BAD FICTION AND DIRTY LAUNDRY: CONTEMPLATING THE HOOKERS ON VAN BUREN STREET

By Grant McGee

Tyler was horny.

Tyler had been horny for quite some time.

It had gotten to where he didn’t like being horny because he would beat himself up inside his head that he had married another who came into the relationship with a complete figurative luggage set of issues.

And who didn’t like sex?

As he drove through the warm Phoenix night he remembered the last time he had sex.  He didn’t remember it for it being memorable, he remembered it because it had been so long ago, almost 3 years.

The last time Tyler had sex was November 4, 2001 when the local baseball team, The Arizona Diamondbacks, won the World Series.

Dottie, that was Tyler’s wife’s name…Dottie, Dottie had been in the living room sitting in her recliner where she spent most of her time, remote in hand.  She had been watching the World Series.  It was game 7.

Tyler was in the bedroom reading the newest edition of “Rolling Stone” when all of a sudden there was a tremendous “WOO HOO!” from the living room.

“What?  What?” asked Tyler putting down his magazine.

“DIAMONDBACKS WIN!” yelled Dottie.  She had gotten out of her recliner and was dashing into the bedroom.  “COME HERE LOVERBOY!”

Dottie thundered into the bedroom and flung herself on the bed into Tyler’s arms.

Tyler didn’t know why a Diamondbacks win would get Dottie all excited.  Was it a jolt of testosterone? Adrenaline?  In moments he didn’t care because he was having The Sex.

Now here it was almost 3 years later and he was so horny he pondered divorce.

But Tyler didn’t want divorce.

To Tyler, a divorce from Dottie would be more of a reflection on him than on Dottie.  He thought about being the common denominator in half-a-dozen failed relationships over the years.  And he didn’t like dealing with lawyers and paperwork anyway.

Tyler was finished for the day at the power company.  It was dark.  Here he was driving through the Phoenix night.

Tyler headed for Van Buren Street.

Van Buren Street in Phoenix is where hookers, streetwalkers ply their trade.

Once a bustling thoroughfare for Phoenix’s visitors…full of motels and restaurants…the boulevard fell into decay when the rocketing interstate through the city was finished in the 1970’s.

Now Van Buren Street was a bustling thoroughfare for hookers, drug dealers and their customers.

Tyler cruised down the boulevard in the warm night.

And he looked.

They came in all shapes, sizes, ages, colors.  Some of the streetwalkers looked like battle-hardened veterans, others looked like they did it as a sideline to pay college tuition.

He was curious that some had sleeping bags flung over their shoulders.  The purpose was clear:  Do business with me, we head off to some secluded spot in a glass strewn lot or abandoned building and I have a sleeping bag to lay on.

Tyler confused himself.  On one hand he found nothing strange about stopping and doing something with one yet he wondered why someone would turn to a prostitute.

Then Tyler thought about the prostitutes, that surely they were messed up in the head to ply their streetwalking trade in the first place.  Why?  Had they been abused as children?  Did they need cash that desperately?

And yet, what was the difference between a hooker, a guy who had night after night of one night stands or a woman of easy virtue?

And then there was the police.  Tyler knew with his luck he’d probably pick one out of the crowd that was an undercover cop.

These things ran through Tyler’s head as he drove down Van Buren Street.

Tyler picked up his cellphone and called Clark.

Clark was Tyler’s old pal, a guy who was more like a brother to him than his own brother.

Clark had told him tales of growing up in west Texas.  That the first time Clark had The Sex was at a whorehouse in Amarillo.

“I was just out of high school, getting ready to go into the Navy and my buddies took me up there,” he said as he started laughing.  “She was LOUD and was hollering.  Telling me I was the greatest she’d ever had and all that bullshit.  I’m 18 and believing every word.”

Tyler held the phone to his ear as he drove down Van Buren Street.

“Hello,” Clark was on the line.

“HEEEY!” Tyler yelled.  “HAVE YOU HEARD FROM SAMMY?”

“NOOOO,” Clark yelled back.

Sammy was Tyler and Clark’s pal who decided he needed to change his life so he moved to Salt Lake City and stopped all communication with all  his old friends.  Asking if either had heard from Sammy was Tyler and Clark’s standard greeting.

“Hey brother,” said Tyler.  “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had The Sex?”

“Do I want to have this conversation?” asked Clark.

“THREE YEARS!  THREE YEARS!  The last time was when the Diamondbacks won The World Series.”

“I remember you told me about that.  That Dottie’s a strange one, but then you have this uncanny ability to find the crazies.”

“Love you too, man!” said Tyler.  “Listen, what if I told you I was pondering an adventure with a hooker?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Clark.

“But you did,” said Tyler.

“Yeah, little brother, but that was another time, another place.  It was the 1960’s.  Hooking was a bit more respected, if you can say that.  Then came the drugs and everything went to hell.”

“Hmmmmm,” said Tyler.

“But,” said Clark, “If you really want to…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s real simple,” said Clark.  “You find one, take her back to a cheap motel, go to the room, sit a bit, talk about whatever you want to talk about then suggest having a shower.  And when you go in there rub her back.  Things kind of take off from there on their own.”

Tyler thought about Clark’s technique.

“HEY,” yelled Clark, “You still there?”

“Yeah,” said Tyler.

“You really need to let this one go,” said Clark.  “It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said.  “But I’ve spent 5 years of my life in this thing.”

“Write it off, bro,” Clark said.  “Chalk it up as another lesson on the journey.  AND DON’T DO IT AGAIN.  Stop jumping into relationships just because you think the chick likes you.  Damn, you remind me sometimes of a stray dog… ‘Oh?  You like me?  Can I come home with you?’”

They both laughed.

“MAYBE SAMMY WILL CALL YOU SOON!” yelled Tyler.

“YEAH, MAYBE HE WILL,” yelled Clark.

“Love ya man,” said Tyler.

And Clark was gone.

Tyler pulled over just down the street from a corner where there were 6 or so hookers.

Tyler thought about his marriage to Dottie.  It wasn’t just the missing sex, it was the missing of everything.  Dottie basically used their house as a crash pad, not a home.  She spent a lot of time on the Internet.  She spent many a night hanging out at bars with her gal pals.  Where was the companionship?  Where was the intimacy?

Tyler sat in his car and looked down the street.

One of the girls turned and spied him. 

She started walking toward Tyler.

She walked up to Tyler’s window.

“Need some company tonight?”

Tyler turned and looked at her.  He looked in her eyes.  She was a strawberry blonde, she had freckles.

“Why do you do this?” Tyler asked.

She smiled.

“You a cop or something?”

“No,” said Tyler.  “Just curious.”

“Let’s do some business.  It costs money to hear my story.”

Tyler smiled.

“Naw,” said Tyler, “I’m going home, I have some business to take care of.  But thanks for asking.”

“You bet, honey.”  She turned and walked back down the street.

Tyler fired up the engine and turned toward a new adventure.

                                                                -30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: A CORONA IN CORONA

                                                     Downtown Corona, New Mexico




By Grant McGee

Corona, New Mexico.   It’s one of those New Mexico towns that used to be something but now it’s not.   Corona is one of those “blink and you miss it” towns of rural New Mexico…a town made up of a row of run-down buildings on one side of the highway and BNSF train tracks on the other.  The fact of the matter is the famous UFO crash of 1947 happened closer to Corona than to Roswell.  It should’ve been called “The Corona Incident” but Roswell had the big ol’ airbase and that’s where the crash was reported.

Me?  I remember Corona as a place where I almost got caught in the crossfire of a barroom fight.

Back when I lived in Roswell I used to pick up extra money by disc jockeying community and high school dances. Corona High School had hired me and my fellow disc jockey, the Legendary Wayne K. to play the tunes for their end-of-the-school-year dance.

Wayne and I rolled into town around sunset. We had a couple of hours to go before we were scheduled to work the dance. Wayne looked up and down the main drag of Corona and saw a beer joint. “I’ve always wanted to have a Corona in Corona,” he said.

We walked into the one-roomed honky-tonk and had a seat in a booth at the back. Dim light illuminated a classic New Mexico roadhouse scene: Guys who were still dirty and gritty from a hard day’s work hunkered over their beers, guys leaning on their pool cues knocking balls around to a small audience around the billiard table, their legs propped up on chairs.  The bartender was behind the bar wiping things down with a white cloth.

Wayne was enjoying a Corona from the bottle, I was having a Coke.  Wayne and I were talking about stuff when his attention was diverted by two men at the bar, arguing in Spanish. Wayne stopped talking, his brow furrowed.  Now, I didn’t understand Spanish then, but the body language was enough for me and it said these guys weren’t pals.

Wayne understood Spanish. “It seems standing guy is mad because sitting guy is the new boyfriend of standing guy’s ex,” he said, leaning over the table and talking low.

I remember thinking how bizarre things get…you’re just kicking back minding your own business and trouble pops up.

Suddenly, from out of his pocket, standing man produced a li’l ol’ pistol.

Then the most amazing thing happened. No sooner had standing man pulled his “Saturday night special” than the guys playing pool slammed down their cues and grabbed him.  In the blink of an eye the bartender vaulted the bar and put himself between the two men.

It all happened quicker than a snap of the fingers, almost like these men had rehearsed it. These guys weren’t going to let some angry dude mess up their good time at their favorite beer joint. The pool players escorted standing man out the door. Sitting man returned to his beer.   Soon the pool players and the bartender came back in.  The guys returned to their pool table, the bartender went back to wiping things down with his white cloth.

“Well,” I said. “Wasn’t that something?”

Wayne arched his eyebrows and went back to enjoying his Corona in Corona.

Maybethat's the kind of thing that happens at a lot of beer joints, just like having a bottle thrown at you for playing the wrong song on the jukebox. But that’s another story.
                                                -30-

TRUCKIN' DAYS: THE GREATEST PICKUP LINE EVER

                        Actual factual photo of Roosevelt Avenue, San Diego (National City)

By Grant McGee

The naval base at San Diego is a trucker’s dream stop.

There was a supermarket, McDonald’s, Burger King, a laundromat, a movie theater…everything a trucker would need for a layover.  Get some laundry done, stock up on groceries, grab some eats and watch a movie while you’re waiting for the next load.

This is where I found myself bringing a load of who-knows-what to the U.S. Navy at San Diego.  This is also where I heard the world’s greatest pickup line.

I had arrived in San Diego with my Trinidadian co-driver Frank. 

Our load was set up to take to different warehouses on the base.  When we got to the last delivery it was the end of the work day, 4:30, and no one answered the door.

“We shall just have to go park up at that supermarket,” said Frank in his Trinidadian accent.

“A most excellent idea!” I said.  I had seen all the good stuff around the store.  I was going to shop, do some laundry and get some munchies.

We pulled in to a big parking lot, I pulled on the air brake and shut ‘er down.

It seemed like no sooner had we turned the engine off then there was a “BAM-BAM-BAM” on the driver’s side door.

I looked out the window.

It was a military cop.

“Yes sir,” I said with a smile.

“You can’t stay here, sir,” said the cop.

“We have a load to deliver here in the morning, we got to this place,” I had my papers out and was pointing to the last entry on the page, “and they’re closed.”

“Well unless you’re delivering weapons you can’t stay overnight on the base.”

I looked off in the distance then looked back at the cop.

“But there’s no place for truckers around here,” I said.  “The only place I know of is down on the Mexican border, and it’s pretty rough.”

“Most guys park up on Roosevelt Avenue,” said the cop.  “It’s wide and lots of room for trucks.”

“You can’t pretend we’re hauling weapons?” I said with a smile.

“No sir,” the cop wouldn’t crack a smile.  “You have to leave the base and come back tomorrow.”

So after getting directions from the cop on how to get to Roosevelt Avenue I fired the rig back up and rumbled away from the San Diego navy base.

We followed the cop’s directions, we turned this way, went down this freeway and that boulevard and soon I turned the big rig on to Roosevelt Avenue…a wide street that ran alongside Interstate 5 for a couple of miles.  There wasn’t any traffic, there was plenty of room for a big rig to park, it was lined with motels…it was everything the cop said it was.

And then some.

But that would come later.

I had the pick of anyplace I wanted to park on Roosevelt Avenue, there weren’t any other trucks there.  So I pulled the rig so the cab was under a big ol’ shade tree, yanked on the air brake and shut ‘er down.  I had a snack and went back to the sleeper to relax and read.

I fell asleep.

When I woke up I heard Frank talking up front.  I could tell he was talking to someone outside the rig.  I got up from my bunk, pulled the curtain back and saw a whole different Roosevelt Avenue.

The sun was setting on a street now filled with big rigs parked up on down the line.

There were women making their way from rig to rig.  There were guys doing the same, moving their eyes from side to side as they talked to the drivers.

“Hookers and drug dealers,” I mumbled.

Yeah, everything the cop said and more.

Frank was still talking out the window.  I leaned over and looked.  Two women, short skirts, outrageously high heels, low cut blouses revealing serious cleavage.

I tapped Frank on the shoulder.

Frank turned around.

“Frank,” I said, “They ain’t coming in here.”

“What?”

“No sir,” I said.  “It could be a ruse.  You let them in here it might be just a way to get in and rob us.  Why are you talking to them anyway?”

“I am getting prices,” said Frank.

“But you’re married,” I said.

Of course, I could see Frank’s point.  I had met Frank’s wife during a stop in Houston where he lived.  She was kind of scary looking, like maybe she was a Trinidadian voodoo priestess.  She had a normal looking, slightly overweight body but she had this little head.  It looked like someone had taken a skull, covered it with some skin and stuck it on the wrong sized body.  Plus she had this eye, her right eye wandered.  It was like if you were talking to her her left eye would be looking at you but the right eye would be looking somewhere else.

And she never completely closed her mouth so her teeth were always showing.  Yeah, like a skull.

“You ARE still married, aren’t you?” I asked.

Frank turned away from the women in the street and looked at me.  It was at this time he uttered what I consider to be The World’s Greatest Pickup Line or the best excuse for getting a little “randy.”

“The Lord has blessed me with a great sex drive, and I must use it to his glory,” said Frank.

I stood there stunned.  I smiled.

It helps to know that Frank was born Hindu in Trinidad.  Somewhere in the past few years he had switched over to Christianity.  Frank saw God everywhere.  One night while rumbling across Wyoming I had pondered the stars and other civilizations “out there” to which he stated there was nothing else out there, “The Lord made the stars and the moon so we wouldn’t be so lonely at night.”

Frank would often insist that he and I pray every time before we headed down the highway with a load.  His words might be, “Lord, my brother Grant and I are angry with each other right now but please watch over us as we deliver this next load…”

One time I remarked about being lucky at winning a scratch off lottery ticket.

“Oh no, Grant, there is no such thing as luck,” said Frank.  “Blessings.  You are blessed.”

“The Lord has blessed me with a great sex drive, and I must use it to his glory.”  Coming from Frank it seemed quite natural and sincere.

I could imagine this line being used at a bar.  I could see some guy with no boundaries whispering this to a “Sunday Kind of Woman” walking down a church hallway after Wednesday evening Bible study.  Hell, it could be used anywhere.

I laughed.

“Dude,” I said.  “Do what you want, I’m going for a walk.”

When I came back to the rig Frank was gone.  Night had fallen on San Diego.  I crawled in my bunk and went to sleep.

I woke the next day to a traffic jam across the chain link fence on the interstate.  Frank was asleep in his bunk.

I rolled down the windows to let the fresh morning air in, even though it was laced a bit with car exhaust.

Somewhere in the tree limbs above a mockingbird was singing it’s heart out welcoming the new day.

There were thousands of cars just a few feet away and this mockingbird didn’t give a damn, it was going to sing its morning song.

I put my feet up on the dash and listened.

And pondered if one day I might use The Greatest Pickup Line Ever.

                                                                                -30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: MY NEIGHBORS THE BLUE BANDANA GANG

By Grant McGee

I once lived in the same apartment complex as some folks who belonged to The Famous Blue Bandana Gang.

There wasn’t any fanfare or anything.  They didn’t arrive in thundering motorcycles or lowrider cars bouncing up and down. 

Nope.

One morning I walked out to get on my scooter to go to work and there was a guy wearing a blue bandana standing on the other side of the parking lot.

He was packing heat.  A big ol’ .45 or Glock or something that looked like that strapped to his side.

As I rode by on my scooter I waved at the guy.  He returned the gesture with a quick upward flick of his head.

After work I eased on in to the parking lot at home and there was a different guy wearing a blue bandana.  He was packing heat too.  I waved.  He gave me a quick upward flick of his chin.

I guess they didn’t feel any threat from some skinny dude riding a 150cc scooter.

I settled in for the evening on my condo patio with a book and a beverage when Muriel came walking by.  Muriel was a neighbor, a retired elementary school teacher who always seemed to attract kids wherever she went.  The condo complex kids were always over at her place.  She’d let them color, paint, laugh…

“Hey Muriel,” I said.

“Hi.”

“When did the Blue Bandanas move in?”  I asked Muriel because she always seemed to know what was going on in the condo complex.

“Over the weekend,” she said.  “They’re from L.A.”

“Should I be worried?”

“I don’t think so,” she turned and looked off in the distance.  “Their kids are just like other kids.”

“They’ve been over to your place already?”

“Sure,” she looked at me and smiled. “Sweet kids.  You know, maybe by them being here we actually might not have graffiti and theft problems, I mean who’s going to come steal stuff in the home turf of The Blue Bandanas?”

“You have a point,” I said.

Muriel turned and walked to her place.

The months passed.  I went to work every week.  I’d wave at the morning Blue Bandana guy as I left and wave at his replacement when I came home.  I was always met with the same response, an upward flick of the chin.

Soon it was Christmastime.  December in Phoenix was still sitting-out-on-the-patio weather.  One afternoon after work I was on my patio with a book and a libation when Muriel came strolling by in her usual long gray hair, flowsy flowery blouse, maxi skirt and sandals holding a foil covered platter.

She stopped outside my place.

“C’mon,” she said.  “I’m taking some cookies to The Blue Bandanas, come on and go with me, it’ll be a cultural experience.”

I put my book down slowly.

“You’re taking cookies to The Blue Bandanas,” I said slowly looking her right in the eye.

“Oh come ON,” she said rolling her eyes.  “They’re just people like you and me.  Look at them like a big ol’ family.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m always on for some adventure.”

I got up, joined Muriel on the sidewalk and away we strolled to the home of The Blue Bandanas.

We walked across the parking lot and headed straight for the guy standing guard.

As Muriel approached a smile broke across his face.

“Ms. Thompson, how you doin’?”

I didn’t know the guy could talk.  I didn’t know he could smile.

“Hey Armando,” Muriel said.

She knew his name, this was interesting.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked looking at the foil covered plate.

“Chocolate chip cookies for Christmas,” she said.

“Oooo, can I have one?” 

“Sure honey, take two,” she said as she lifted the foil.  Underneath was a huge mound of chocolate chip cookies.  I reckoned there were four dozen there.  Armando took one.

“Gotta leave more for the kids,” said Armando.  “Hey, you go on in there.  They’ll be surprised.”

Muriel put the foil back on the plate and headed for one of the nearby condos.

She walked right up and knocked on the door.

In moments it was opened by another guy wearing a blue bandana real low on his forehead.

His face lit up with a big smile.

“Heeeey, Mrs. Thompson, come on in.”

Muriel lead the way into a room filled with people.  There must’ve been a dozen little ones on the floor in a big pile watching cartoons and young folks resplendent in jeans, leathers and blue bandanas sitting together on a wraparound couch.

“Mrs. T!” the kids seemed to scream all at once and they swarmed around her.

The twentysomethings on the couch broke into smiles.

“I brought Christmas cookies for all.  Chocolate chip.”

“Are they just for the kids or can we have some too?” asked one of the couch sitters.

“Of course,” said Muriel.  “I think I made enough for all.”

And so there I stood in the living room of a home belonging to members of The Famous Blue Bandana gang. 

It really was like what Muriel said, they were like a big family.

Soon, the cookies were gone.  Muriel gave goodbye hugs to the kids and goodbyes to their parents and friends and we were out the door.

“Have a good night Mrs. Thompson,” said Armando as we walked by. 

I stopped and turned to Armando and extended my hand.

“My name’s Grant,” I said as Armando and I shook.

“Oh yeah,” he said.  “We know you live here, but we all call you ‘Scooterman.’  You look funny, such a tall dude on such a small scooter.  You know who you’re hanging ‘round with?  That’s the ‘Angel of the Barrio.’  And if you’re hanging with her, you’re good peeps.”

Well now I knew I lived in the barrio.

And that I was a friend of the resident angel.

                                                                       -30-