312. Professions

“Let’s see. Cost of equipment per client. Rental fees. Personnel costs. Training. What else?”

Oh no. I could tell by the dialogue that C.W. was onto another of his get rich schemes. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even think they use money on Falloonia. I turned and tried to slip away, but he heard me. Unfortunately,

“Hey Big Dope. Come here. You will want in on this. Don’t you have a good friend who is a cinematographer?”

I contemplated running away, but I get a kick out of his schemes sometimes, so I walked into the next room to fine a perfectly formed shape of what Cecil B. DeMille must have looked like in his prime. He was pouring over sheets of paper and scribbling with a furious intensity that reminded me of a schoolboy running out of time on a test.

“What the …?”

He looked up and flashed a smile. “How much do those little gadgets cost that you can hook up to a cell phone and make credit card charges?”

I ignored him. “What are you doing?”

“Working on a plan to make us rich.” He drew a line under a column of figures with a flourish and smiled again. “To an extreme and often disgustingly extent rich.”

“So how are we going to become filthy rich this time?”

“Prostitution.”

That stunned me. “Prostitution?”

“Actually prostitution plus.”

“Prostitution is illegal almost everywhere in this country,” I said. “You are going to get us all arrested.”

“Oh no,” he said, “and besides, they can’t imprison me. I’ll just change to an insect and fly out.”

“Some folks around here already think of you as an insect, so don’t press your luck in a house with so many fly swatters.” Then I thought. “But what about me? I couldn’t fly out of jail so what would happen to me?”

“I’ll change into a priest and bring you reading material,” he said. “But anyway, nobody is going to get arrested.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Prostitution Plus,” he said. “That’s what we’ll call it.”

“And how does that make a difference? Prostitution by any other name is still illegal.”

“Ah yes,” he said. “But art films depicting intimate behavior among consenting adults is not.”

“You mean porn films?”

“We prefer the term ‘results of vintage adult situations,’ as more sophisticated,” he said. “Now, here’s the deal. How does a prostitute normally approach a john?” He laughed. “That’s what we call them in the business: ‘Johns.’ Is that cute or what? I would prefer ‘chumps,’ and Mrs. Big Dope agrees.”

“You mentioned his to her?”

“Yes. I had to ask someone how working women or men approached their chumps, …  uh, … Johns, … uh prospects.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said to ask you.”

“Let’s just stop this right now,” I said. “We’re still talking about accosting someone with a proposal for participating in an illegal act.”

“Isn't it odd among your species," he said, that politicians can sell their souls for money but people can't rent their bodies for pleasure? Anyway, so a person says to a stranger, 'Hey mister. Want to make an art film?' That’s an illegal proposal?”

That stopped me. “Well,” I said, “what about the sex?”

“Incidental,” he said. “Just part of the plot line.”

“But the, uh, John will pay?”

“Of course, but only for the studio, equipment rental, actor’s fee, and the cost of the complimentary copy of the DVD.”

I let that one pass since my mind was whirling.

“So?” he said. “You considering it?”

“No,” I said. “I’m having a ‘John Agar Moment’ and I have to think.”

If she is a senator offering to sell her vote,
then it's a perfectly legal act. How odd. - C.W.

“You mean that actor that played in the science fiction movies years ago with all the monsters and such?”

“Yes.”

“So what moment do you refer to?”

“The moment at which his girlfriend comes up with a way to destroy the monster.”

C.W. thought. “And what does he say?”

“It just might work.”


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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.

“C.W.”

“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?”

“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?”

“What?”

“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?