Ok, by request, here's these two stories, although I'm sure most of you have heard the hooker story, and maybe my naming of it is throwing people off.
The pink shirt story, because there is less to it, is what I'll start with. This was indeed after I had attended Melissa's wedding in Jacksonville, to which I wore my stripey grey suit and my salmon shirt. It was new then, I guess, since Jane convinced me to buy it since the bridesmaids were wearing a similar color. Anyway, after the wedding I had to stop in Lake City for something. For those of you who don't know, Lake City is a pretty backwards, podunk place. Anyway, while I was at a gas station filling up a (I want to say truckfull, but I'm pretty sure it was a car) carfull of rednecks/locals pulled up next to me and started shouting stuff like "Hey, faggot! Look at that faggot in the pink shirt! Better be careful, faggot!" It was pretty terrifying. But it's also not so surprising to have that happen in Lake City.
When I was visiting Houston last year to check out apartments (actually, I guess it was two years ago. Wow, the time passes) I stayed in this pretty run down Super 8. It was near Hobby (I don't know if any Houston people read this blog, but Hobby is a pretty scary area). When I got up to my room and was about to go in, I hear this woman calling me from the parking lot. She says "Hey, can I use your phone?" Looking at her from a distance, I thought she looked like a fairly regular woman. So I godown to help her out (dropping off my wallet in my room, just in case). As soon as I get six feet from her I realize that this is not a regular woman. It is clearly a prostitute. You know, weathered face, missing some teeth, fifty year old woman dressing like a twenty year old, etc. But she's honest.
"I'm not going to lie to you," she says. "I'm a call girl. I work for an escort service. And I've seen some crazy shit. But something really bad just happened to me and I need to call my boss. Can I come up to your room and use your phone?"
"Uhh, no, but you can use my cell phone right here," I say. It was pretty obvious she was just trying to be coy about turning a trick or shivving me and stealing my money.
"It's just a quick call. Can't I come up to your room and do it?"
"No. Use my cell."
"What's the matter. You don't trust me?" She says. No, prostitute I just met, of course I don't trust you!
"No, I don't trust you. But you can use my phone here." I figure since she weighs about forty pounds and I could probably outrun her, there isn't much harm in letting her use my cell. I mean, apart from getting mouth herpes or ear herpes or something.
"Fine."
So she uses my phone and yells at the operator at her service to send a car, which apparently isn't going to happen. Then she starts in on trying to turn the trick again.
"Can I just come up to your room and use the bathroom real quick?" She asks.
"No. There's a bathroom in the front office," I say.
"Can I have ten bucks?"
"No, I'm broke. I'm just here looking at schools."
"Oh, really? I was a student a long time ago. What are you studying?"
"Poetry."
"Oh, Ok. Well, thanks for letting me use your phone. I better get going."
Then she leaves. And that was my introduction to the city of Houston! I also slept in my clothes in that creepy hotel. Although the people in charge were nice. A tip: You can't tell how a hotel will look in reality by its webpage. Also, they don't tell you if scary hookers are going to murder you on the webpage usually either.
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5 comments:
Ok - so I guess you did tell me the hooker story before, but it was just as funny reading a second time. (Well reading it for a first time, hearing for a - whatever - you know what I mean)
Yeah, I have actually heard both of those stories before, too, but it was good to hear them again. You have a way with words, Glenn.
Also, I stayed at the creepiest motel of my life (that I remember...my parents have some stories involving bad motels, but I was too young to be scarred from those experiences) in Tallahassee! The Lafayette is/was on the corner of Tennessee and Stadium(?) across from the Taco Bell. The people were very nice and their lobby had all this crime-stopper stuff (plaques from the police about the owner kicking some ass, vigilante-stlye). We kind of wondered how much crime there could be mere blocks from FSU and frat house row legitimacy, but there was more than one night in that awful motel with terrifying screaming, crying, shouting, things breaking, banging, etc.
I could have sworn I heard a gun shot!
Aha! The pink shirt story *is* my fault! (And kinda Melissa's, as she chose the color of bridesmaid's dresses that I was getting Glenn to match.)
And oddly enough, I'd never heard the hooker story before. What's up with that, Glenn?
I don't remember ever hearing either of those stories...but then again there's a lot that I don't remember, so I probably have heard them and just forgot. Those are way better than the ones in your original post. Do you ever ask yourself, Glenn, what is it that attracts hookers. Something to think about....
Why do you think the hooker left after you mentioned being a poetry major? If you told her you were studying something else, do you think she would have kept trying to turn you into a john?
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