Introductory Note: I want to thank Mary for inspiring me, because when I read her BEST

MISTAKE I EVER MADE, I said to myself , "That's not the way I always pictured the first meeting

between Carl and Lorna." So I have written my own version down. Think of it as the sincerest form

of flattery. Sandra

THE DAY WE MET

When you're a fifteen-year-old runaway, living on the streets of New York, too young to get

welfare or to get a job, there are a few things you can do to keep from starving: you can beg, you

can steal, you can whore , you can sell drugs, or you can do a combination of all four. At least I

never sold drugs.

The best thing about New York was the crowds; people were so used to being jammed close

together that you could squeeze up against someone and pick his pocket without him even realizing it.

Usually.

I remember it was one of those grey, cold, miserable days you get in November. It hadn't snowed

yet, but it was going to start any day, and I was shivering in the denim jacket that was all I had,

holding my hands under my armpits to keep them warm while I looked for my next mark.

I picked out a prosperous-looking pedestrian, and followed him until, as was bound to happen

sooner or later, he had to

stop at an intersection because the light was red. I slipped up behind him and -

-And found my wrist held in what felt like a steel trap, while an English voice said: "Is this hand

yours? I found it in my pocket."

I tried to twist free, but he was too strong for me. "Let go!" I said.

"Let's have a look at you." he said, and dragged me into the nearest alley. I struggled every step of

the way, managing to kick him in the leg a couple of times.

"Kick me again and I'll break your arm." he said, "Then see how many pockets you can pick."

What scared me was the way he said it; not angry, just cool and matter-of-fact.

"Let go!" I said, "Or I'll scream RAPE!"

"Do that!" he said, "And when the police arrive- assuming they do - who do you think they'll

believe?"

I started to cry. "Please, Mister!" I sobbed, "Let me go! I'm sorry I tried to rip you off - I only did

it cause I'm so hungry!"

He nodded approvingly: "Very good! Real tears, on command. That's a rare talent. What's your

name?"

"Uh-Suzy."

"What is it really? I want the truth this time."

" Lorna."

All this time, I was waiting for his grip to loosen, so that I could run; but it never did.

"Well, Lorna, give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you in to the police."

"Because I - can show you a good time." I said, "Really good!" I went into specifics about exactly

how.

"If I ever paid for such services," he said, " it would not be from a dirty ragamuffin such as

yourself."

I glared at him.

"Tough little urchin, aren't you, Lorna?" he said, "If that is indeed your name."

"It is!"

"In a moment I shall release your wrist, at which time you can either run away, or you can

accompany me to a restaurant, where I will buy you a meal."

"Why?"

"You said you were hungry."

"I try to pick your pocket, so you want to buy me lunch?"

"You interest me. Can you afford to turn down a free meal?"

He let go of my wrist. If I had run away, my whole life would have been different. (I'd be a

crack-whore or dead, probably.)

I didn't run.

"So - what's your name?" I said, as we walked to the restaurant.

"Carl - Carl Hutchins."

A waiter appeared as soon as we sat down.

"Coffee for me," said Carl, "And for the young lady - what would you like, Lorna?"

My eyes jumped from place to place on the menu; so much choice was too confusing; I couldn't

think.

"I- I dunno."

"Would you like me to order for you?"

I nodded.

"For the young lady, onion soup, a mixed green salad, a steak - medium-rare, and a baked potato.

We shall make up our minds about dessert later."

I knew what that meant; at least, I thought I did. When it came down to it, all men wanted the

same thing.

"Yessir." said the waiter.

"Now tell me about youself." said Carl.

"What's to tell?"

"Where do you come from?"

"Around."

"Where do you live?"

"Around."

"Let me guess: you ran away from home-"

"I never had a home!"

"Neither have I; that's something we have in common." he said, "You ran away from - what? - a

foster home?"

I nodded.

` "-And have lived by your wits ever since. I live by my wits as well, but rather more successfully."

"You have money!" I said, "Try living on the streets, and see how long you last!"

"I have a better idea; you try living in my world and see how you get on."

"What?"

"I am offering you employment."

"As what?"

"As my - how shall I put it? - aide-de-camp."

"Is that a fancy word for-?"

Just then the waiter arrived with Carl's coffee and my soup. The smell of it nearly drove me crazy.

It was all I could do to use the spoon instead of picking up the bowl and gulping it. As it was, I

finished it in about thirty seconds, then started on the salad, which had also arrived by then. I kept

looking around to see if the waiter was coming back with my steak.

"Is this your first meal in a week?" said Carl.

I mumbled something around a forkful of greenery.

"Well, come to work for me, and you'll get regular meals, warm beds and hot showers."

"In return for what?"

"Oh, pouring drinks when I have guests, taking phone messages - do you really care?"

The steak had arrived by then, and I thought it over as I chewed and swallowed, chewed and

swallowed. Obviously, this was a ploy to get into my pants. This Carl guy was a hypocrite who had

to pretend that he just wanted to help the poor little waif. Did I really care? Not if it meant a couple

more meals like this one, and the chance to grab his wallet while he was snoring.

"Okay." I said, "It's a deal."

"Good." said Carl, "Now go to the Ladies' Room and scrub all that muck off your face."

"What?"

"Perhaps you haven't noticed the looks we've been getting ." said Carl, "Everyone in this restaurant

thinks that you are a prostitute and that I am your john - or your pimp. I find that unacceptable."

"You-!"

"Do as you're told, or the deal is off."

I did as I was told

"That's better." Carl said, when I got back to the table. "I ordered you a slice of chocolate mousse

pie for dessert. Eat up, and then I'll take you shopping."

When we left the restaurant, Carl only had to lift his hand, and a taxi screeched to a halt at the

kerb. That was Carl.

"Bloomingdales." he said, as we climbed into it.

At the department store, Carl bought me underwear, a dress, shoes, a coat, a scarf and gloves.

He had me put everything on in the changing room, and throw my old clothes into the trash. I didn't

object.

"Now you took respectable enough to go to a decent shop." he said.

We spent the rest of the afternoon on Fifth Avenue. By the time we arrived at Carl's hotel, I had a

complete wardrobe, and enough suitcases to hold it all.

Carl informed the hotel that his 'niece' had just arrived in New York and would be sharing his

suite. All I had to do was sign the register. I signed it "Lorna Devon", which I thought a heck of a lot

classier than "Lorna Duchinsky", the name I grew up with.

I was expecting Carl to grab me as soon as we got upstairs, but no, he had the bed made up in the

second bedroom, and told me it was mine. I couldn't believe that he wasn't planning to pay me a visit

that night, so I lay there waiting for him - until I fell asleep.

At first, I figured Carl must be into some really weird, kinky kind of sex, and was just waiting for

me to drop my guard before he told me what he really wanted me for - only days turned into weeks,

and weeks turned into months, and all he ever asked of me was to look pretty, pour drinks, and take

the occasional phone message.

Then I decided that Carl wanted me as arm-candy so that nobody would suspect that he was really

queer or impotent or something - but the steady stream of women passing through the suite proved

that theory was wrong. A couple of nights a week, on the average, Carl would go out, leaving me to

watch tv, and come back with some high-class piece on his arm. Then it was;"This is my niece - Say

goodnight, Lorna." which was my signal to smile sweetly, say "Goodnight", go to my room and stay

there.

My room wasn't soundproofed, however, so I knew what was going on. And on.

The first year I lived with Carl, he never entered my bedroom, except once when I had flu, and

then only to force medecine down my throat. Later, I asked him why he had been so patient.

"I was waiting for you to be ready." he said.

If I had never been ready, would Carl have been patient indefinitely? Who knows?

In the end, it was me who made the first advances.

The whole time we were together, Carl treated me well: the sex was good ( once we became

lovers), he was generous with presents, and of course, he gave me an exciting career helping him with

his nefarious deeds. It wasn't True Love, but neither of us would have been ready to accept that,

back then.

When I look at Carl now, the loving husband of Rachel and doting daddy of the Twins, and then

look at my own son Ben, I can only be amazed at how far we have both come, since that cold day in

New York.