Hookers in the Rain

The call came in the early morning hours like they always do, concerning a transformer on fire, across the little piece of water in Portsmouth. The dash, underway, to later learn it was over before it started and once again, time was wasted at my expense.

But the drive into Norfolk was enlightening, after braving the elements of the Nor’easterly storm that had kicked up along the Outer Banks of North Carolina and finally had arrived in Virginia, more so off the Bay than downtown.

The house was shaking when I awoke and, being alone, I knew that was a bad thing. Winds from the Bay vibrated the bedroom windows sending cold streams of air throughout the aging cabana and I fought to find clean clothes in the darkness. Underway, in the midst of the three ‘o clock hour, I found myself cruising along the northernmost ends of Colley Avenue in a heavy downpour, surprised by the unexpected activity I found in the streets, at that hour, in those conditions.

The first whore walked clumsily, her clothes soaked by the storm, a plastic bag covering her head and upper body, but her shuffle ended when I drove by. I think she suspected my car to be a potential “John,” so she paused while I continued to cruise through the decimated district. The next, walked freely, wearing the essentials: jeans, heavy shoes, long sleeve shirt, and makeup that packed her face so tightly that even the rain could not remove. The last, before the Bridge, had the sense to wear a jacket but neglected to think that white, ass-tight hot pants, now seemingly painted to her larger bottom half was a good idea in heavy rain combined with mud, dirt, debris…all the common things found swirling along the gutter and onto her pants of the profession, during the current monsoon we were experiencing. The job is never ending. Bills have to be paid, habits refueled, and commerce goes on.

Down the road, through the bridge, to the other side, the more Bohemian Ghent district saw no early morning prostitution, but many police cars, lights flashing, investigating likely power outages and triggered alarms from high winds. But no prostitutes…the imaginary line is fine, but visible, only to those who decide taking the time to make a difference in the community just involves more incarcerations, more strain on the taxpayers, more children in foster care, and more paperwork at the end of a shift that is probably at its end. An alarm misfire at a coffee shop is decidedly more decisive an endeavor than a middle-aged whore in the rain. To them, it’s an everyday occurrence, no harm done, and the way the world revolves unlike the possibility of a cappuccino being stolen by crazed poets on a binge.

Louder sirens echoed from fire engines as I came closer to the end of this first adventure of my day. Their destinations unknown, but to the hookers in the rain, it would not matter. By the time the fire, the incident, the tragedy, had been found and resolved, they would still be staggering in the storm, looking for Mr. Right with the right amount of cash.

But what do I know, I just take the fucking pictures.