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Well . . . I can’t be absolutely sure she was a hooker.

 

lindafaye2

 

But really, any woman who gleefully, repeatedly shouts across a crowded bar “Today an old man gave me fifty bucks to eat my pussy!” should probably excuse one for thinking she might be a sex worker.

Also, she claimed her pimp had taught her to shoot pool.

She called herself “Linda Faye from the Bay.” She was probably pushing sixty — if she hadn’t already broken through. It was hard to tell. As they say: “black don’t crack.” She might have been forty-five; she might have been seventy.

She called to mind a more simple and perhaps literary time when working girls tried harder to create their own personal brands: A nice rhyming name might remind customers to ask for “Linda Faye from the Bay” next time they’re in town for the tire sales convention. I suppose her competition might have been “Hanna Atlanta” or “Buffalo Flo.”

Nowadays, it’s all done via email and text. They call themselves “Candy” or “Cinnamon” and list their email addresses (with plenty of X’s in them, of course) and phone numbers on various websites, complete with pictures, customer reviews, and descriptions of services offered.

Not that I’d know. I just heard. I’ve heard some things.

Linda Faye and I struck up a conversation thanks to an introduction made by one of my favorite bartenders. Linda Faye had been talking his ear off. He knows me well. My bartender friend later laughed and told me he thought I’d get a story or two out of it.

He was right.

Though I still think he was just trying to break away from her so he could serve other customers.

Let me tell you: she could talk. I’m an extrovert who has no problems doing burnouts and wheelies on a motorcycle in front of a crowd at Hooters while dressed-up like the blue Power Ranger. But still, there are some people who make me look like the fucking Unibomber in comparison.

Linda Faye had problems that went beyond her inability to reliably sink easy shots. I’m guessing that her pimp/pool teacher had let other ambitions distract from his instruction of the basics. Or maybe he just wasn’t that kind of “player” at all. But really, Linda Faye had some family issues.

“My son’s girlfriend is living with us in our apartment. But she’s got no job and she just sits around all day eating my food. I look at her and I say ‘Girl, with a body like THAT you ain’t got NO excuse!'”

“Exotic dancers can bring in close to $1000 a day sometimes,” I offered helpfully while trying to sink the 13 in the center. “You should take her over to Hi-Liter. Or Christie’s, even. ”

“I think she too lazy for that. Too conceited, too,” she pondered as she sent the cue ball down the corner pocket. She laughed. “This girl’s always primping. Real picky eater, too. Always concerned about her figure.”

“It’s good exercise. Pole-dancing is really athletic. And if she can do some good lap dancing, that’s where the money’s at,” I said, somehow wishing I had a cigar to chomp on while flexing my eyebrows. “Some of those guys think they’re married to those girls.”

I remembered watching one associate who over the course of a single afternoon surrendered his rent payment to a certain “Hunter.” Hunter had perfected her own love-bite technique. She used it to great effect while straddling him in a chair in that dark lounge that day while the DJ played Sevendust and Buckcherry.

Or maybe “love” was too strong a word. He had been hunted. Hunter found her mark.

As the conversation continued, it occurred to me that Linda Faye had problems common to many millions of other parents of grown children: Kid won’t leave the nest. Hangs with the wrong crowd. Brings home someone who doesn’t fit in and who basically mooches. Mom still loves the kid but he (or she) is not making things any easier.

“I tell you what, Linda,” I said in my best straight-talk tone. “I think you should tell that girl she needs to pull her weight. She’s going to sink all of you. So if she won’t kick in then you’re going to have to make your son make a decision like a man. Or make the decision for him.”

“I hear yah,” she said as she sank the 8-ball.