Monthly Archives: April 2012

chapter 8 CURISIOUSIER AND CURIOUSIER SAID ALICE

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I drank my coffee and read my newspaper in blessed peace.  For the first time in two weeks my irritating little fan club was silent.  The morning continued quiet so I thought it would be a good time to take a quick trip out to get supplies.

I locked the deadbolt and the lock on the door handle as I was making out my mental shopping list.  Paint, some super glue, beads,  some cleaning supplies hmm and monofilament fishing line I think.

Twenty minutes to walk to Pearl art and craft store, twenty minutes back, five minutes to get what I needed, fifteen to wait for someone to man the cash register (Pearl hires art students so it takes awhile to get anything useful done).  I would be home in an hour.  Typically when I leave the house I am gone for some hours, shopping, a bit of lunch, some afternoon bar hopping, so those seeing me leave will have the expectation that I will be gone for some time. I cant help but feel that this quiet is only a temporary reprieve.

My trip out isn’t so much to replenish my supplies as to test to see if I’m perhaps over reacting to a bit of noise, or if there is something a tad more serious going on.  Give people a vulnerability an opening and see if anyone goes for it. It’s a good way to test your enemy’s intentions and capabilities.

I give Queeny’s  nervous court a jaunty wave and head out walking quickly.  Pearl art store is on Market street straight down Tyler street, I don’t see anyone following me, but unless someone were being like totally inspector Clouseau about it, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t notice if someone were following me or not.

Shopping done I head home.  I wave at Queeny’s court as a reach my building.  They don’t seem happy to see me.  I unlock the buildings door and pause in the lobby before calling the elevator.

“Oh shit she’s here.” I hear a man’s voice trying to whisper floating down to me from the stairwell.  I hear a sound like tools being shoved into a bag and foot steps heading up.  A door opens, from the cold metal snick sound it was the door to the roof.  The door closes.

Hmmm

I take the elevator up to my floor, stepping out cautiously .  The hall way is empty.  I go to my door, hmm, scratches around my deadbolt and its unlocked.  The second lock I have on my door apparently they didn’t have time to get to.  Jezz, they had the better part of an hour and they couldn’t pick two simple locks?   And I would have had lookouts posted with a cell phone to alert the burglars of my return.  Stupid and sloppy, but why where they trying to break into my apartment in the first place?

I go inside and lock the door behind me.  I set my, ‘groceries’ down.  Ok then time to upgrade home security.  I go to my closet and get a length of 2×4 I had tucked away as a useful thing for something someday .  I braced the 2×4 against the door and wedged it against the facing wall.  Primitive but effective, even if they picked the locks they wouldn’t be able to open the door.

I sat on my bed thinking.  ‘Shit she’s here’, footsteps, the door.  Two men,  the speaker, white I think, he didn’t speak with the same accent as the members of queeny’s court who are all African American.  They went up to the roof, but not down.  My apartment faced the stairwell and the elevator, if anyone went up or down I would know of it.  If the door to the roof opened I would hear it, that cold snick sound, I would hear it.

The roof, the only other way down was by the fire escape that went right by my window.  The roof.  I thought of the empty building next door.  The building next door, you can get to it from the roof of my building.  The two buildings so close together you can step from one roof top to the other.  They went up but not down.

Curiousier and curiousier said Alice.

The day continued quiet.  At sunset John returned.  I was beading my coat listening to him yell at Queeny and her court for their dereliction of their duty to be a pain in my ass. They weren’t all that interested in continuing since I apparently had a flame thrower that they hadn’t been warned about.

“Are you Fucking kidding me?” He screamed at them “That bitch is worth fifty thousand bucks.”

And the big cartoon question mark popped into existence above my head.

“HU??”

TV, dvd player, stereo.  Fifty thousand?  I’m worth fifty thousand? Something wasnt adding up here, the stereo wasnt even a BOSE.   Did they think I was one of those odd eccentrics who lived like paupers with gold bars stuffed under their bed?  Is that why they tried to break into my apartment ? to steal my secrete stash of gold?

For a moment I considered the idea that someone was offering to pay fifty thousand to actually kill me.  And dismissed the  idea as more nuts then the idea of me with gold bars under my bed.   truly nuts.  Sure I’m an annoying person but I couldn’t think of anyone I had pissed off enough to shell out that kind of cash.

I figured that ‘John’ was spinning a whopper to the crew to get them motivated.  Still worrisome, people get stupid for a lot less than that.  I sighed and put away my bead work.

Before I went to bed I took some pieces of ply wood I had in my closet and tacked them up, covering the window that the fire escape went past, and over the two bay windows that faced out over the street.   Fifty thousand is a lot of motivation and a rifle with a decent scope isn’t that big of an investment.

I went to bed.

Midnight.

Car horns and people screaming up at me, in Spanish.  I understand just enough Spanish to know that nothing they were shouting up at me was at all nice.

There were three cars involved in a bizarre little parade.  Spaced about three car lengths apart they circled the block and every time they passed my building they began laying on their horns and screaming rude things up at me.  That they were screaming in Spanish struck me as a bit off.  The population of the tenderloin is African American and Asian.

“What? Their importing assholes from the mission now?”

I was beginning to feel like the last defender of the Alamo.  Considering how well that worked out for the Alamo, it wasn’t a good feeling.

I recognized the cars.

The sounds of the city are not random noise.  There is a pattern to it.  Like the beat of your heart or the breath in your lungs.  Car, buses, taxi’s, people come people going, I know the rhythm.  I noticed the cars a couple of months before the ruckus.

The honking of a car horn, what sound could be more normal more common than the sound of a car horn in the city?  Commonly, normally a car horn is used to impart one of two basic messages; either I’m here get your ass in gear or fuck you asshole.  There is also the watch out but it is always watch out asshole so I put that in the same category as fuck you asshole.

A car parked in the alley beeps three times, a car driving by honks three times in answer.

The car in the alley pulls out and drives off.

A new car parks in the alley.

It waits.

It honks twice.

A car driving by honks twice in response.

The car in the alley pulls out and drives off.

A new car parks in the alley.

It waits.

It is a pattern that is repeated often. Day after day.  The same three cars.  The same three cars that are now circling my building and honking their horns at me.

Being under siege, isn’t as interesting as one might think.  It goes on and on and I occupied my time with my beading.  The coat was coming along really well.  I ate, I slept, I drank tea, I watched movies (I have an extensive collection), I read books and I wait.  Sooner or later they will get bored with this.  Sooner or later these yo yos will figure out that idiot ‘John’ hasn’t got 50 anything let alone fifty thousand.  They would most likely beat him to death when they finally figure out that they had been had. I was quite looking forward to watching that.

A week goes by, I got quite a bit done on my coat.  The crack heads screamed under my windows, the cars   circled the block honking and screaming every time they passed my building.

Couple of times that week someone tried to job the lock.  They weren’t very good at it, or maybe they weren’t trying to be subtle.

Midnight.

The sound of power tools coming from the upstairs apartment.  I groan and roll out of bed.  I was doing really well at ignoring the constant clamor coming from outside but power tools are hard to ignore.  Why always midnight I grouse and fix myself a cup of tea.

I sat sipping my tea listening as someone upstairs drilled into their floor, my ceiling.

The apartment upstairs was currently vacant.  As were most of the apartments in the building, now that I thought about it.  Upstairs only one apartment was currently occupied by a young woman who is a niece of Mr. Ripinder of the copy shop.   She moved in about four months ago.  And on my floor, other than me there was only one tenant, a beefy young man who told me he was a cook and who once offered to pick my lock for me when I miss placed my keys for about five minutes.  I’m not a suspicious person by nature,  but , hmmm.

The apartment directly above me has had a series of odd tenants, who never stayed for long, a week or two mostly.

There were the unpleasant Mongolians.   One night I was woken to the sounds of a woman screaming that she had been raped by the Mongolians in the apartment upstairs.  She screamed rape, she screamed for help. I heard her running up the stairs, I heard the cold snick sound of the roof door being opened.  She disappeared.  I complained to Boccie, the Mongolians moved out.

There was the elder Yemenis man in full robes.  He was the father of the owner of  the coffee shop on the corner of O’Farrell and Larken.  He didn’t speak a word of English and I met him because of his lack of understanding of indoor plumbing.  He had to call his son to explain why a crazed American woman with wet hair was screaming at him.

There was the Alaskan Airlines steward and his new Chinese bride.   They stayed a couple of months.

The last I swear looked exactly like a gangster from some movie from the 50’s.  He was a square shaped man from head to toe, in a double breasted suite and smoking a stogie.  He had introduced himself to me as a retired district attorney from some city near by I cant rember.  He gave me his card.  Told me he was trying to track a man stalking the woman in new York who owned the apartment.

(Yeh right, what ever,)

I threw the card away.  He stayed two weeks.

There was the asian gang banger.  He was about 5’ 8’’ a  wightlifters body and a bald head with the letters VIN tattooed across his forehead I assumed that the tattoo had to be some sort of gang thing.  You don’t have something like that plastered on your skull to show off your arty aesthetics. I figured  he had some connection with the Empire Massage.  He stayed a couple of weeks.

The drilling upstairs stops and I hear something being snaked into my ceiling and laughter.

I have my suspicions, but not wanting to give in to paranoia and there was nothing I could do about it any so I want back to bed.  The next day was the same as the others except for a couple of things.  There were people in the upstairs apartment, coming and going with heavy feet.  The other difference was the people outside were now commenting on my every move.

“Going to the kitchen for more tea?”

I was.  There was no way to see into my apartment from the street, especially with my street fronting windows were now blocked off with plywood.  I looked up at my ceiling and thought of the drilling.  Hmm.

That night I decided to test the matter.  You want to know if men are watching? Nothing easier.

I drew a bath.  Lots of bubbles.  I put on some  music, Mozart, a little night music. I lite a few candles lowered the lights and…

I had a cat once who loved nothing more then to tease the German Shepard next door.  She knew exactly how long the dogs chain was, to the inch.  She would saunter over to his yard tail high in the air and she would sit, just outside the reach of his chain.  And bath herself.  She took her time at it, lifting her leg high in the air licking her fur clean with long extravagant strokes, smiling her cat smile at the dog barking and howling at the end of his chain.  You can lean a lot from cats.

There was no doubt.  They were watching.  The detailed discriptions of my body right down to the cute little mole on my ass  were at least complimentary.  Much to the displeasure of a couple of women in the group, shrieking at their ‘boyfriends?’ to “Quit watching her.”

I quite enjoyed that.   Though I did wonder at the thought process behind bringing ones girl friend out on a job like this.  “Hey instead of going out to dinner and seeing a movie lets go to a group murder party.”  Maybe I am just too old fashioned in my thinking.

Ok they were watching.  Were they also listening?  It seemed logical that they would be, still might as well be sure.  I toweled off and threw on a robe.

I have a rather odd collection of music.  I tend to buy cd’s not so much because I know I will like it or ever heard of the band or what ever.  I buy things that make me go Hu?  If I have no idea what something is or what it will sound like my eyes light up.  So I have a collection of things that would make any normal person cringe.

I go through my collection and find just the thing.  Sound Chambers, by Mary Archer, ahh yes.  This woman went into cathedrals with her sound equipment and recorded an experiment.  She would bounce a high electronic tone off one wall and another off another wall and record it.  When you play it you hear the first tone, then the second tone in your other ear then in the middle of your head the two sounds collide and a third tone chimes inside your head.

I had a friend who once had trouble with squirrels in the walls of his house.  I gave him this cd and told him to play it loud next to the walls where the squirrels were.  He did and in a minute he ran out of the house terrified as the squirrels were screaming and beating their little heads against the walls.  Ever since that day he has had a fear of squirrels, convinced that they are plotting bloody vengeance.

Just the thing.

I take Mozart off the stereo and put in Sound Chambers.  I crank the volume, pause a moment, then hit play.

I hear screaming.

I go to the one window I haven’t blocked off because it is away from the fire escape and it has the Empire Massage sign blocking any view into my apartment.  I look down to the street and wow just like in the movies, two men come barreling out of a white van parked near to my building.  They were tearing head phones off their heads and shrieking just like the squirrels.

I take up my bead work.  Time to do some serious thinking

chapter 7 AND THIS WAS SUCH A NICE QUIET NEIGBORHOOD

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One night some time after midnight I am woken up by a god awful hallabaloo coming from the street below my windows.  I am normally pretty good at ignoring city noises, O’Farrell is a busy street the traffic never sleeps on O’Farrell street, buses, cabs, people going to the theaters to hotels going shopping, just going, people.  My building is right in what I call the tidal delta zone.  The place where the worlds of the tourist  hotels, the shopping the theaters and restaurants, meet and mix with the tenderloin world of the broken, the used and the forgotten.  My apartment looks out over it all.  I would sit at my windows working on some beading project and watch the endlessly entertaining theater of the streets.  So I am used to the sounds of the streets and find the sounds of the city breathing actually comfort my sleep.  But even so hearing people screaming out my name with death threats attached kinda got my attention

I pull open my window and lean out looking down to the street below.

Queeny and her crack head court were down below my window, screaming up death threats, to me.

Queeny is a needle thin African American woman who could be an aged thirty or a preserved sixty.  Her court is an ever changing collection of the hopelessly lost.  Her tribe occupies the sidewalk in front of the Christian science church half a block from my building.  The sidewalk there is wide and open, catching the warming sun for most of the day and there is an alley between the church building and the building next to mine perfect for  the clandestine deals necessary for survival on the streets.  Every now and then I toss the tribe a few bucks for coffee or crack, what ever gets you through the day.

I leaned out the window a bit to get a better look at the commotion.  Spotting me Queeny screams up at me shaking her boney first.

“Ya you, you bitch, we going ta KILL you!”

“Really?  Have I done something in particular to piss you off?”

They all shook their fists at me and screamed up a chorus of murder.  This is the first time in my life I have been serenaded and I must say I imagined such an event in my life quite differently.

I shrug my shoulders and close the window.  What ever drugs their on, will no doubt wear off in a day or two.  I thought and vowed that I would never again buy those idiots another cup of coffee.  I go back to sleep, fading the calls for my death into the steady back ground of the street.  I slept.

5am I woke as I did every morning except that this morning the crack heads were still under my window screaming up the endless creative means of my demise they could come up with.   I pull on my torn jeans a clean enough t shirt and my doc martins and head out the door.

Once I was out on the sidewalk  Queeny and her court fall silent, watching me with weary eyes.  I smile and wave at them and skip across the street to paradise doughnuts for my breakfast.

“Long time no see.”  Hussen greets me as he does every morning.  Hussen has the whitest teeth I have ever seen outside of a tooth paste add.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a doughnut, hmm boston cream.  I say my good morning to Hussan and to Alan who is there as he is every morning puttering about fixing the coffee.

Alan is the sort of man you could see teaching Irish poetry in some exclusive boys school.  He sixtyish with a neatly trimmed beard and hawkish nose.  He tries very hard to project roguish charm.  He runs errands of an unspecified sorts for paradise doughnuts and for the quick copy store that is owned by an Indian gentleman named Mr. Repinder.  Alan is also a small time loan shark loaning 10 for 15 kinda thing.  Alan and I are friends, with in boundaries.  That is we go out to lunch from time to time,  and take little trips out and about to places in San Fran and the bay area.  I don’t talk about his busness, he doesn’t talk about mine.  He enjoys having someone to tell stories about the old days to, I enjoy listening to stories so it all works out fine.

I get a newspaper and a pack of camels pay for my breakfast and skip back across the street.  I smile and wave as I pass the court.  They give me the squint eye.  As soon as I got back inside my apartment they began yowling up at my windows again.

( Oh for heavens sake.)

They seemed quite determined to continue their annoyance of my peace so I shrugged my shoulders, put on a movie and turned to my bead work.  I had just started on a large project, a large denim coat that I was beading with designs from the beetles movie the yellow submarine.

They continued all that day and night.  Working in shifts.  I was impressed.  I never would thought that that crew was capable of such well organized behavior or of being capable of holding a single thought or plan of action for such a long stretch of time.

Day two, repeat day one. A week.  I was no less confused about the cause of this nonsense but was seriously impressed with their sticktiuvness.

You would think that that many people making that much noise at literally all hours of the day and night would attract some attention, but apparently not in my neighborhood.  Now of course you wonder why didn’t I immediately call the police?  For what exactly? Making noise?   And of course when the cops show up they won’t be making nose, will they?  Hell the cops won’t even see them, as like cockroaches when the light snaps on, they would disappear into the shadows.

I continued with my beading, ordered the occasional pizza.  I kept the window open a bit and looked out every now and then, trying to puzzle out the cause for all this ruckus.  I noticed a man hanging out with the crack head crew.  He seemed to be the one directing the crew.

I knew him, calls himself John. Very original.  He was tall blond and muscle bound and very very sure of his attractiveness to women.  It is one of the true wonder of the world that the men most sure of themselves are so often the ones with the least reason to be.  He had shown up in the neighborhood about two weeks before the ruckus started.

He had been just standing there on the street corner.  When I passed on by he started trying to chat me up.  Trying to do everything in his power to attract my attention, if there had been a puddle in the street he would have thrown his jacket on it for me to step on.

Unfortunatly for him, I pretty much considered him a puddle I was trying to avoid steping in.

One day I went out to the dinner just up the ally from my place for a bit of breakfast.  He invited himself to join me.  I couldn’t bring myself to object.  It was like having my very own performing monkey amusing me at breakfast.

Ohhh and how he did go, telling me all about his numerous girl friends his prowess is bed his size,

“Jezz dude, I’m on my first cup of coffee here.”

He continued on, going on and on about my hotness.

Yawning widly.  Sipping at my coffee.

(I haven’t finished my first cup of coffee yet, I refuse to believe that I am currently anyone’s hottness.)

He wants me to take him home with me.

“What ever for?  “

So he can have sex with me.

Well direct enough.  I laugh.

“Why would I do that?”

Because he wants it.

“Really?  So I should have sex with you, just because you want it?”

“Yes.”

He looks at me so convinced of his attractiveness that my agreement is a forgone conclusion.

I laugh so hard I have to push the plate out of the way.  My head down on the table, pounding the table with my fists.

He frowns and with out another word stalks off from the table and out the door. My wild peals of laughter following him.

Looking out my window watching him talking to the crack heads, I figured that the blow to his ego was more then he could handle gracefully and this foolishness with the crack head crew was his little way of acting out.  Well sooner or later he’ll get over it and the crack heads will find another game.

The end of the second week, I am becoming annoyed.

( Fun is fun but really this has gone on quite long enough.)

From under the kitchen sink I take out my can of raid.  ‘Kill roaches from 10 feet away’ (nice).  I put on my torn jeans a clean enough t shirt and my doc martins and the yellow submarine coat I am still working on.  In one pocket I stuff the can of raid in the other a bic lighter and I head out the door.

Out on the side walk I stand across the alley from the crowd of crack heads.  I take out the can of raid and the lighter. I smile and point the can.  It works better than I expected.  A fifteen foot jet of flames lights up the predawn darkness.  I catch the shocked startled looks on the faces of Queeny and her court, frozen for a moment like in the flash of a camera.

I put the can and the lighter back in my pockets and smile at their frozen faces.

“You all may bay at the moon if you wish.

“But,,,,quit,,,,Fucking with Me.”

I smile pleasantly and skip across the street to paradise doughnuts.

chapter 6 the catch 22 solution

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Chapter 6

THE CATCH 22 SOLUTION

About a week later I am asked if I wish to return to my old apartment building to pick through the remains of my life.  I politely declined.  Too much like stepping on my own grave thank you very much.  I gave them a list of things they could bring if they wished to go to the trouble.  My big yellow tackle box of art supplies, my paintings,my cd’s and movie collection and a suitcase of clothes.’  The suite case I had packed before the fire, and I had put it, and those other odds and ends stacked in the hall way.  I had an idea that some of it would be catching up with me sooner or later.

I was most pleased to get my tackle box, ahh crayons and water color pens just what a mad woman needs to pass the time.The staff was pleased with my paints and collages, always good to have an artistic mad person in the house, gives the place a touch of class.  Not feeling the muse I just spent my time scribbling doodles on paper.  Hardly seemed worth the praise the staff heaped on me for scribbling.  But if they wanted to pat me on the head, I wasn’t going to argue.

The whole art thing came about thusly.  It was my thirty third birthday, which I thought a fine time to do the take stock of life thing.  Where am I now? What have I accomplished sort of thing.  Looking back I found that the only things I had really accomplished in life was to fuck things up and piss people off.

(  Holy shit, I’m an artist!.)

Imagine my surprise.  At the time I didn’t even own a box of crayons.

A doctor interrupts my doodling to ask if I would mind it if he brought in some interns to interview me.

I didn’t mind.  Here I am all bored and they give me a room full of baby doctors to play with.  Why I bet their just as cute as puppies.

And oh my weren’t they just, five of them, so eager,trying so hard to look all serious and learned.  Three men, two women all in their crisp intern lab coats, clip boards up and pens ready.

“Do you know why you’r here?” The head doctor asks me.

“Here in the hospital or here in this room ?”

“Here in the hospital and here talking with us.” He smiles.  He likes clever patients.

“Ahh well I would say that I am here in the hospital because of a difference of opinion.”   I smile. “I would say that I am here because my former landlord Richard J Boccie is involved in the illegal drug business in a fairly large way and that I have gotten in his way so he has taken a contract out on my life.  (if that really is the correct term, I don’t know maybe the people in the mob call it a hostile take over).  And I am here because it is better than being killed.  (Only just)

“You on the other hand would say that I am a paranoid delusional nut burger who has been driven over the edge by certain unfortunate lifestyle choices and has, poor dear, become a danger to self and others.

“Hence the difference of opinion.”

“I’m here talking with you all because I’m a fairly amusing nut burger and you thought it would be a nice change of pace for your students from the depressing run of mumblers and droolers they normally have to examine.

I smile, They laugh.

“Well let’s begin shall we?” I adjust my glasses

First question from the well groomed young man on the left. “Did you really set the fire in your apartment?”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“Umm, why did you set your apartment on fire?”  This from the woman in the middle in carefully bland makeup.

(I find it interesting that the boys lead in with questions regarding my actions the gals go right to my motives)

“The short answer is because my landlord was trying to kill me.  The slightly longer answer is because it would send me here.”

“You wanted to come here? Why?”  They all lean forward in their seats.  This was as answer they were not expecting.  Which is odd I think, after all haven’t they gone into massive amounts of debts and years of schooling to get here?  All I had to do was start one little fire.

“I call it the catch 22 solution.”  I tell them.

“The situation I am dealing with, whether you believe it or not, and I take it as a given that you don’t.  Boccie wants me dead.  He is offering a hundred thousand dollars to see me dead.  As ego flattering as that is, in a twisted sort of way. It is a bit of a problem.  I cant get anyone like the police to believe me about this, and I cant be sure that simply leaving San Francisco would be enough to insure my continued breathing.  There is no such thing as anonymity anymore, anywhere I go I will leave a trace that can be found by anyone with even a modicum of computer skills.

Since I cant get anyone to believe me, well disbelief has its uses.

“First, being in a locked mental ward, I figured that it puts me out of reach of Boccie’s hired guns.  They arnt all that cleaver and perhaps with me out of the picture it will give them a chance to calm the fuck down.

Second, one of the reasons Boccie wants me dead, other then the fact that there is just something about me that really pisses him off, is he is afraid that I just may get someone to believe me.  Well now that I am officially a nut case my credibility is completely shot.  Thus removing one of  Boccie’s major motivations for wanting me dead.

Third, being now officially a paranoid delusional nut burger I have some small protection from being killed once I move on out of the system.  So long as I’m alive I’m just a delusional nut who thinks her former landlord is trying to kill her.  If however I end up dead in some no doubt messy fashion  people might just begin to wonder if my paranoia might not be entirely mad.  Like the bloody punch line to an old joke. Just cause your paranoid doesn’t mean their not out to get you.

While I admit it’s not an ideal solution, it’s the best I could come up with under the circumstances And it does appeal to my sense of humor.

“Why do you think your landlord is trying to kill you.?”

“Now that is a long story.”

chapter 5 I NEVER COULD GET THE HANG OF THRUSDAYS

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I was taken to Saint Frances Hospital

I mumbled out the basics, name former address, insurance none and babbled incoherently about a fire.  That done I retired from further active participation with the world around me.

The nurses took my temp blood pressure, timed my heart beat.  It was decided I was dehydrated and I was put on an iv.  Dehydrated was I figured a nice way for the nurses to say I was drunk.  After not too long a time a doctor came looked at me for a moment and he left.  A nurse returned waving a set of papers.

The nurse informs me that there is nothing wrong with me and the doctor had signed my discharge papers.  I could go.

I lay there meditating.

She flutters the discharge papers in front of my closed eyes.  “The doctor has discharged you, you can go.”

I continued my meditation.

She shoved the examination bed upon which I lay, snapping the papers frantically in front of my closed eyes.

I lay there meditating.

They decided to leave me alone for a bit.  Hoping I would gain enough sense to sign the discharge paperwork and get out of the way.

A nurse comes into the room, pretending to be putting away medical supplies.  She is slamming cupboard doors open and closed like an angry house wife.

I feel bad for her I really do.  There she is a busy woman with way to much to do and real sick people to care for and there was this perfectly healthy person laying there like a big old lump.  How very irritating.  I want to explain the situation to her, but it would take too long and she wouldn’t believe me anyway.  So I lay there meditating, waiting for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn.

About an hour later a nurse returns and say they have decided to transfer me to the San Francisco General the Psyc ward.

I open one eye and say, “That would be fine, thank you.” I return to my mediation.

First stop, the three day hold.  It’s a big room with uncomfortable reclining seat/beds  I am given a tasteless turkey sandwich, and a sipping box of juice, (hmm, juice).  I haven’t eaten in a couple of days, the sandwich goes down well.

The three day hold is mostly for allowing druggies and drunks to sober up enough to be not too great a nuisance to society at large upon being released.  I eat my sandwich and listening to the mutterings and snoring of my fellow patients I pull up my thin blanket and sleep.

Day two I get pudding with my lunch,( hmmm, pudding.)

Then the interview.  A very bored man begins asking me the standard questions, medications allergies, blah, blah, blah,

“Why are you here?”  He asks me.

“Well, I set fire to my apartment because my landlord is trying to kill me.”  I said.

He looks up from the form on his desk and blinks at me, twice.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”  And he scurries from the room.

He returns with a nervous shuffling of forms.  You see I am now a problem for which a solution must be found.  A danger to self and others.  Now honestly society doesn’t really give a tinkers damn about the danger to self and very little about danger to others ahh but endanger property?  Now that’s something that needs attention.  They can’t just sober me up and send me on my merry way, just imagine the law suits if they released an admitted fire bug and she, one out sets another property to blaze.

I’m sent upstairs to the hospitals official pscy. Ward.  This is intended to be a two to three week holding pen for the inconveniently unstable.  Quite a few teenagers here.

Another interview, he’s a tired looking man in a suite that needs pressing.  It’s a dull beige room, behind him silk plants that look wilted.

He sits, forms in front of him, pen in hand.  Ahh yes let the games begin.

“Allergies?”

“None.”

“Medications?”

“None.”

“Do you hear voices?”

I have been asked this many times and they always seem so disappointed when I say no.

“The year?”

“2002”

“Who is president?”

“George Bush”  (And they call me mad)

“The day.”

I pause thinking.  I haven’t seen a newspaper in a while and it’s been a busy few days, counting back in my head, and then it comes to me.  In my best English accent.  “Thursday, it must be Thursday, never could get the hang of Thursdays.”

“Oh? Why is that?” He looks up pen pausing.

I laugh.  “oh never mind, classical reference.” (The Hitchers guide to the galaxy)

He looks confused but decides to forge ahead.

“Could you count backward from a hundred by 7s?”

“Hu?, now what exactly does my mathematical ability have to do with my sanity?” I ask. “I mean the mathematically gifted among us have always been more than a bit twitchy on the sanity scale.”

“It’s just a question I have to ask.”  He says looking down at the form on the table.

“Really?” I shrug. “Poor you.  Well as the designated mad person in the room I am under no such obligation.  How about we do prime numbers?  Hmm lets see backward from a hundred  97,89,83,79,73,71,67,61,59,53,47,43,41,37,29,23,19,17,13,11,7,5,3,2

Or, I know how about a nice Fibonacci sequence,  Hmmm backward from a hundred,  89,55,34,21,13,8,5,3,2,1,1.

“Ahh, what’s a Fibonacci sequence?”

“It’s the mathematical proportions of a spiral.”  I smile and flutter my eyelashes at him.  Always good to have a few clever things tucked away in your memory.

The preliminaries done with he brings out the big guns.  A deck of cards. I groan inwardly and slink down in my chair.  Roche cards.

“These are called Roche ink blot cards.” He explains to me.  “Just look at them and say the first word that pops into your head.”

Bullshit is the first word that pops into my head but I don’t say it.

The idea here is that the images one sees in the ink blot will give the interviewer an insight into the interviewees state of mind.  Only one small problem with that idea,  There are no symbols that carry a universal meaning.

A persons internal symbolism is unique to each individual to their history, their back ground, their experience.  The Roch test?  The meanings of the symbols are all set forth by a very uniform group of people, highly educated upper-class white males from a western background.  They are so arrogant that they blithely assume the whole world sees things the same way as they do.  Or at the very least should.

If one were to look at a card and see a sail boat, to the interviewer such a symbol might mean peacefulness, pleasure, calm.  To a person who say traps lobster for a living, such a thing might represent for him irritation (as at rich over fed tourists getting in the way of their business). To a person raised in a desert or to one who had almost drowned. Even symbols that are universally recognized such as a Christian cross, would it mean the same to a Jew? A Muslim to one who had been molested by a priest?

Ahh well, let him have his fun.  Eene Meany Chilly Beany the id is about to speak.  He turns the cards over, I barely glance at them.  Giving him answers I read in books.  Sailing boat two ballet dancers, a dove, violets ect.   He turns one over I instantly recognize.

“Ohh, that’s the bat.” I laugh and wave my hand at it.

“Why do you say it’s a bat?”  He looks up, his pen pausing, he thinks he’s hit on something significant here.

“Because, that particular ink blot was used as a prop in one of the Bat man movies.  The female lead in the movie, playing a criminal psychologist, had this ink blot as an enlarged framed print on her wall.  In walks Bat Man in his daily disguise as Bruce Wayne.  He looks at the picture and says. ‘Ohh a bat.”  She says, ‘ohh now why do you say it’s a bat?’

“Now if you ask me if I think I’m Bat man I shall be really annoyed.”

He looks slightly put out, but decides not to comment and he continues with the cards.  I’m not even bothering to look at them any more.

A falling pot of petunias, a confused looking whale.  He doesn’t ask why the whale is confused which is for the best he wouldn’t have understood the answer.

We reach the end of his cards and he takes a moment to tabulate the results.

“Well Doc, how’d I do?

“Well, it shows that you are mild to moderately depressed.”

Give me a set of tarot cards and I could do a cold reading of considerably more depth and accuracy.

Being officially diagnosed as somewhat depressed, I was promptly put on a course of anti psychotics and adivan Jolly good fun.

chapter 4 burning bridges

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Chapter 4

BURNING BRIDGES

I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out.  I sighed and took out my bronze Zippo.

“Well time for me to be moving on.”  I said looking up at the ceiling.  They were watching, they were always watching, always listening, cameras and microphones in my ceiling.  I dont like reality TV, I dont watch reality TV (except for project runway, huge fan of that one.  Does that make me a bad person?) Yet here I am the star of my very own reality show.  The lets murder the whore show.  Me live 24/7.  I tell ya I have killer ratings.  Dealing with assassin paparazzi is a life skill I never had any reason to suspect that I would ever need.

(I just knew I was wasting my time trying to learn geometry)

High school year book photo,  a a girl with lifeless mouse brown hair crooked glassed, ghost white complexion which just serves to highlight each bright red pimple.  Caption, girl least likely to become the fixated obsession of men.

Turning the lighter over in my hands, cool smooth weight in my hands.

( I don’t want to do this.  I really don’t want to do this. )

They were silent now.  For the past three months my irritating fan club has had people howling death at me.  Every moment, night, day, sound, honking horns, screaming howling shouting, a symphony of murder    They were silent now.  All quiet, waiting, watching me turn my lighter over in my hand.

My grandmother had once said to me.  “The trouble with you is you always burn your bridges behind you.”

To which I replied. “Of course I do cause when I cross a bridge I’m not going back.”

I flip the Zippo open and light it.  Some things never change.

I set the flame to the garbage bag I had stuffed with crumpled paper and rages soaked in lighter fluid.  I turn to the curtains, they give themselves to the fire, made to burn.  I turn the gas of the stove on full.  Flames and smoke curling around me I look up to the ceiling and smile.

“Well I’m off now so you all go ahead and call the fire department.  Ohh and one more thing, a small piece of advice.  Never start a war with some one who has a better sense of humor than your own.”  I gave a cheerful little bye bye wave and shut the door behind me.

I walked across the street to paradise doughnuts and bought a peach Snapple with the last two dollars in my pocket.  I sat at the white plastic table on the sidewalk and watched the fire consume my home.  Flames curled out of my open windows most dramatically.  The fire trucks arrived almost as soon as I sat down.  My assassins must have had the fire department on speed dial.  The situation well in hand I picked up my iced tea and walked off the hem of my yellow submarine coat swinging at my knees.

“Idle hands are the devils work.”  My grandmother had always said.  So in between fighting the stay alive I occupied my time embroidering a long denim coat with  beads using the beetles yellow submarine as insperation.,  Yellow submarine, blue meanies, glovey, I had had a lot of time on my hands.

I walked down O’Farrell St. past the Hilton.  I see a couple taking pictures of my fire with their expensive camera.  I smile at them, they dont see me.  Walking on I pass Macy’s and that god awful toy store fao shwartz and hear the horrible tinny music of children being tortured into happiness. ‘It’s a small world after all, it’s a small small world.’  At the end of Market street I reach the embarcadero, I walk along to a spot behind some very nice restaurants and find a park bench with a wonderful view of the bay bridge.  I sit back with a tired sigh and spread my arms along the back of the bench.

An Asian man is fishing off the pier, we smile and wave at each other.  A young street kid approaches, kid well in his twenties wearing the torn and ragged clothes of street punk chic.

“Hey.” He says. “Can I sit down?”

It’s just a law of nature, where ever a woman sits alone, it wont be long before men start to gather.

“Nice day.” I say.

“So whatcha doing?”

“Me?  I’m celebrating, I just torched my apartment.  So I’m taking in the view of this beautiful day and celebrating.”

“Really?  Cool.”

Gutter punks just love tales of wanton destruction.

“Wanta smoke?”  He asks holding out a nicely rolled joint.

“Why thank you sir.”

We sit together on the bench smoking enjoying the day.  A couple of older homeless men approach.  We exchange pleasantries.  They too are impressed with my act of arson.  A friend of theirs had stolen a case of very nice wine from the back of a delivery truck.  Being former boy scouts they came prepared with a bottle opener.  We all passed the bottle around.  All in all a fine celebration.

The afternoon was moving on.  Me being a very fair skinned person with a decided aversion to sunlight, a few hours spent out in the open I could feel my skin crisping.  It was time to be moving on.  I said goodbye to my jolly friends and headed off.

Back up Market street a right on to Hyde, Hyde and Larkin the heart (if there is one) of the tenderloin.  The building on the corner used to be a bank in long days gone by, then it was converted into a police station,closed now an iron grate in front of its doors its wide marble steps serve the homeless now.  They collect here like hermit crabs caught in a tide pool.

Not far from there I arrive at my destination, the public library.  There is a woman standing out front wearing several layers of clothes.  She is tearing at her wild hair screaming at one of the stone lions.  “It’s love verses love ok? OK?  It’s love verses love, so shut up, just shut up!!”  Everyone going into the library gives the woman a wide berth.

I love libraries.  They are my church, my sanctuary and most people seem to feel so, at least on an unconscious level.  People are seldom rude in libraries.  Hushed voices the golden gleam of polished wood, heads bowed, the gentle sound of pages being turned like fall leaves rustling along the ground.

That being said, I hate this library, loath it in fact.

The old library was everything a library should be, but it was old which was sin enough for the city to want it gone.  So the city leaders decided that they absolutely needed a new library.  One wired with all the shiny new toys of the electronic age.

Well the design board of directors apparently went to the architects and told them “We want a building that just screams modern artistic pretension, it’s got to be ugly as hell, impractical to use, and expensive to keep up.  We are going to need it for political fund raisers, parties for foreign dignitaries and high fashion photo shoots.  So the eager architects went to work.  They put it all in there, every thing the board asked for and I guess about 10 minutes before they presented the design to the board some thoughtful person whispered in their ears “Oh by the way it’s supposed to be a library.”

The building is twice the size of the old library and holds half as many books.  The lions out front are relics from the old library.  The design board didn’t want the lions.  They didn’t fit in with the complete soullessness of the building.  They are right the lions look out of place.  The public out cry over the whole lack of books in the public library things was such that the board allowed the lions to be put out front.  Why they thought this would mollify the public outrage over the books debacle I have no idea.  Why it mostly worked I understand even less.

To get into the building you go past the lions and up the stairs to the second floor of the building.  Once inside you walk around in a semi circle to the curving stairs which take you back down to the first floor.  Looking up I feel rather like I am standing at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup.  You walk around the bottom of the cup to another set of curving stairs that’s leads you back up to the second floor.’

By the time I reach the place where they have hidden the book shelves I’m dizzy and grasping at the white walls that seem to cant away from me at odd and uncomfortable angles.  And that’s when I’m stone cold sober.  Now a little high a little drunk, sunburned and every nerve stretched wire tight.

I reached the main book depository and in my best southern bell swoon, I collapsed to the floor.

drinking tea chapter 3 bad girl bad girl such a dirty bad girl beep beep

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Chapter 3

Bad girl, bad girl such a dirty bad girl beep beep

I wasn’t going to go into this at all.  Wasn’t going to mention being a whore at all because it really doesn’t have anything to do with what happened.  No more than being a waitress has anything to do with getting run over by a drunk driver.  But in the end I decided that I couldn’t just tell part of the whole, and after all I’m insane, so what am I afraid of? That people will think badly of me?  That’s the great thing about being insane; you no longer have to even try to live up to other people’s expectations.

And besides every story needs a little sex, right?

About six months after I started my new career I attended a street fair.  Great place San Francisco, you turn a corner and there you are in the middle of a party.  Music dancing, food, and standing at a table of counter culture books and Che’ Chevra t shirts a real live communist.  She was bone thin and rather grubby looking, as one who had given up both eating and bathing as a show of solidarity with the great starving unwashed proletariat.

I had to get a closer look. A real live commy, in this day and age, it was like spotting an endangered species.  Casually I slid over to the Che’ t shirts.  Now there was a man who looked the part of a revolutionary.  As I was fingering a tee shirt and debating the purchase a woman shouldered me aside to buy a book.  She was, bulky dressed all in black and her hair, long greasy strands of black hair.

“So what do you do?” the skinny communist asked her new customer.

“I’m a dominatrix.” She said with pride.

“Oh good for you.”  The commy smiled at her.  “It’s great to see a woman empowering herself”

I stepped forward, holding the blood red tee shirt with its brooding revolutionary.

“And what do you do?” She asked me.

“I’m a whore.” I said with a bright cheerful smile.  The more pc term I suppose is escort but really back when I was a house wife I didn’t go around calling myself a domestic engineer.

“Ohh ,” Her voice suddenly dripping pity.  “How does it feel to be exploited by men?”

Huu?  My brain skitters to a stop, my lips disappear inside my scrunched up face of complete annoyance.

I put down the tee shirt and leaned over and whispered into her grubby ear.

“You do know you’ll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

I turned and stalked off.  Commys!  no wonder they don’t get invited to parties any more.

Strange world isn’t it when whipping someone for money is perfectly ok but fucking for pay is so very very naughty?  I personally think most of the laws regarding sex to be,,,odd..  This is supposed to be a capitalist society so why in only the area of sex does the amateur have more respect than the professional?  You would think that ladies of my sort would be doing endorsements for condoms, but nooo.  The law is, I can be as big of a slut as I like, giving it away to just anyone, but if I get paid, for my,,, indulgence, suddenly I’m a criminal.  As a woman I can sell my hair my eggs rent my womb there is even a market for breast milk.  My fertility very much a free market item but the part of my body that fucks?  Ohh noo we cant have that.  I fail to understand the logic.

As to exploitation, well I guess I would rather be exploited for two hundred an hour then for ten.

Alrighty then hopping off the soap box on with the story.

A couple of months after I took out my little add I got a call from a gentleman who wanted the dominatrix thing.  I told him that I had never done that sort of thing before but being an agreeable sort I said I’dd give it a go.  I made sure he knew that I had no equipment for that sort of thing.  I mean lord a good corset alone will run six hundred or more and then the boots and the cuffs and whips and gages.  I tell you there are more props involved then a Hollywood b movie.  I just dont have enough closet space for that much wardrobe.

He arrived.  I, triying to be all stern and growly snapped  “On Your Knees.”

Which he did, with amazing speed.  Ploop.

And.  My.  Mind.  Went Completely. Blank.

(Fuck, now what do I do with him?  Shit I really have to read more dirty books.)

I had a beagle when I was a kid and had done a few dog shows with him, so.. I put him through the paces.  Sit Beg Roll over,

( A Dominatrix must not giggle)

Heel.  It was a very small apartment so heel took about ten seconds, and there we were back where we started.

(Fuck.)

“No you may not lick my shoes!  These are my favorite shoes you think I want your spit all over them?”

Finally I had him sit in a corner and masturbate.  Me with the heel of my shoes firmly planted in his thigh.  I hit him over the head with a rolled up newspaper whenever he tried to lick my shoes.  He seemed quite happy about it.

He called back wanting to be my house boy, do the dishes wash my laundry.  As much as I hate doing laundry I just didn’t want to think of him pawing my panties,

(Jezz just let my customers know about my real life granny panties and there goes the biz)

so I politely declined and told him he really needed to find a lady with more experience in this sort of thing.

Not long after that I got a call from a man who wanted me to spank him.  Well ok I thought I could do that with little trouble.  Unfortunately, he had a ginormaouse ass.  Took four whacks just to half cover one ass cheek, and he wanted it hard hard harder.  My poor hand was swollen for two days

.(note to self there is a reason dominatrixes use paddles)

His requests for further appointments I had to politely decline.

Other than my difficulties pulling off the whole dom thing, I was, according to my reviews, actually pretty good at my new career.  Nothing new under the sun but the form it takes.  One day I open my door to my new mystery date, he looks at me suprised and says.

“Ohh my your better looking then your reviews lead me to belive.”

“My reviews? and wait, you made an apointment to see the ugly whore?  I shouldnt have dressed up.”

So of course I had to check it out.  www.redbook.com, a cyber version of the mens room wall. My reviews were effusive in their praise of my skills, especially my oral skills.  I thought that too funny because the whole oral thing was just me trying to find ways to avoid stupid conversations.   They were far less effusive in their praise of my looks.   The angularity of my construction was not something men expected in a lady of my profession.  This I thought of as no bad thing, don’t know about you, but I would far rather be noted for my skills then my looks any day.  Several of my reviews noted how much they enjoyed my conversation.  I ask you, how many whores get rave reviews about their conversational skills?

The thing that surprised me the most about being a whore was that most of the sex was pretty good.  Actually it was unusual for the sex to be bad, my customers went way out of their way to insure I enjoyed myself.    A few weeks after beginning my career I found myself pondering the matter.

(What the heck was going on here?  When I was trying to give it away, men were all one trick pony with the attention span of a four year old on cotton candy.  Now  that they are paying for my attention and time,now they want me to enjoy myself, now they want to talk?  And good lord now they want to cuddle?  Seriously cuddling?  Are men deliberately trying to be perverse?)

I came to the conclusion that for men, sex, is all about competing with other men.  It’s one of two games, either football or pinball.  You see in football it’s about reaching the goal as quickly as possible and in keeping other men from scoring on your goal.  In pinball they know another guy is going to come play his quarter, in pinball they want to be the top scorer.

drinking tea: chapter 2: promises, promises

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Chapter two

Promises Promises

“Ohh yes that’s it baby fuck me, fuck me hard.

(Shit I hate it when they want me to talk. )

Now I am quite talkative by nature.  One of those annoying creatures who has vocal opinions about waaaay to many things.  But sex talk?  I am more than happy to spend hours discussing the sex habits of the bonobo chimpanzees.  Of erotica I can talk Karma Sutra and Japanese pillow books.  But  , ‘Fuck me hard? Oh oh yah like that baby do me now.  ‘   Honestly how can anyone say that without feeling like a total ass? Why ohh why do they want me to talk?

When he asked me to marry him he said he would die without me.  I said I would be with him till the day he said he no longer wanted me.

I arrived in San Francisco having attended no funeral.  Why San Francisco?  I think it was the rice a roni adds I saw as a kid.rice a roni

San Francisco always looked so pretty in the ads.  Starting your life over why not choose some place pretty? San Francisco is indeed very pretty though despite rice a roni being called the San Francisco treat I never actually saw anyone in San Francisco eating the stuff.

I hit the ground running and in a week I had an apartment.  430 O’Farrell st. Apartment 401

430 O'Farrell St. San Francisco.R430 O'Farrell St. San Francisco apt 401  Richard J. Boccie the land lord.  He was a short slim man with dark brown hair and eyes, He drove a BMW he wore an expensive suit, he had very soft hands. His smile was a near prefect imitation of open friendliness.

“If you have any problems just let me know.” He said.

“Ohh don’t worry I’m not the suffer in silence type.  If I’m unhappy you’ll know.  And if I’m really unhappy well I guess just about everyone will know.” I said.

He laughed.

It is an odd thing, when ever I tell someone exactly what I will do, thay always seem to think I’m telling a cute little joke.  Meh, what ever dismissive mental shrug.  Boccie:  Classification: Mostly Harmless, and he lived in Daly city so I figured he wouldn’t be too great an irritation.  Ok I was wrong about that,  On a rather epic scale.

I set about decorating my little home.  Damn the security deposit I wasn’t going to live with white walls and beige carpet.  I rag painted the walls in several shads of pale blue and chalky white, the effect was of mottled turquoise stone, the ceiling in lighter shades of white and blue like blue sky and clouds, the kitchen I did in bright apple green and tomato red for the cabinets and trim the bathroom I treated with reactive copper paint to look like copper aged in the rain.  At a flea Market I got a large old Indian carpet to cover that ugly beige wall to wall ., from a thrift store I got an old wicker child’s sleigh style bed, it was just large enough for me to stretch out in, painted a hideous pep-to bismale pink I set to work covering the bed in gold leaf, from the same store I got a wicker chair to match and gold leafed that as well.  It was a very small apartment  so other then the few odds and ends like bamboo shelves from china town and a round low coffee table in the center of the room I was all settled in.

So becoming a whore, that’s the part everyone wants to know about.  After all everyone gets an apartment at some point or other in their lives and the details of such are of little interest.  Even if you do rent an apartment from the devil.  Becoming a whore that’s something the creates all kinds of interest.

I was bored

A year after moving in I had a perfectly normal job, office temp.  Life had settled into a routine.  I became frustrated with my own dullness.  It seemed such a waste, move all the way to San Francisco just to do what could be done in any small town anywhere.

I went out one evening to an art show.  The artist had inked up naked people and splatted them on the canvas.  I wasn’t sure what to feel about the art.  Was human ink splats good art?  Just as I was trying to make up my mind at what to think of it when a tall lanky young man introduced himself to me and proudly pointed at the ink splat he had been the ‘model’ for.

“That’s me”.  He points with pride to the ink splat of his cock.

That’s the moment I knew I was looking at art.  Only art can flash its ink splatted cock at you and have social convention set so that I have to act coolly impressed.

For some reason he thought I was impressed with him.

I was very bored so I took him home.  The sex was bad, counting the cracks on your ceiling and making out your grocery list bad.

Second date, yeh yeh I know why?  I thought it might be like training a rather over eager puppy.  It’s not like men were exactly lining up in front of my door.  I don’t know maybe San Francisco was the wrong city for a straight gal to get a date.  Anyway we went to dinner, which was a mistake.  Food was good but it gave him time to talk.  Well the food was good.

Back home he was all happy expectancy.  I tried to go all Cosmo on him.  Attempting to discuss matters of foreplay and other variations on a theme besides endless drilling.

He took it badly.

“I don’t understand why we can’t just do it like last time.  We had a great time last time.”  He was whining at me.  Whining, with his beer perched on his lap like it was his ink splatted dick.

It was the whining that did it.  In that moment he was every man I had known in my life.  They behave like complete ass heads and then whine at me like it’s my fault they haven’t a brain in their skulls.

My hand snapped out palm up, I smiled and said.

“Tell ya what sport, you put two hundred dollars in my hand right now and you can have it any way you want it.  I’ll even pretend to be enjoying it.  Now how’s that for a deal?

He started to hyperventilate.  Seriously.  I had to go into the kitchen and get him a paper bag to breathe into.  Had a moment’s internal debate regarding paper or plastic.

Him sitting on the couch breathing into a paper bag, me biting my tongue so hard I tasted blood.  I must not laugh.  If I laugh he’ll pass right the fuck out then what will I do with him?  I had a vision of me dragging him down three flights of stairs by his feet.  In my mind I could hear the thunk thunk thunk as his head hit each of the stairs on the way down.  I almost bit my tongue in two.  (Must not laugh, must not laugh.)

Once he had calmed down enough to shuffle out the door, still asking if maybe?  I shut the door firmly in his bewildered face.

I sat down on my little gold wicker bed sipping a beer, mulling the thought over in my head.

Men bring you money, you have sex, and they go away.  No stupid pick up lines, no dull conversations and all the lies they tell I get paid to listen to.  When I thought about it, I really couldn’t see much of a down side.

Of course it was illegal, but I thought how illegal could something be that advertises in the yellow pages?  Honestly.

So far as I could tell whores only get arrested in the following circumstances:

  •  Street walkers.  Well there they are, all out in open. Any time politicians want to look tough on crime they are the easiest targets.  Well there was no way I was doing that.  I hate waiting around for the bus and walking up and down the street in high heels for hours at a time…are you kidding me?
  • Madams, the way high end types and that’s just so the powers that be can a hold of the client list.  Well no worries on that count, I wasn’t  that ambitious’
  • Whores who set up in nice neighborhoods.  You know, places with kids around and people who worry about strange men popping in and out at odd hours.  I lived in the tenderloin, the place marked out in tourist guide books with the notation Here there be dragons  The entire second floor of my building was given over to the Empire Massage Parlor and there were no children in the building.  The massage parlor being already there, well a few extra men coming into the building wouldn’t draw any attention.

There were other issues that came to mind such as age.  Thirty three is old to start in the business as I understood it.  And I was not exactly what one would expect in looks for the job not busty not curvy not cute.  But I look youngish for my age (good bones, pale skin that avoided the sun and being on the peter pan side of thin not all that much flesh for gravity to get ahold of), and can manage to look passable when I bother to take the time to smarten myself up a bit.

Nothing ventured nothing gained, I took out a small add in the San Francisco weekly, one tiny little add in among just oodles and oodles of similar adds.  Minimum allowed wording, I didn’t even include a pictures.  I just never cared for cameras and isn’t that just Gods own irony considering what all happened. The day the paper came out my dang phone started ringing off the hook.

An excess of business was something I had not considered.  Which just goes to show you, in America if you have something you can’t give away; put a high enough price tag on it and people will line up around the block for it.