I Visited a Whore House

It was a mind-blowing experience, but not in the way you think

Now that I’m retired and possess the wisdom of age, I can look back at my life and marvel at my own stupidity. Case in point: My adventure in Texas.

Fresh out of college in the ’80s, I took the only Journalism job I could find — which meant moving 1300 miles from my hometown of Chicago to the dusty outskirts of San Antonio.

There, I met a colorful cast of characters — from silver belt-buckled ranchers and big-haired housewives, to Bible-thumping preachers and fat-cat oilmen. But the most memorable person I met was Melissa, who lived next door in my dumpy apartment complex.

I shared a paper-thin wall with Melissa and her boyfriend Juan — a couple that argued loudly and often.

Juan was a barrel-chested, crew-cutted dude with tattoos on his thick forearms and a mass of keys on his belt. Melissa was tall and willowy with long jet-black hair, a Cher lookalike.

Melissa and I weren’t friends. But sometimes as I was coming or going, she’d step into the breezeway, holding her black cat Fluffy in her arms, and a Virginia Slims between her lips. I think she was lonely.

I was able to piece together that she worked only sporadically, since she didn’t have a car. She said she didn’t mind, since 9-to-5 wasn’t her thing. She had too many pets, she said, and she couldn’t bear to leave them at home alone.

One day, the fight next door was worse than usual.

It started with shouting and slamming doors. When gunshots rang out, I hit the floor, as if in a war zone.

Then from the breezeway came a tremendous crash.

I crawled to my front door and peeked out. I had to blink to make sure my eyes weren’t fooling me.

Sure enough, there were goldfish flopping around on the wet cement, surrounded by aquarium rocks and broken glass.

Melissa flew out of her apartment and pushed past me into mine.

She was furious. Juan knew how much she loved her fish, she said, and he had tossed her aquarium out the front door, just to spite her.

And not only that, she continued, but Juan is a drug dealer. And since he shot his gun, surely the cops were on their way.

Would I please give her a ride out of here?

I nodded eagerly, too freaked out to question why she would need to run, given that her boyfriend was the actual criminal.

We set off down the highway, while Melissa chain-smoked and recounted Juan’s many faults.

Not only was he a drug dealer, she said, but also a sexist pig who couldn’t stand that she earned more money than he did.

Melissa took a drag on her Virginia Slims and tossed it out the window. It hadn’t started that way, she said. But then Fluffy the cat got sick and needed an expensive operation.

Melissa had no money. But she did have a Cosmopolitan magazine. And that issue featured an article about a woman who scored big bucks as a call girl.

Next thing she knew, she was standing in front of the San Antonio Hilton wearing her shortest dress. That night, she returned home with more than enough for the vet bill.

The hotel gig was supposed to have been a one-time thing. But the money was addicting, she said. It got to the point where her jewelry box was overflowing with cash, and Juan had discovered it.

Juan was no dummy. He knew where the money had come from. His anger sparked the whole cascade of events — from screaming and gunshots to aquarium destruction and goldfish murder.

By this time, I’d been driving for nearly 40 minutes.

The bustling streets of San Antonio had long since given way to miles of open prairie. Where were we going? To her part-time workplace, Melissa replied casually, where it would be safe.

Running on fumes, we finally pulled into a dusty parking lot next to a low-slung office building. The lot held several pickups, one up on blocks.

We approached a dingy glass door. Melissa punched a code into a keypad. Once buzzed through, we snaked down a hallway, turned right, and parted a curtain of glass beads.

Low lights. Whispered voices. Air stale with a mixture of sweat and weed. That’s when it hit me.

A flabby blonde wearing a lacy pink teddy threw her arms around Melissa’s neck. “Jasmine!” she cried. “We’ve missed you!”

A half-dozen other girls lounged about the darkened room, looking bored and/or stoned.

Melissa invited me to stay. But I knew I needed to split.

In my mind’s eye, I could see myself being scooped up in a police raid, hauled off in handcuffs, tossed into the clink…all the while insisting I was only giving my neighbor a ride.

I never saw Melissa again.

But that Christmas, at my dumpy apartment complex, a card arrived in my mailbox.

Tearing open the envelope, I found the image of a black cat wearing a jaunty holiday cap.

Inside was the simple greeting “Merry Christmas.”

And below, scrawled in red ink: “Love, Jasmine.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, come join my free mailing list or support me and other writers by becoming a Medium member. You can also visit my profile to find a whole lot more, including: