Dinner time at 514 and super fried rice is on the menu. I drive to University Crossings to pick up Evan and Anthony who bring the rice cooker and some ingredients. After dropping them off at The Fresh Grocer to pick up some remaining items, I park outside my apartment and get out of the car. While gathering the cooker and food, a woman approaches me. The 30- to 40-something Latina woman, sporting a bowling ball gut, asks me in a soft voice if I can do her a favor.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Well, you see, my car broke down at 42nd and Haverford and I need to get it towed. Can you give me a ride to a garage?”
A sign bright as a Broadway theater awning appeared before my eyes: Story Time! “Sure, let me just drop my things off inside.”
I run inside and drop the rice cooker and paper Trader Joe’s bag on the kitchen table without a word, then barrel back down the stairs and out the two apartment doors. I unlock the door as I cross the street and we both get into my car. Fear Before’s self-titled album picks up where I left off and we drive up 43rd Street.
“Thank you so much, you don’t know how much this means to me! My car is rather old, it’s an ‘88 Celica and it broke down on me. I like your car, this is very nice. Do you go to school here? What are you studying?” She’s rather gesticulate and touches my arm at least once every other sentence. “Wow, you must be really smart. Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Eh, they come and go. Cycle of life.”
We drive up 42nd street and after 20 questions, I ask her where I can find this garage. She tells me it’s just up this road and points ahead as we near Lancaster Ave.
“They say they’ll tow my car for $60, but I only have $50.” She touches my arm. “Would you mind lending me the extra to cover it?”
“Ahh, I’m afraid I don’t have any cash on me. I’ve become to reliant on my credit card; I don’t go anywhere I can’t use it!” We turn left onto Lancaster Ave, now heading out of the city.
“Oh okay. Maybe we can find an ATM somewhere.”
“Sure, when we get to the garage I’ll ask where we can find one. Where did you say the garage was?”
“It’s back that way,” she says and points to 4 o’clock.
“What? Let’s just go there then.”
“No, we should go to the ATM first.”
“You know what,” I reach for my wallet, “I might have cash after all. I get so used to not having cash that I often don’t remember when I do.” I open the wallet just enough to show a bill or two. “Yup, I do have some. Let’s go to the garage.”
“Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to make this up to you?” She touches my arm.
“No, that’s alright, it’s a small favor from one stranger to another.” I make the next right turn.
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”
She touches my leg.
She slides her hand up my leg.
“Nah, that’s alright. It’s no big deal, really.”
“Okay.” She looks around and notices the current song title displayed on the console. “‘Stay Weird,’ I like that.” We continue to drive west toward 42nd Street when we spot a Chinese restaurant ahead. “The garage is near here; make a right.” I turn right to head south on 42nd, but no more than half a block later, she remembers, “I think it’s actually the other way; turn around.”
We circle the block, returning to the corner at the Chinese restaurant where this time we make a left. We travel nearly a block this time when she informs me we’ve arrived at our destination. Our destination, apparently, has no buildings that look remotely like a garage. “Alright, can I have the money?”
“No, I’m going to go in with you and see how much it costs.”
“No, you can’t! They’re ghetto, they might think you have a lot of money or something.”
“So what? It’s business, if they want money, they’ll take my money.”
“No, no, no! Look, what if I leave everything here with you. Will you trust me then? Here! Here is my cell phone.” She puts her phone under my parking break.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“And my jewelry!” She takes off several bracelets and other jewelry, placing them beside her cell phone.
“Fine.” I hand her a crisp $10 bill and unlock the car. She steps out and I immediately lock the doors and turn off Fear Before. She begins crossing the street and I turn around to watch. Contrary to my expectations, she traveled hardly down the opposite sidewalk before stopping at a stoop and talking to two black boys (my age, give or take a few years). I turn away to avoid looking suspicious and I think of ways this could possibly end. A minute later, she knocks on my window and I let her back into the car. “This is the wrong place, it’s actually back that way,” referring to the direction we came from.
A u-turn and a block later, we’re back at the Chinese restaurant where she instructs me to stop. I park near a corner and let her out again, keeping watch over her valuables again. She approaches a man on a bicycle and they stroll around the corner out of sight. I sit back and resume the album, anxious to tell my tale to everyone back in 514. A minute later, she returns.
“Everything taken care of?” I ask.
“Yes!”
“They’re gonna tow your car?”
“Yes.”
“And what, give you a ride back to your place?”
“Mmhm. You can take me to my car now.” We resume driving south on 42nd. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”
She touches my leg again.
“Mmm… no, that’s okay. Having this story to tell is worth the money.”
“Okay, but at least let me give you my number. Do you have a pen?”
“Yeah. I’ve got some sticky notes too, here.” I hand her my wide pad of sticky notes and a green dry-erase marker. “I use those sticky notes to flirt on the highway. It’s kind of a shame that nobody flirts back, but I guess not many people keep sticky notes in their car.”
She writes her name and number on the yellow note and caps the marker. “I want you to call me to make sure I get back safely. Will you call me around 10? I should be back by then.”
“Alright.” I fold the note and put it in my pocket.
“Thanks again, I really appreciate it!”
“No problem.” I unlock the car and she steps out. “Bye!”
—
9:45 and my belly is full of fried tofu, rice, pork and onions. Gero moves an intricately carved knight in our extended game of chess. Evan and Anthony finish up seconds of the king-sized meal as I push out my gut and breathe a content sigh. “It’s almost that time. How should we do this?”
“Dial star-6-7 before you call, make sure she can’t get your number,” says Obie from the couch. “Don’t want her tracking you down for more money.”
“Good idea. I’ll put it on speaker phone too.” Scenarios play out in my head like moves in chess. How will this go down? What do I say when she answers?
10 o’clock strikes the oven clock. “Alright, here we go.” Star, 6, 7, phone number… send.
Ring… ring… ring… oh god… ring… ring…
“Hello?” a deep voice answers. This doesn’t sound like the woman I helped.
“Hi, is Jen there?”
“Who is calling?”
“A friendly stranger.”
“What do you want?”
“Well, I gave her a ride to a garage earlier to have her car towed and she asked me to call her and make sure she arrived safely.”
“Oh… what’s your name?”
“It’s… not important.”
“Hold on.” Silence.
“You should’ve said ‘I’m Ron Mexico’,” said Evan. The room muffled a chuckle.
More silence.
It ends. The phone blinks the time duration and the phone number before returning to the home screen.
TL;DR – I picked up a prostitute.