Eugenia sidestepped a lumbering, whiskey-breathed patron standing idly in the doorway.
Slinking into the cacophonous pub, the powerful scent of mold and cheap spirits filled her nostrils. It was an odor she was very familiar with, so much so that it vanished from her perception within seconds.
Tables full of boorish, unkempt men ogled her as she passed by. She knew nearly all of them by now, and knew how to navigate them.
One pinched her bottom as she squeezed past his table, to which she simply conjured an emotionless, placating smile. Another man unsuccessfully tried to grab her wrist, then cursed incomprehensibly at her. She held her smile and averted her eyes, making her way to the bar at an accelerated pace.
A row of shabby railroaders barricaded the counter, so she walked around to its side. She tried to wave at her father from a comfortable distance there, but he was busy scrubbing mugs with intense focus. The waving caught the attention of the railroaders, however, whose predatory eyes quickly fell upon her.
Thinking it wise to lighten the mood, she suddenly curtsied, then stomped her foot loudly on the floor. "Hello, dear ol' dad!" she yelled in an intentionally nasal tone. "I do hope you're keeping these fine gentlemen as sauced as they please!"
Her father did not bother to look up. At first she thought he hadn't heard her, but then he grumbled, glancing at her wearily for the briefest of seconds.
"Folks are sayin' this batch of gin is bathtub raw, Eu. Do a better job next time. I can't afford importin' the good stuff for a few more weeks, so we'll have to make do 'til then."
"Oh. Um. Sorry papa," Eugenia said. "There weren't any fruits left, so I used some of that molasses—"
"Next time, go get more fruits," her father said, clearing his throat and waving her away dismissively. "I don't need any help behind the bar tonight. Just go make some money back there, and tomorrow morning you'll go get as many sacks of juniper as you can carry."
She frowned, and watched him for a moment, noticing that he was beginning to look his age; he had become hunched in recent years, his movements fidgety and imprecise, and his complexion was beginning to take on a particularly leathery look.
She shook her head and left him alone, feeling the railroaders' eyes follow her body as she headed towards the back of the establishment.
Brushing past a few more familiar faces, she ducked under a hanging velvet cloth behind which a stairway descended. A few steps down, she was in darkness. She felt around, finding the large wooden door leading to the back room, and unhinged it, shoving it open.
She clasped around until she found the hanging lightbulb overhead, and switched it on. There she stood in the same small, dingy enclosure she did most nights.
In the argot of place, this room was referred to as the "Easy Hole." This term was also something of a synecdoche, for Eugenia herself was also considered the "hole" in question. Her only job then was to be available.
She dropped her knapsack in the corner and stripped off her dark burlap dress. She then hooked her hand behind her shoulder blade and unlatched her bra.
Her large, untanned breasts fell out, hanging pendulously above her bulky stomach. She then kicked off her shoes and pulled down her underwear, freeing her wooly blonde mound and flat, narrow buttocks.
She waited. There was an unwashed mattress that lay in the center of the den, and she sat upon it, staring at the punctured can of cooking grease sitting beside it.
For a moment she thought about the lies she told her friend Betty, and how easy it was to fool her. Her threats were hollow, of course. Eugenia had no incriminating photos or letters. She knew no firebrand journalists. All she had was her singular talent—the ability to weave and maintain intricate lies.
It wasn't long before she heard the knock. Three times. She knew what that meant, and she groaned.
"I can't do that tonight," she said. "I'm too sore. I can do it regular, though, and give head—"
She heard a grunt from behind the heavy wooden door, and then some profanity-laden mumbling that grew fainter as the anonymous man retreated disappointedly back up the stairs.
A few silent moments passed, the light creaking back and forth above her. She dug her nails into her leg in frustration. She hated her life. She thought of Betty and how easy hers was, and she began to hate her, as well.
A few moments later, she heard footsteps approaching. And then, surprisingly, she heard her father's voice.
"Eu, put some clothes on. You have a visitor. Make it quick though," she heard him say in a tone incrementally more engaged than usual.
Her curiosity was piqued. She didn't bother with her underwear, slipping her dress back on and walking barefoot to the door.
The door swung open, and standing there next to her father was Betty. She was wearing an unshowy, loose-fitting coat, a thick gray headscarf that concealed her profile, and a large pair of dark sunglasses.
When she removed the glasses, the terror in her eyes was clear. Her face was nearly as white as paper. Her lips hung slightly parted in a perpetual expression of disbelief.
"Eugenia," Betty said, her voice trembling, "I-is this...what I think it is?"
Betty felt a heavy pat on her shoulder. "It's good to see you again, Betty. Tell your folks I said hi," Eugenia's father said wistfully, then lumbered back up the stairs to leave the two of them alone.
Eugenia slowly nodded. Her eyes were pink at the edges and she shivered slightly. Betty had never seen her look so vulnerable before.
"I'm so sorry...I had no idea."
"I don't need your bleedin' sympathy, Betty," Eugenia grumbled. "A job's a job. Not that you'd know anything about that."
Betty spotted the pile of underwear on the floor and felt ill. How long had her childhood friend been selling herself?
She quickly thought back to all of the times that Eugenia claimed to be unavailable in the evenings, and how she never seemed to give much of a reason for it. How, shortly after her mother passed away, she began peddling Tijuana bibles to the boys at school, and flirting with nearly anything that moved.
