Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Six

The following is a true story. However, quite a few of the names and other identifying details have been changed, and some dialogue has been re-written accordingly, because of that fact. Some characters are composites.

* * * * *

Wow. I almost feel like I've got Quentin Tarantino for a co-writer on this one.

Look at it this way: I'm sitting here writing this in 2009. My main storyline -- which left off with a drug addict/dealer named Jeff pointing a so-called "throwout knife" at me -- took place in 1994. However, before the chapter break, I was side-stepping a bit to tell of a series of events which began only a few weeks before Jeff's knife-wielding...

Well, it reminds me of when I first watched Reservoir Dogs, and realized at one point that I was watching a flashback sequence contained in yet another flashback sequence.

* * * * *

So, in my screwed-up timeline, Jeff didn't threaten -- or should I say, won't be threatening -- me with that knife for another seven weeks or so. Which gave -- or will give me! -- plenty of time to get to know Bella.

(Sheesh!)

So -- he said again -- there was something about Bella and myself that "clicked" on a personal level. Despite the warnings I'd gotten from Julia and Catherine, not to mention the fact that Bella had tried to steal from me, I wanted to see her again.

In our second little "session" -- as well as our third, and fourth, etc. -- Bella ended up telling me a lot about her personal life, past and present. And for some unfathomable reason, this adorable-looking little rip-off artist felt like she could answer my questions with as much openness and honesty as she was able to bring forth.

Of course, the money which I gave her admittedly helped in terms of explaining why she'd spend so much time with me, but that's as far as it goes. Someone who talked as quickly and artfully as she did could have easily given me a lot less information -- or at least, information of a much less personal nature -- than she did. The "openness and honesty" I mentioned weren't insured by the amount of time we spent together. Conversations are malleable; try engaging me in a conversation about something I'd rather not be discussing, and then think back on how much of substance you actually learned from me.

Bella told me about her childhood, her two sons (who lived with Bella's mother), her sister Corrinne, and a lot of other things which I'm willing to bet that the other girls in Worcester didn't get to hear much about. (They did know about Corrinne, I should mention. Corrinne was a slightly less attractive streetwalker with the same M.O. as her older sister: Steal from the John if you can, rather than give him what he'd paid for.)

One day Bella looked at me and very seriously said, "You know, David, sometimes I think you're my only real friend out here."

I'd really like to speculate on why Bella ended up trusting me, but I have no idea. And I'm not going to make light of the situation by joking about how wonderful or special I am, either. I'll just repeat that I really have no idea.

Julia was angry when she learned that I was seeing so much of Bella. She assumed that maybe I was actually having sex with Bella, that I was one of the "lucky" ones who'd backed her into a corner -- figuratively or literally -- and made her "give" me something in return for the money I was giving her.

But it didn't stop with Julia. Catherine, whom I've mentioned before, also told me not to trust Bella. Other girls out there, many of whom didn't really know me (or what I was really doing while associating with them), would see me with Bella, and then warn me about her when they saw me alone at a later date.

It got worse. One day, Bella and I were in a pizza parlor, sharing a meal. She excused herself to go to the ladies room, and no sooner had she left than a tall, beefy African-American guy in a cap and an overcoat walked over to my table.

"Yo, man, watch out for that chick. She poison." I stared up at him. He looked familiar, somehow.

I didn't want to sound so airheadedly sappy as to say "Oh, no, she's different when she's with me," nor so cocky as to say "Don't worry, she won't rip me off." I merely replied, "Thanks, I know about her."

He looked at me and shook his head, as if to say "Then why are you even with her?" but instead, said "Just don't give her no money."

I couldn't resist being a smartass. I indicated the large pizza Bella and I were sharing, and said, "Not a problem. I paid for this with my last dollar."

He probably figured I was just a trick who didn't want to admit to being one. He shook his head again and walked away.

Much later that day, it occurred to me where I'd seen him before. He was Sheila's boyfriend, the one I'd seen that one time only, months earlier.

It suddenly struck me that I hadn't seen Sheila herself in weeks, and I hadn't even realized it since Bella and the others had been taking up so much of the time I spent in Worcester. And just as an FYI, in case you've gotten the wrong impression, I should point out that all the days and nights doing my "research" made up a very small chunk of my social life, only a few hours a week.

But I digress. Again.

* * * * *

My "friend" Bella was the one who was suddenly caressing me and nuzzling my ear as Jeff -- and, I assume, everyone else who was watching -- stared at her... well, at us... in amazement.

"I hope he's talkin' about me," she'd told Jeff.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Her hands had snaked into my t-shirt at the neck and had made their way down toward my chest. She laughed. "I told him I don't mind if he indulges his hooker fetish to the point of hangin' out with these other hoes, and talkin' with them, as long as he saves his money for me."

Jeff's eyes narrowed. "You tellin' me he's your trick? Bullshit. You don't even do dates. Everybody knows that."

"I do sometimes," she replied defensively. "and you know it." She started playing with the hair on my chest. This was all too surreal. Ordinarily, never mind publicly, Bella was not the touchy-feely type. "When I have to. Or when I want to."

Jeff sneered as he looked at me. "Oh, and you just can't keep your hands off this one?"

"Don't be an asshole!" she snapped. "He's a nice guy, not like you. And he's generous." Bella suddenly put her lips right against my ear and whispered, "Make believe I am making you the filthiest offer you've ever heard in your life, and we can get out of here."

My eyes widened accordingly, and I attempted a perverted leer. "Really? All of that?" I said, getting up from the floor.

Bella brought her face close to mine yet again, and whispered -- this time loudly enough for some of the others to hear -- "If you got the money, baby."

She and I left the smoky confines of the sparsely-decorated living room. I didn't turn back to see if Jeff was coming after us, but I listened to hear if he was going to get up. He didn't.

As we walked through the small kitchen toward the front door (and toward freedom, relatively speaking), I quickly looked around and saw four or five other people standing there, drinking beer and smoking.

One of them was Julia. How long had she been at this little gathering? I couldn't read the expression on her face -- disgust, disappointment, anger? -- but it was obvious that she'd heard the conversation in the other room between Jeff, Bella, and myself.

She shook her head as I walked past her. "I fuckin' knew it," was all she said.

Bella and I walked to my car without a word, and I unlocked the passenger-side door for her, opened it, and watched her get in. I walked around to the driver's side, which she'd unlocked for me by the time I got there -- you know, the "Bronx Tale Test?" -- and got in next to her.

"Bella... " I began.

"Shut up. And let's go to Store 24. I need cigarettes."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Newport."

"Newport 100s. Box."

"I know."

"And do you also know, you gotta cut down on your little fact-finding missions, now? Tonight was too hairy. Maybe your luck's running out. What would you have done if I hadn't spotted your car tonight and come lookin' for you?"

"Good question. Why did you come looking for me, anyway? Just for cigarettes?" She laughed at that last part. She wasn't humor-impaired after all. She just needed a few weeks to understand my sense of humor.

"I just wanted to see you. You're my amigo. My friend... "

"You don't have to translate that word for me. Geez."

"So, now you believe me, finally? I really do think of you like that. You're my friend, my real friend. Not a vic. And not a trick." She paused. "Not like Jeff."

As that little fact sank in, I realized she was right about what she'd called my "little fact-finding missions." They had to end. I certainly didn't plan on not seeing Bella any more, but I was going to have to wean myself from the sleazy streets of Worcester in general.

* * * * *

Next time, as soon as I can post it -- hopefully by Monday -- the storyline reaches its... well, it'll be a combination of a conclusion and an epilogue! Join me here, and you'll see what I mean.

Thanks for your time... amigos.

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Five

I wonder how many other writers have churned out stories about hookers that have next to nothing in terms of blatantly sexual elements...

Anyway.

The following is a true story. However, quite a few of the names and other identifying details have been changed, and some of the dialogue has been re-written accordingly, because of that fact. Some characters are composites.

This chapter will hopefully be the most entertaining, at least so far. If so, maybe that will make it worth the days I've made you wait for it.

* * * * *

"So what are you always talkin' about with the girls, man?" asked Jeff.

I suddenly felt two hands on my shoulders. My first thought was that someone behind me was providing a little physical reinforcement for Jeff's line of questioning.

My second thought was, "Oh, shit."

Then I realized that the hands on my shoulders seemed to be touching me too gently for them to have belonged to one of Jeff's cronies.

That last thought was confirmed by a female voice which answered Jeff's question. "I hope he's talkin' about me," she said.

I recognized the voice. It belonged to a young, strikingly attractive girl named Bella.

* * * * *

A couple of months earlier, I'd been standing outside of the PIP Shelter -- "PIP" meaning "People in Peril," as this was a shelter for Worcester's homeless -- with Julia and Catherine (a blonde whom I'd met weeks earlier). An absolutely lovely, tall, young, light-skinned Latina with long, frizzy brown hair approached.

The two women I was with seemed less than pleased to see her, but Catherine introduced me to her nonetheless. Her name was Bella. She looked to be in her early twenties, but was actually about five years older (as I learned later).

Bella smiled to acknowledge me, then turned to the others. "Who got bags?" she asked urgently, meaning "Who's selling heroin?"

Simultaneously with her question to Julia and Catherine, I was saying, "Actually, we've met."

All three female heads turned to look at me.

Catherine only looked moderately interested.

Julia's eyebrows shot up as if to say, "Oh, really?" (I suppose Julia was wondering if I'd ever "dated" Bella, which would have concerned her because -- as I've stated before -- Julia herself was always trying to get me to "go out" with her.)

Bella herself was a different story.

Bella looked nervous.

"How'd you meet me? And where? And when?" she asked rapidly.

I explained that a few years ago, I'd been in a convenience store on Chandler Street in Worcester, and had run into a co-worker of mine, whom I'll call Tim. He was with a beautiful young Latina, who must have been nineteen or so at the time, a little younger than he was. He didn't smoke, but he was buying a pack of cigarettes (Newport) for her.

Tim looked surprised and more than a bit uncomfortable when he saw me. "Uhh... Hi, David," he said.

I waited only a couple of seconds, hoping he'd introduce me to the young lady. He didn't. "So, Tim," I asked, "who's your lovely friend?"

He stammered a bit, and looked at his companion uncertainly. She extended her well-manicured right hand, which I took as she said, "I'm Bella. And you are... ?"

"David," I replied. "Very pleased to meet you."

Her full lips parted to reveal a perfect set of pearly-white teeth. She smiled as if I'd said something either humorous, or perhaps -- dare I say it? -- charming. "Likewise," she replied, sounding playfully genteel.

I stared into her wide brown eyes for a moment, then turned to Tim. Whatever I was about to say never got said. "Hey, David," he said quickly, "I'd love to stand here and talk all day, but I... we... gotta run."

And they left. End of story.

Back to the street corner. At the conclusion of my little tale, Bella just shook her head. "Sorry. I don't remember you."

"I had a full beard then, not just the mustache," I offered, but she shook her head. "Oh, well, it was about five years ago, maybe more," I admitted. "But... You don't remember Tim at all?" I described him to her.

"No." she said firmly. She shrugged dismissively. "He musta been a vic." She turned away from me, and looked at Julia and Catherine. "So! Who got bags?"

They didn't know anyone who was selling that day. This was a Sunday, and for some reason I could never figure out, it was always really hard to find drugs on a Sunday.

I guess all the dealers were in church. Yeah, that's it.

Anyway, as Bella trotted off, I shook my head. "Vic. That's a new one. Why does she call her dates vics?"

Catherine had an almost mean tone in her voice, one I'd never heard coming from her before. "A vic isn't a trick. It's Bella's word, short for victim."

"Victim?" I repeated.

"She don't do dates," said Julia, with almost the same tone in her voice as Catherine had had in hers. "At least, not if she can help it. She take their moneys and run." Julia then looked at me pointedly. "An' you don't need to see her again."

You know what's coming, right? At this stage, telling me that was tantamount to a dare.

It was only a couple of days later that I spotted Bella and picked her up.

She didn't let me get a word in edgewise. I'd barely gotten to say hello and mention our encounter two days earlier, when she began her spiel, drowning me out. It was a rapid-paced little oratory of what she'd "do" for $30, $40, $50 -- I believe she went as high as $80! -- and the speed of her delivery was overwhelming. In fact, I can honestly say that it reminded me of being at a restaurant when the chef has piled on too many specials, but the waiter or waitress is obligated to tell you all of them, right down to the salad, soup, vegetable, and potato options.

During her well-rehearsed little menu, she interjected driving directions, making it sound like there were two people talking to me. "For forty bucks, I'll [blah-blah-blah] and you can touch, feel, anywhere you like, for fifty bucks -- Take a right! -- you can [such-and-such] while I [so-and-so] -- Next left! -- and for sixty bucks I'll let you [various descriptive expletives deleted] or -- Pull over here! -- if you want, and for seventy... "

We were now parked in front of an empty warehouse of some kind. I don't recall how much money I handed her -- I was feeling generous, so it was either $30 or $40! -- but I do remember thinking that Bella's little speech alone was worth it, and I planned on literally recording it some time in the future.

She glanced around -- this was taking place in the early morning, by the way, between eight and nine a.m. -- and started getting out of the car. "We can go in here," she said, pointing to the warehouse. "It's empty, and it's always unlocked."

"That won't be necessary," I began...

Suddenly she sprinted away from me and the warehouse entrance. "Sorry!" she yelled, without looking back. (Only in movies and TV shows do people look back at whomever or whatever they're running from.)

Oh, great. So, now, I was to be her "vic?" Well, it's not like I hadn't been warned...

Evidently, it was at this point that something in my subconscious decided that her "little speech" was not worth my thirty or forty dollars, after all. I jumped out of the car and began running after her.

Fueled by adrenaline, I ran faster than I'd run since grammar school. I've never been in the greatest of shape either, admittedly, but I was gaining on her and had almost caught up to her when she spun around and said, "Look you my mother's boyfriend's a cop and if you so much as touch me him and his buddies are gonna stuff you in a fuckin' dumpster-- "

"SHUT UP!" I screamed. I mean, really! I'll be the first to admit that I'm a long-winded sonofabitch. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to deal with...
Someone.
Who.
Won't.
Let.
Me.
Talk?

She stood there, wide-eyed, not knowing what the hell to expect.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Or touch you."

"Then what are you gonna do?"

I wasn't especially liking the way I was breathing so heavily. My adrenaline rush was gone. It sucks how when the crisis is over, the Hulk changes back to Bruce Banner, ya know?

"I just want to talk to you," I said. "That's why I picked you up in the first place."

She laughed in a way that told me exactly what she thought I was "full of."

"No, I mean it. Let's go back to my car... "

"Yeah! So you can take your money back, and beat me up, and... ?"

"No!" I stared into those pretty brown eyes for a long, hard second. "Look. I'm going to go back to my car. You can either follow me, or... go wherever you were going to go when you stole the money."

"I didn't steal it. You handed it to me."

"You thought I was giving it to you to pay you for... whatever. Running off without doing anything changed it to stealing."

"What are you, a friggin' lawyer?"

"When was the last time you saw a lawyer driving a used Hyundai?"

She smiled for the first time since she'd leaped from the car with my money in hand. "Maybe you're a sucky lawyer."

I shook my head. "As I said, I'm going back to my car. You can either follow me or take off. And if you do follow me, you'll be behind me, so I won't get to see where you tuck my money... "

"My money," she corrected.

"...and I won't be able to take it back from you unless I give you a strip search." Her face clouded when I said "strip search," so I said, "Just kidding. Geez, lighten the hell up, will you? Anybody else would've pounded you into the pavement by now." I turned away from her, saying "So I'll wait long enough to start my car and check the rear-view mirror to see if you're coming. So, trust me, or don't trust me. At this point I honestly don't give a damn."

Actually, I think I phrased that last part a bit more strongly than "give a damn." Maybe a lot more strongly. But I digress.

I got into my car noticing that in my haste to catch Bella, I'd left my keys in the ignition. That was dumb. Anyway, before I could even check my rear-view mirror as I'd told her I would, she opened my passenger-side door and got into my Hyundai.

"What took you so long?" I asked her. She looked at me, suddenly -- and genuinely -- angry. "Geez! Lighten up, it was a joke! What are you, humor impaired?"

"What's that?"

"They say it's an actual... " I was going to use the word "psychological," but decided not to, since Bella seemed so easily offended. "...medical condition. There are people out there who know a joke is a joke, but have no real sense of humor beyond that, so... "

I was boring her. She interrupted me. "So, what do you wanna talk about?" I paused. "Go ahead, it's your dime."

I almost pointed out that it was actually three (or four?) thousand dimes, but decided against it.

We began talking, and Bella graciously gave me half an hour of her time. Among other things, I learned that her real first name was Isabel; "Bella" was a nickname (as opposed to a "street" name).

Out of that half hour, I can only recall three of my questions:

1. Q: "Why did you yell 'Sorry!' when you tried to run away earlier?"
2. Q: "Why did you get back in my car?"
3. Q: "So, you're not really a hooker; you're a thief?" (That one was actually more of a statement.)

And her replies:

1. A: "You seemed like a nice guy, and I almost felt sorry about rippin' you off. Almost."
   
2. A: "I don't know. Something about you."
   
3. A: She looked offended again, at first; then her features softened. "If I don't have to take care of a date... No, I won't. I hate sex, usually. Unless I'm high, and with a boyfriend. Not with a date."

I do recall discovering during our conversation that, other than the rapid-fire "menu" I described earlier, Bella didn't like to talk dirty at all. She used profanity, true, but she just didn't talk... dirty.

I learned a lot about Bella over the next few weeks, actually, because I (naturally) ignored everyone's advice -- I'll explain that more fully next time -- and started spending a great deal of time with her.

* * * * *

And don't worry. I haven't forgotten that, in another part of this narrative, Jeff is still pointing his knife at me!

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Four

The following is a true story. However, quite a few of the names and other identifying details have been changed, and dialogue re-written accordingly, because of that fact. Some characters are composites.

* * * * *

Let's begin this one with a cliff-hanger, shall we?

The room was full of people, male and female. Mostly female. There were three or four or five separate conversations going on. Most of the members of the small crowd were smoking cigarettes (primarily menthol). Several were eating slices of an extra-large pepperoni & mushroom pizza, the remaining one of two pizzas which I had paid for. Some were smoking cigarettes while eating slices of the extra-large pepperoni & mushroom pizza which I had paid for.

The pizza -- or, I should say, the box which the pizza was in -- was on the floor in the middle of the room. Those who were seated -- and there were several of us -- sat on the floor as well. For some strange reason, the two chairs in the room were both empty. I noticed that because... well, because I usually notice stupid stuff like that.

A guy named Jeff sat facing me, across the pizza, as it were. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe three or four years younger than I was at that time. Despite his white-bread, preppy-sounding name, Jeff was actually Latino. I knew him as the "husband" of a young woman named Dawn; they weren't actually married, but they shared a two-year-old son... and a heroin habit.

Dawn wasn't with Jeff tonight.

Each time Jeff reached for a slice of pizza, he cut it free (unnecessarily) with a rather strange knife he had. This knife was similar to a switch-blade, but without the "guts" needed to respond to the button you'd press to open a switch-blade. Jeff's knife was opened by a sharp flick of the wrist, whereupon it remained locked into its open position,. I'd seen this type of knife before, years earlier, and heard it called a "throw-out knife," but I doubt that was or is the proper name.

And, as I said, Jeff was using it -- unnecessarily -- to cut slices of pizza for himself.

I think he just wanted me to see that he had a knife.

Actually, let me re-phrase that: I know Jeff just wanted me to see that he had a knife.

"So. Dave." he said, while still chewing.

"David," corrected one of the girls. A couple of them laughed.

(People often find it amusing that I prefer "David" to "Dave," and that I bother to point that out if and when someone calls me "Dave." I'd like to learn exactly why that's so freakin' funny, before I die. If your name is "Robert," and I call you "Bob," but you prefer "Robbie," wouldn't you correct me?)

Jeff ignored her. "So," he repeated, adding "What are you even doing here, man?"

The "three or four or five" ongoing conversations which I mentioned earlier suddenly dropped to one. Ours. Mine and Jeff's.

I'd been dreading this one for months. I knew what Jeff was asking.

* * * * *

Between my two "hooker buddies," Sheila and Julia, I'd been introduced to several more streetwalkers over the course of several weeks. I got to know some of them very well. They didn't all learn that I was, as Julia had put it, "writin' a book." That information was generally saved for those I ended up getting along with to the point where I'd invite them for one or more one-on-one interviews... the kind which generally involved money.

Most of these women were addicted to one drug or another, usually heroin. Eventually -- I should say "inevitably" -- I got to meet the boyfriends or husbands of some of them, and I also got to meet some of the low-lifes who supplied them all (women and men alike) with their drugs.

By this time, I realized that I was smack dab in the middle of a dangerous situation. Why do so many writers have this need to be self-destructive? There's an unnamed "something" that far too often makes sleaziness attractive to writers, and I'd discovered too late that I, in a sense, had developed an addiction of my own.

It was the same kind of "addiction" that may have brought Edgar Allan Poe to the point where he was found delirious -- and shortly to die -- on a Baltimore Street.

It's the addiction to what Hunter S. Thompson would later call "gonzo journalism" that brought Ambrose Bierce to his disappearance and probable death.

Many years later, it also brought that same Hunter S. Thompson to ride with the Hells Angels, researching a book, much as I was... and the final chapter tells of the day when the same Hells Angels who had welcomed Thompson into their midst beat the living crap out of him for no apparent reason.

This thirst for "real sleaze" as opposed to "phony sleaze" steered Jim Morrison down a path where psychedelics gave way to alcohol, but neither prepared him for what is today accepted as a lethal overdose of heroin, heroin which he may or may not have mistaken for cocaine.

Writers throughout history have succumbed to alcoholism, or drug addiction, or bouts with excessive gambling, or sexual misadventures, or [fill-in-the-blank] sometimes by merely being around The Bad Thing(s)... and usually the writers in question have arrogantly assumed, as do most addicts, that they could quit The Bad Thing(s) if and when they really wanted or needed to.

Bullshit.

Well, usually.

In my case, my own brand of arrogance was in believing that it was okay to surround myself with hookers, junkies, drug dealers, and the like, as long as I remained detached from it all -- one could almost say "above" it all -- by not paying for sex, not using drugs, not (naturally) selling the drugs... I wouldn't be breaking any laws, even while surrounded by those who were.

And as far as being "safe?" Hell, these people didn't even know where I lived. If I ever wanted or needed to "escape" from them, all I had to do was stop visiting them!

In other words, I could quit any time I really wanted or needed to...

One thing that didn't occur to me until it was too late was that when you're among those who habitually break various laws, minor and/or major, the law-breakers themselves don't necessarily see the predominately law-abiding populace as being "their" type of people. And if said law-abiding people are also gathering information, for any reason, the information gatherer might as well be taking his or her notes for the police.

And although I was making all of my "notes" mentally, I fully realized that my purposes would be resented and misinterpreted all out of proportion if the wrong people were to question what I was doing there.

* * * * *

"So," said Jeff, a "wrong person" if ever I saw one, "What are you even doing here, man?"

I knew exactly what he meant, but didn't admit it. "What do you mean?"

"You don't sell drugs. You don't use drugs, neither." He waved his knife in the smoky air, vaguely pointing at some of the prostitutes in the room for emphasis as he said "And you don't date the girls... "

"I go out with a lot of them!" I said, disagreeing. I was hoping to fall back on the fact that several people could vouch for having seen me driving off with one streetwalker or another for one of my so-called one-on-one sessions.

Now Jeff was leaning partway across the open box of pizza, closer to me, gesturing -- only gesturing, so far -- with his knife, to accentuate a point. "No, man, you go off with 'em, but you don't go out with 'em." He was artfully -- more artfully than I would have given him credit for -- cutting through my own bullshit. And he wasn't letting me use "going out" -- yet another term which, like "dating," meant having sex for a fee -- in the euphemistic way in which I was trying to use it. He was nailing me down to the point where I could only use it his way. "You give 'em rides an' shit, but you don't do dates."

"Says who?" I asked, quickly glancing around the room and noticing that none of the girls whom I joking called "my regulars" were there. No Sheila, no Julia, no Catherine, no Bella...

So much for back-up...

"Never mind who. Says... enough of them," answered Jeff, with a smirk. I can only guess what emotion(s) my face betrayed then. "Yeah, I've talked to a few. Just like you always do. I just talked to 'em." I took another glance around the room, and wondered if it was just my imagination that told me that the percentage of male inhabitants in the room had increased. "So what are you always talkin' about with the girls, man?"

* * * * *

During my time among those who would inspire my "Dover Street" stories -- which, by the night of this head-to-head between Jeff and myself, was envisioned as an endless string of comic book mini-series, rather than the book Julia was anticipating -- I'd only made a few of my famous mental notes about Jeff and/or his "wife," Dawn.

Dawn was a pretty, thirtyish little -- and by "little," I mean short -- white girl with long, frizzy blonde hair, whose mission in life seemed to be telling people that although she was totally flat-chested, she had a great butt. Each time she said that -- and she really did say it a lot -- she'd either turn around or, if she were sitting, stand up and turn around to show off her butt. Then she'd look back over her shoulder for confirmation.

I liked Dawn a lot, even then, which was odd considering that I didn't get to know her well until a long time after the night Jeff started getting nosy. She was more intelligent than most of the hookers -- and that's not some kind of joke, seeing as how they weren't the bunch of idiots you may assume that they were -- and there was something about her personality that brightened up a room, at least, by comparison to most of the Main Street crowd. She was pretty popular.

Jeff was different. Although he seemed fairly well-liked by the male addicts and dealers, most of the women talked against him whenever he wasn't around. They were always telling Dawn she should dump him. In fact, these little confrontations usually consisted of two or more hookers telling Dawn to dump him, arguing with her until she was on the verge of tears.

They never had these conversations in front of any men, with the glaring exception of myself. (I suppose that by then, they had accepted me as an impartial observer.)

I was never quite sure what they had against Jeff other than the fact that he occasionally beat Dawn up. And I'm not trying to pass that off as something relatively inconsequential. They did, however. Truth be told, most of them had boyfriends or husbands that smacked them around, and most of them felt that they themselves had provoked the "smacking." Far too often, I'd hear one of the girls joking about how she'd "really pushed his buttons this time," or something similar. Like it was her fault, ultimately.

(Then again, these were women who also considered being occasionally raped to be little more than a hazard of their profession. I suppose that eventually, all sorts of affronts to your body become more tolerable if your self-esteem is that low. There's an old joke that says "you can't rape a hooker, only rob her." In fact, one of my "Dover Street" stories begins with that joke. Well, once you've met a few hookers, and heard part of -- or all of -- each one's life stories, that joke loses whatever humor it may have ever had.)

The first incident which made me aware of Jeff at all, before I'd ever actually met him or Dawn, occurred one summer afternoon. I had been standing on Main Street, talking to Julia and a couple of other women. I saw two policemen several yards away, in a verbal altercation with Jeff in which one of the cops made some crack to Jeff about "your whore girlfriend."

Jeff bristled. "Hey, man, have some respect! That's the mother of my son!"

The other officer laughed. "How can you talk about respectin' her when you make her work out here to support your habit?"

It was two or three weeks later when I was actually introduced to Jeff and Dawn. About a week after that, I was flagged down one evening by Julia. Jeff was with her.

"David," asked Julia, "how long you been in towns?"

"About half an hour, why?"

"Have you see Dawn anywhere tonight?"

"No. Some kind of problem?"

"We don't know. She get pick up to do a date, and after that she supposed to go with Jeff to cop."

"How long ago was this?"

"Almost an hour. You go look for her?"

"Sure," I said, which was when Jeff jumped into my car. I began to object, but then figured that it was his wife (or girlfriend), after all...

Jeff was either drunk or on something. Half the time he was with me, he was talking about how worried he was about her. The other half, he was saying that she'd probably had her date drop her off at her dealer's place, and gone to do all the drugs by herself. During those more suspicious moments, Jeff called Dawn the "C" word more times than I -- and any three friends of mine -- have ever used it in our lives.

At one point, immediately after saying what a pain in the ass she was, Jeff added something incredibly graphic about her sexual talents which I supposed was meant to be a compliment. And maybe it would have been if it hadn't been phrased so crudely, and if it hadn't been said to a relative stranger.

Or maybe he assumed that I'd either agree with him if I was one of Dawn's tricks, or consider it as a recommendation to go out with her if I hadn't already! I didn't ask. All that I almost said was, "Hey, man, have some respect! That's the mother of your son!" but I knew the remark would have been lost on him.

We looked for almost an hour, but never did find her that night. She showed up at home about three hours later, long after I'd gone home, according to Julia. And Jeff had been right. She had gone to score her drugs and do them without him.

* * * * *

"So what are you always talkin' about with the girls, man?" asked Jeff.

I suddenly felt two hands on my shoulders. My first thought was that someone behind me was providing a little physical reinforcement for Jeff's line of questioning.

My second thought was, "Oh, shit."

* * * * *

Next time -- I hope! -- the conclusion.

I'm Dreaming of a Wet Christmas...

Please excuse this "filler" post. I'll be finishing up my "Introduction to Dover Street" series shortly, but between that series and "Angelina" before it, my "Silver Fox" blog has been kind of an emotional drag lately, and I needed a small vacation.

And today? Today, just so the last thing I leave you with before the holiday won't be hookers'n'junkies, I'm going to reprint something I wrote exactly four years ago, when the New England weather was rainy, as it is today! (And, in the interests of full disclosure, I've shoe-horned in an additional essay of mine from slightly before then, and edited them both together in a hopefully seamless fashion.) So remember, it's four years ago as you read the following... but in a lot of ways, it's very much "today," too.

* * * * *

Ah. Christmas in New England. Almost, anyway. Unseasonally warm weather, lots of rain... Real mood killer, even for those like myself who like the rain ordinarily. Bing Crosby must be rolling over in his grave. Well, maybe not. If he had been, I'm sure it would have been reported somewhere.

What a sucky year this has been, for so many of us. Myself, for example. The best Christmas present I can receive this year will be my making it all the way to January 2nd. My last-minute holiday duties will involve trying to do something for those few who have been going out of their way to do things for me lately. (Personal note, here, to some of those people: If I don't "catch" you before or on the holiday, I will catch you sometime soon thereafter. So if I don't see you this weekend, don't think I forgot you!) That's not just a selfish attitude of "You're not getting from me unless you've given to me," as outright Christmas presents are not what I'm talking about here, but rather a reference to those who've bent over backwards to do whatever they can to help me through some tough medical, financial, and emotional times in the past few months.

For once, I'm not as empowered as I usually am to play savior (note the all-so-humble lower-case "s" there) to those friends of mine who are less fortunate than I. Although there are plenty of people in my inner circle whose problems are far worse than mine, my own problems are just that: My problems. So they affect me more than other people's problems affect me. Never makes much sense to cry in anybody else's beer, ya know?

Sometimes, in terms of my friends (as opposed to strangers, "random acts of kindness," etc.) I really wish I could limit myself to helping only those who would return the favor in full if they were so empowered (if I may use that word once more). Maybe that would be my New Year's resolution, if I believed in that sort of nonsense. Although I truly believe that if there's something about yourself that you want or need to change, you should do it right away, and not wait for an arbitrary change of the calendar. And this sage advice comes from the King of the Procrastinators (Scroll down to #10.).

Let me repeat that, for emphasis: I really wish I could limit myself to helping only those who would return the favor in full if they were so empowered. But who am I kidding, I've been "promising" myself to do that for years. Told you I was King of the Procrastinators.

Anyway, I'm bothered by this whole situation where Christians* are urged to be tolerant of other people's religions -- which is fine, and just, and all that crap! -- but now it's gotten to the point where we're also urged to (to self-consciously use a Biblical reference) "hide our own light under a bushel." Christmas is quickly becoming "the 'c' word," an unfortunate & degrading reference which offends the hell... uhh, make that "heck"... out of me.

I won't go so far as to agree with Bill O'Reilly and say there's a "war" on Christmas, but...

In order to avoid offending anyone anywhere, Christians have often had to stop putting up Nativity scenes on city hall property. Those Americans who believe in the Judeo/Christian God are verbally chastised for having innocuous phrases like "under God" in our country's Pledge of Allegiance, and "In God We Trust" on our money. And if it wasn't for the brief -- but somewhat inspirational -- unity we U.S. citizens showed immediately after 9/11/01, I'm sure there would have been more comments against "God Bless America" being our rallying song. And of course, who can forget the recent brouhaha about Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore and his refusal to remove the monument to the Ten Commandments from the state's Judicial Building?

Folks, I'm not arguing against the "separation of church and state," I'm simply suggesting that if this country is going to observe said concept, it do so across the board, and not ignore it when it's -- to quote Dana Carvey's Church Lady, fittingly enough -- "conveeeeenient," like when it's a good way for a politician, pressure group, or so-called "private citizen" to say "I'm not a bigot, I'm just following God's laws!" while he or she is trampling someone else's civil rights.

If you insist that grocery store & department store intercoms play generic, non-denominational "holiday" music (endless variations of "Here Comes Santa Claus," "Jingle Bells," "Frosty the Snowman," etc.) as opposed to anything which actually reminds us -- God forbid! (pun intended) -- that the first two thirds of the word "Christmas" refer to that Jesus guy ("We Three Kings," "The First Noel," "Oh, Holy Night," etc.), why stop there? All these references to "the holiday season" and other, non-Christian holidays, are just a blind, at least when it comes to what day we're actually commemorating. This isn't meant to invalidate anybody else's religious beliefs, but the plain and simple fact is that Christmas itself is a Christian holiday. Get over it. Or, failing that, if you insist that it's solely "their" holiday, stop celebrating it!

Now there's a thought!

Let's make these self-righteous Christians just pick up their toys -- you know, the toys ostensibly delivered by a Saint named Nicholas? -- and go home. And while we're at it, let's invoke the separation of church and state once again. Why should a Christian holiday be a national holiday, anyway? "Our" religion, "everybody's" paid day off? Something inherently wrong there, innit?

Other religions have their own holidays at this time of year, too. And more power to 'em. But they don't have national, paid holidays. So, why should Christians?

Therefore, here's my message to Christians and non-Christians alike: From now on, on every December 25th, shake off your eggnog-induced hangover, get your lazy ass out of bed, and go to work! And forget about a Christmas bonus while you're at it. What do you really need that extra money for anyway, except to buy more presents? If we're getting away from Christmas-based practices, the gift-giving itself has to be toned down. Let all of us -- Christians, Jews, Muslims, pagans, etc. -- concentrate on the "real" meanings of our respective holidays, and let the atheists and agnostics -- God bless 'em! -- do whatever it is that they do this time of year, too. And if the economy suffers a bit in the process, oh-freaking-well! Babies.

I'm just asking for a little consistency. That's all. Just a little. Kinda like Swift's "A Modest Proposal," 21st century style.

So, I wish everybody a Happy Whatever-you-celebrate, 'cause I'm just so freakin' gracious. (Well, sometimes.) But let me and mine celebrate what we believe in, as long as we're not stepping on your overly-sensitive PC toes.

("Hey, this one wasn't very funny... " "Maybe not, but it contains more links than a box of Brown 'N Serve Sausages!")

Anyway, gang... Happy Krimble. *ahem*

And thanks for your time.

*I just wanted to point out that when I say I'm a "Christian," I am emphatically not aligning myself with the right-wing, pro-Chimp, neo-fascist "red state" nutballs getting so much press lately. (I'm a Massachusetts moderate, m'self!) I'm just referring to people who really believe in that whole "Jesus" thing. (You remember Him, right? He's the dude whose birthday "we" celebrate... umm... somewhere around this time of year.)

* * * * *

Just a couple of after-thoughts, here:

• Since I wrote the above, I've gotten much better about doing -- mainly -- for those who'd do for me if they could... and it's paid off. Now, when I need a favor or two, the people I ask are there for me whenever possible.
• I might not have included that line about "And if the economy suffers a bit in the process, oh-freaking-well!" if I'd known then what we all do now. Ouch.

Merry Christmas.

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Three

The following is a true story. Quite a few of the names and other identifying details have been changed, and dialogue re-written accordingly, because of that fact.

Previously: After having discovered that Sheila, someone I was casually dating, was a drug-addicted prostitute with a huge, imposing boyfriend -- usually much more than enough to keep me away from someone -- I looked her up once again anyway, and paid her for her time, in the name of research! And through all this, my young friend Lori was becoming more and more convinced that I was just plain nuts!

* * * * *

The next time I located Sheila and picked her up, she assumed that this time, it was for sex. I surprised the hell out of her by once again offering money for what she (almost) considered was "nothing."

But she got used to it, eventually, because I continued stopping for her. I was learning a lot about how the so-called street people lived, thought, hustled, and sometimes died.

Upon learning that I was picking up Sheila every few days, my friend Lori hit the proverbial roof. "Are you sure you're not doing it with her?"

"Umm... Yeahhh, I think I'd remember that."

"This isn't funny."

"Lori. Final time: I am not paying her for sex, I'm paying for her time, basically. And I'm not sleeping with her for free, either, if for no other reason than that persistent image I have of her boyfriend coming home, catching us, grabbing me by the ankles, and swinging me like a baseball bat against the nearest wall!"

"Why do you keep calling this guy her boyfriend?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's not her boyfriend. He's her pimp."

"No, he's not."

"David. He beats her up when she doesn't bring home money? He's her pimp!"

"No. What he is, is a guy who supposedly loves her... "

"Yeah, sure. 'I love you, honey. Now go out and screw a bunch of other guys so we can get high tonight,' right?"

I agreed with Lori's reasoning, at least where the "love" part was concerned. How can you send someone you "love" out onto the streets to support your habit? Ever since this all happened, I've asked several women that question. Women in what I so loftily refer to as "the real world" -- people who don't do drugs and/or don't sell themselves -- automatically say, "You don't!" but women who live in "that" world say things like, "Well, you don't understand how powerful drug addiction really is! You'll do anything to support your habit, even allow your wife or girlfriend to become a prostitute." Well, after all these years, I may understand it, but I'll never fully accept it. And I never saw any of these so-called loving boyfriends going out selling their services so their women wouldn't have to!

If you read "Angelina," you may recall Marty talking about the hooker he fell in love with: "I wanted her all to myself -- no more working the streets, in other words -- but the... umm.. 'financial realities' of the whole drug thing made that impossible." But in Marty's case, "his" hooker was already doing that when he met her. He wasn't the one who turned her out.

Sheila's boyfriend was the type I've since seen a lot of, the type who goes about his own affairs, once in a while contributing by "working his hustle," which is a nice way of saying he would do things to get money from people without really working for it. Sometimes he'd sell drugs. If I correctly remember what Sheila said about him, he smoked a lot of weed, and smoked crack occasionally. So he wasn't actually an addict, like she was. And any way you cut it, he still depended on her for the majority of their income.

Nice guy.

But not a pimp.

In fact, he's what they call -- or used to call -- an "easy rider." And no, try to shake that image of Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper zooming down the highway on their "choppers," with the strains of Steppenwolf's "Born to Be Wild" blaring in the background. They -- the movie-makers themselves, that is -- got the name for the movie from an old Southern term for a man living with a prostitute.

Okay, okay, one final digression for now: You may have noticed that I tend to stick with the terms "hooker" and "prostitute," avoiding other synonyms like "whore." It's just a personal bias. "Prostitute" is almost an informal job title; "hooker" is a friendlier term. To me, anyway. And "whore?" I dunno... "Whore" has a nasty edge to it -- it's like the difference between calling someone "fat" as opposed to "overweight" -- and I don't think these girls deserve that.

Back to the story!

Lori wasn't done with me yet. "And you do realize that every dollar you give her goes right up her nose, right?" I didn't think that now was the time to nit-pick and correct Lori by pointing out that Sheila's cocaine habit, I had learned, was actually a crack habit, so I wisely and uncharacteristically kept my mouth shut. "Do you know the term "enabler,' David?"

"You're missing a very important point here. If I weren't giving her money, someone else would be. She'd quite literally do anything she had to to feed her habit. A day I don't show up is not a day that she goes without!" To drive my point home a bit more forcefully, I continued, crudely listing a few things Sheila could be doing which, even Lori had to agree, were a lot worse than sitting in my car, talking to me. "And that's not considering the fact that any one of those other guys could be freaks who'd beat her up just for the hell of it, or rape her, or kill her... "

"You make it sound like you're doing some kind of public service by feeding her habit."

"No, not at all. I'm just saying that I'm a lot better than most of the alternatives, and that she'd be out there anyway. I'm no damned hero, certainly, but I'm no villain, either."

"You're using her for information... "

"I'm paying her for information. Nobody's being used."

"And... how the hell can you afford to pay her every time? You're not rich."

"I don't pay her that much," I offered, but...

Lori was right.

I couldn't really afford to keep doing this. And at some point I realized that I was going to have to start getting more for my money, timewise. I knew that anytime I found her working the streets, it was because she needed cash ASAP for drugs, and if I picked her up instead of someone else, and did not give her money, I'd be taking her away from potential income! I'd have to find a way around that.

In my favor was the fact that Sheila actually liked me, and so she didn't mind seeing me occasionally, during her "off" time. I started planning get-togethers for lunch at McDonald's, Burger King, "pizza dates," etc.

It wasn't that difficult for Sheila to get away from her boyfriend. When he was home, he was usually sleeping. At other times, he would generally be hanging out with his buddies, getting stoned. So she and I met once, or sometimes twice, each week.

And finally, I talked her into bringing a friend to one of our little visits. I asked her to avoid any mention of the monetary aspect, hoping that the friend would talk a bit about herself and her lifestyle for the sake of being sociable.

It worked out well. The three of us split a large pizza and talked for about half an hour. Money well spent, thought I.

* * * * *

The friend's name -- well, actually, the name I'm going to use here -- was Julia.

Julia was probably between 30 and 35. (I never asked.) She was a short, cute Latina with a round face and a figure which -- although slightly overweight -- looked attractive in everything I ever saw her wearing. She had long black hair, always tightly pulled back in a ponytail. She didn't have an accent as much as an occasionally odd speech pattern.

Julia was a drug user, too -- sometimes cocaine, sometimes heroin -- but not an addict, remarkably. She was a little less reckless in general than a lot of the women I ended up meeting, as well, probably because she had a brother who was a policeman. (One of my unfinished "Dover Street" stories, plotted only about two years ago, deals with a hooker whose brother is an ex-cop. That's about the closest I've ever gotten to telling Julia's story.)

At our first meeting -- the one with Sheila -- Julia looked me straight in the eye after only five minutes or so and asked "Why you ask so many question? [sic] You writin' a book?" I laughed and said that I was, sort of. She laughed, too, and said. "Good subject. Drugs. Everybody like drugs."

I got together with Julia maybe twice a month. We'd talk. She wasn't really concerned with what I could or would pay her. A meal here or there was enough. She seemed to like my company.

She did try to talk me into becoming a customer, however. She liked teasing me. "Why don't you try me, just once? Don't you like the way I look?"

"Oh, hell, that's definitely not the issue!"

"So, what? You did dates with Sheila, right?"

Pardon another aside, but... For the two or three of you out there who don't already know this, a "date" is a euphemism for a sex act performed for money. A "trick" is the same thing. And both "date" and "trick" may also be used to refer to a customer, just like the word "john."

(Sometimes, when talking to a prostitute, I'd talk about "a woman I used to date" or "a woman I'm dating" and I'd get a funny look. I eventually learned to use the term "real date" when I was talking about taking a woman out to dinner or a movie.)

"I never did dates with Sheila." My eyes narrowed. "Why, did she tell you I did?"

"No, no. I just assume."

I was glad that her next question was not about how I met Sheila in the first place, if it wasn't a standard pick-up. Instead, she asked, "So, what is it? You don't like sex? Maybe you're gay?"

"No! I mean, no, I'm not gay. But yes, I love sex." Probably too much, I thought, but I saw no reason to share that little observation with her.

"So... " She grinned. "Store open all night!"

"I just don't like the whole idea of paying for sex. Not for me, anyway. I don't really care what anybody else does."

"Lotta guys say that. They think if you pay, it mean you can't get it no other way. Lotta the girls think that way, too. Most of 'em."

"I'd probably feel that way, too, if I ever did."

"Can you cook?"

"What?" Now, where did that come from, I wondered.

"You can cook?" she repeated.

"Sure, when I bother. Usually it's just me and the microwave oven, but... Yeah, when I want to. Why?"

"You go out to eat, too, right? Like McDonald's, or Chinese?" I smiled, anticipating her point. "You can eat for free at home, but you go out and pay for a meal? Why? Cuz you want to pay. Not have to."

"That's not quite the same thing... "

"Close enough."

We had similar conversations on other occasions. She said she considered me a "challenge."

One night, around 9 or 10 p.m., after Julia and I had enjoyed a meal at one fast food spot or another, she asked me if I'd mind dropping her off at her mother's place. I said I'd do so gladly. Her mom's apartment building had a large, uncomfortably dark parking lot in the rear of the building. As I pulled into the lot, I asked Julia if she wanted me to walk her to the door.

"No, thank you," she answered. "Shit!" she hissed suddenly.

"What? What's wrong?"

"My brother's car," she said, pointing to a car parked at the other end of the lot, close to (as I discovered later) her mother's back door.

"Your brother, the cop?"

She nodded vigorously. "I don't wanna see him right now! He's pissed at me! Can I wait here with you until he leaves?"

"No problem. I'm in no rush to be anywhere."

I rolled my driver's side window down a bit, and took my pack of Winston Lights out of my shirt pocket. "Want a cigarette?" I asked, as I took my lighter out of my right hip pocket and lit mine.

She was already taking a cigarette out of her own pack of Kool -- not Newport, but still menthol, I noticed, recalling Sheila's comment from weeks earlier -- and putting it between her lips. "Got my owns, thanks." She reached for my lighter, took it, and lit her cigarette. "He could be there for another hour or two." She smiled at me. "Don't worry, I won't make you wait so long."

"Thanks," I said, suddenly noticing that she was still smiling, but in a very strange way, I thought. Abruptly, she leaned toward me, threw her arms around me, and started kissing me! I was caught totally off guard. Luckily, we both had the presence of mind to place our respective cigarettes in my car's ashtray.

Ordinarily, I would have to describe our short little make-out session with a word like "passionate," but this was over almost before it had begun. I didn't even have the chance to get properly turned on before she released her hold on me and moved back to her side of the car.

Our cigarettes hadn't even burnt out yet!

She was still smiling. For a second or two, I wondered if she was hoping to get me worked up enough to finally take her up on her offer of play-for-pay, but instead of assuming that that had been her motive, I merely asked, "Uhhh... Julia... What the hell was that about?"

She lowered the passenger-side visor, hoping to find a vanity mirror, which she did. She'd taken a container of lip gloss out of one pocket or another and was applying some to her lips. "Just felt like it. I got no boyfriend, and I don't kiss my dates. Not like that! Am I good kisser?"

"You sure are," I replied truthfully, waiting for a follow-up offer from Julia which never came.

"If my brother doesn't leave soon, I just have you bring me home, okay?" she said, but after a few more minutes, he ended his visit.

As he entered his car and started it up, Julia lay down across the console and rested her head on my thigh. "Tell me when he go."

I waited until he'd driven out of the parking lot, and told her "You can sit up now," and she took her sweet time doing it. Then she gave me a goodnight kiss which was almost as ardent as those before, and ran across the lot to her mother's door.

As I exited the lot, I reached for another cigarette, and then searched in vain for my lighter.

Julia had forgotten to return it.

I shook my head as I drove away. I'd have to add stolen cigarette lighters to the cost of meals and outright hand-outs. I wondered if these expenses, all incurred in the name of research, were tax-deductible.

No, not really.

Then I thought back to the kissing session. What little game is she playing, I wondered, or is this a game?

And I not only had that to concern me, but earlier that evening, Julia had agreed to introduce me to even more of the Worcester streetwalkers.

It looked like my dance card was going to be pretty full in the upcoming weeks.

* * * * *

Next time: Get out your hip boots, folks. It's going to start getting deep!

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter Two

This is a true story, but in the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you the following:

• I went back and edited my last chapter, and among other things, changed the character of "Laura" to "Lori," because -- for various boring reasons -- I've decided to combine Lori with another real-life friend named Jennifer. Both had opinions about my involvement with Sheila and others whom you'll read about in this story. Semi-fictionalizing -- if that's even a word -- their involvement will also give me some leeway in writing dialogue which has largely been forgotten over time. An "honest cheat," as it were.
• Speaking of dialogue, I've cleaned up a lot of it. Accuracy's one thing, but after a while, graphic over-use of the "F" word... and the "S" word... and the "C" word... and so on... can get a bit mind-numbing.

Last Time: A casual relationship of mine with a young woman named Sheila had been abruptly curtailed when I'd discovered that:

• She had a rather unique profession, i.e., "the world's oldest."
• She had a massive cocaine habit.
• She had a large, surly boyfriend!

Any one of the above would be enough to disqualify Sheila from my lists of available dates, I suppose, but the combination of the three was a killer!

After my friend Lori had patiently listened to my telling her about the situation, she replied, "Well, anyway, it's a good thing you're done with her."

"Oh, I'm not done with her. Not exactly."

Lori looked at me with genuine concern. "And what the hell do you mean by that?"

This time: What I meant by that. (Of course!)

* * * * *

I didn't answer Lori immediately, so she continued. "You just gave me a list of all the reasons you shouldn't see her again, and now you're saying you want to take all the chances you'd be taking by seeing her again?"

"I didn't say I was going to keep dating her," I began.

Lori interrupted. "Or whatever you'd call what you two were doing... "

"Very funny. I'm not going to 'see' her that way. I just said I wasn't done with her."

"This isn't one of your goofy revenge schemes, is it? You said you gave that stuff up years ago." She was referring to what little she knew of the so-called Irish Mafia.

"No! Don't be so freakin' dramatic. Besides, I have absolutely no reason to want 'revenge' on her, even if I were still involved in all that." Lori was still looking at me warily. "Actually, what I was referring to was a story idea I got the other night. "

"A story?"

"Yeah," I said, and at that point I proceeded to regale Lori with the basic plot of a story I called "Love for Sale." (I'll spare you the details, primarily because it'll probably show up on this blog sooner or later.) I'd read a few stories and seen a few films where some "john" (a hooker's customer) fell in love with a prostitute, or vice versa, and "Love for Sale" was my take on that whole idea.

My story took place in a very Worcester-like big city named... Well, I hadn't given it a name, but it was definitely not Worcester. And instead of having all the side streets off of Main Street for my hookers to walk on while plying their trade, I pretty much consolidated the streets into one: Dover Street. Where'd I get the name? I thought of a stupid, relatively unfunny play on words to which, sooner or later, at least one of the "Dover Street" characters will refer: "Bend Over Street."

I didn't know then that "Dover Street" would become an informal series, of course. At that point, "Love for Sale" was only one isolated story.

When I finished, she said, "Sounds like you have it pretty well plotted out. So what do you need her for?"

"Background information. What I know about the so-called 'street' is fairly limited. And I know even less about what it's like to be a drug addict. The people I've known have been mostly into alcohol and pot, if they did anything at all."

"You're saying you're going to use her for research?"

"Well, yeah."

"You're out of your mind."

"What else is new?"

* * * * *

Lori's forebodings to the contrary, my mind was made up.

Finding Sheila was predictably easy, as you may suspect. I spotted her late one cool spring afternoon, close to dusk. She was walking along Worcester's Main Street. I pulled over. She got in, but eyed me uncertainly.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi. What's up?"

"I've been looking for you."

"Well, you found me. How've you been?"

"Okay. You?" Dumb question.

"Same as always... Look, after the last time I saw you, I didn't expect to see you again. So what do you want?" Then she made a couple of rather blunt suggestions, adding "but I need money, so you gotta pay me."

"How'd you like to earn some money without having to do anything sexual for it?"

"Why so generous?" she asked, with a tone of suspicion in her voice.

"I didn't say I'd just hand it to you, I said how'd you like to earn some money?"

"Doin' what?"

"Talking."

"You're kiddin', right?"

"No. Don't you ever get guys who just want to talk?" She looked at me like I was insane. I felt awkward, suddenly. "I mean, I've seen movies where guys pay for a girl's time, and talk about their problems at home, or at their job, or... "

"You've seen movies."

"Yeah."

"Wow. I guess it does happen with some of the chicks out here, but not me." She started laughing. "So, you wanna talk about your wife, or your job?"

"Neither. Besides, I'm not married. You know that."

"I know what you told me."

"Why would I have lied about that?"

"Maybe I wouldn'ta taken you home if I'd thought you were married. Or at least, maybe you thought that. Guys lie." She shook her head. I was staring at her. I wish I could have seen the look on my own face. "Watch the road."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. Just don't get us killed."

I took a pack of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket. I withdrew one for myself, then asked her if she'd like one.

"Menthol?" she asked.

"No, sorry. Winston Lights."

"Good! I'll take one. Half the girls out here smoke Newports. They suck."

She used the lighter I handed her along with the cigarette pack and lit my cigarette as well. "Okay," she said, "Spit it out. What do you wanna talk about?"

I started asking her questions which would separate the reality of her situation -- and that of others who worked the streets -- from all the clichés I'd seen in movies, and on TV, etc.

At some point, however, I had to start watching the clock. I'd offered to pay her for her time, and had obviously thrown her off guard by doing so. If I were paying for her usual services, shall we say, she would have been right there with a list of (negotiable) rates for what she offered. But now, I figured we'd talked for ten -- maybe fifteen -- minutes, and wondered if twenty dollars would be enough this time, as well. (When I'd picked her up today, her boyfriend had been nowhere in sight. But that -- or should I say "he" -- wasn't the issue this time; I'd already said I'd pay her.)

I asked her where she'd like me to let her off, and she named a nearby side street. "Look, " she said, as I stopped the car, "could you wait for me while I run in and see a friend of mine, and then drop me at-- ?"

I interrupted her. "No. I'm not letting you back in this car once you go in there." I may have been more than a bit "green," street-wise, but I wasn't stupid. The "friend" was obviously a drug dealer she knew, and she wanted me to wait for her to score, and then take her home or to wherever she planned to use her drugs. I wasn't about to let her back in the car if I knew she had drugs on her person.

Sheila just smiled and nodded. I handed her twenty dollars. "Will this be okay?" I asked.

She nodded again, and then looked around us in all directions. "Hey, listen, it's gettin' dark. If you... umm... if you got another twenty... ?"

I had to laugh at the last-minute sales pitch. "No, thanks." She asked if I were sure about that, and repeated her offer in much more explicit terms, reminding me of our not-so-long ago past encounters... but I still found it relatively easy to say no.

As I drove away toward home, I started laughing at one of the more outrageous things she'd told me: She swore that she knew a drug addict who'd once hijacked a forklift so he could steal an ATM!

Now, how could I work that into a story?

I took my pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and searched for my lighter.

She'd forgotten to return it.

* * * * *

Lori was about as reproachful as I expected her to be. "And you didn't do anything with her?"

"Nope."

"You can tell me."

"I know I can. But there's nothing to tell."

"Easiest twenty bucks she ever made, I'll bet."

"Probably."

"Well, at least you've gotten that out of your system."

"Not really."

"Oh, terrific," said Lori -- much as you may be saying to yourself right now -- "now what?"

"I've gotten some more story ideas. I'm going to have to talk to her again, frankly, and... " I hesitated.

"And?"

"I'm going to see if she can put me in touch with some of her friends, as well."

* * * * *

Next time: "The more, the merrier," or the beginnings of my closest brush to date with "gonzo" journalism.

Introduction to the "Dover Street" Stories, Chapter One

In my "What to Expect... " section at the bottom of this blog, I say "Occasionally, there will be personal anecdotes that will only be able to be called 'stories' in a very loose sense, having no real plot, or no definitive ending, etc." This series of posts -- which, as the title says, is the story behind my "Dover Street" tales of prostitutes and drug addicts -- is one of those.

Hm. Hookers and junkies. What a pleasant way to segué into the Holiday Season, eh?

* * * * *

Anyone who read My Island on my David'Z RantZ blog may recall that in my youth, I was involved in some unspecified, low-grade -- but still dangerous -- criminal activities while I ran something which I light-heartedly called the "Irish Mafia." I was lucky enough to get out while I still could. Others, like a friend named Roger, weren't so lucky.

My involvement in these activities lasted about nine or ten years. I wish I could say that the Irish Mafia was the last time I put myself at serious risk, but it wasn't.

The nearest "big city" to the town in which I reside is the city of Worcester, Massachusetts. Worcester is quite often misspelled and/or mispronounced as "Worchester." It's also been written as "Wistah" or "Woostah" by those who think that they're helping you with the pronunciation. Ignore them. They may mean well, but they're among the ranks of those who only think they have a handle on the Massachusetts accent.

It's pronounced "Woos-ter;" the "woos" rhymes with "push" or "bush," not with "room" or "zoom."

But I -- oh-so-characteristically -- digress.

One afternoon several years ago -- circa 1992, 1993 -- I was running a few errands in Worcester. I stopped at a convenience store for something to drink. There was a rather long line at the one open register, and the cashier was competent but not overly speedy.

Ahead of me in line was a moderately attractive, black-haired young lady with a rather pronounced overbite. She reminded me of the Olympic skater, Nancy Kerrigan (remember her?) but with a slightly wavy Bettie Page hairstyle. She looked approximately five years younger than I was at the time, which would have put her in her early thirties. She was somewhat taller than I was, and much thinner.

Her overbite was the factor that made me decide to devote my waiting-in-line time to the pursuit of something -- *ahem* -- productive. (I know some of you saw that coming.)

I'm not one for so-called pick-up lines. I prefer striking up a genuine conversation with a woman, or what some guys have referred to as "working them."

In this case, finding a subject to begin talking about was easy. Her arms were filled with seven or eight different cans or bottles of iced tea. Nestea, SoBe, Lipton, AriZona, Snapple...

"Why so many?" I asked, pointing at the array. "And why all different brands?"

"I love iced tea, and I just wanted to figure out once and for all, which one's the best."

That made something resembling "sense" to me. I could have said the same thing, only I never went to the extreme of buying one of each to facilitate a taste test.

Allow me to cut to the proverbial chase, here. After some brief chatting with Sheila -- yes, Sheila, just like the streetwalker in my last post, "Angelina" -- she agreed to let me drive her to her home, which was not far away.

I'll spare you the details here, but suffice it to say that Sheila and I shared what was very briefly referred to as "afternoon delight" back in the 1970s. It was quite an enjoyable hour or so, but I left not sure whether we'd ever see each other again.

About a week later, I was in Worcester again, and decided that it was "worth a shot" to visit her once more. She seemed legitimately glad to see me, and invited me in for coffee -- What, I wondered, no iced tea? -- and the two of us reaffirmed our mutual interests in casual sex.

At the conclusion of this visit, she gave me her phone number, and said she would be keeping that number when she moved the following week. She wrote down her new address, as well.

Good thing she did give me the new address. For one reason or another, the old phone number did not make the move with her.

During the next month, Sheila and I saw each other two or three more times. (Re-reading that, I can't help but think, "Saw?" and follow up with an old Jack Nicholson quip, "Wrong verb.")

* * * * *

Sometime in the early 1990s, I became very close friends -- "very close" but platonic friends, I should probably mention -- with a young lady named Lori. Lori worked the second shift in a town called Shrewsbury. I occasionally visited her at work, and since the town of Shrewsbury was and is one of several that borders Worcester, I would drive through Worcester on my way to Shrewsbury.

[By the way, the character of "Lori" is actually a composite of two female friends of mine. I did this for a couple of frankly uninteresting reasons.]

That "drive through Worcester" took me the length of Main Street, past a bus stop near Clark University. As I passed through that area, I saw someone who either was Sheila or looked very much like her, standing at the bus stop. This was somewhere around seven or eight p.m.

One of the first things I asked Lori when I arrived at her workplace was "How late do the buses run in Worcester?"

"No idea. Why?"

"Well, do you know that bus stop by the little park near Store 24 and Clark University?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I drove by there on my way here, and I could've sworn I saw Sheila at the bus stop."

"Who's Sheila?"

"I told you about her," I began defensively.

"Yeah, like I can ever keep track."

I ignored that, and continued. "Anyway, if the buses don't run that late, why would she be there?"

"I dunno, but why shouldn't she?"

"Well, for one thing, it's a well-known place for hookers to stand while hoping to be picked up."

She smirked. "And how do you know that?"

"I know a lot of things that go on in Worcester, smartass. I remember once when I was working on a Sunday at That's Entertainment, one of the hookers from Piedmont Street" -- a street which was also known for its druggies and prostitutes, located near the comic shop -- "came in and asked if she could get a cup of coffee."

"You sold coffee? In a comic store?"

"No."

"Then why... ?"

"Who knows? On one side of us was a restaurant, and on the other, a little ways down, was a convenience store. She could've gone to either for coffee."

Lori started laughing. "Maybe she didn't have any money, but she was willing to do a little something for a free cup?"

"Well, it's not like I had any coffee anyway! I didn't drink it then."

"Oh? When did you start?" she said, sarcastically.

"1990." She just stared at me. I nodded. "So, can we get back to Sheila?"

"Sheila?"

"The one at the bus stop!"

"Look, David, I'm sure the buses are still running. But... "

"But what?"

"But if you swing by that park after you leave here, and she's still there, maybe she really is... you know... "

My visit with Lori lasted for another couple of hours. After I left, I drove back through the heart of Worcester, and rode down Main Street until I passed the bus stop near Store 24, and...

Damn.

Sheila was still standing there.

She hadn't seen me. I could have kept on driving. I could have made a handful of assumptions about her, and just never tried to contact her again.

But no, not me. Not Mr. Closure. Not with my attitude of "I don't convict on circumstantial evidence."

I turned around in the Store 24 parking lot and drove back to the bus stop where Sheila was standing. I put on my directional and took the immediate right onto a side street. I pulled to the side of the road and stopped, but left the car running.

It was dark. I was sure she hadn't seen my face, and I was equally sure she couldn't recognize my car at night.

She came running over to the car anyway.

Shit.

She didn't even look through the window to see who'd stopped for her. She opened the door and jumped in. While the door was open, my car's interior light went on. For a split second, she saw my face, and I could clearly see the surprise on hers as she recognized me.

I drove away, wondering which of us would speak first. She did. At first, a strange sound came out of her mouth, almost like she was exhaling sharply. She cleared her throat loudly and tried again.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," I repeated. "So... umm... What's up?"

Not too freaking awkward...

She opened up to me, reluctantly. Almost every sentence was a revelation. Yes, she was a hooker. (Thank the lord for safe sex practices, thought I.) It was the only way she could support her cocaine habit. (Oh, goodie. Another reason I would have stayed away from her, had I known.)

This was why she changed addresses so often. Landlords with short-fused tempers from dealing with other drug-addicted tenants before her. Not that she paid much rent beyond her initial outlay before moving into a place. After all, most of her money went toward buying the cocaine.

We talked for about five minutes before she'd told me pretty much all of what I had to know. I had driven relatively aimlessly for a while, but had now come back to the bus stop.

Before I had the chance to say anything as cliché as "Well, I guess this is good-bye," Sheila looked at me with a sudden, fearful expression on her face.

"Umm... uhhh... David, w-we got a... we got a problem!"

"How so?"

"Well, when you stopped for me, did you see that big, tall black guy across the street from here?"

"No, but what... " I turned to see if the "big, tall black guy" was still there. He was, looking like a clean-shaven, African-American version of the late actor Roger C. Carmel ("Harry Mudd" on Star Trek, among other roles). "Oh, shit."

"That's my boyfriend. And you and me were gone long enough to have done somethin', and if I don't bring no money to him... "

"Let me guess. He'll beat the crap out of you."

She nodded.

Practicality took over. Frankly, I was ten years older than when I'd last been in true "fighting form." And if I faced off against a man his size, he'd probably break me in half. "What's the minimum you can get away with?"

She was unnervingly matter-of-fact as she replied, "Well, we ain't been gone long enough for you to get laid, so twenty would be enough for-- " Nodding, I raised my hand to silence her. She didn't need to spell anything out for me.

I withdrew twenty dollars from my wallet, handed it to her, and watched her as she exited my car and trotted dutifully across the street to her boyfriend.

(And please don't attempt to correct me and say "pimp." He was her boyfriend. More on that in a later chapter.)

Anyway, the next time I talked to Lori, I told her about my little non-adventure. She couldn't stop laughing. "So, you ended up paying for it, after all."

"No."

She kept laughing. "Of course you did, David! You just paid for it after the fact, unlike the usual customers, who have to pay before."

I divided the twenty dollars by the number of times I'd been with Sheila. If I had indeed "paid for it," I'd gotten a great deal, overall. I went so far as to point that out to Lori, adding, "Anyway, that twenty dollars wasn't for anything that had happened previously. It was to keep her from getting beaten up."

"You should have let her get beaten up, after the way she lied to you."

"Damn, girl! Don't be so cold. Anyway, the only thing I'm really upset with her about is that she invited me into apartments which she presumably shared with him. He could have gotten home any time when she and I were... together... and found her doing it with some guy for free, in their bed! He probably would have snapped my spine!"

"What would he care? She cheats on him all day long, if she's a prostitute."

I shook my head. "Different set of rules, dear. In our world, the "real" world, sex is sex. You sleep with someone else, for any reason, and it's cheating. In their world, it's only cheating if it doesn't involve money, or maybe drugs."

"Well, anyway, it's a good thing you're done with her."

"Oh, I'm not done with her. Not exactly."

Lori looked at me with genuine concern. "And what the hell do you mean by that?"

* * * * *

Well, that's as good a place to end Chapter One. Chapter Two will be coming your way soon... well before next week. I'm going to schedule these segments really closely, just like I did with "Angelina."

See ya! I mean... Thanks for your time.