Thank Goodness For Irregulars
Alisha’s fifth call was just down the street at the UCLA Guest House and her sixth call was the Doubletree Hotel on Wilshire. She was happy with the last two calls and started getting friendlier. She was happy, she said, because they weren’t regulars and you don’t HAVE to fuck non-regulars if you don’t want to.
“And you can ask them for tips. The regulars you have to fuck and you can’t even ask for tips. Jennifer made that plenty clear.”
“She said that in the interview?”
“No, she waits until you’ve done a few calls, lets you commit to the life, sort of, you know what I mean? She lets you make some easy money, get used to it, and then she hits you with the true meaning of ‘regular customer’.”
“Yeah. The Color Purple Syndrome,” I said, starting to warm up to this girl, feeling a little guilty about what I’d put her through tonight, feeling the kinship that comes when facing a common enemy: The Dragon Lady.
“Did you see that movie? Whoopie waits on her husband hand and foot. Does so much for him that when she finally leaves, he’s helpless, barely able to wipe his own ass.”
“That’s what I mean by ‘The Color Purple’ Syndrome,” I explained, “Jennifer makes it so easy to make a lot of money fast that it ruins you for regular work. Nobody wants to go from making a thousand dollars a night for snorting coke and prancing around in their underwear a few hours to working 40 hours a week in some menial job to take home $160 at the end of that shitty week. Shoot, you make more than that in an hour and you get to drink on the job. . .”
“Yeah. Something like that. You should talk. You got the dick job. All you do is sit around picking your nose. Jennifer just answers the phone and takes my money. I do all the work around here.” Alisha grumbled.
She had me there. I had a sudden urge to pick my nose, fart, scratch my armpit and belch. I had to hand it to this girl. She sure knew how to dis-ingratiate herself from people.
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