Was This Girl A Hooker? Let Me Know! Your Opinion Matters!

Saturday night, I was idly walking along 14th Street, killing time before catching the train back to Queens Somewhere between 6th and 7th Avenues, I noticed an especially cute brunette chick crossing 14th at a diagonal angle. She was of medium height (medium for a woman, that is. If she had been a man, she would have been as short as a medium-sized woman).

She had medium-length straight black hair pushed back from her forehead with a black headband; she wore a knee-length sleeveless black dress with black leggings and black shoes--(flats, not those hideous gladiator sandals!) And she was white.

Though she was entirely dressed in black, she wasn’t goth. . .or emo. . .or whatever the fuck the word is nowadays. She was just a girl who was dressed entirely in black.

Baby's in black, and I'm feeling blue. . .

As she crossed over to the north side of 14th Street, I glanced in her direction briefly.

As I did, she smiled at me. That felt nice, so I smiled back. Her smile widened as we passed by each other--I, heading east towards the L train and she, heading west towards 7th Avenue.

It had been such a nice and warm smile, I wondered if I might have met her before or, better yet, if she had seen one of my shows. I turned around, walking a few paces to see her looking back at me as well.

“How have you been?” I asked, assuming that I was supposed to know who she was.

“How have I been?” she echoed, still smiling.

I wasn’t sure what to say, “Do I know you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, walking towards me. We began to small talk. After a few sentences, it became apparent that we didn’t know each other. But she was friendly and engaging and quite pretty and, since I didn’t have any place important to be on this mild Saturday night, I decided to allow myself the pleasure of her company.

Still not sure what to say in this strange and unexpected situation, I asked her, “So what are you up to tonight?”

“Oh, I just got into the city a few minutes ago and I’m just walking around, kind of bored.”

“Really?” I asked, lighting up a cigarette, even though I had just finished one a few seconds before running into her, “Where you coming from?”

“I live out in Rockaway.”

Rockaway. That was interesting. She lived farther out in Queens than I did. It was a longer subway ride into the city for her than it was for me, coming in from Woodhaven. I suddenly felt very comfortable in her presence, knowing that she was no stranger to long subway rides into Manhattan and living in isolated and depressing neighborhoods in Queens. “What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Bridget,” she said. Or she may have said “Brigitte”. I forget how she pronounced it. That might make a difference in determining whether or not this girl was a hooker. If a girl doesn’t have a French accent, “Brigitte” can sound a little overly-exotic.

At any rate, I told her my name and that I also was wandering the city, killing time before heading back to Woodhaven. (Again, knowing that she lived in Rockaway made me a lot less self-conscious about admitting that I lived in Woodhaven.) She asked what I did for a living and I told her that I was a comedian. She asked if I enjoyed it and I told her I wasn’t sure anymore but thought that I did and if I didn’t, I definitely should.

I brushed my hair from my face, “So what brings you to the city?”

“I don’t know. I just got bored out in Rockaway. I thought about seeing some friends later on.”

I noticed she had a bit of an accent, but not much. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but after hearing her speak for a little bit, I began to think it might be third or fourth generation Spanish; which, again, isn’t really much of an accent at all--just a hint of ethnicity, barely perceptible to the untrained ear. We chatted for a few more seconds and then I proposed that her and I get a cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “that sounds good.”

“Cool,” I said as we began walking towards 7th Avenue.

“Do you mind if I stop at this Duane Reade really quickly, though? I have to get these socks.”

“Sure.”

She continued, pointing at the Duane Reade drugstore on the corner of 7th Avenue, “I bought these socks at this Duane Reade here and then I took them on the subway and then I lost the socks on the subway. Can you believe that?”

“Wow,” I said, feigning interest, “you lost the socks, huh? So you’re coming into the city to get the socks?”

“I don’t know,” she said wistfully. At this point, I noticed I was getting an erection. Strange women all alone who have nothing to do on a Saturday night in Manhattan other than buy socks can do that to me, “I just lost the socks. And I had just bought them, too.”

“Wow,” I said again.

Then she started to tell me some yarn about how she had recently been a victim of identity theft and I started to get bored. After the feeling of boredom passed, I began to grow a little cautious. Some hookers, or even some non-professional girls looking to turn a trick for some quick cash, almost always have a hard-luck story of some sort. Despite these feelings of boredom and cautiousness, however, my erection continued unabated.

I waited outside of the Duane Reade, finishing my cigarette and covertly adjusting my penis, as she went inside to buy her socks. After a few minutes, she was back outside.

“So did you get your socks?”

“No, they didn’t have the ones I wanted,” she said. “Maybe I didn’t get them at Duane Reade.” We stood for a brief moment in what I felt was an uncomfortable silence. Just as I was noticing a Rite Aid drugstore across the street, she said, as if on cue: “Maybe I got them at Rite Aid. You want to go over to Rite Aid?”

“Sure,” I said, flicking my cigarette into the street.

We crossed 7th Avenue and then crossed 14th Street to the south in the direction of the Rite Aid. As we did, she asked me, “So do you know how identity theft works? How they do it? How they steal your identity?”

“No, not really,” I sighed.

“They follow you. They walk right next to you and imitate everything you do. And they imitate you so well that they become you. And then nobody knows who the real you is anymore.”

I began to wonder if she was a schizophrenic. And with that, my erection reached its full potential. After all, I just might be able to get lucky with a schizophrenic. I’ll let her ramble on about the zombie people all night if she doesn’t mind my hands all over her tits. “That’s how they do it, huh?”

“Yeah, they get to know you so well. How you talk and act and everything!”

We came to the Rite Aid. This time, I went in with her. We walked over to the aisle where they kept the socks and underwear. She stared at the merchandise for a few seconds without picking anything up.

“Hmm. I don’t think they have them here either.”

“What kind of socks were they?” I asked.

“They were nice. They were thin. Really thin socks.” She sighed, “Oh well. . .”

As we left the Rite Aid, I started to wonder where this wild goose chase for thin drugstore socks was going to lead me. Was I going to get any sex out of this? How much money would I have to spend? Was she expecting me to buy her socks? Bust most importantly, was she just looking to turn a trick?

Hookers never announce that they’re hookers. They just smile at you and ask you how you’re doing. So I began to wonder if I was being “hooked". And with that, my erection began to recede.

If she was a hooker, she was in for a disappointing surprise. I’m a frugal individual and I don’t spend money unless I absolutely have to. She may be another person, a sexy person in fact, even schizophrenic--but I have the internet and a hand at my disposal. The most I was willing to kick in was the price of a cheap cup of coffee, preferably in a “to go” cup, so I wouldn’t have to tip.

But it was still too early to tell. “Let’s walk east,” I suggested, figuring I could dump her by the time we got near the L train station at Union Square--if it turned out she was, in fact, a hooker. As we walked, I sought out more information, “So where do you work in Rockaway?”

“I work in a bar.”

“You like it?”

“I don’t know. I’m thinking about getting out of that business.”

Suddenly, I realized that the girl wasn’t carrying any sort of purse or bag. This entire time, she had been holding a piece of folded 8 X 10 paper. Growing ever more curious, I asked her about it.

She unfolded the paper. It was a flier for an organic restaurant in the West Village. “This looked like a neat place to eat. I’ve just been kind of holding on to it. I thought about heading over there later. I’m not sure.”

Well, I thought, if she thinks she’s getting a meal out of me--especially an organic one--she’s got another thing coming. We walked in silence for a few seconds.

Reaching the corner of 14th Street and 6th Avenue, again as if on cue, she asked me, “You want to get something to eat?”

“I don’t have a lot money,” I shot back defensively.

She looked stricken. “That’s okay.”

“So what’s the name of the bar you work at?”

“I don’t know. I’m just thinking of getting out of that whole business.”

“That’s not what I asked. What’s the name of the bar you work at?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just one of those Rockaway bars on the beach. They’re all the same. I haven’t been working there long.”

“Yeah,” I said, reaching in my jeans pockets for my pack of cigarettes and noticing as I did that my erection hadn’t entirely gone away, “Why don’t we get a cup of coffee and take it over to Union Square Park?”

“Sure,” she said.

I was flirting with the idea of springing for a cup of coffee, getting her on a park bench and sneaking a cheap feel. That’d tide me over until I got back to Woodhaven. The jury was still out on whether or not she was a hooker, but I was gaining certainty by the minute.

“This city sure has changed a lot,” she said, attempting to break the obvious tension that was now creeping over us.

“It’s globalization,” I returned tersely.

“Like on the subway out here,” she said, “I saw all these white girls with these black guys and they were making out and everything and you remember how the black people used to always talk about ‘keeping it real’? I mean, what’s that all about? How is that keeping it real? And then there was this Spanish guy and he was with this Chinese girl and it’s like nothing is the same anymore.”

So now I wasn’t sure if she was a schizophrenic, a hooker, or a racist. Or all three. A schizophrenic hooker racist! At that point, I really had no qualms about getting her into the park and sticking my hand up her dress--even if I risked getting slapped. "I'm kind of cynical and guarded myself," I said out of nowhere, hinting that I might be getting wise to her game.

"What?"

"I'm cynical. . .and guarded," I said, this time with a slight curl of the lips.

When we were halfway between 5th Avenue and University Place, she suddenly stopped in front of a pastry place next to a Wendy’s. In the window, there were all sorts of expensive fruity confections on display, sprinkled with powder and adorned with kiwi, strawberries, blueberries, and shaved chocolate.

“Ooh, can we go here?” she asked.

“Look,” I said, “I can get you a cup of coffee.”

“Okay,” she pouted.

“We’ll go to a bodega, get a cup of coffee, and take it over to the park.”

She was struggling to contain a look of disappointment. Then, pointing at the largest of the powdered confections--one with an unbelievable $7.50 price tag--she asked, “Well, can I have one of these instead of coffee?”

That sealed the deal. Now I knew. She had provided me with my answer in that one simple request. There was the sugar. And I was the sugar daddy. She was a hooker, all right. “Fuck this,” I said, abandoning her outside the pastry shop.

Later, I called my friend Jonah to tell him what had happened.

After relating to Jonah all that I have related to you, I asked, “So what do you think? I was being played by a hooker, right?”

“Man,” said Jonah, “You are so self-defeating when it comes to women.”

That’s what Jonah thinks. I think he’s wrong. What do you think? She was a hooker, right?

Or was she just schizophrenic?

Homeless?

Racist?

Let me know. Your opinion matters.

All votes will be tallied and posted by next Tuesday, August 5th!

E-mail all votes to winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com