I was at Manifest Discs shopping for pop punk CDs at 16 years old. I flipped through the Punk section (you could tell it was the punk section because a drawing of a safety pin on neon green construction paper was elevated above the rack on a popsickle stick), found a few suitably angsty records, and made my way towards the register. The woman behind the register smirked as she scanned the CD cases. She was wearing a leather jacket with patches and spikes, camo pants, and pink hair. I smiled at her, but she just wanted to know if I would be paying in cash or credit. I didn't carry cash, so I told her I'd be using my debit card, and again she smirked.
I was parked on the far side of the parking lot, near busy South Boulevard. I saw that the vehicles in the right lane of traffic going south was swerving into the next lane to avoid a broken-down Chevy. Poor guy was about a quarter mile down the sidewalk, so I walked up to him to see if he needed a ride anywhere, maybe to an auto parts store and back, maybe home. A woman walked by as we had our conversation. He didn't need a ride, but he thanked me and shook my hand. He was dressed well, and I noticed his cuff-links, made with some black jewels.
I jogged back to my car, passing the woman who had passed our conversation on the sidewalk. "You could give me a ride, if you wanted." I turned to look at her. She was attractive but looked sunk. Approaching middle age, she was wearing a low tank-top and jean shorts, walking in high heels on a busy Charlotte road in broad daylight. I said all right and led her to my car.
My passenger seat was rarely free of debris. I had to move some books and bags to the back seat to make room for the woman. Among the books were my Biology 101 textbook and my ESV Bible. I heard her breath in my ear. She climbed in; I closed the door on her carefully and walked around the back of the car. Once inside, I unwrapped one of the CDs, put it in the CD player, adjusted the volume to a moderate level, and asked her where to. "Where to?" she parroted. I repeated myself. "Well...turn right, I guess." Her voice was gravely, and I could tell she was a heavy smoker.
We cruised down South Boulevard a couple miles, and I asked which lane I should be in. She raised a penciled eyebrow at me. "Turn right." It seemed like a strange place to turn, but I did, and during the turn she put her hand on my knee, slowly dragging it up my leg. She gave me some more seemingly random directions, and I noticed we were passing many secluded buildings outside the normal patrol of law enforcement. I noticed also that we were passing the same buildings every few turns, circling South Boulevard like one caught in a whirlpool. Her fingers were cresting my inner thigh when I realized the woman was a prostitute. It was then that I informed her of my age.
Her hand changed course immediately, as did the nature of her directions. In minutes we were outside a dingy apartment, and she was thanking me for the ride. She and her girlfriend were just going to start a movie upstairs. Did I want to come? I answered no very feebly, my hand gripping the five-speed like a lifeline. Come on, all it would cost me was time. Again I politely declined, and she changed her hips towards the concrete stairwell, smiling back at me on her way.
I peeled out of the complex, turned back onto South Boulevard, and was almost immediately pulled over. The officer cowboyed over to my half-rolled-down window and asked through his mustache if I knew why he had stopped me this evening. I spluttered that it was a misunderstanding. He was afraid it wasn't. His hand slipped down to his belt, just outside of my field of vision. Was he reaching for his gun? The following three seconds were as long as his stache. His gloved fingers returned to my field of vision clutching a pink ticket pad. I saw he was grinning. "Didn't use your blinker, kid."
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