Mistaken For A Prostitute

Not too long ago, on a beautiful Fall morning, I was outside on the corner waiting for my bus. It was on this morning that I was solicited as a prostitute.

The morning started out pretty spectacularly. I love autumn. I love the weather, the changing leaves, the way the air feels so crisp, and I love that it enables the layering of cute clothes without the necessity of a jacket. I woke up, showered, shaved, and picked out what I thought was a snazzy outfit—skinny-fit tan cords with a bright yellow t-shirt and matchingly bright, retro cardigan. I was fortunate enough to be working for a church at the time and there was no corporate dress code—it was come as you are. So, to match my hipster clothes, I had let my hair grow longer than usual so that it came down to my eyes and shoulders.

Before I left the house, I did the standard mirror-check while brushing my snaggle-teeth. Looking good.

I grabbed my messenger bag with requisite ipod and book for the ride into work, and left to go wait at the empty bus stop. Situated on the corner of my fairly busy street and an even busier thoroughfare, there was a lot of street traffic. Occasionally I would glance up from reading my book and look down the road to see if the bus was approaching, but mostly I was engrossed in my sci-fi and indie music. No sign of the bus. Which is why I was surprised when I heard a vehicle pull up to the curb.

I looked up to see a large silver Lexus idling there. The tinted passenger side window started rolling down. I saw a man in his mid-40's or so leaning over the column to get my attention. I thought nothing of this behavior at all. People are always pulling me aside in my neighborhood to ask me for directions—usually how to get the hell out of my neighborhood. I took my earbuds off, closed my book, and approached the car so I could hear the man.

"Hi!" I chirped.

"Hey there." He replied with what I thought was an abnormally large grin.

"...Can I help you?" I asked after a few seconds of quiet.

"Oh yes. I think so." He said in a half-chuckle.

A few more seconds of quiet.

"So... you workin'?" He asked in typical Bostonian.

At this point, any sane person would have stepped away from the car, realizing instantly what was happening—possibly before he even spoke. I, however, stood there, bent over, looking at him with a blank stare.

"I'm sorry?" I stammered.

"Are you workin'?" He repeated.

I didn't understand what was happening. My feeble mind couldn't grasp the very clear scenario. It was full of sweaters and shoes and Project Runway and thousands of miles from the stupid boy being propositioned. It felt like I was standing there, hunched over for hours even though it was only minutes at most. I tried desperately to comprehend what he was asking. Do I work at the bus stop? Like a driver taking a break? Does he think I work for the city? Oh! Maybe he thinks I'm an undercover cop?

The man with the wedding ring, mustache, and Lexus was getting impatient, watching his trick stand there like a deranged banana slug. He let out a very deep sigh and shook his married head.

"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A DATE OR WHAT?" He barked, snapping me out of my ponderings.

Something all of my friends and family know about me is that when I'm nervous, I laugh. I laugh so hard that I start snorting and can't breathe. This poses particular problems in job interviews and being pulled over.

I was very nervous. I started giggling. Realization hit me like a pigeon turd from above—sudden and sloppy. The absurdity of the situation got the better of me and I wasn't even able to reply. I started backing away from the car, shaking my head, and giggling uncontrollably. I started snorting and dropped my book to the sidewalk, doubling over.

Clearly annoyed, the man rolled up his window and sped off through a red light to get away from the crazy laughing hooker. This happened just in time for the bus to arrive.

I got on the bus, paid my fare, and found a seat. I was laughing and crying the whole ride. Fellow riders gave me a very wide berth that morning.

When I got to work and told my coworkers what had happened, they were shocked.

"I can't believe a man was looking for a prostitute at 8 a.m. at a bus stop!" One said.

"I wonder why he thought you were for sale, you look fine to me. Especially if you were reading a book." Another chimed in.

I marched into my boss's office to get his outraged thoughts on the scenario.

"Do I look like a hooker to you?" I asked indignantly.

"I could see that." He replied after not much thought.

"WHAT?!" I shrilled.

"Well, with your long hair and weird clothes, you look like you could be on drugs. Plus you're really pale. I can see the confusion."

And so, my nice Fall morning ended abruptly.

I thought I was totally cute and hipster, but I was really just hooker.