Sunday, February 19, 2012

83. Free Enterprise

If C.W. had not appeared so energized, I wouldn’t relate the following. You see, I try to keep these reports “PG” rated, though it is hard at times.

He appeared last evening in the shape of a … well … a “floozy,” shall we say?

The young woman who appeared at my door was unmistakably commercial from her spike heels, through the fishnet stockings, the half-yard or so of satin material that covered her hips, and the low-cut blouse, to the huge pile of platinum-colored hair. She was “on the market.”

“Well,” she said, “You gonna ask me in or just examine the merchandise?”

“C.W.,” I began.

“Miss Tymber, with a ‘Y’, if you don’t mind,” she said, barging past. She deposited herself on the couch, keeping the “skirt” pulled as close as possible to modesty. “Come here and tell me your fantasy.”

I took a chair opposite her.


“Now hon, I’m not going to tell you again.”

I stared at her.

“Well, anyway,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “Just know that I will do anything you wish for a hundred dollars.” She smiled.

I continued to stare.

“Now hon,” she said. “That is where you are supposed to say ‘Fine, paint my house.’”

“C.W.,” I said, “That joke has been around for ages.”

“Now hon,” she said. “You call me that silly name one more time and we gonna have issues.”

“Issues?” I said. “Look at yourself.”

She looked hurt. “I may be a working girl, but I got feelings.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“That’s better,” she said. “Now I got some questions for you.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Well,” she said. “The police have been hounding me, saying I break the law when I sell my body for money.”

“That is my understanding.”

“Well,” she said. “I been looking into it, and if I had a camera crew with me, it ain’t bein’ a who …,” she stopped. “It would not be selling my body but creating art.”

“You mean pornography?”

“You are so crude,” she said, appearing to be genuinely hurt. “That’s the kind of attitude that got me into this business.” She retrieved a tissue from her purse and dabbed an eye. “It’s your silly definitions.”


“Definitions,” she said. “See, I was married once but my husband kicked me and the baby out and moved his secretary in.”

“Kicked you out?” I forgot that I was talking to an alien.

“Divorced my ass. I had to take public assistance to feed the baby.” She dabbed an eye again. “Know what he called it?”


“He called it ‘welfare,’ and all the time he was claiming the tax deduction for interest on the house he and ‘Bambi’ were livin’ in.”

“Mortgage interest?” I said.

“Hell yes,” she said. “Now ain’t that welfare too?”

“Uh, no,” I said, struggling for an answer. “That’s, uh, that’s using tax policy to achieve social goals.”

And I was just offering directions!
- Tymber
“Yeah,” she said, “And what I do is just to give Mom a night off.” She dabbed her eyes again. “Tell, me,” she said. “Don’t old men make most of your country’s laws?”

What could I say, dear reader?

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