My Prostitute Story By William Turbyfill

This is my one and only story with a prostitute that I am aware of.

It snowed for the past few days and the city of Tacoma only saw fit to plow every other street. Back then, I worked downtown at a call center and got off work at 1am. I walked to my car parked 3 blocks away listening to the spillover of a nearby club making raucous noises in the streets. My poor car. The driver side door was forever secure and needed me to enter the passenger side so that I might crawl over the gear shift in order to drive her.

Upon entering I noticed two things. The first thing was that the front windshield was frozen over. Not unexpected considering the weather and could be easily solved.
The second thing was a real bitch. Due to the cold and the forces of evil, the passenger side door would not shut. The latches or whatever wouldn’t latch or whatever and the door insisted on staying open. On the one hand the driver door would not open and literally on the other hand the passenger door would not close.

I started the car and began attacking the first problem with the defrost button. If things went as planned, the heat would clear the windshield and melt the coldhearted heart of the frost demon who kept my door from closing.

Then I heard a knock. I am not a small man. So when I say that the man standing outside my car was the biggest human being I had ever seen I want you to be impressed. He was large and he was drunk with a capital .9 over the legal limit.

“Give me a ride to Martin Luther Kang,” he did not ask. And yes, he said Kang.

“I’m not going anywhere near Martin Luther King,” I said. You know, like a liar.

Either the behemoth did not hear, did not understand or did not care because he walked over… he waddled over to the passenger side door and began filling my car with his body. Instinct kicked in and I went for my door, the door that was held in place with the gravity of a thousand suns. I was stuck.

I turned to await my fate and noticed for the first time that my new friend came with musical accompaniment. The MP3 player in his hand contained every single track of house music ever produced on a constant loop. Sadly, I assume, the volume button was malfunctioning. “Turn left,” he said as the beat played.

“I can’t turn left, sir.” This was true. Not only was that street both closed and not in the direction of Martin Luther King but I still could not see out the front windshield.

“Come on, man let’s go.” He wasn’t being a jerk. He just really wanted to go left and didn’t understand that it was not the best option for him. Like when a kid wants to eat a hamburger smothered in chocolate. You sympathize but you also know better.

“Look, I can’t see out the windshield so we’ll have to wait.” He began to get out of my car. I was relieved until I realized that his left foot stayed firmly planted in my floor board. This massive man was using his powerful paws to scrap away the ice on my windshield. It was almost admirable. As the beat played on.

A short time later he hopped back in and directed, “Turn left.”

He managed to clear some ice off the windshield in a space six inches across on the passenger side of the car. We waited while the defrost accomplished its one reason for existence.

25 minutes later I could finally see clear enough out of my windshield to not be a danger to myself or others. I said “I need you to hold that door closed.”


“Your door, it’s broken and I need you to hold it closed.”

“Okay little man, I got you.” With that we began our drive.

Because I knew every other road was completely frozen over I had to drive at a crawl and rethink how to get up the hill to Martin Luther Kang.

As we approached the corner or 24th and Pacific, we saw a woman crossing the street. She was a not young African American woman wearing a bikini top, short SHORT shorts and high heels. I waved her across indicating that I had no plans to run her over.

Just when I figured out my route up the hill I heard from my immediate right, “Yo baby, you wanna party?”

“Who’s he calling baby?” I thought. “And why would a baby want to party?”

Before I could answer these questions one hundred new ones crawled into my backseat with the aforementioned woman that was wearing too little.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I just need a ride?” She said.

“A what?”

“Just down the street about a mile.” It sucks to be burdened with an over active conscience sometimes. I figured if I was going to give Big Fella a ride, I couldn’t turn away a woman dressed like that on a night like this.

“Fine,” and I headed as she directed. For some reason, I can’t remember now, I had five or six bags of unpopped popcorn in the backseat of my car.

“Can I have these?” she asked. Years from now it will occur to you that under the circumstances that that was the weirdest question ever asked by a human being. In cases like that, the only answer possible is, “Sure.”

She scooped them all up with one arm and shoved them into her barely a top.

“Is this it?” I said pulling up to her intended location.

“Yep. This is good.” She remained seated in the car. And the beat played on.

“Is this where you wanted me to drive to?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, this is perfect.” And the beat played on.

“Well, have a good night.”

“Are you kicking me out?

“I thought I was dropping you off.” And then the puzzle pieces fell into place. I had what’s called a PROstitute in my car. I didn’t know what to do but the most deviant part of my brain did wonder for just a second what 6 bags of unpopped popcorn would get me.

“I thought you wanted to party,” she responded.

Before I could explain that it wasn’t me who had offered the party, Chewbacca interrupted. “Yo baby,” my co-pilot shouted to no one in particular, “You wanna go to Martin Luther Kang?”

“Sure thing honey.”

I did as I was told and took my growing party up the hill.

Only after I reached THE Martin Luther King did it dawn on me that Martin Luther King was quite a long street. “Ummm,” I ummed. “Where exactly on Martin Luther King do you want to go?”

“The AMPM!” he shouted with the most out of place enthusiasm ever mustered.

I hauled ass to reach the gas station 15 blocks away. My car launched into the parking lot and it felt like years were being added to my life as I watch the two of them get out of my car.

“Yo baby, you want some liqueur?”

“Sure thing honey.”

“Good. You’re buying.”

I hesitated for just a moment at the thought of leaving this woman stranded in the middle of nowhere with the Incredible Bulk but I quickly justified it. There were 5 to 10 people inside the gas station and the parking lot was well lit. Apparently, the AMPM is the place to be at 2am.

I began to speed away until heard the loud thud of my passenger side car door slam open.

My door stop had left.

I reached across the car to secure the door when the unpopped popcorn mogul hopped into my front seat.

“He wanted ME to buy alcohol,” she said as if no further explanation was necessary. “Can you just drop me back off where you picked me up?”

“Fine,” I said with such defeat as has never been matched. “Can you just hold the door shut for me?”

“Sure thing honey.”

I drove back down the hill looking for the corner where I had first encountered this woman. On the way she asked “Do you have any candy?”

Now, I really have no idea what ‘candy’ is but I am certain that I didn’t have it. I politely said “No.”

When I pulled up to the stop she turned to me and said “I fixed the door.” She had fashioned the seatbelt into an anchor of sorts around the door handle to hold it in place. “That should keep it good. I’m going to climb out the backseat.”

“Thanks,” I said genuinely, but not literally, touched by this woman’s kind gesture. As I considered going all Richard Gere by offering to save this sweet old woman from her life on the streets a fourth character entered our story. Some fella standing on the curb decided to come over and open my now tied off door.

I was shocked, scared and more than a little annoyed at the increasing bizarreness of my night. But before I could say or do anything, my newest co-pilot attacked. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THIS DOOR YOU PIECE OF SHIT BEFORE I RIP YOUR…”She continued on for a few more moments unleashing a slew of expletives.

When she was finished and the would-be intruder backed away she turned to me and said, calm as could be, “I do not like him. He is not a nice man. You have a good night sugar.”

This woman crawled into the back seat, through the back door and out of my life forever.

I didn’t even stop for traffic lights on my way home.