Hooker in a Bind

I've got posts in the works right now, but until they're ready, here's a little something I wrote about a year ago (07/23/2006):

A hooker went looking for an apartment today. Well. Not really a hooker. When I asked her what she does, she said, "I'm a dancer."

"Really?" I said. "Where?"

"Bachelor parties."

"Interesting." I wasn't lying. It was interesting. I wanted to immediately look over from my computer, which was displaying all of the one-bedroom listings under $1000. I wanted to survey her. The body of a woman whose sexual prowess is legendary. Stripper. Synonymous with lust. Endless appeal. Sexual mystery.

This particular stripper was a banker until her supervisor denied her time off on a Wednesday afternoon about five years ago. (Was it really a Wednesday? If it were me, I can't be too sure I would remember, but this stripper said Wednesday, and she seemed to have a good memory.)

"I had a friend that was doing it at the time," she explained as though stripping in Vegas was something casually common like drinking, knitting, or bobsledding. Stripping is just something you get in to by happenstance.

People would ask me, as I drive them around showing apartments: "How did you get this job?"

"There was an ad in the paper, and I called every day until I got an interview." This is happenstance. I saw a help wanted sign in the stripper-store window, and I decided to apply, is not happenstance.


"That guy who just passed us," she said referencing a 5-foot 2 dude wearing a white-base, purple ringer that had the word "Wonka" written in characteristic script where a breast pocket might have been on a less socially awkward shirt. "That guy was at a party I did a couple of weeks ago. That's the thing about working in this area: If I go to the Cubbie Bear or something, I'll definately run into someone. They'll come up to me and be like 'Hey' and they're all careful about coming up to you if they think you're with a boyfriend."

The guy in the Wonka T-shirt didn't do anything at all.


While we were driving about, we had covered a lot of topics. Actually, she did most of the talking. She grew up in Chicago. She took off a Wednesday afternoon from the bank, and then, jobless, moved to LA. Once out west, she considered continuing her BA in writing that she started at UIC. But most of her credits didn't transfer, and she wasn't privy to spending money on coursework and books just because her American History course didn't include a component of California state government.

Then she moved to Vegas where she worked strip clubs and eventually got into bachelor parties, which were the sweet life of exotic dancing. This of course supposes that a person's ideal work hours are Friday and Saturday from 9 in the PM to 1 in the AM.

From what I gathered through round about answers, she left Vegas for two reasons: (1) she split with the boy she moved there for and (2) she wanted to finish her writing degree. "I've got two semesters left, if I work hard."


The think I immediately noticed about this girl was her vocabulary. Off hand, I can't remember the exact words that impressed me. But my syntax, I'm pleased to say, would give most seventh graders a run for their money. Her's had my brain's personal assistant thumbing through reference materials at lightning speed. "Psst. She means promising or good," my assistant whispered in my ear.