So I Met This Hooker on a Bus...
Any person of average intelligence might hop into a cab at this sight alone, but my inner voice tells me not to. Intuition suggests the shit-show will improve, plus my people watching vocation has evolved into a treasured pastime. As the bus appears in the distance, our hero with the headphones squeezes behind the bus shelter and some shrubs to add to the current. It's the coolest hour of the day and it's already ninety degrees.
Predominantly a shuttle for tourists, the Las Vegas double-decker called "the deuce" transforms into a rolling performance space for wayward locals after 2 am. When most of the city's visitors turn in, the deuce fleet beckons a hodge-podge of drunks, burn-outs, the borderline insane, and anyone living in a desert too stupid to splurge for air conditioning. When the deuce began in 2005, it was a low cost antidote for walking the long hot strip. Even though it barely outpaces pedestrians, for two bucks, it got you back and forth in air conditioned comfort. Today, for six dollars you can literally be pressed leg to leg into a sweaty and unbathed European..
After assisting the woman on board, I stood behind her waiting for her to budge aside, but she didn't move. Standing quietly, I knew Mr ol' school drunk would blurt out something, and I was not disappointed.
"C'mon now momma, how skinny do you think we is?"
She mumbled something inaudible and stutter stepped to the left. Let the shit-show begin.
Scanning the vacant seats, my choices were slim. I chose to avoid sitting near two guys based on the "stink potential," because as a New Yorker, we've all made that mistake on the subway. Next up was a snoring, drooling man-spreader and I didn't feel like climbing over him. The last and best choice appeared to be a diminutive blondish woman leaning forward and nodding in her seat. I sat across the isle to size her up and keep an eye on her bag while she slept.
At first, I couldn't tell if the source of the nod was another amateur night out or too much smack. With three months of exposed black roots in her bleached blonde hair and self made holes in her jeans, I studied to figure out this chick.
At the circus circus stop, a thirty something bald, drunk Indian man wearing a tattered casino hoodie sat in her cubby and woke her. He then regaled her for ten minutes about his wealth, how lavishly he spends it, and his philosophy of 'living for today.' My guess was that he gave his chauffer the night off.
Now awake and feigning interest, I could see her blue eyes and long eyelashes. She had a narrow face and sharp features. She looked tired, but kept up a polite demeanor. With hands on her knees, she sat tense under the man's gazing stare. Her body language screamed discomfort, and after a 9 hour session playing poker, my reads were on point. Her hospitality suggested she may be from down south, but her accent was elsewhere. He then motioned to get off the bus.
"Boy, am I jealous," I said within earshot of our departing pervert. "I wish that billionaire would've chatted me up."
"Yeah, he might be more your type," She said laughing.
We made some friendly small talk, and as the bus neared the Fremont stop we both exited. Now walking, the well placed holes in her jeans stood out, and her strut had greater appeal than her push-up b cup bra. I asked about the resurgence of the downtown area but she didn't seem to know much about it.
"So, do you live nearby?"
"Yeah, I moved here about 9 months ago from Washington state, she said.
"Where abouts?" I asked. "I dig your state, and I'm looking to get back. It beats the shit out of these 115 degree days."
"Clarkston", she said.
"I love that town! Great scenery. I once got stranded overnight in the snake river canyon. I'll tell ya' the story, but you'd have to buy me a drink first." I said as I motioned to an outdoor bar. "I work for drinks" I said, "but I demand air conditioning first."
"I don't own an air conditioner," she said.
"Is that why you ride the deuce overnight?" I asked with a wink. "Here's my number, I'm here till Saturday and I offer a cold, king sized room, great stories, and a swimming pool with a shark tank right here."
"Not bad," she said, then she rubbed her hand softly down the length of my arm. "Are you looking for company?"
"Aw shit" I thought to myself. I knew she was a trailer park exile with working girl potential, but I wasn't positive until now.
"I'm not that guy, sweetie. Trust me, I'd be wasting your time, but my cocktail offer still stands if you're bored.
"I might have other plans" she said as she scanned the empty Fremont pavilion.
It was a semi-bluff. I've gotten plenty of these-in the last few hours alone- but never from a hooker at 4:30 in the morning. At this hour, I knew that I still held the better hand. She isn't accustomed to being home before daylight and nobody was around to keep her busy. Plus, after a short nap, I knew she was up for some laughter in her life.
"Look, if I wanted to pay a woman to pretend to like me I'd be married by now." I said. "It's just not my scene. I'm moving into the air conditioning. I'll be at the bar by the poker room for a little while. Come say hello."
About 30 minutes later I received a text message. "I'm free but I need a donation."
"A cocktail and convo is on the menu, but no happy endings." I replied.
There's no shortage of working girls in this town, but cracking the facade to learn how and why someone reached that low point is of value. Far greater value than paying for sex and having your wallet stolen as you sleep. For a few bucks at the bar and a demonstrated interest, many women will share their own stories. Truth is, though, the circumstances are often similar. Hearing how and where they were raised, and the life event that sparked the downward spiral is always of interest.
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