Oh Them Shoes

It's late afternoon. It's Friday. And it's payday.

The triple witching hour for prostitutes.

A few of the more industrious party girls are out working the boulevard as I drive home. Okay - I assume that they're prostitutes. In fairness, they might simply be scantily-clad young ladies in six inch come-fuck-me gold spiked heels who know the whip-thin weasel in the blue Trans-Am, and bend down through the passenger window for a quick negotiation - er, chat with him - before climbing in.

I'm wedged in traffic between a used-to-be-blue gardener's truck and a white convertible BMW who seems to think if he can narrow the distance between our bumpers to a micron, all will be right in his little world.

My window is down, a double edged sword. I can smell L.A. Citrusy eucalyptus. The Sees Candy factory. Hillside chaparral. A pungent cloud of spices wafting from Los Camerones... I can hear the city too. Spanish radio - spoken mas rapido. Rap trapped inside a Honda pounds against the windows trying to escape. Somewhere, blocks away, a siren.

It's all too much for Mr. BMW. He leans out of his car, tries to see around traffic, slumps back behind his wheel, and presses his horn with both hands.

Oh yeah - that helps. Now that you've worked your magic, traffic will miraculously clear.

Go back to the Westside where you belong, moron.

We're not moving anytime soon, so I check out the storefronts. That's when I see her. She's already past me, so I can't see her face, but oh god, her back has to be her best side. She's tall and she moves with athletic grace. Skin teddy-bear brown. Hair clipped short to her skull.

Oh honey, if I had an ass like that, I'd wear gold lame boyshorts that show off the under-cleavage of my perfect, tight, track star butt too. Each step she takes forward, I can see her ass cheek, the smooth skin of her thighs, the sway of her hips. I am enchanted, struck dumb by the sheer joy of watching her walk - for free! "Sweetheart," I want to yell out, "you could sell just that strut. Bottle it and let me drink it down! Let me snort the line of your legs."

But, seeing as I'm such a girl, the next thing I notice is that she's wearing the most perfect, killer, pair of patent leather boots on the face of the earth, and I want them! The heels aren't too high, just enough to force her to walk with the magnificent ass of hers thrust out to counter-balance. The patent leather is so glossy that pure white light halos gleam on the curve of her calves.

I'm so jealous that I start hoping she's a CD. For some reason, if it's a guy, it makes it okay that he has better shoes than I do. I inch forward along with traffic, hoping to get far enough ahead to get a package check in front, and maybe ask where she found the boots. I almost cut into another lane to get closer, but Mr. BMW jerks forward into the spot. Cursing, I check for my streetwalker. She's almost to the corner.

And the weirdest thing - there's another party girl coming from the opposite direction and she has on the same boots! What are the odds? Will it cause a fashion singularity if they see the other one? What is prostitute etiquette? Does one of them have to go home and change shoes if they work the same corner? Do they stalk in opposite direcitons in a huff? Do they duke it out?

Ooh - girl fight!

I burn to know, but the light changes. I drive away before they come together. Now I'll never know.

Damn BMW driver. Next time, stay off the fucking horn.