Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

I could see two slim black-haired girls in sunglasses, T-shirts, and jeans carrying the banner.

      “That’s Noi at the International Women’s Day march. And her friend Ying. The bar girls had their own banner!” she explained. “They have a branch in Phuket. And a sister group in Cambodia. But anyway, Noi lives in Bangkok. And I need to find a lawyer who can help her apply for a visa.”

      “Can’t Lucho help?”

      Allie blushed.

      “I can’t ask Lucho.”

      “But he must know somebody. These exotic college professors deal with visas and forms all the time.”

      “Maybe, but”—Allie’s voice was getting a little squeaky, she looked away from me—“he nominated me for the Colloquium Committee because he thinks I can locate a lawyer. He thinks NYCOT has more resources than we really do and he…he sort of thinks I’ve done this before. When the girls from Ecuador came to that conference in Berkeley.”

      “You lied to him? About your activist credentials?”

      “No.” Allie looked down at her Safe Sex mouse pad. She tugged nervously on a strand of her long blond hair. “I just—when I realized what he was thinking, I didn’t, you know, say anything different.”

      “Allie, it’s good to let a guy think what he needs to think but you’re taking it to extremes. Why don’t you let him help you? Instead of acting so accomplished, let him be the rescuer! Guys love that!”

      “It’s too late! And if I did that, I wouldn’t be on all these committees and panels! I’d just be—I want to be on the Colloquium Committee. I don’t want him to save me or have to do things for me. Or feel sorry for me! I’m an activist now and I think Lucho and I could be a power couple. But I have to get more, you know, successful at my activism.”

      “A power couple?”

      “I told him I would raise the money for Noi’s legal fees and he thinks I’m already interviewing lawyers.”

      “How much do you need? I can afford—”

      “I want you to help me find a lawyer. What about Jason? Your brother-in-law? He’s a lawyer.”

      Allison’s passive-aggressive idealism tries my patience. Is she out of her mind?

      “We cannot go there,” I said. “And you know it.”

      As I glared at her, she bit her lip, averting her eyes.

      “You could say you have a friend from Thailand who—”

      “There’s no way! I don’t want my in-laws to start wondering how I know someone who’s in this business.”

      “But this isn’t business. It’s about social justice. And it’s my chance to make a difference. For a Bangkok bar girl to be a keynote speaker at an Ivy League school? Do you realize how huge this is?”

      Allie was staring at a close-up of Noi. Then she clicked on something and brought up a street scene: working girls in long colorful saris, carrying yellow placards. Three dark brown girls in their twenties appeared to be dancing in the street, in front of a purple banner. The letters, in gold, were in a language I don’t recognize.

      “These are the girls in Bangladesh. Last year, a judge ruled they couldn’t be evicted from the red-light district and they had a huge celebration.”

      Allie looked radiant. As if she herself had been threatened with eviction. From a red-light district in South Asia rather than a doorman building on the Upper East Side.

      She moved on to a chubby pink-skinned redhead in a leopardprint bustier holding up a sign: u.s. out of our underwear…free the nevada three! A group of protestors in leopard T-shirts, nighties, shorts, and much less were gathered around the redhead.

      “This is Leopard-Look Solidarity in Vegas! When the Nevada Three got arrested they were at a bachelor party wearing leopardprint thongs.…Everyone went to the courthouse to protest the sentencing. In leopard print. To show solidarity. Oops. Except for David—he’s wearing a zebra hat. He might be coming to the Cornell colloquium.”

      So these are Allie’s new friends! A global in-crowd of signwaving, sari-clad, zebra-hatted card-carrying “sex workers.”

      “Well, I don’t think Jason can help you with this. And I certainly can’t ask him,” I said.

      As she clicked and surfed, Allie didn’t seem to be listening. She returned to some snapshots of Noi. Lithe and gutsy, in a pair of capri-style jeans, platforms, and a tank top, holding a bullhorn on a busy street corner. “From Soi Cowboy with love and condoms, Noi.” Standing at a podium in front of yet another banner in yet another language. I noticed a poster decorating the podium: a sewing machine in a big red circle with a diagonal line crossing out the machine.

      Allie turned to face me. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Are you absolutely sure?”

      Something had changed. The expression on her face—I’d never seen it before—made me realize, If I ignore this, it’s not going away.

      But what does a girl like Allie know about visas? Her determination and ignorance could get a lot of people in trouble. Including me, perhaps. The safest course is to placate her for now. Even if I have no intention of asking Jason for anything.

      “I have to think about it,” I said carefully. “He’s not the only lawyer in this town…maybe I can ask him for a referral. But you need to give me a few days. It’s a bad time to ask Jason for a favor. And I have to figure out how—without, you know, saying what it’s for.”

      Indeed, I’m not quite sure what it is for. To help a righteous bar girl? Or to save Allie from looking like a silly East Side princess in the eyes of her West Side intellectual boyfriend? Maybe Jasmine’s right, and never the twain should date. But now it’s too late.

       5 Fluff and Aft

      WEDNESDAY, 3/28/01

      Today, while picking up the rent, I got my first glimpse of Char

      maine post-Florida.

      “It’s…rather natural,” I said. “Like you went to a spa.”

      “You see?” Looking pleased with herself, she tilted her face slightly. “More fluff and loft. Dr. Fielding is the best. Actually I did go to a spa. Just—a really good spa.”

      There’s something different about her cheeks. And what about her mouth? Is it the shape of her lips? Or the color?

      “I did some A.F.T. And I’m all recovered from the liposuction.”

      “A.F.T.?”

      “Autologous Fat Transplantation. I’m not waiting for God to give me cheekbones.”

      With a pang of guilt, I suddenly realized that I’ve always taken my cheekbones for granted. But Charmaine’s already used to the way she looks now, even if I’m not, and what she really wanted to show off was our new thigh-high state-of-the-art…shredder.

      “You’re gonna thank me for this!” she enthused. “I had it delivered this morning.”

      A sleek gray object with a black switch and a small green light stood in the corner of the living room.

      “It matches the carpet,” I said. “But why do we need such a powerful shredder? It’s not like we generate a lot of paperwork!”

      “That’s what you think.”

      Charmaine disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a small stack of cardboard. She’s been hoarding the condom boxes, storing them