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.

108 Bus

To the MBTA #108 bus driver,

You did more than simply whizz past me this morning as I was waiting at the bus stop—you started a war.

I could perhaps let it slide if you didn't see me standing there in the sweltering heat, melting on the sidewalk infront of you. But, you did see me. I saw you. I saw you see me. I saw your brain fail and decide to proceed ahead, directly to a red light. You didn't think I'd chase you to the intersection, did you? Hah! These chubby legs can fly when motivated, can't they? I was banging on your door before you could say 'soap' you filthy derelict.

Very clever of you to again pretend not to see me, banging and howling at your bus door. You countered this by donning a pair of headphones. Is that even legal while driving a bus? I don't know, but you damn well better be sure that I'm going to find out! A solid 30-seconds I must have been clawing at your door like a rabid spider monkey. You're damn lucky the light turned green and you were able to escape my fists of fury before I started throwing feces at your precious air-conditioned bus, you malcontent.

But ho! Another unexpected turn of events! A gaggle of elementery schoolers crossing infront of you, accompanied by an elderly, chain-smoking crossing guard! I didn't miss a beat before sprinting down the street after you. A starving greyhound with a porterhouse in sight. I saw you looking in your bulbous side-view mirrors at me. You thought I was coming to huff and puff at your door again, didn't you little pig?! Hah! With the cunning of a dolphin I sailed past your vagrant bus and all of its onlookers. I made it to the next crowded bus stop before you even arrived. Didn't count on that, did you? Stop and pick me up along with 10 other people, or leave us ALL behind. I could see the fear in your eyes as you screeched to a halt at the bus stop and saw me in the crowd.

I climbed aboard, chin held high, staring daggers down at your hateful, defeated face. Drinking in every detail of you, from your thinning hair to the coldsore on your lower lip. I took my sweet time swiping my Charlie Card across the scanner. Just look at you grumbling and shaking your head. My, how the mighty hath fallen. I've stormed your castle, boarded your ship, taken your virgin daughter to the prom, and there's nothing you can do about it. Sure, there may be other people on this bus, but really it's just you and me now. You, the captive, and I, the captor. You have to sit there and drive me all the way to the train station. My private chauffeur. My little pet. How does it feel? I bet you wish you'd stopped at the previously designated bus stop when you saw me standing there—sweating like a fetal pig—don't you? Oh look, you're the one starting to sweat now. I can see it on your untamed brow.

Maybe I won't get off at the train station. Maybe I'll just sit here for a while, right behind you, as you drive the same route all day. Keep you company. Continuously hit the 'Stop Request' button and make sure you stop at every god forsaken stop along your route. But no, that won't be necessary. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other.

Sweet dreams Kevin. I'll see you in the morning. 8:42am sharp.