‘Charlotte’

Daniel Acevedo is a Mexican artist who uses photography as a means of self-expression, creating images that communicate authentically and intentionally. Their work focuses on portraying people, blending meaningful conversations with subjects and translating their stories into visual narratives. These narratives explore themes of personal heritage, a desire to connect with the world, and transgender resilience. Identity—both their own and that of others—is central to their practice, with emotions serving as a profound source of inspiration.

Charlotte

She strapped the fifty dollar note along the left shoulder of her brassiere and opened the door slowly out of the motel room so as to not awaken the forty something year-old man that lay sleeping atop the sweat covered mattress. As she stepped out, the mid-November chill blew up from the concrete parking lot and around her torn leggings, sending goosebumps along the outer layer of her skin. She closed the door gently to the room, and made her way over to the sidewalk curb. Bringing a cheap cigarette up to her lips, and quickly lit it up with her new blue lighter. 

She examined the clover sticker on the casing, and using the tips of her acrylics began to push the edge of the paper lining, as her mind wandered elsewhere. She blew out a plume of smoke from one of the long drags she took from her cigarette, and gently tucked the light between her breast and behind former President Grant’s bow tie before making her way north up the avenue. The wind was beginning to pick up, and she found herself frequently pushing down on her high skirt as cars waved past her. She turned around, facing the gust, flicked the cigarette out onto the road, and stuck her right thumb out. 

Charlotte never had any trouble hitching a ride back into town. Sometimes the motorists would ask for a handy along the way, but it didn’t bother her. It only meant a little more folding money that she could add to her already stuffed bra. She knew what getting picked up meant, and for what services men might ask for, even if it was truly only a lift home she was really after. The only times she really felt uncomfortable were the times that some good samaritan would pick her up by chance, and start preaching about the importance of being saved, and how it was never too late for her. 

She grew up Southern Baptist as a young girl, and could still hear her preacher’s warnings of hell and damnation ringing in her memory whenever she found herself in a sticky situation. Although she had moved several times as a kid growing up, each time further and further away from home, her accent still hung on to her. As much as she was teased for it in school, she never could shake it, and over time it became the only thing that she had that made her feel a connection to her past, who she was, and where she came from. It now seemed she was only losing more of it the farther time marched on. 

An old Buick slowed down and rolled up to the curb next to her. The driver drove at a crawl as she continued to walk backwards with her thumb out. As she lowered her thumb, the wheels of the vehicle slowed, until they finally came to a stop. Charlotte, pulled out another cigarette and along with her blue lighter, lit up, before leaning her head down to the now unrolled passenger side window. 

“Hey there, good looking,” she smiled, letting the smoke from her cigarette roll around her words as she spoke. The man in the car said nothing, but simply leaned over in his seat and propped open the passenger side door. He looked up at her with greedy eyes, as he patted the seat next to him, insinuating that she step inside and have a seat. 

She quickly eyed the back, really as a force of habit, and to be fair, one could really tell a lot about a man simply by what was in his back seat. A family man might be sporting a booster seat back there, or bags of groceries, or a collection of plastic figurines, spread across the seat floors with decapitated heads, or their arms and legs missing. A single guy may have a back seat that was either spotlessly clean or filled with half eaten fast food wrappers. 

Some back seats had passengers. Most of the time they were passengers that wanted in on the action. A solitary man has enough testosterone as it is, a group of men even more so. Charlotte had made that mistake before, and couldn’t risk the chance of a night’s visit to the emergency room, no matter how much money was involved. 

The backseat in this particular gentleman’s car was none of these. Not too clean, not too dirty. No sign of kids. No one else was hanging out in the back. Just your run of the mill late night creep. Nothing to be too worried about. 

“Are you looking for a ride?” The man finally spoke. His wrinkles, an accentuated feature on his face, cut deep as he smiled. He then licked his lips before speaking again. “Hop on in,” he said grinning. 

Charlotte looked down at the eyes of what seemed like a harmless and helpless man, likely just returning from a night at the gentleman’s club two streets over. She glanced around at the darkness of the night that surrounded her, and felt a cold shiver rattle her body as another gust of November wind made its way through her skimpy outfit, hardening her body and constricting her aging skin. She took another drag of her cigarette and talked as she exhaled. 

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked. 

“I’d rather you not,” he answered, his smile unwavering. 

Like it was her last, she inhaled deeply on the smoke, and half-choked on it as she let it drop below the side of the curb. She used the triangle end of her heels to extinguish it, stepped into the car and closed the door. The driver took off as soon as he heard the door shut, giving her a front row seat to the side view mirror and the now tiny motel, as it grew smaller and smaller in the distance. 

“So, you gotta name?” The driver finally asked, eyeing the torn square inch of fabric on her upper left thigh. 

“It’s Charlotte, if you really want to know,” she confessed, gazing out the window as the city light reflected off the glass. 

“Charlotte,” the man echoed. “That’s a pretty name.” Then without much hesitation, he slid his right hand onto her knee, and squeezed. Charlotte, still trying to pick up on the gentleman’s intentions, quickly brushed his hand away. 

“Hold your horses cowboy. What exactly is it you’re looking for?” she coyly insinuated, still looking towards the passenger door. 

“Isn’t it obvious,” the driver explained, and reiterated by placing his hand on her leg yet again, this time squeezing a little harder. 

Something about him seemed off. Something sinister she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She had a six sense about these kinds of things, and up until this point, it's kept her out of harm's way. 

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” she implored. “I’m really just looking for a ride.”

As they approached a red light, the driver quickly hung right onto the adjacent street, then again into an alleyway, where he swiftly placed the car into neutral. 

“I say we have a little fun,” he smirked. 

Then with his hand still on her thigh he leaned over and began to kiss her neck, as he slowly inched his fingers closer and closer towards her lady bits. Realizing where this was headed, Charlotte promptly pushed his hand away, before attempting to open the passenger door.

“I think I’ll be taking the bus,” Charlotte insisted. But before she could make her escape, the driver quickly grabbed the back of her hair and pushed her head down towards his manly regions. Then with his free hand, brought out his member.

It was in this moment that Charlotte reached inside her bra, and grabbed at the blue lighter that lay resting along the wire lining inside. She could feel the pressure of the man’s hand growing heavier as she felt around for the familiar edges of the clover sticker. Then without a moment’s hesitation, she brought the lighter out, aimed it southward, slid her thumb across the sparkwheel, and quickly pressed down on the fork. 

***

As the sun peered its way between the blinds of the apartment, the memories of last night’s debacle slowly came rushing in. Sitting up, she placed her hands over the outside of her eyelids and rubbed them vigorously, stimulating the gazillion ganglion cells in her retina. As the stars parted, she looked down at the coffee table, and across a sea of cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, before spotting the blue lighter.  

She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. She blew out a cloud of smoke, causing the light from the morning sun to dance between the slits of light from the window. Holding up the lighter, she placed her thumb over the clover sticker, and took another drag of her cigarette. 

“You saved my ass back there,” she began, whispering softly, as she rubbed the outline of the sticker with the palm of her thumb. “My little, lucky,  blue lighter.” 

Then just as the words escaped her mouth, there came a loud knocking at the front door. Startled by the unexpected visit, she suddenly dropped the lighter, and watched as it bounced off the edge of the coffee table, and on to the ash-covered ground below her. Another loud knock came, as she quickly scooped the lighter back up, tucked it behind the pad of her bra, snubbed out her cigarette, and made her way over to the door. 

“Alright, Alright. I’m coming,” She announced, stepping towards the door, and planting her face over the edges of the peephole in order to get a better look at who was rapping on the other side. 

Silhouetted front and center between the apartment door and the cool November rising sun stood the familiar figure of a woman. Her wavy gray hair that fell gracefully over her shoulders, and her antique girandole earrings, made her look both elegant and wise beyond her years. Charlotte continued to watch as the woman brought her knuckles back down onto the door. 

“Come on Charly, it’s colder than a witch’s tits out here!” the woman implored, giving the door another beating. Charlotte obliged, opening the door just wide enough for her guest to witness the mess of her apartment, as she stood there motionless, holding a wavering smile. 

“You look like shit,” the woman honestly remarked, before pushing her way past her and into the living room. 

She immediately brought out a slim one-twenty menthol cigarette from her golden-laced purse, and a smaller than her thumb black lighter. She rolled her index finger over the wheel of the contraption, and to no avail, the lighter emitted a continuous spark after spark, but no flame. Slightly annoyed, she tossed it onto the coffee table along with all the other garbage. 

“Ya gotta light?” she asked. 

Charlotte reached in and grabbed the blue lighter from behind her bra, and handed it over to her. The gray-haired woman took it, lit up, and inhaled a long anticipated drag from it. As nearly a quarter of the long cigarette immediately turned to ash and fell down to join its companions on the carpet, she casually took notice of the clover sticker on the blue lighter before handing it back to Charlotte, who then quickly stuffed it behind her bra. 

The woman blew out another cloud of smoke as she over-exaggeratedly gave Charlotte the up and down. “You got yourself into trouble last night didn’t you?” she inquired, as Charlotte bashfully turned her head and looked the other way. 

“God damn it Charly,” she exclaimed. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop hooking on the street?” Looking up to the popcorn ceiling, she took one last drag of her cigarette, before unhesitatingly tossing the butt into one of the empty bottles on the table. 

“I wasn’t hookin’,” Charlotte blurted out in defense. 

The woman looked her up and down again. “You wasn’t hookin’?” 

“God honest truth,” she blurted out, as she lit up another cigarette with the blue lighter. The gray-haired woman grabbed the lighter again from Charlotte’s hand, lighting another one of her slims, before handing it back to her.  

“Well, whatever it was you was up to last night, you missed my call,” she said matter of factly. 

Charlotte sat down and put her hands over her face as the smoke from her cigarette steamed over her forehead. Leaning back, she took another drag, and for longer than was necessary, stared up at the ceiling. Drawing a line down the center of the apartment back down at the woman, she tossed her cigarette into the same empty bottle, before bringing her attention back. 

“I was busy,” she said.  

“You were busy,” the woman repeated, tapping the ash from her cigarette. 

“Yes, I was busy,” Charlotte said again. “Now get off my case!” 

The woman stood above her a moment and said nothing. Adding to the favored beer bottle’s butt collection, she glanced around the room, and to the unkempt nature of the apartment. She then brought her attention back onto Charlotte, and let out a deep breath of maternalistic patience before finally speaking.

 “Listen darling, so long as we’re working together, I’m going to need you to try and hold yourself together a little bit,” she spoke empathetically. 

She then sat down next to her, leaning in close as Charlotte surrendered her head onto her shoulder. They sat in silence for a moment, as both watched the smoke dissipate around the rays of light that made their way through the cracks of the blinds and doors of the room. Then picking up Charlotte's hand with both of hers, she leaned in, and rested her chin atop her head.

“We're almost there sweetheart,” she reassured, and squeezed the inside palm of her hand. “In fact, I just so happen to have another job for you.” 

***

Charlotte stepped out of the apartment door as the short hand of the clock rounded past the six o’clock mark. She felt a drop of evening rain fall gently onto her neck and tumble all the way down to the small of her back. Her body shook, and she let out a quivering grunt, as her pilomotor reflex instantly sent goosebumps all over her body. Making her way down the apartment steps, she darted across the city sidewalk, and directly into the dented yellow cab that waited outside for her. 

“Sure beats hitching a ride,” she thought, as she closed the passenger door of the taxi, and made herself comfortable inside. 

She acknowledged the driver with a quick nod, and held up a cigarette towards the rear view mirror. The driver nodded back in agreement. She then cracked the window a few inches before bringing her blue lighter up to her face, lighting her cigarette, and gently tapping the ash outside the window, as she watched the ash roll down the side of the cab and disappear into the night. 

It wasn't unusual she was provided taxi service. Especially if it was a higher paying client. Sometimes, the taxi would drop her off at some restaurant, or venue. Some of the men liked to wine and dine their escorts before the latter. Most of the time it was just straight to the motel, hotel, or timeshare the client was hiding out in. 

The taxi rounded the curb, and pulled into the driveway of Tasse de Joie, a high end French Restaurant on the edge of  town. Upon seeing this, Charlotte quickly tossed the butt out the window, tucked the blue lighter on the inside of her bra, straightened herself up, applied a bit of lipstick, and a spray of perfume. When she stepped out of the cab, she leaned into the passenger side mirror, quickly checking her cheeks, and teeth, before making her way up to the reception. 

“Good evening and welcome,” the hostess spoke eloquently. “Could you please tell me under which name your reservation was made?” 

Charlotte hesitated, before quickly remembering the name that was given to her that morning. “Ahem,” she cleared her throat. “Mr. Ronald Droker,” she said finally, bringing her eyes down to the paper list behind the reception desk. It wasn’t uncommon for clients to provide fake names in order to hide their identity. This one in particular, seemed just God awful enough to be a real one. 

“Looks like your company is already waiting,” the hostess smiled, stepping out from the maitre d’ stand. “Right this way.” 

She then led Charlotte into the main floor of the restaurant, passing by tables full of patrons, each at different intervals of their meals. She glanced over at one table, whose plates had only but a few morsels left, and another where a couple sat talking amongst themselves about the menu. She continued walking behind the hostess and looked briefly over to another fine diner, who immediately gave Charlotte a disapproving up and down with her eyes before sticking a large silver spoon into her French onion soup. 

“Here we are,” the hostess announced, although Charlotte continued to hold her focus with all the distractions of her surroundings. 

“Hello Charlotte,” the gentleman at the table spoke, standing up and pulling out the seat from the chair across from him. “Glad you could make it. Please,” he smiled, “have a seat.” He spoke as if they had known each other for years, even though it was the first time she had ever laid eyes on him. 

Charlotte sat, and tried her best to sit up in a proper way, but the comfiness of the plush chair was persuading her otherwise. The hostess quietly scurried away as the man came around to the front of the table and sat down. He was handsome, and in more or less great health from what she could tell. Certainly not what she was used to from past experiences. 

“Hi, I’m Ron,” He smiled again, and took a long drink from his water glass. “And you must be Charlotte.” 

Charlotte said nothing, nodding and smiling back modestly as she straightened herself up in her chair again. Then before any real conversation could begin, the waitress arrived at the table. “Good evening,” she spoke in a friendly manner. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu?” 

Of course Charlotte hadn’t, but even if she had, she’d have no idea what to order. She wasn’t familiar with french cuisine, and didn't know where to even start. So it was a pleasant relief that Ron had insisted on taking the initiative. 

“Hi, uh yes. We’ll have an order of the baked brie and tapenade,” Ron began, his eyes zig-zagging across the menu. “Followed by the Coq au vin for my lovely wife,” he added. “And the beef bourguignon for myself.” 

“Wife?” Charlotte thought to herself, raising a quick eyebrow. 

“And a drink to start?” the waitress asked, and before Charlotte could answer, Ron quickly interjected. 

“Just water is fine,” he insisted, and watched as the waitress took their menus and made her way across the restaurant floor. 

Ronald looked back over to Charlotte who now held a slightly confused look about her. Role playing wasn’t uncommon in her line of work, but something about this felt like it ran a little deeper. She took a sip of her water, and pretended not to notice. 

“Sorry you look a bit confused,” he noticed. “I thought everything was already explained to you.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. 

Ron fumbled to find the right words, and with his face turning a sudden grim, insisted that he explain anyway. “You see…” he started and went on to explain his story. 

A year ago his wife had died, after crashing her car following a night out with friends. It was her birthday, and they had always come to this restaurant to celebrate. In the wake of a very difficult year for Ron, he thought he could mark the day by both commemorating his wife’s passing as well as using the occasion to relieve some of the loneliness he was feeling, and without any of the commitment that came with it. He explained that he had found the number on the back of the escort pages to make the arrangements.  

“Sorry to hear all that,” Charlotte empathized, and though she was more concerned about how much this guy was paying, she played along with it anyways.

“Thanks for taking me out on my birthday sweetheart,” Charlotte assured him, and watched as her date’s furrowed brow turned back to the grinning face from before. 

After a most satisfactory dinner, they made their way out of the restaurant, into a taxi, and over to a budget motel closeby. Ron tipped the driver handsomely before stepping over to the passenger side of the cab, and accompanying his date to the big brown door of the room outside. A waft of stale smoke and some deodorizing agent made its way into Charlotte’s senses as she set her purse down at the coffee table in the room. 

Ronald sat over on the queen sized bed. He looked nervous, as Charlotte removed her coat and hung it up on the hanger that dangled loosely on the back of the door that they had just come through. She then kicked off her heels, and began to unbutton her blouse slowly. 

Before she could make it down to the last button, she looked over at Ron, who sat slouched over with his head in his sternum. “I..,” he began, sobbing. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Charlotte began to button her blouse back up, before taking a cautious seat next to him. She could feel the sadness radiating off of him, as he reached down into his wallet, and brought out a picture of his late wife and showed it to her. Charlotte looked at the picture. 

“She's pretty,” was all she could say. 

Ron wiped a tear from his face and put the picture back gently into his wallet. Charlotte stood up from the bed, walked over to her purse and brought out a smoke. She removed the blue lighter from her bra, lit up, and set it back down on the table. 

“I think you should go,” Ron directed, still looking down into his lap. Charlotte looked at him for a moment. She took a long drag of her cigarette and blew out a big cloud of smoke from the side of her mouth. “Don’t worry, you’ll still get paid,” he said sulkingly. 

Charlotte looked down at him as her posture slumped, her bottom lip curled downward and the wrinkles on her forehead raised. Then without hesitating, she quickly put on her coat, and extinguished her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. She picked up her purse, and made her way out of the motel, where she greeted the night by promptly sticking her thumb out over the road and to the roar of passing cars nearby.

J. C. Cole