back door girl

Saturday was a record breaker here in Portland, with reports of temperatures over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It’s not surprising, then, that The Motel was hopping busy with troglodytes from all over the city checking in to escape the heat. Early afternoon was pretty quiet, however, other than this incident.

I was sitting at the desk, quietly reading a Neil Gaiman omnibus and enjoying the not one, but TWO air conditioners blasting away, when with my peripheral vision, I saw a red, Eighties hesher-type car (something t-topped, like a Firebird) drive up. Sighing, I got up to wait for a soon to be guest to walk in to the lobby, and was unsurprised when a hooker came in, barely dressed for the heat, while a mustachioed guy remained sitting in the driver’s seat outside. This was no ordinary transaction, however.

She came in saying, “Please help me get away from this creep; just stand here and talk to me for a minute until my friend gets here to pick me up.”
While she quickly phoned her friend, I obliged. After hanging up, she repeated that she just wanted to escape the creep in the car. I made conversation and got her a cup of water while she called her friend again (I’m thinking pimp, more likely).
“He’ll be here any minute, I swear,” she told me. Too impatient to wait, she asked whether we had a back way out of the lobby, something a lot of people assume we have, but all that’s attached to it is a conference room cum storage area and employee bathroom and the manager’s apartment. But, I have a lot of sympathy for these ladies of the night (as one of my co-workers enjoys referring to them), so instead of saying no, I told her, “There’s no door, but the back window opens onto the alley back there; I’m pretty sure you can get back onto the street that way, and he wouldn’t see you.”
“Could I really? Please?”
“Yeah, no problem,” I told her as I locked the cash drawer and led her over to the back room door.
“You rock, Schatzi!” she said gratefully.

I uncovered and unlocked the back window for the anxious hooker, as she cast apprehensive glances over her shoulder. We popped the screen off, she clambered through it, and skedaddled off, calling, “You’re the best! Thank you so much!”

I quickly locked it back up and covered it, then returned to the office, where I sat down to resume my reading after peeking gleefully at the unsuspecting hasher. Sure enough, he came in after another ten minutes of waiting.

“Could you call my friend and tell her I’m still waiting down here?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean? Just call her up for me. Tell her I’m down here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.”
With braggadocio: “Oh, I think you can.”
“No, I won’t, sir. And I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Aggressively: “Where’s your manager? Let me talk to him!”
“He’s not here today, sir, and you need to leave.”
Flustered: “You need to call the cops! She tells me she’s going to sell me pot and just leaves! Where is she?”
“Sir, if you feel you’ve been robbed, I suggest YOU call the cops to report the transaction, but you’ll have to do it somewhere else, because I’m asking you to leave. Now.”

He stomped out muttering, then peeled out. And I enjoyed a certain amount of satisfaction.

[Note: You might ask why I would possibly abet a crime (possible solicitation or drug dealing). Well, for the latter, while it was possible that the young lady had promised to sell him weed and had ditched him, I definitely felt the hooker vibe from her, and you develop quite a nose for it after long enough. Also, much like many of the cops I talk to when working, I empathize more strongly with the prostitutes who come here than with the pimps and johns.]

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One Response to “back door girl”

  1. I like how even if the guy’s story is the correct one that he thinks there should be some sort of honor in illegal activities.

    All business’ should have back alley exits for quick escapes.

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