Story in Progress

The Vietnam Vet and The Prostitute

He picked me up on a street in New Bedford not known to be a hot spot for hookers. I was walking home in the south end, in a well lit area, and he just offered to give me a ride. "It's very late out, you should not be walking alone," he said almost like a parent would.

"It's very late out, you shouldn't be picking up stray chicks who might rob you," I said and took out a cigarette. "For all you know, I could have a knife and I could be dangerous! Mind if I smoke?"

He took a smoke from his pocket, put it in his mouth, reached over with his lighter, eyes still on the road, lit my smoke and then lit his own.

"Dangerous... I don't think so. Look at you. I could snap you in two with one hand. A knife wouldn't even be a threat in hands that tiny."

"hahaha," I giggled and took a long drag, the window rolled down slightly, letting in the cold late autumn air. The ocean air, scented with salt and seagull shit, fresh fish and rotting corpses.

"I'm a hooker," I said bluntly. I took a detour from the usual 'hey, are you a cop' crap, because it was obvious this guy wasn't. I got fairly good, if not scientific, in determining sting operations. I had not once been busted, and this was not about to be the exception.

The blinker went on as he pulled over to a parking spot. His hands were both on the steering wheel, tightly. He turned to look at me, his face both hopeful and angry. "Are you joking?"

"Nope. I was just heading home," I replied and smiled at him. I expected a lecture. I wanted one, because I liked to debate my choices. The best debate I'd had was the time I got picked up hitch-hiking by a priest, but that's a whole other story.

"No kidding. Are you a cop?" he asked, and I laughed at the irony.



Blogger doesn't have a chronological option so the rest of this is being worked on here:

http://wink.urgo.org/ptsd/