Lord of the House growled. She was a stout woman, albeit small, standing at a height of no more than five feet. Her hair was pinned up so tightly it pulled all her features up toward her forehead. As a result her eyebrows were perched high and menacing.

"The former proprietor lost his mind, so to speak. Consequently, when he left the establishment suffered the dilapidation you see now. I intend to resurrect it." The man took it all in. His broad shoulders bespoke of a man of means, and his large blue eyes, a man of diligence. The Lord of the House had hired him on the spot and he was thankful. The war had been hard on his hometown and many of the tradesman had taken to the roads in the years following to get work. A whorehouse wasn't orchard pickings, but it meant survival. It was all he could hope for.

"Here is your room." She reached into her sleeve. "This is the key." He glanced over his shoulder. The door was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the hinges must have themselves taken flight with it. The frame looked as if someone had taken a battering ram to the timber that had formerly stood in its embrace. The Lord of the House followed his gaze.

"Yes, well. You shall have to ratify that. There is a mill one mile from here. You are to purchase whatever you shall need, and bring me legible copies of all invoices. I shall advance you this week's pay, provided you start as early as tomorrow morning." He nodded. "Will you require one of the ladies to do your laundry?" Another nod. "That amounts to a dollar a month. Fresh linens, a dollar a month. The well is out back. And from the looks of your stove, you may desire using the one down the hall to heat your water. At least, until you've made repairs.

"For all other needs," she began, inclining her head toward his crotch, "whilst you reside under this roof, you are not to engage the ladies. You may eat in the dining parlor. The matron, a woman named Lua usually cooks, but if you eat with the ladies you may be expected to cook occasionally." She clasped her hands behind her back and inclined her head slightly. "I thank you for joining us. Will there be anything else at the moment?" The young man's blue eyes glowed briefly then faded. He shook his head.

"Very well," said the Lord of the House. She turned and began to walk out the room. "If you should require my attention, send for me through the house matron. Oh, and Mr. Thompson?" At this, she turned swiftly and peered into his face. "Do smile occasionally, yes?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and darted down the corridor.

He stood there a while, looking on in her wake. Then he turned and set the burlap bag carrying his life's possessions, near the rusted cot. The very next thing he did was to sit down. The old cot stretched and creaked, but didn't live up to its threat of collapse. He exhaled. It was the exhale of a man who had seen more than his share of hardships at such a young age. War and starvation had borrowed his precious memories without permission, and returned them battered, broken, when at all. He ran his fingers through the two months whiskers that had accumulated on his face. Had it been that long since he'd had a shave? He stared at his hands, studying the lines, the veins, the creases. All the while, he took in the sounds, the smells. The mold and the perfume romanced lazily through the whole of the House. There were ratty groans, despairing shrieks, the occasional nervous laugh. Yet, none of it entered him. The emotions a place like this might typically draw from a person, were all externalized, dead to him. If not dead, very much asleep.

He noticed a fractured mirror hanging on the wall close to the room's only window. He stood with some difficulty and walked to it. As he gazed in upon his reflection his mind asked, Who Is This Man Where Once Stood A Boy? The question bespoke of a painful truth. Hair matted, lips split, face sunburnt, dirty. The eighteen year old was nowhere to be seen. He thought back to his mother, and what she might have said gazing on him now. Probably cry with arms outstretched, he thought. He took one last look. Let the boy die with those memories, his mind said. Only men survive.

Despite the near constant soundtrack of the whorehouse, he sleep solidly awaking refreshed. It was still dark. He stretched and forced himself up from the cot. Being a man didn't mean rising was any easier. The urge to roll over and wait for the sun was still with him, however subdued. He'd slept fully clothed so there wasn't much in preparation for the morning. He grabbed his overcoat and started toward the corridor. Something at the edge of his vision caught his attention. Upon the chair by the stove was an object that couldn't have been there the night before. He drew near to discover it to be a half loaf of bread. He thumbed his chin and shrugged, then leaned down to pick it up. He broke off a chunk of the bread and ate it, grateful to whomever he owed his breakfast.

The sky had turned from dark black to a faded gray hue as morning made its approach, and by the time he reached the mill the newest dawn was creeping over the horizon. He gathered all the supplies he could carry and waited for the foreman. When the foreman showed, he explained to the man that he was working for the Lord of the House at Downey Street and the foreman was all too eager to draw up an invoice. Business had been pretty slow, he explained, what with the depression and all. The foreman, seeing his customer didn't have a cart, offered to expedite the journey by offering one of his own.

"Free of charge," he said. He even helped load up the cart and readied it to go. There was something about the mill's foreman that didn't sit right.

"Name's Evers. Casper Evers." He stuck his hand out.

"Guy Thompson." The two men shook hands. Evers had a nervous air about him.

"S-so...you working at the whorehouse, is that right?" Guy nodded. The last thing he desired was small talk.

"Yeah. Yeah. So, you living there, too?" Guy exhaled deliberately.

"Oh, hey. No harm meant. I just, well you know, gotta girl lives in there. M-my girl, you know what I mean." Guy didn't know, didn't care to know and found himself becoming annoyed.

"Look," he said. "I didn't come around here for the scenery, if you gather my meaning. I came to find work. That's all." Evers tempo came full-circle. His shoulders relaxed and he patted the lumber resting on the cart.

"Oh, yeah, no, no, no. See, I's just saying maybe I'll be seeing you when I come around s'all. T-to look after my girl and all. Might give you a hand with the repairs, that sort of thing." Guy lifted the yoke and started to pull the cart.

"Won't be necessary," came his reply. "Got it taken care of. Besides, I'm not doing it for free." Casper Evers laughed. Too loud, Guy thought. Evers walked along a ways. When Guy didn't speak, the man went on.

"But, that's the thing, ya know. I got this girl in there, and damned if they won't let me see her." Guy lowered his eyes, his muscles burning under the strain of the load. Despite the foreman's chatter buzzing in his ears, the work felt good.

"Shame," he replied. Less said the better, came his father's voice in his mind. It was the only thing his father ever said, in fact. Unfortunately, Evers didn't need much to go on.

"Damn shame, yah right! See, how's about you talking to the Lord of the House? See about him letting me back in there. Well, ya know. I gotta see my girl, and all."

"The Lord's a woman, and I am not involving myself." Then he added, "I'm sorry." Evers wasn't listening. His mind raced a mile a minute.

"Ah-a-a woman, you say. Nah, ain't right. That ain't right. I's throwed-er let go by the Lord of the House. Name of Mewton. Yeah, that's right, Casey Mewton. Real hard ass."

"Nobody goes by that name. New Lord is a lady by the name of Charlotte Powers." The consequent silence and dumbstruck look on Casper's face was too much.

"That right?" The gears of Casper's mind few as they were, were almost audible. Guy could but hear the thoughts slam into place.

"Maybe your banishment left with him," Guy offered. CLICK! He heard the thought hit home. Evers whooped.

"Boy, I'll tell you what. You may just be right about that! Say, well I gotta get back to the mill. Goddamn sakes alive!" He spun around and began trotting back in the direction he came. At the mill's gates he called down the path to Guy. "Be seeing you fella! Be seeing you!"

Guy pulled the cart up to the front steps of the House and let down the yoke. His chest was heaving and his shirt stuck to his back. The first order of business was to rebuild all the door frames. It occurred to Guy that if he were running a whorehouse, God help him, he would want his customers to have their privacy. He strode up the steps, pushed open the double doors and set to taking them off their hinges. There was activity in the parlor but he didn't pay it any mind.

Keywords: of, Lust, Jewel,