“I’ll do anything for fifty bucks.”
I looked at the hooker in front of me. She was thin, black – a real skank whore who’d been wandering the streets off South Augusta (that’s Augusta Georgia to you folks) and I’d been visiting a friend of mine.
She’d walked up into the yard (old torn chain link fence, a beast of a hound staked on a too short chain – raising hell obnoxiously) seeing us two “old men” (or rather middle aged) standing in the yard conversing. I was about to go home – I suppose it was my gorgous white Mustang (a convertible, you know) that had drawn her in. Here’s a man – or some men – with some money, she was no doubt thinking, someone who can afford me my next fix.
Crack cocaine is a plague upon this land – I should know: there’s barely a drug under the sun which I have not done. (Anyone remember that scene in Thompson Hunter’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” where he talks about shooting up adrenalin and it feels like “40,000 volts running through your skull”? It doesn’t.) I advocate marijuana usage – more alcoholics should fall under it’s allure, giving up the old bottle in favor of a joint. It certainly would take some of the violence out of this land – as well as a hell of a lotta car wrecks. Or at least two or three.
This young lady was a crack whore – a down on her luck drop out (probably has kids at home) who was attempting to make a deal with me, here – a crazy Marine with his devious Bro.
“Anything?” I asked, grinning slightly. I had gotten my car keys out. Best be prepared in case this bitch wanted to take a ride.
“Anything for fifty dollars,” she repeated, tonguing her thick white teeth (Chiclets, anyone?), and then offered: “All afternoon.”
“All afternoon, huh,” I said, making it more a statement of fact.
“All afternoon – on into the night if you want to,” she said firmly, her eyes growing somewhat suspicious – and yet that greedy burning hunger was there.
“How much for two days?” my friend butted in, nudging me with his elbow. It caught me slightly below the ribs; he’s shorter than me.
“Two days?” she asked, cocking her eyes at the sky. The tongue continued to wash those front teeth – blank white spaces in her mouth – as she considered. Suddenly her eyes dropped down back on us two, flickering with hard intelligence and that ever current undercurrent of suspicion of hers.
I live in the 5th poorest state in the nation, judging by the levels of poverty and national ranking. The county I was in has a 49% poverty rate. The High School dropout rate hovers right around 30-40 per cent.
For some reason the folks down there don’t seem to make the connection – not between education and having a high paying job. Instead they rely on the welfare system and having more babies to support them – and this: whoring during the day so they can get to cracking all night.
“Two hundred dollars,” she finally said. I opened my mouth to protest her math when my friend said:
“One hundred fifty dollars. And you’ll do anything, like he said.” He nudged me hard so she would know the intended victim he had in mind. I don’t mind a piece of fine ass – it’s what comes with it that I can’t stand.
If a whore is willing to cut a bargain or deal with you: stay away. Chances are you are going to come away with a lot more than you got. Maybe even some dependents in terms of fleas and lice and crabs . . .
Oughta come in handy on them W-2’s. Lord knows how many dependents that girl has.
She looked at me, mouth pursing, the tongue disappearing at last: head drooped, eyes rolled up coitiously as she considered my friend’s offer.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said firmly, holding out her hand. Like, what’s this? Let’s make a deal?, I could hear a part of my mind asking as I took her hand. It was firm and limp and hard – all at the same time. I could practically feel the skeletal bones grinding beneath her skin.
“Great!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “I can use you from say – sun up to sun down? Give you a break tonight? Then you get another chance to go at it – say tomorrow morning?”
“At your place or mine?”, she asked, a tongue of sharpness escaping into her language.
“Mine, of course!” I said. “I’ve got mowing to do – some bushes need cut; my Mustang over there needs washed. You ever wax a car before?”
Her eyes grew quite round.
“I’ve also got a barn that needs painted, inside it needs cleaned out – you ever handle a mop and broom before?” By this time I was grinning – trying to force myself not to – but there she was, backing away like I was a crazy man threatening to rape her AND her child – cut them up and eat them for bacon like a breakfast item.
“You want me to work?” she said, her eyes growing big and round. “You gotta be crazy, man! I ain’t working for no man – not like that!” She threw her head up proudly – it was a wonder her Jerry-curls didn’t fall out, they swayed so hard. “I don’t gotta do no work like that!” And with that she thrust out her boney hips. “I got this!” She waggled them suggestively. I took a step back. I didn’t want to catch anything from that.
“I just got some housework needs done!” I called out as she stalked off. “Windows washed? Clothes need airing out? Anything?”
And with her head held up proudly, she stalked out – frustrated dog barking at her through the chain link fence as she stalked down it’s length, looking for her next customer . . . one who wouldn’t make her work so hard, wouldn’t make her work for a living.
A girl’s gotta have her pride, after all.
And that one’s got hers.