Tuesday, August 18, 2009

"Wait a Second - Are you Working?"

After another brief hiatus, the blog is back, yet just as boring as ever. Today's recipe calls for two cups of ridiculousness and three dashes of lunacy bringing you another real tale, instead of blabbering randomness as usual. This story is a real adventure with names not being changed to reveal and embarrass the guilty. I hope you enjoy.

And now to the blog entry...

It really was a day and night no different than most - it started with a round of golf and a couple of vodka-tonics and ended with a couple of African-American hookers - you know the usual. (Well ok maybe not so normal, I usually drink Vodka-Cranberry).

After a long day of drinks, golf, bars, and pizza, my friend George and I were left on the streets of San Francisco , without a ride and running short on cash for a cab home. Neither of us were entirely sure how it happened, but one minute we were on Broadway Street finishing up our late night food and the next minute, we were in the back of a Chrysler with two black women on the way back to George’s house. "We'll Pick You Up," had worked so well for Enterprise Rental Car in the past, but before this night, it had yet to be tested by any working girls hoping to join the catchy marketing slogan and sex solicitation in prostitution ingenuity matrimony. Unaware of any sign for alarm, like an antelope looking for a drink of water in an alligator infested swamp, we unsuspectingly leaned down for a drink of water, (malt liquor in this case).

Some may claim the first sign of trouble was the two of us looking for a ride on a street littered with strip clubs and brothels, but I personally pinpoint that moment when the driver of the car broke
open an Old English forty and started passing it to us in the backseat, while at the same time describing her line of work; a stripper at Centerfolds. (Or “dancer” as she called it)…

Once we arrived back at George’s pad everyone got settled in and I promptly started to fall asleep against a wall. It was a long day and all I wanted to do was go to bed. Both of the girls were frankly scaring me and
in my drunken state were barely a “6,” which means they were probably a “3,“ sober. The only one that was mildly not unattractive, but yet not attractive in any civilization’s scoring system, was dressed in scantily clad lingerie stockings. Again, this should have been a sign, but neither of us had yet to put two and two together.

I tried to pretend I was asleep as the lesser attractive of the two started her barrage of Barbara Walters-esk questions.

“So what do you do,” she asked, trying to rouse me from my slumber.

“What do you mean, like for work?” I asked, not even close to wanting to go into my profession which involves selling babies‘umbilical cords. Generally explaining sober to a
Harvard Bimolecular engineer is difficult enough, so I wasn’t about to try and explain it to a stripper intoxicated.

“What do you do for fun,” she replied.

For fun I thought? Who is this chick a representative from Match.com? Are we going to plan a trip to Yosemite together? Please make her stop and let me sleep for love of god I thought…

“Uh, not sure, basket weaving, backgammon, collecting old stamps, cow tipping, I don’t know, what do you do,” I responded sarcastically.

She didn’t like that answer.

It was about this point that George got up to use the bathroom and left me alone with the two girls, and it quickly became more uncomfortable than bending over to pick up a dropped cell phone at a
George Michael concert.

I could no longer pretend I was sleeping and was forced to converse with the girls. Instead of answering a long list of questions as expected they somehow managed to turn on some music and request that I dance for them with my shirt off. I’m not sure if it was the larger girl’s hair weave or the full mustache of the other that scared me into agreeing to this nonsensical request, but for some reason, nearing unconsciousness, I agreed.

Just as I was in the process of stripping off my shirt, George came out of the bathroom with a look of disgust on his face.

“Steve! What the hell are you doing?”

Yeah…what in God's name am I doing, I thought to myself, as a waive of embarrassment and discombobulation came over me.

I sat back down humiliated and attempted to again affix myself to the wall as pass out.

“So what are we going to do tonight,” the grotesque one quizzed, after the recent events calmed down, while nervously looking at the other as if to gain her support.

It is three in the morning and I’ve been drinking since 11am, I thought to myself. What does this chick want to do, find a local petting zoo or circus to attend? I’m going to sleep, that’s what I’m doing tonight, I thought.

“Uh, not really sure, I think this is pretty much it, it has been a pretty long day,” I responded as I tried to find a comfortable spot on my wall to fall asleep, hoping she would get the hint and leave me alone.

She didn’t seem very happy with the response and started to get restless.

Should I have suggested a game of
Jenga? Parcheesi? These girls weren’t getting the clue.

It was at that point that George seemed to catch on to what I had obviously blatantly misread.

“Wait a second…are you girls working?”

Working I thought? Like working where? Conducting research studies on alcoholics trying to pass out at 3am to see how they would respond to a stripper wearing lace pants asking them annoying questions? Working how?

“Like working, working…?” George asked again.

The girls nervously looked at each other….

“Well yeah,” we thought you knew.

All of a sudden it hit me - Mother of God...we were sitting with two prostitutes.

I immediately began to panic.

I had previously watched some show on Mojo about some story where guys didn’t pay the hookers and one of them lost a kidney or was found days later beheaded in an aquarium somewhere or something. I know my liver is probably fairly destroyed, or maybe even considered a handicapped liver by some medical scoring charts, however I wasn’t about to lose it over a couple of unpaid prostitutes. (In an alley in Tijuana is how I always had pictured it).

My panic became frantic as I anticipated a loud knock at the door and some three-hundred pound gorilla hooker pimp crashing through George’s front door to beat George and me to a bloody pulp.

Wait a second I thought…the girls didn’t even do anything for us, so we should be ok right? Then I remembered I had attempted to dance for them. Crap! What’s the going rate for that I thought to myself...I remembered I had about ten bucks left in my wallet, hoping that should about cover it and put an end to this nightmare.

I was too engaged in my thoughts of horror to notice George motioning in my direction explaining that he was out of cash and I was the one with the money. Both girls glared at me waiting for some sort of explanation for the situation.

I froze.

“I uh…” was all I could stammer. All I could do was picture myself hung upside down by the seat of my pants by a 400-lb beast of a hooker pimp.

Was it outside the realm of possibility that George and I could pull a couple of ugly girls back to his place I thought? I mean, we don’t look like that big of losers, do we? (For those reading, don’t answer that question, at least not on Twitter, MySpace or use as your Facebook status update).

Luckily the girls all of a sudden developed a soft spot for us, or maybe more likely realized that they still had time to salvage a Craig’s List hooker request to make up for lost time with a couple of penniless invalids like George and me.

“This happens to us all the time,” the larger girl whined, looking to us for some direction as if they wanted a customer service survey filled out on how they could improve their business model.

Uh…yeah? Randomly throwing a couple of guys in your car, then asking them what they do for fun while they’re falling asleep hasn’t been working for you? I’m shocked…

How about…

“Hi I’m Trixie Diamond and this Busty Cox, and we are hookers, two-hundred per hour…”

That would generally get the point across ladies.

Then again, George and I were on a street littered with strip clubs and one was dressed in lace pants and did say she was a stripper. I guess that should have spelled it out for us, I'm sorry we don't get out much…

The girls took off and ultimately we got a free ride home and an interesting story. Unfortunately since they then knew his address he had to sleep with one eye open for the next few months, fearful of the nasty hooker pimp…

As the car pulled out of the driveway, I felt a sense of relief come over me. For a second there was a moment of silence as their car sped off as we individually tried to comprehend the events that had unfolded.

Just as the car's lights faded around the corner, George turned to me and frantically exclaimed, “Wait- we didn’t even ask them how much…!”