REVERSAL OF FORTUNE

 

                             by

 

                        C. Lakewood

 

 

 

    The smartly dressed young woman strode nonchalantly through

the outer office and into Dean Malcolm Heywood's inner sanctum

without a by-your-leave or even a perceptible hesitation.  As she

passed, the dean's secretary, looked up, startled, and opened her

mouth to object, then closed it again and shrugged.  Dr. Barbara

Lang was slated to take over as dean in a few days, and there was

no point in making waves.

 

    Relishing her impending triumph -- another big step up the

career ladder -- the dean-designate gazed about the spacious,

mahogany-paneled room, so redolent of savoir faire.  But she was

not totally happy with what she saw.  Drawing herself up to her

full height (5'9" in heels), she addressed the dean in a phoney,

saccharine tone.

 

    "Afternoon, Mal.  You haven't even STARTED packing up yet? 

It won't take me long to get completely up to speed, but I WOULD

like to settle in ASAP...and, since your offical duties don't

amount to much anymore...."

 

    "Mmmm...I understand that, but I have, in fact, managed to

keep fairly busy.  Research...."  He paused.  "I really hadn't

planned on retiring so soon, but perhaps I am too old to function

well in these times.  I don't think, for example, that civilized

adults should address their superiors familiarly unless invited

to do so -- or, indeed, barge into private offices unannounced

and without even knocking....  But I am pleased that you did

drop by."  He picked up a manila folder from his desk.  "I was

looking over your official résumé.  Exemplary.  National Honor

Society and high school diploma at age 16, Phi Beta Kappa at

18 -- and those degrees: Bryn Mawr B.A. (Magna Cum Laude) at

19, Chicago M.A. at 20, Harvard Ph.D. at 22 -- an assistant

professorship at Stanford, and then leaving there to come here.... 

Yes, except for that curious final item, it's a résumé of which

its owner can certainly be proud.  He slid the folder across to

his visitor.  "Of course, yoU aren't the real owner, are you,

'Barbara'?"

 

    Stupified, she blanched and began stammering.

 

    He held up his hand.  "Please don't try to deny it.  I have

photographs and fingerprints -- all of which will hold up in

court very nicely.  And, we can get DNA evidence if there's still

even a scintilla of doubt (which there won't be).  It's obvious

that you're guilty of identity theft...and possibly murder."

 

    "Not MURDER!  It was an accident, I swear.  On vacation...an

allergic reaction...anaphylactic shock.  I didn't kill her...just

switched purses....  It was...."

 

    Heywood made a dismissive gesture.  "I'm not concerned with

the details, though I'm sure the police will be."

 

    B-but, I didn't hurt her...just seized my chance.  I'd been a

very good student, with pretty good prospects, but she was truly

extraordinary.  Her future was bright...and assured...."

 

    He shook his head.  "It doesn't matter." 

 

    Everything having collapsed, she gathered herself to make

a run for it, but he spoke up, saying, "And don't think about

attempting to flee -- your purse is no longer in your desk,

and your car is no longer in the parking lot."

 

    "Please!  I-I...."

 

    He leaned back and steepled his fingers.  "But I must also

think of the college's reputation.  We might avoid a scandal...IF

you agree to be treated like the arrogant and treacherous tramp

you really are -- instead of the responsible academic you have

been masquerading as.  Of course, you'll also have to give up your

stolen identity...AND your 'ill-gotten gains,' as it were."

 

    "But she was buried as me."

 

    "You will, naturally, need yet another identity.  That can be

arranged.  And I won't inform the police or any of the references

in this supposititious résumé.  In return, you will resign at once,

and I'll place you in the custody of...well, let's call her a

'tutor.'" 

 

    "Tutor?"

 

    "She's an intelligent, no-nonsense young lady.  She will

provide you a place to stay for a while.  If you mind your

manners and improve your behavior, it won't be long -- only

until we can tidy up your affairs -- likely not much more

than a month.  When business is concluded (and she's satisfied

that you are at least minimally repentant), she'll give you new

ID, some money, and a job referral.  Then you'll be free to go

your own way...anywhere but here.  So, which path do you prefer?" 

His hand moved toward the phone on his desk.

 

    "I-I'll...submit."

 

    He nodded.  "Very well.  I've taken the liberty of drawing up

your resignation...for unspecified 'personal reasons.'  Just sign

there....  Yes.  And now this power of attorney, so that your

assets can be liquidated properly...."

 

    "Power of attorney?  Oh, I'd have to think about that."

 

    He shrugged and reached for the phone.  "Of course.  You can

think about it from your jail cell."

 

    "No!  Wait!  There...I signed it."

 

    He made a brief, cryptic phone call and then drove her across

town to a seedy, deserted playground.  After a few minutes, a

yellow van arrived and parked nearby.  A dark woman in sweatshirt

and jeans got out; she carried a ratty shopping bag.

 

    "That's your 'tutor,'" Heywood said.  Her name's Rosie Toler;

she's part Latina, part black, and part who-knows-what.  She's an

experienced fighter with a short fuse.  I'd mind her, if I were

you, Barbie.  Oh yes, your new name is 'Barbie Goldberg.'

 

    She looked stunned.  "A Jewish name?"

 

    "Yes.  Now, out."  ("What a package," he thought.  "Thief,

imposter, bigot...and, I suspect, a coquette, as well.")

 

    The two women approached each other and stopped face to face. 

"Barbie" said something, and Rosie immediately slapped her.

 

    Heywood nodded and watched the two head off toward the

restrooms.  Rosie was a couple of inches shorter than Barbie --

and apparently much lighter -- but he knew she could handle

herself against far more formidable opponents.

 

    He sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking pleasant thoughts. 

At length, Rosie reappeared.  Her bag seemed somewhat heavier,

now.  A moment later, he saw Barbie -- sheer pink tube top, black

polyester micro-skirt, and cheap flip-flops -- the very picture of

"trailer park trash."  It was obvious she was braless, and, from

the way she was walking, probably pantyless, as well.

 

    Satisfied, he started his car and drove off, without a

backward glance.

 

            ******************************

 

    Rosie easily impressed upon Barbie (with the aid of a strap)

that she should accept her reversal of fortune.  There wasn't any

way to escape -- she no longer possessed money, checkbook, credit

cards, ID, phone, or car.  And she had no clothes, other than

those provided for her: everything cheap and trashy, most of it

much more appropriate for someone years younger and several social

strata lower.  Not that the appearance of her clothes was of much

immediate concern.  Barbie spent virtually all her time naked.   

 

    She also spent hours every day working out -- aerobics,

treadmill, stationary bike -- and toiling at a long list of

recurring household chores, all of which she was expected to

do under STRICT supervision. 

 

            ******************************

 

    So, for a while, she did hard labor.  She went to sleep each

night exhausted and woke up...extremely horny, for some reason.

But, being intelligent and adaptable, she quickly learned to

submit without seeming too resentful.

 

    It was, of course, an act.  She was seething inside.

 

    ("Damn mongrel bitch!  I don't deserve this!  I was only

trying to better myself.  Nothing wrong with that.  Prissy Barbara

Lang had always had it too easy, and then she just died.  Not my

fault.  But it was time that I got a taste.  Who could truly blame

me?  I'm not really a bad person, just tired of seeing others get

all the breaks.  That goddamn bastard Heywood....  What right did

he have to stick his long nose into my business?  And this...this

squinty-eyed, slave-driving bitch...probably a goddamn dyke....") 

 

    Later on, Barbie was taught how to prance and shimmy and bump

and grind....

 

    After 44 days of this regimen, she was declared "free" and

allowed to dress.  She was sent on her way, with a new ID card,

a dollar bill, the address of a strip club said to be expecting

her, and a small canvas bag with some clothes and toiletries.

 

    She didn't look back.

 

            ******************************

 

    It was named "The Rat Hole."  She felt defiled just by walking

into the place, but she knew she had little choice.  She'd been

warned and didn't dare subject her fake ID to much more than casual

scrutiny.  She knew a place like "The Rat Hole" wouldn't be nearly

as picky as even the average fast food joint, and, without a résumé

or references, those were her only chances for employment.  In

fact, without better ID, she couldn't even get welfare.  Besides,

here she had a "referral" (whatever THAT might realistically mean). 

So, at length, she found herself standing slightly pigeon-toed in

front of the desk of one Otto Triandos, manager of the club, and

feeling rather like an errant schoolgirl sent to the principal.

 

    The office was suitably grim.  Under foot was a threadbare

rug over faded lineoleum.  The drab walls were plastered with

old posters, magazine centerfolds, and photos of dancers and

pornstars.  The atmosphere reeked of cigar smoke, cheap liquor,

garlic, and B.O.

 

    The big man behind the desk was all jowls and boredom. 

He looked a lot like Broderick Crawford.

 

    "Whatcha want?" he growled, barely giving her a glance. 

He went back to idly flipping through a dog-eared issue of

"Hustler."

 

    "Mr. Triandos, s-sir...I was told you might h-hire me...."

It took some effort to suppress the quaver in her voice.  "My

name's...Barbie G-goldberg."

 

    "So what?"

 

    "So...so I need a job...sir."

 

    He looked at her more closely now.  Despite her clothes,

there was a certain...something...about her.  (The first

term that had occurred to him was "prude," and that was true,

but it was more than that.  She stood too straight, her accent

was too highbrow, her expression was too disapproving....  If

his active vocabulary had been larger, he might have termed

her "prim," "vain," "self-absorbed," and "disdainful."  Yet,

he did have her character pegged, even if he didn't have all

the right words to describe it.  He also recognized that, over

all, she had an air of desperation.  It was an interesting

combination....  And all of it could be of value.)

 

    "Yeah, maybe....  We can allus use new girls....  You're not

bad lookin'...tits okay, legs good....  But you jus' don' seem

like the type, honey."

 

    She felt herself getting red. 

 

    "No!  I-I COULD be....  I c-could be...um...anything you

wanted me to be.  I do really need a job, Mr. Triandos.

Please."

 

    He shrugged and passed her a pen and an application form.

"Maybe.  Sit.  Fill this out."  He returned to his magazine.

 

    Filling out the form was quick enough.  Name, sex, age

(31), SSN (from the bogus ID), hair (auburn), eyes (hazel),

vitals (5'6" 138lbs 35C-26-36), marital status (divorced,

à la her cover story), no illnesses, no allergies, no criminal

record, education (out-of-state high school, nothing beyond),

no address, no phone, no job history.  Her degrees, honors,

experience, and accomplishments had been buried with Barbara

Lang. 

 

    Triandos looked it over and sniffed.  "Pretty thin.  You

runnin' from the cops?  Some kinds of trouble don' matter;

some do."

 

    "N-no, sir, I swear!"  She hoped her prepared story would

sound plausible enough.  "I've been a h-housewife since high

school, b-but I'm divorced now and broke, with nowhere to turn...."  

 

    "Maybe.  There's some questions I need to ask that ain't on

the application.  Had sex with men, right?"

 

    "Yes."

 

    He squinted at her, and there was an awkward pause that

stretched out longer and longer until it finally dawned on

her what he was waiting for.

 

    "Um...yes, sir."

 

    He nodded.  "With women?"

 

    "No, sir."

 

    "Animals?"

 

    "N-no, sir!"

 

    "Oral?"

 

    "Yes, sir....  But not often."

 

    ("Twice," she thought.  "And that was TOO often.  Of course,

both times there was something I wanted out of it...and I got

it.  Oh, god!  And now I want this job...desperately.")

 

    "Anal?"

 

    "No, sir."  ("Asshole!")

 

    He looked thoughtful.  "You say you could be ANYTHING we

want you to be, yeah?"

 

    "Yes, sir.  I'd work real hard, Mr. Triandos.  I...."

 

    "Stand up.  Show me whatcha got."

 

    She stood up. 

 

    ("When that Rosie bitch told me the name of this place, I

was afraid of what might happen, and then, when I first saw it,

I just KNEW it would come to this.  From Dean-Designate to strip

club slut....  God!  That pig is so loathesome!  I ought to spit

in his ugly face...but I'm out of options.  I just CAN'T become

a bag lady or a street hooker.  The 'Rat Hole' might not be much,

but it's better than that.")

   

    She took off her clothes, mechanically.  It didn't take long. 

She kicked off her flip-flops, slithered out of the tube top and

dropped her miniskirt -- and was naked.

 

    "Hmmmm.  Nice nips.  And it's good you're shaved.  Lotsa guys

like that." 

 

    ("Shit!  That fucking Rosie Toler MADE me shave.  My nipples

are so goddamn stiff!  What's the matter with me?  I've actually

got to beg this cretin for a chance to-to...strut my stuff for

strangers.")

 

    "Please, sir....  Just give me a chance to show you, Mr.

Triandos."

 

    "O-kay, you got a audition.  If the payin' customers like

you, you got a job.  You'd be a part-time trainee; 37 hours a

week.  We'd pay you less than minimum -- but you'd get to keep

half of what you make doin' lap dances, hustlin' drinks, and

turnin' tricks....  You'd live upstairs." 

 

    He pushed himself back from the desk.

 

    "Before you go out there, though, I gotta try you out...test

your 'work ethic,' honey."  He chuckled.  "So get down here and

suck me off.  Do what's called a 'bad girl blow job'...lotsa spit

and enthusism.  Slurp it up.  Moan.  Make me believe you jus' LOVE

doin' it.  Make it last for a while.  And, when I cum, you swallow

it all, understand?" 

 

    She understood.

 

    She knelt in front of him, unzipped his pants, and nervously

extracted his half-hard prick.  It smelled awful...musty and

over-ripe...but it didn't taste TOO bad.  She followed his

instructions, slurping and moaning in what she hoped was a

good enough imitation of passion.  When it was over, when she

had swallowed the last vile gulp of his cum, she sat back on

her heels, feeling completely debased.

 

    "You ain't through yet, babe.  You gotta lick it clean, kiss

it like you love it, and put it back.  And do it gentle...."

 

    She'd been wrong before.  She was just beginning to learn to

depths of debasement.

 

    Triandos pressed a button on his intercom.  "Get Miranda in

here."

 

    A moment later, the door opened and "Miranda" entered.  She

might have been Rosie Toler's bigger, meaner, and less refined

sister.  She looked like the same indeterminate racial mix and

had the same café-au-lait skin...virtually all of which was on

display, since she was naked, except for a red garter around

her right thigh.

 

    She was scowling, but not at Triandos.

 

    "Miranda, this here's...uh...'Barbie Goldberg.'  She goes on

next.  Get her squared away."  He fetched a red garter from his

desk drawer and tossed it to Barbie.  "That's your costume."    

 

    And so, his "Human Relations" duties having been taken care

of for the moment, he went back to his magazine.  

 

    (Naked?  I have to dance totally NAKED?)

 

    Miranda was saying something snarly, but Barbie couldn't make

much sense out of it.  Her mind was spinning and her body starting

to sweat as Miranda propelled her along the corridor.  "Put your

garter on, bitch," the big dancer ordered.  (She did understand

THAT.) 

 

    "No, yours goes on the LEFT leg."

 

    Just before they reached the curtains stage right, they passed

another nude girl, her hair in pig-tails, heading in the opposite

direction.  There was a moment of silence.  Then the PA crackled,

"And now, please welcome our newest.  Bar-bie Gold-berg!"

 

    Barbie barely had time to recognize the tune that started up

-- "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" -- when she was thrust roughly

out onto the small stage.          

 

    There weren't many customers in the place that early in the

day, but what there were, she despised.  Swarthy lower class

types, barely above the homeless -- very "ethnic," with cheap,

sweat-stained clothing, facial stubble, bad teeth, and coarse

voices....  The emotional combination -- her loathing of her

audience, her embarrassment at being on stage naked, and her

fear of screwing up and losing even this crappy job -- had her

practically paralyzed. 

 

    She took a couple of tentative steps toward the brass pole

up front, then froze.  She was supposed to know some moves, ones

Rosie had taught her, but her mind had blanked and her body was

zombified.

 

    The customers were pleased at first at the sight of fresh meat,

but their patience ran out quickly, and they were becoming restive

(abusive would be next) at Barbie's inaction, when Miranda suddenly

swept onto the stage with a formidable switch in her hand -- and

began using it on Barbie's butt.  The audience, usually rather

blasé at this hour, responded with genuine enthusiasm, real

applause -- and, by the end, more than a few dollar bills.  Miranda

pranced Barbie around the stage for twenty minutes, winding up

by forcing her to hump the brass pole until she orgasmed...twice. 

 

    And a new act was born that day on stage at The Rat Hole -- one

that would be repeated often, by popular demand.

 

    (And they shared the cheers and applause, though Miranda kept

all the money.)

 

    Afterward, even Triandos looked as pleased as he was capable

of.  "O-kay.  You two done pretty good.  Guess you're a team...so

you can be room-mates, too."

 

    (He'd be looking in on them later -- through the CCTV in their

room -- and, knowing Miranda, didn't expect he'd be disappointed.)

 

    "Miranda, you fill her in on her other duties, and make sure

you keep her in line, now.  Okay, scat!"

 

    Barbie spent the rest of the day primarily hustling drinks and

performing as an apprentice lap dancer, with occasional turns on

the stage (during which she got her ass and thighs thoroughly

switched again).  In addition, she turned two tricks....

 

    In the small hours of the morning, when she was finally allowed

to drag her weary carcass off to bed, she quickly learned that

she'd be sleeping that night (and for the foreseeable future) with

her face between Miranda's thighs.  Triandos had asked several

questions earlier regarding her sexual experience.  Viewing the

tape, he made a mental that one of her answers was no longer true. 

 

For starters.

 

            ******************************  

   

    Four months passed.  It was mid-autumn, and the year was dying.

Barbie was firmly in the grip of an apathetic inertia.  She hated

what she was doing, feared her bosses, and loathed her clientele. 

But she couldn't see a way out.  So far, she'd managed to hide only

$57 from her greedy co-workers, and she'd need a lot more getaway

money than that.  Clothes, transportation, reliable ID, basic

living expenses, a cash reserve -- all that would add up....  But

she was finding it easier anymore to just be a "Rat Hole" girl...to

wake up with the pungent taste of cunt in her mouth and go to bed

with the lingering, musty taste of prick...and, in between, to

prance and coo and hustle drinks and turn tricks....  Oh, god!  It

was better than the alternatives, better than prison or the

streets, she told herself.  She could still dream, though, and

she dreamed of someday, somehow crashing out.  Those dreams,

however, were now beginning to get a bit shop-worn, and sometimes

she had difficulty convincing even herself that she'd ever get

back to anything like the good life she'd once had.    

  

    And then, an implausible white knight appeared.  He was a

short, plump, middle-aged, Buddha-esque Oriental, inscrutable,

but with a polite, almost deferential manner.  He introduced

himself as "Mr. Soong," and seemed content to pay lap dance

prices just for conversation with her. 

 

    Barbie was captivated by the man.  Finally, someone civilized

in that dump...mannerly and perceptive enough to appreciate her

for her mind.  (He also seemed to be quite well-to-do...maybe even

rich.  He owned some sort of import-export business.)

 

    She began to perk up, to increasingly resemble her old self --

that is, the woman she'd been as Barbara Lang -- cool, crisp,

confident, articulate....

 

    They talked about everything -- literature, history, current

events, political theory, taste and manners, music, theatre,

architecture -- though, in fact, she did most of the talking

while he listened, spell-bound.  (Seemingly, at least.  Though

he wasn't married, Mr. Soong had the ability that most husbands

eventually develop of appearing to be absorbed in listening to a

woman babble, while actually thinking of other, more pleasant

and/or more important things.)

 

    She was devastated when, after barely a week, he told her that

his business there was concluding and that he'd be heading home

to the Far East.  But then he invited her to come with him.  He

scoffed at her lack of a passport.  Laying a finger beside his

nose, he reminded her that he was experienced in importing and

exporting -- and in circumventing officialdom.  And he promised

to give her a life filled with everything that she truly deserved.

 

    Yet another reversal of fortune!  This time, light at the end

of a long, dark tunnel. 

 

    She accepted, of course.

 

            ******************************

 

    "Well, whadaya think, Mr. Soong?" Otto Triandos asked, already

sure of the answer.

 

    "You have surpassed yourself this time, Otto.  The woman is

quite amazing....  So pretentious, so delusional.  A self-absorbed,

would-be bluestocking...and so supercilious a snob that I sometimes

fear her eyebrows will disappear into her hairline."

 

    Triandos, sensing that this last was some sort of joke,

chuckled.  "Well, she's adaptable."

 

    Mr. Soong inclined his head.  "Not TOO adaptable, I hope.  She

is perfect as she is.  I expect we can curb her adaptability to

a sufficient extent to preserve her marketability."  He made a

dismissive gesture.  "It should not be an insurmountable problem."

 

    Otto blinked.  Mr. Soong was a good guy, but talking with him

for any length of time tended to give you a headache.  More out of

courtesy than real curiosity, he asked, "So...where'll you send

her?  Manila?  Bangkok?"

 

    "Hong Kong first, for 'processing.'  From there...."  Mr. Soong

shrugged.  He handed Triandos a thick envelope.  "I have included

a substantial bonus, Otto.  Well done."

 

    They shook hands.  Mr. Soong then resumed his mask of

inscrutability and left to collect his latest export.

 

    Otto yawned and opened a magazine.