Working the Hard Side of the Street Page 2

  What’s Love Got To Do

  With Anything?

  12:30 A.M. The Airport Hyatt. A guy in his 50s with a weather-beaten, sunburned face gets in my cab. The suit he’s got on is not cheap; white shirt, a tie.

  “Where can we find a girl?” he asks in what sounds like a Southern drawl.

  “Nowhere around here,” I say. “The Strip is about the only place.”

  He hesitates.

  “It’s only a fifteen-minute ride,” I explain.

  He says: “What the hell, why not?”

  Twenty-five minutes later we’re in West Hollywood. We cruise Sunset Strip. As we near Schwab’s a group of hookers spot the potential john in my cab and suddenly come to life as we slow down. I turn the corner at Laurel, and there they are running toward the cab. They smell money; that’s all the suit sitting in my cab is to them: $$$.

  The first hooker ruins her chances by quoting $200/250. “Depending on what you want and for how long,” she explains in an admixture of aggression and desperation. He shakes his head, doesn’t like the price and he is not about to pay it. This is a seasoned customer I’ve got in my backseat and is playing it right. Then another white hooker elbows her way to the man’s window and throws herself inside. She’s got a lot of makeup on, too much. It’s enough to turn your stomach. Maybe some guys like it that way. I don’t recognize her right away because she’s wearing a type of snug, white hat that resembles a turban, but then she starts talking and I remember picking her up at the Beverly-Wilshire a couple of times a while back. I remember she’s the one with the kid and an “old man” she’s been with seven years.

  “What chu got to spend?” she asks my passenger.

  “One hundred,” the man answers.

  She counters with: “One-fifty.”

  Another hooker sticks her head in the window, and says: “How about a menage?”

  The man is not interested and shakes his head.

  Danielle, the hooker I know, gets pissed off at the other hookers for moving in on her and rolls her window up.

  “Go to hell, bitch!” the other hookers all shout at her right then. Danielle turns to the john. “Can you spend one-fifty, baby?”

  “One hundred,” the man says.

  “But I got to pay for the cab, baby, on the way back.”

  “I’ll pay for the cab.”

  “It’s been a bad night. Can you make it one-fifty?”

  “Maybe some other time,” the man says. “All right?”

  “I just can’t do it. It’s been a bad night for me.”

  “Let’s forget it,” he says, and seems to mean it. Danielle changes her tune. “All right, all right.”

  I pull away from the curb. She recognizes me, says: “Hi, lover boy.”

  I say hello, and it does lessen the tension inside the cab.

  “I didn’t recognize you with the turban,” I explain. She counters with: “Why didn’t you call me? You got my number.”

  “I don’t keep numbers.”

  “You do mine.”

  We laugh at that.

  She turns to talk to the fare. He’s from Houston, in the construction business. She asks him the usual questions: How long you been in town? How long you staying?, etc., etc. We make it to the hotel. I’ve got $27.30 on the meter. The man gives me $32.

  “You want me to hang around?” I ask Danielle.

  “Yeah, baby; wait for me,” she says.

  I park the cab and wait about a half hour. When she comes out of the hotel and gets in the cab she wants to know if I can give her a discount.

  “$20,” I say to her. I want to be paid for my Waiting Time.

  “$15.”

  “$20,” I repeat. “I think it’s fair. Do you know what most charge? About thirty bucks.” And it’s the truth, because most cab companies have the higher rates.

  “Okay, baby.”

  And we head back to the Strip. We start talking a bit. It turns out her old man was an engineer, used to push dope. I wonder how the guy she’s living with is able to cope with what she’s doing.

  “He don’t mind,” she says, then chuckles. “Sometimes he do. Sometimes he do, when I get off, know what I mean? He don’t like it when I get off with the young guys, know what I mean, baby? I tell him everything.”

  I’m nodding and saying “Yeah” like I understand, but I don’t.

  I didn’t see how it couldn’t bother a guy to have his woman balling a bunch of strange men. And we start talking about relationships, how impossible it seems to keep one going these days.

  She readily agrees.

  “We had our ups and downs,” she says. “We sure did. I ran away twice from that man. Twice.”

  “What happened?”

  “He came and got me. I lived in Florida for four months without telling him. He came and got me.”

  “He must really love you,” I say.

  “Of course, baby. Me and that man been through a lot. He shaved my head completely bald once so I wouldn’t leave, but he had a good reason because I did him dirty, too. I left that man in a Phoenix motel once, took the car, all the money, and split. I forgave him because I was wrong.”

  I never expected I’d be talking to a prostitute about relation-ships, about love, but we’re doing it, and I tell her about the woman I had split up with, that I still love, and feel helpless in doing anything about. Guess I’m seeking answers any damn way I can get them.

  “Get her back, baby,” she says. “If you really love her, get her back.”

  “How? She doesn’t want anything to do with me. I wouldn’t know what to do.” And I tell her about the Englebert concert I had wanted to take my girl to about a year back, and how she had sent me a letter telling me to leave her alone. That it was over.

  Danielle looks at me, and says: “You better stop talking about her before you start crying. Just get her back, baby; don’t wait.”

  We’re driving north on La Cienega, and she says: “We get back to the corner I got to tell those bitches to fuck off. I don’t like that shit, the way they did me like that. See, all them stupid bitches got pimps. I don’t believe in that shit.” She had told me once before that she had had a pimp. “I gave that man more money than you ever saw in your life. I don’t need that shit.”

  I turn west on Sunset.

  As we near the corner of Sunset and Laurel she asks for a piece of paper and a pen, writes her number down.

  “In case you get anybody that wants a date,” she explains.

  I don’t like the idea. I don’t want to start doing that. “What if you’re not in?” I say.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” she says. “I call in every hour on the hour.”

  “What if your man answers?”

  She says: “So what? If he answers he’ll pretend it’s a wrong number and talk like a Mexican, you know the way they do—then he’ll call right back acting like it’s the answering service. You know what I’m saying, baby?”

  Not really, but I nod.

  She gives me the piece of paper. “Call me if you just want to talk, all right, baby?”

  “Okay.”

  She steps out of my cab, rejoins what’s left of the old gang: a couple of shivering, diehard whores on the sidewalk. I can hear the verbal exchanges. Expensive cars are cruising the Strip, johns on the prowl for action. And it’s a cold, windy night for L.A. and not much action in sight, not much makes sense in this world.

  I take the piece of paper with her number and I stuff it in the ashtray.

  I make a U-turn, taking it west, west, to look for another fare.

  Get Married,

  And Have A Good Life

  IT WAS A Benedict Canyon address in Beverly Hills that I drove up to one night. As I pulled up to the mansion a hooker in her early 20s (escorted, roughly at that, by a disgruntled, angry-faced balding man in bathrobe and house slippers who seemed quite intent in getting her off the premises as quickly as possible) hurried toward my cab before I’d even had a chance to come to a full
stop.

  She was clutching her purse; bloodshot eyes, runny nose, smeared makeup. To say that she was distraught would be putting it mildly.

  The man looked like he was relieved to be rid of her and was back inside the house before the hooker had even climbed in my cab.

  Sitting in my backseat now she started wailing full force, crying and carrying on as though in great pain.

  “TTTTHHHHEEEEEYYYYYYYYHHHHUUUUURRRRRTTTTTTMMMMEEEEEE! TTTHHEY HHHUUUUURRRRRRTTTTTTMMMEEEEEEEE!” she screamed hysterically.

  I cut the steering wheel, gave it gas. “I’m getting you to a hospital,” I told her. She started shaking her head violently.

  “NNNOOOO! DON’T DO THAT! PPPPLLEASSEEE DON’T DO THAT! PPPLEEEASSE?!”

  The screaming had shaken me up quite a bit and I found myself readily nodding my head, going along with her. “All right,” I said. “I won’t. I promise; I promise. I won’t take you to the hospital. Are you going to be okay?”

  She was going through her purse now, desperately searching for something. “YYYEESSS, YYESSSI’MFINE!” she snapped.

  “You sure?”

  “PLEASE TAKE ME AWAY FROM HERE! THEY HURT ME! TTTHHEEYYYHHURT MMEEE!”

  It was all I could do to stay calm. I swallowed hard, had no idea what was going on. Is the woman hurt? If so—why won’t she let me take her to the hospital?

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked.

  “PLEASETAKEMEHOME! TAKEMEHOME—PPPLLLEASSE!”

  “Jesus Christ,” I sighed under my breath. “Why me? Why is this happening to me? God …”

  “HHHEEELLLPPPP MMMEEEEEEE!”

  “Listen to me—I am trying to help you. Where do you want to go?”

  “TAKE ME HOME! TAKE ME HOME!”

  The screaming had me rattled. I couldn’t take it. I stopped the cab. “That’s it,” I said. I had control, but I was firm. “You either stop all this screaming, or you get the hell out of my cab right now. You got that?”

  She relented to some degree. “Please don’t shout,” she said. “I just want to get home. Please be nice to me. Just be nice to me…” She found a cigarette in her purse, fumbled with it, continued to search for a light.

  A feeling of desperation came over me. I wiped sweat from my forehead. I felt sorry for her. And I felt trapped. The whole goddamn thing was just too sad and had happened so fast. It happened too often. Fares like this chipped at your sanity.

  I continued in a calm tone: “I’ll be nice—I promise you. Just stay calm—and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere.”

  She was screaming again. “PLEASE TAKE ME HOME!”

  I got out of my cab, turned my head upwards—there was nothing but dark sky up there. Bleakness. What was I doing? Looking for answers?

  I would have to solve this one on my own. Stay calm, I kept saying to myself, stay calm. It wasn’t easy. I had to maintain just long enough to get her out of my cab and out of my life.

  I climbed back in.

  “You didn’t tell me where you wanted to go.”

  “TAKE ME AWAY FROM HERE!”

  “I told you about the goddamn screaming. Gimme a break— please?”

  Much calmer now, she said: “The Marina—”

  “That’s better,” I sighed. We rolled.

  “Know how to get there?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Do you know the way?” she asked again.

  “Yes. I know the way.”

  “You really are a grouch—”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. You’re so young and such a grouch.”

  “I promise you—I’ll be nice and get you there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  I did my best to tune her out. “Mickey Mouse,” I said.

  “Mickey Mouse,” I heard her echo from the backseat flatly. “You think that’s cute. Okay; okay. Cute. You won’t tell me your name.” There was a pause. “Do you have a light, please?”

  I did, but I did not want her smoking. “Sorry, no light,” I said.

  “You promised you were going to be nice.”

  “Sorry. I’m not going to let you smoke. You’re in bad shape. You’re freaking out or something. I’m not going to trust you with a lit cigarette.”

  “I’m not freaking out. I was a half hour ago—inside that house. I’m okay now…”

  I glanced back.

  “Really,” she said.

  I got her the lighter.

  “Thank you.” She was lighting up. “I only had a quarter of a gram of coke and half a quaalude… That’s why I’m so paranoid.”

  I was in my own world, my pain. “Right,” I said.

  “They took my money,” she said. More tears followed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. My money’s missing.”

  She noticed me glancing up at the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I got your fare.” She showed me a hundred dollar bill and a couple of twenties. “I had a roll. My roll’s missing.” She was on the verge of hysteria again. I thought if I showed some interest in her problems it would keep her from freaking out again.

  “What do you think happened to it? You think that guy took it?”

  “No. I don’t know.” Then: “I don’t fuck these guys. I’m just a dinner companion. I know you don’t believe me. He wanted to fuck. I just didn’t feel like it. He wouldn’t let up, kept after me, kept after me … even after I told him I was on my period. Finally, I got to call a cab when he wasn’t looking. He got mad and called me a bitch. I’m scared. It was a referral, you see… I had bad vibes from the very first… I’m always right about these things. I had bad vibes. It was a referral. I don’t take referrals.”

  “What happened?”

  She started to tell me, then changed her mind. She said: “I’m scared … I’m scared … I’m in trouble … I’m in deep trouble …”

  “Why? What’s going to happen? Is someone going to hurt you? What is it?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter …” Then she added: “You should count your blessings… I know that you hate your job. You hate being a cab driver.”

  “I don’t hate my job.” Maybe I did. I didn’t feel it was anybody’s business.

  “Oh, yes you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I can tell. You hate your job.”

  I found myself sighing again. “Okay; I hate my job.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’ll be out of your life pretty soon—and you’ll never see me again. I’m sorry if I got you upset. It’s just that I lost my money … and I’m so scared…”

  A moment went by. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. You shook me up.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. I’ll even give you a good tip.”

  “Look, you don’t have to—”

  We were in the Marina, pulling into the Marriott parking lot.

  “There,” she said. “Stop at the door.”

  “Nineteen eighty,” I said. She gave me a twenty and a five. “You really don’t have to give me this much.”

  She insisted. “Take it, take it.”

  I kept the money. There was something I wanted to say to her in spite of what had happened, in spite of who she was and who I was, in spite of it all, but the words were not coming, and I hoped the expression on my face, perhaps a trace of a smile of sorts did it. I wanted to say—life is tough, no matter how you cut it.

  I didn’t care for hookers, but she was a human being. I wished I could have done something to get her out of her jam, wished I could have helped myself. Did any of it make any sense?

  Why couldn’t I formulate the words? Why stuck? Why now?

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She got out of the cab. “Get married, and have a good life,” she said as she walked away.

  A line I never would have expected after all that had transpired, and not from her, not from a prostitute. Get married, and have a good life.

>   I suspected she was being facetious and didn’t know what to think. “You’re trying to be funny, right?” I said to her.

  She shook her head, said sincerely: “No, no—I’m serious.” She staggered a bit, continued on toward the entrance.

  “Look, take care of yourself,” I told her, but was not so sure that she had even heard me, but then I thought: How can you give advice when you’re sinking yourself? I sat there, stared blankly, as she disappeared inside the lobby; I sat there like that, wishing I could have eased our pain, delivered us from our burdens; I sat there this way for a while, thinking about it, and then I did the only thing I could do—I sighed, and drove off.

  A Popular Fellow

  IT WAS A call on Crescent Heights, north of 3rd Street this afternoon. A gray duplex like all the others in the area. I pulled into the driveway, reached for the mike.

  “It’s for somebody named Kendall,” the dispatcher said. I looked up and a beautiful woman stepped out of the house and climbed into the cab. My heart was in my throat. All she’d had on was a simple pair of tight-fitting gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. That did not matter. She was a knockout: 5 ft. 8 or 9, a real heart-stopper that took your breath away, she did mine. Take it easy, Cash; take it easy. You must know by now only a real sucker dreams of being in love with someone in this town, a real sucker and nothing but a sucker. Love is nonexistent around here; but my God, she looked fine.

  “Hi,” I said, once I’d recovered.

  “Can you take me to the Beverly Hills Cafe?”

  So I only had ten minutes to get somewhere with her, if I intended to get somewhere with her; that was the time I had to strike up some kind of conversation, to get to know this woman—and let her know something about me, where I was coming from, my own background, etc.

  Do you see what a fool I really am now?

  My heart was thumping, butterflies in my belly, aching to be in love with a decent woman. I had no idea what she was like, but I thought: You can’t give up, you just can’t.

  Keep trying, Register, keep trying. Remember what you used to say to yourself? You’re not a quitter! You’re not! You don’t quit. Others quit, not you! You lost out to love, but that had not been the real thing; April tried to tell you that. If it had been the real thing it would not have ended the way it did.