I’m in half a nod today. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’ve been enjoying the relative night-time quiet on the block. I shouldn’t have said anything because I think I jinxed myself. Crack Lady has been MIA recently, which is good, but the prostitutes and pimps have set up camp. I woke up at 2:15 this morning to the obligatory yelling that goes along with living in many Baltimore neighborhoods. The thing was, this yelling wouldn’t stop. So I got up out of bed and looked out the window and there were five or six hookers and a pimp. The pimp had a three-foot long piece of pipe that he was swinging wildly in the air while screaming at the hookers. I didn’t even wait to see what happened before calling 911. I called 911 and told them a man was getting ready to assault some women with a pipe. Sometimes you have to embellish a bit to get the po-po to come in under 30 minutes. Still though, it wasn’t that much of a stretch because he really did seem to be about one more SHUT UP BITCH away from getting all Ike Turner on those women.
Thankfully, Lady Friend spent the night last night so I had someone to share the excitement with, although I’m sure she’s probably wishing this morning that she had stayed at her own place. As we sat there looking out the window and waiting for the police to arrive, we watched the hookers start smoking heroin as the pimp paced back and forth with his pipe. By far the most disturbing thing of the evening was when one of the hookers stood up and revealed a very pregnant belly. It’s hard for me to really even comment on that. I mean, what else can I say? It’s 2:30 in the morning, she’s about seven months pregnant, she’s smoking heroin, and a man is standing two feet in front of her threatening to whip her ass with a pipe. I sat there and wondered Does this qualify as a good night or bad night for her? What is the scale?
Finally the police came creeping down the block and they blasted those bright spotlights on the harem. The pimp and the hookers scattered just like cockroaches do when you flick on the kitchen light. We watched them scurrying for dark hiding places. I was shocked when I saw the police actually do a couple of laps around the block with the spotlights. This seemed to do the trick because the heroin harem never came back.
So it’s 3:15 in the morning and LF and I are wide awake discussing the Whys and Hows of prostitution. We simply don’t understand the concept of pimp. I mean, he’s not doing any work. It’s not like he’s out there getting his face fucked in a minivan behind a warehouse. How does he offer protection? He’s not getting into the minivans and Volvos and riding off with suburban strangers. Yet he somehow collects on the work of others. I don’t get it. LF wondered if any women just go out there sans pimp. I was like, “What, you mean like freelancing?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Maybe you get benefits working for a pimp and that’s why so many women do it. Maybe it’s like working for a big corporation. Do you think he offers employer matching on 401(k)s? How long until you’re fully vested?”
“What about paid maternity leave?”
“Flex schedules and holidays?”
“So do you think the freelance prostitutes get 1099s from the johns?”
“Good question. If so, do you think they are paying their taxes quarterly?”
“Maybe, but with the cost of providing your own health care, it probably ends up being a wash, don’t you think?”
“Good point.”
We still didn’t arrive at any answers. We agreed that we’re like prostitutes too in that we work our asses off for someone else’s profit. I suppose the only differences between the prostitutes and the two of us would be our work uniforms - lycra stretch pants instead of flat-front khakis - and also the use of a metal pipe as a team motivator instead of posters of mountain climbers. All things considered, I’d rank my night as a good night on the scale. Sure, things could always be better, but sweet JAY-sus they could always be worse.
