Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Gomer--Part 2

I was curious. How did they know what was happening? How exactly does one identify a lady of the night who incidentally doesn't appear only at night? Debauchery it seems is no respecter of time. A quick primer informed me and sooner rather than later, I successfully spotted one--my first identification without assistance--a prostitute. And, yes, my attitude was as if spotting an animal at the zoo or a bird in that prized holly bush of mine. (I'm not proud of that attitude, just recording it for posterity. When I get too full of myself, I can look back on this and be humbled.)

It was Sunday and my family had come for an afternoon visit. A nice day we decided to walk downtown to peruse the antique markets of Uniontown. Abigail was riding on her grandfather's shoulders delighted at the prospect of skipping her nap. There she was on the side walk, the same one we were on! We would be passing her. All of the sudden I was repulsed and intrigued like watching the tarantula at the pet store. I related to the ladies who came to the well early in the day to avoid the riff-raff. What do I do? Do I make eye contact? Do I say something? And if so, what does one say to a prostitute on Sunday afternoon? I hope she doesn't solicit my dad or Chris! Oh, Lord, please!?! I made sure to tell my mom who we were watching.

Just as we were about to pass her going opposite directions, she turned and went hurrying before us. Chris remarked that a car had just turned perhaps to circle back. Her blonde hair was cut short, mullet-style and worn close to her head. She had the mouth of one missing teeth. Her eyes were sad and tired. Her pants dated from the eighties tapered ruthlessly, a zipper at the ankles to allow her feet through. She hurried off after the car with an irregular gait--an injury or the discomfort of job-related stress or disease, I wondered.

The car she through had doubled back for her made a left. Instead of a right. Disappointment slowed her as she turned from the parking lot to return to her sidewalk pacing. Maybe we were the cause of her disappointment--the john didn't want witnesses. Then again, maybe he wasn't a john.

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