“I’ll meet you at Jerry’s, I’m just gonna fuck this guy real quick so I can get cab fare!” the woman yells across the street, and I’m tempted to just floor it before she can get in. Unfortunately, the guy who’ll presumably be paying her is already in, and he’d be pissed. At least he probably has cash.
He tells me to take them to a nearby hotel, but before we can get more than two blocks, he has me turn the cab around so the woman “can talk to her nieces.” I do so, and the woman directs me to a drug corner where she gets out and has an animated discussion with two large men who eventually hand her something after she gives them money. She’s overjoyed when she gets back in the car and her purse is still there, the pictures of her kids inside.
“Wow, you’ve got kids?” asks the man.
“I got six, two pairs of twins and two singulars,” she says.
“Two pairs of twins and two singulars,” she repeats.
“Wow, life is such a miracle.”
“I guess I’m glad I had ’em,” she mutters.
“Can I see their pictures?” he asks.
“Yup. See the ones that look alike? They’re the twins.”
“Wow, I need to get some kids soon.”
And while parts of me are amused, and others are horrified, I’m mostly fascinated by the psychology of a man who asks to see pictures of his prostitute’s children.