Soccer Dad: Trollin' for Hookers

From Issue 202, October 2005

I was in a contemplative mood. It was a Thursday night and it had been three weeks since I had been dumped by my girlfriend of three years. I had The Cure’s “Pornography” in my head, even though I was listening to talk radio stories about the New Orleans disaster. There was a dying-summer scent in the air and I felt fucking old.

I got a call to Sapp Bros. Truck Stop over on California & I-215. As I pulled into the green and orange neon parking lot (Sinclair and Burger King––together!), I noticed a tall, older gentleman squatting/sitting near the front doors. It’s always nice when people wait out front in plain sight.

With the first words out of his mouth, he said, “Dude, I’m gonna be completely honest wit’ you, k? I need to cruise by the mission (I instantly deduced that he meant the shelter) and get a couple of things. I need you to wait (dramatic pause) and then I need a ride back. Is that gonna be cool? I can go ahead and leave ya a twenty while you be waitin’.” He then held up one hand with two twenties in it. His other hand held a nice, healthy chunk of twenties.

I began pulling out of the parking lot as I mulled it over. I was wary, but the sight of his money and his honest demeanor had loosened me up. Plus,
when I'm super sad my woman's intuition kicks in and I can feel people out better.  could just sort of recognize that he was an ok guy.

“Yeah, dude,” I said, “I could do that. I even know a nice place to park and wait about a block away.” It was true—mostly cause my friend, Harley, lives in the Bridge Projects across the street. Harley sometimes bitches bitterly about his vagrant neighbors.

So off we went, traipsing through the back streets of the West side. I learned that Carl was a trucker. Had been for twelve years. He had done five years at The Point of the Mountain for robbery before that. It had taken twenty years, he bragged, for him to get arrested, though. I was impressed. That’s a lot of unhindered stealing.

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