The Changeling The Switch Pt 04

THE CHANGELING: THE SWITCH Pt 4; BAPTISM

No one is born an investigative journalist. A person may have specific gifts that make her inclined toward that direction. I'd say an inquisitive nature and a burning desire to ferret out the hidden truth is the most essential trait, but at one point does an ordinary person distinguish herself from the unthinking mass who are unknowingly carried along by the herd.

I found myself among the herd pressing forward in line in The Puzzle Palace's subbasement on my first night of employment in the laundry department. Although we were all naked holding our clothes in our arms, waiting to be signed in, showered and put to work, there was a certain transparent normalcy infecting the corridor. "Perfectly normal," chirped the big breasted short girl, "Every night we put on a free review."

"A free review" accurately described the scene laid out before me as I looked down the chatter filled corridor at the queue of bodies stripped and presented for inspection in the ill -- light Puzzle Palace sub -- basement. High-pitched voices rising from the cluster of salacious curves, bare breasts and round butts lined up in the ill -- light Puzzle Palace sub -- basement was little different from the lively chatter that you might hear in any normal workplace. Echoing through the grey cinderblock walls was the usual run of sales, weddings, babies, and birthdays.

The flickering, subdued light in The Puzzle Palace's corridor reminded me of my recurring dream moving through a darkened tunnel. It would abruptly end with a jolt. What lay at the end of this pathway?

For many, in our world today, freedom ended in a jolt. More ominous news reminded everyone present of the importance of the employment certificate each of us was issued by TPP. The tall flat chested girl got stopped by the police at a random id check point. "I didn't pull out my employment certificate fast enough. The bastard made me get out of my car, lean over my hood, drop my pants to my ankles. Bastard wanted to see if I had been bar coded for debt or national service. He felt up my boobs and butt to see if I had been chipped. Nasty bastard!"

The skinny girl's cousin hadn't been so lucky. National service finally caught up with the skinny girl's cousin. "When voluntary response to induction notices fall off, they send in the police to run down runners and trawl for inductees for National Service," snorted the short buxom girl.

National Service? I snorted. Several years ago, I faced the challenge of avoiding national service. Then a recent unemployed college graduate, I had received my call -- up notice. On a job interview with an on-line magazine, the editor, deeming me too shy and retiring to qualify as a reporter, gave an assignment to investigate massage parlors. I could read her devilish purpose off her face in handing me the task as a churlish joke. My editor fully expected me to walk out never to return. Was I more determined to prove the editor wrong or to avoid National Service?

In the queue in TPP's subbasement, the buxom girl, hands on her hips to thrust out her chest, exclaimed that her girlfriend was taken in a raid on a neighborhood bar.

Hey, I refrained myself from shrieking that raid took place on my doorstep. That bar abutted my garage -- actually my real house. I took a deep breath. I had to be careful. That house was titled in my real name Marjorie Keating, easily identified as an investigative reporter. It was not part of my narrative in this investigation. I had left my real life as Marjorie Keating behind when I accepted Maggie Dowd's purse in a switch steps away from that bar in its darkened strip mall parking lot and drove her car home -- to her house. I was now Maggie Dowd. Officially her husband Jim was now mine.

Entering TPP, I resolved to dedicate myself to learn, what lie at the other end of the tunnel. It was my job to find out and there was only one way to accomplish my mission: press forward..

Minutes earlier, Jim Dowd and I had reported into TPP's night shift. A security guard noted. "First time." Looking us over, the security officer in a mellow voice, reassured us, "Nothing to it! You've followed instructions. Casual dress, simple T -- shirt top and dungarees, no jewelry. There's nothing to pre -- work preparation. After your wash-up, you receive issued work gear and you troop off to work."

"Wash up?" I questioned.

"At TPP, you enter with what God gave you and leave the same way," the guard smiled as Jim and I were separated; Jim was directed down a corridor which led to the subbasement male washroom and I, to the female.

In my first investigation I proved myself by picking a massage parlor that functioned on the edge of legitimacy and applying for and obtaining a job as a shower -- girl. Running a semi -- legitimate health spa as a stress relief clinic providing restful relaxation and relief from nervous tensions and pressure of daily life, the chief nurse, her starched whites creaking and her white sneakers squealing, was firmly in control, overseeing everything, charging down the linoleum corridors. Her method of avoiding trouble was simple: Enforce propriety through strict protocols in dealing with patients and strangers.

Like TPP, the massage parlor was watchful and well -- managed. My investigation into the massage parlor was unfunded and thrown together. My editor having committed to a substantial outlay to acquire Maggie Dowd's identity, in launching the investigation into TPP, expected results, a sordid tale of money, sex-ploitation and abuse accounting for TPP's meteoric rise from insignificance to its sleek glass and steel edifice towering over the suburban sprawl-o-polis.

Passing down The Puzzle Palace's inclined corridor to the female section of the subbasement washroom, I mused an evocation, a watery ritual ablution, a solemn moment of recreation, goose bumped skin tingling in anticipation, Bodies aglow stripped for inspection, a gaggle of naked women selected for consecration, odor of stale perfume coalesced, an unclothed mass pressed forward and herded, bare feet scampering over tiles electric charged, gurgling sound of flowing water circulated, tits exposed going erect, hidden primitive passions unleashed, repressed biological drives released, once forbidden instincts sensitized, Bodies bound to be baptized.

The Massage clinic where I conducted my first feat of investigative journalism was run by a Head nurse with mind numbing regularity. Staff changed into scrubs in a locker room at work and could not wear watches, rings, or jewelry. Patrons, both male and female, had to disrobe and shower; male patients covered themselves in a towel before being admitted to a treatment room. Females were issued a fluffy white terry cloth bathrobe.

I regretted when thoughts suddenly came to mind, I could have access to neither an old fashioned pen and pad, nor an electronic notepad. TPP's rule was strictly enforced: arrive with what God gave you. Leave the same way." That was the rule, but it also served my protection. I had to use discretion by saving my impressions for recording at a later time.

The air in the corridor of TPP's subbasement was warm, but I still shivered. Was it fear of failure? An undercover reporter could hardly rest on her own laurels; each endeavor must be greater, more exotic than the one that preceded it lest she become stale. and unable to recognize what challenges to rise to and which to ignore.

The flat chested girl staring at my exposed breasts smirked, "Welcome, new honey pot to the free review."

I was tempted to return a snarky remark, but I held my tongue. I had no need to create unnecessary enemies.

In the Puzzle Palace's subbasement, the women waiting to be checked in were competitors. Who among the women who bared their bodies to work in laundry and maintenance to do the scrub work that made it possible for the filming of TPP's popular flagship webcast strip game show wouldn't turn me in to get her 15 minutes of fame on camera? None! My objective was to know them not they me.

Why were these women waiting to do the inglorious tasks that kept The Puzzle Palace's webcast broadcasting? I'm sure most were not impressed by The Puzzle Palace's official rationale, that an actress can't be a simple pretty face; she must have a brain to see exactly how everything behind the scenes shapes the finished product. Most girls, willingly to abase themselves by waiting in the nude for inspection, expected to advance their careers in acting and to make it to the stage by any means possible. It was a simple question of dollars and cents. My sparring partner the genuine Maggie Dowd whose identity I had assumed and whose husband I seconded in my investigation to gain employment warned me aforehand: "Women are natural predators; they're willing as competitors to fight dirty."

And of course, that opportunity to see everything starting with a broom and a mop may not have impressed a prospective starlet who sought the limelight, but it made a point of entry for me to insert myself into The Puzzle Palace to learn more about its flagship strip game. I, Margie Keating, investigative reporter, as Maggie Dowd was now inside to uncover the secret which enabled TPP to rise from its strip game's humble origins in a webcast broadcast from a detached garage to one broadcast from a stunning tower of steel and glass on a multi acre plot in the midst of suburban sprawl-o-polis.

I'm sure my editor would agree that "Everything can be reduced to mathematics plain dollars and cents." But will the story behind TPP's amassing enough dollars and sense to buy a glass and steel tower sell copy?

Behind me on - line, honey blonde Rachel, whom I met backstage the day I was hired, blathered about her magic moment on stage in the Puzzle Palace flagship strip game. "I made it on stage to the races, but I've been thrown back in the pack. I lost my clothes so quickly in the match that my husband had to give up the key to his chastity belt to keep me in the game. The studio execs, say that I lost so bad so quick that my rematch with Adrienne is held off for a while, pending comments from subscribers. "Will it sell? that's the execs main concern," Rachel bemoaned, "before I'm plunked in front of the camera again and given a role. My husband chafes annoyed locked down in chastity, a gelded boy. Meanwhile we draw checks on the payroll in TPP's employ."

True to her stage personality, Rachel was a blabberer. In normal life, no one likes to be subjected to a continuous stream of blither, but I was different. I'm a reporter; senseless babblers can unknowingly give up valuable information. But my main concern, at the moment at work, was not cackling Rachel, but the real Maggie's husband Jim, hired with me for housekeeping. Would he just run away? He had endured so much this far. A salary and an employment exemption from national service can be a powerful stimulus to sticking to the task. Would that be sufficient?

Why many a comely young woman queue up naked in line to work in housekeeping or laundry at the Puzzle Palace would lust for the chance to make the stage, but many others among the gaggle were just trying to stay afloat in a sea of debt and avoid impressment into an indenture or national service.. Yet I had returned to the editor with a story on work in a massage parlor, the question was posed in an incredulous tone, "Did you and other girls really administer therapeutic showers half -- naked? Why?"

"An undercover investigator must be an exhibitionist," I told my editor, "Even to play the part of a shrinking wallflower, one must have a certain moxie and supreme self-confidence in your ability to fill the role."

"But shower girls performed for select patrons," my editor pressed.

"Some regular patrons in the bath," I replied curtly, "were permitted to loosen the strings of the shower girl's bikini bottoms for the thrill of watching the bottom gently fall away. For some patrons it was a game, a show, a presentation with a quasi -- medical purpose, more entertainment than sex ... Typically a shower girl would add, `Well, I got to pay a mortgage, somehow.'"

The married women among the shower girls rationalized their plight with encouraging smile, "It beats working for Bulk-Mart at the minimum wage. More dollars make good sense. Besides, patrons are required to shower here; we don't have to fondle dirty bodies. The work is dirty but the money is clean."

From the moment my faux husband Jim and I parted down different slippery slopes to TPP's shower facilities I worried about Jim's ability to hold up his end of the charade. I credited women as more capable of the mental gymnastics and acting skills required to play the double game required of an undercover investigator.

Generally, men are far less anatomically complex than women. A man's body was simpler, fitted for one cosmological purpose in the universe which could be easily dispensed with without damaging the organism.

In Jim's case, the story was simple. He was not told of my mission at TPP. Allhe knew was that I was out of work and needed a job. In Jim's case, for personal reasons, he wanted to avoid recall into National Service that TPP's employment certificate furnished.

Yet, it was I, not Jim, who almost failed. I myself nearly bolted at the entrance to the female service staff's locker room when I saw a dozen bare chested women sitting on the bench in their cotton briefs. Their clothes were neatly stacked in wire baskets. I was about ready to yell, `Not For Me!' when honey blond Rachel, sitting on the end of the bench, turned her dangling boobs toward me with a delicious smile.

Introducing herself, Rachel reminded me, "We met backstage, during my," Rachel giggled, "eh -- disastrous debut in the limelight."

Forcing a smile, I acknowledged, "It's good you can laugh at it."

"I'm so glad you made it here," Rachel's words flowed like a gushing spigot. "I'll make sure," Rachel promised with an honest expression, "we can work together." A sea of prattle followed until an inner door creaked open. Rachel ceased her blithering and declared, "Oh my gosh, I've been chattering away," Rachel turned to me, "you're still dressed. Let me help you get your clothes off. We have to start on time." With a giggle, Rachel added, "I endure these petty annoyances so that a golden opportunity opens up."

Submissively, I raised my arms when Rachel ordered, "Hands up." I felt a tingle when she placed her warm hands under the cups of my bra and swept my bra and my loose top away. Mechanically I crossed my arms over my chest. Rachael pulled my hands away from my breasts. "Hands at your side. TPP owns them tits. Its audience pays to see them."

Girls around us chuckled, "It's all just plain dollars and cents."

With a slight of hand, Rachel, having swept away my dungarees pants, thong and sneakers, presented me my clothing, with a hammy, "Ta -- da," neatly folded in a wire basket. "Hope you labelled your stuff. You might like to get it back at end of the shift." Pointing toward the line, Rachel suggested we better get ready to check in.

As the gaggle approached the Security booth, the smell of perfume intensified. Under the bright yellow light of the security booth, turning in my basket of clothing, I was reminded by the Security officer in the future to inscribe my initials and employee number on the label of each item of clothing. In a practiced friendly tone, the security officer told me as she went through the wire basket, inventorying my clothing, "to make sure you get your clothes back at the end of the shift." The security officer pointed me to my right a line through a dimly light alcove ending in a space capsule shaped module.

There was an electric shock through my body. I turned perhaps too defensively. The short girl behind Rachel with the disproportionally big tits explained that during your shift the laundry department cleans your clothes. Immediately, behind me Rachel added, "That's why you were told not to leave anything in your pockets."

"I guess that's why in the Puzzle Palace T.P.P., you may enter with what God gave you. Leave the same way."

"Atta girl," cackled Rachel, "Maggie, you're destined to be a writer."

"Better be nice to Maggie, Rachel," quipped the tall flat chested woman, "or Maggie'll feed you lines that make you sound like a blithering idiot."

"More blithering than usual?" sarcastically questioned the short buxom woman.

Merry laughter filled the corridor.

"The only way to the top is through the bottom," yelled the short girl with big tits at Rachel.

I laughed along with the rest at the silly double entendres. The poise necessary to meld in an unusual situation was an essential quality for an undercover operative who had to appear to be just one of the gals. After we handed in our clothing Rachel whispered to me, "We can trade jokes and jibe together but never forget everyone here," Rachel sighed, "would castrate their boyfriend, their husband, even their father just to get before more time the camera." Her voice rang with impersonal realism as she added, "imagine what they'd do to you."

"Survival of the fittest," I quipped, "won't work if take the hoscus off your mate."

Rachel, that cute, sweet little viper, reminded me of the spit -- personality of my coworkers at the massage parlor, particularly the clutching housewives. The housewives who worked as shower girls would slit your throat for a $5 tip, but as tough as these housewives were, they didn't lead me astray. There in the massage parlor I was taught how to identify a cop and told never to render any extra services for someone I didn't know.

"It's OK to tantalize the patron with the suggestion, but be remiss in the delivery" I was told. "Tease them, please them but yet leave them cheated still wishing for an ecstatic culmination. No patron, no patronage!"

As I looked down the corridor in TPP at the round butts posturing themselves, I wondered if at age 30 after a pregnancy, any of them could pass for 23. I shook my head. Neither self -- confidence, exhibitionism, nor shamelessness could be the word that expressed the character trait necessary to pull off an undercover investigation. The word was chutzpah, supreme gall, exuding the vital supreme self -- confidence.

Yet, it is at moments like this in novel situations that your perceptions are extremely acute. As I turned in my clothes at the counter in TPP's sub -- basement, I could tell you about the exact shade of the Security Officer's eyeliner, the length of her ponytail, the twinkle in her eye and the color of her nails as she accepted my basket. I could see through her booth to the male side where naked men stood lined up against the wall inspected by a nurse in white scrubs.

Up ahead of me there was a line of women waiting to enter the frosted glass doors of a revolving door that admitted an employee, one customer at a time to the capsule shaped shower module. It was like a rocket ship, the vehicle to an adventure into unknown territory. "Get ready to blast off," someone yelled.

At the entrance to the capsule, security guard in grey perfunctorily inspected the body of each female. "On this side," Rachel whispered to me, "nothing serious, today, they're just checking for scars, tan lines, blemishes, tattoos."

There were some wisecrack remarks among the ladies now queued ahead of me waiting for admission to the shower module through that revolving door.

I repressed a shiver as I saw the door swish open for a person to enter. The door closed with the hiss--spiss--sound of a gentle spray of water and foam. A few seconds, although it seemed longer, the door swished open. Once the fog billowed out, you could see that the chamber was empty ready for the next customer.

A version of that recurring dream that troubled me was entering a revolving door only to be gobbled up in it, unable to find the exit.