Is It Illegal to Wear A Tiny Skirt and Look Played Out?"You know you've got a prostitute in your building, man?"
We were bobbing down the Potomac, a flotilla of tipsy tubers splashing and saucing it up when my neighbor's boyfriend broke the news. While I was shocked, I couldn't say that I was completely surprised.
Apparently she was making a pretty heavy effort to look like she was chilling in front of the building when Marty came over late the other night. Something about the way she said "Hey man ..." and glanced him up and down, then bum rushed her way in when he got buzzed in tipped him off. There was something desperate and aggressively sexual in her stance, and it just set his bells off.
I didn't bother to ask how he learned to read this behavior so precisely.
She sure does hang out around the front of my building a lot in some pretty revealing outfits. And she sure does spend a lot of time with those two sketchy dudes with the dreadlocks in my builiding. The last desk clerk told me on her last day that they were crack dealers. Who knows the truth, though.
She is, beneath layers of ravaging addiction, a fundamentally attractive lady. Or was. She kinda looks like a healthy, vibrant woman that's had a 'Crackhead' filter in Photoshop applied to her with a very heavy hand.
But there's no law against that, is there? Wearing a tiny little tank top and a tiny little skirt and some platform boots and looking kinda played out? Maybe there ought to be a law, but there isn't one yet.
Like Wanda Sykes' character said in Pootie Tang:
You think that just cuz a girl likes to dress fancy and stand on the corner next to some 'hos, that she's hookin?
I got back from tubing with my judgement considerably clouded. Somebody had been getting stupid with the "Whiskey" filter in Photoshop, and it was making it pretty hard to get my key into the lock on the first try.
An attractive lady approached me, pushing a bicycle. She was wearing a short skirt and a tiny tank top. "Hey, man," she breathed, gazing me up and down. "What you up to tonight?"
We got a 'ho in the building. You can just tell.
It's almost like a completion of the neighborhood, in a way. Like there goes the mailman, the fire truck, the garbageman, and the 'ho. We got the whole Urban Fisher Price set now.
Underneath the jokes, this is really disturbing. I want to call someone and make the whole situation go away. And if I were to call the cops, they might come arrest her, and her dreadlocked pimps if they're really ambitious. But that's not what I want. It's not going to fix the problem.
I want someone to come rappelling out of the sky and treat her disease, render her free of addiction and restore her sense of self-respect. When I say I want the problem gone, I want the REAL problem gone.
I haven't seen her around lately. I went out of town for a few days, though. Maybe someone came swooping in and carried her off to a rehab facility where all her real problems are being fixed at their roots, and she'll emerge a saddened but wiser and more hopeful member of society.
Then again, maybe not.