Thursday, November 26, 2009

Ode to Norm : Black Evidence

This next post is an homage to one of my old regulars, Norm. This isn't his real name, but it is not far off. I just didn't want to obviously out him,.. just maybe out him a little bit...The chance of anyone putting two and two together, and actually figuring out who he is, is less than likely. Of course, the more details I share, the higher chance of him being "recognized". Any girl that worked the area would probably be familiar with the individual I am writing about. On the off chance that he himself stumbles across this, he would know it was him, and for that, I feel sort of bad. But not bad enough.

One Friday night I was picked up an English guy, his name was Norm (you can't have any idea how badly I want to use his real name....first and last). He looked totally normal, attractive, quasi-stylish, etc. He wanted me to score some dope (crack) and then we would go get one of those $20/hr rooms they offer at various 5 star establishments in the downtown eastside. These type of dates are good. Taking your clothes off is usually part of it, but generally the guy thinks that he will be this massive stud/stallion with regards to his sexual prowess, but more often than not, it is the exact opposite.

As I said these dates were good. It would be indoors, he paid for the dope, he was attractive, nice, and seemed clean . So, we did our hour, smoked the dope, and then he gave me some money to go get more, which I promptly took and left with no intention of coming back. I had a prior "engagement" and business is business after all. I had my own best interests at heart. Served him right for trusting me, right? Well, no actually. I usually always came back when given money to go get dope, but not this time.

So, I was very surprised (well not overly surprised I was fabulous, even for a sex trade worker- get rid of the track marks and I could have passed for a really, really tired college student - ha ha) when he picked me up again the next weekend. He said he didn't care that I didn't come back the previous Friday, it wasn't much money that I had taken. This time though, we went to his house after I scored. He became one of those dates that I have mentioned in prior posts, one that thinks that maybe he is in love or something, they forget that the girl is being paid to be there, that why she is so nice and agreeable, etc. As long as I had my dope paid for I was fine, but after a time (weeks) he was getting into dope crazy, crazy like. He would drive me downtown in the morning so I could score cause I would dope sick, and I would always buy down AND up, and soon enough he was wanting to get high before he went to work. He was an ESL teacher. And as soon as he would get home from work he wanted to smoke crack right after he walked in the door (I can relate to this, but he had not been like this in the beginning of our acquaintance). Then of course he would want to get all sexual, and not be able to perform (which was fine by me). He was attractive, had the saucy accent, blah blah, but something about him just grossed me out, I didn't like doing dates with him at all. There was a couple of reasons for this. One being that I actually found it offensive that all he wanted to do when he got high was pretend to have sex (I say pretend, because we both knew it wouldn't happen) , but also because I smoked crack daily, I could remain relatively mentally "sound" and didn't get all wigged out and weird like him, and I would just want to talk. I would get pissed off that he wouldn't listen to what I was saying to him, all I he could think of was sex. Apparently crack can have this effect on the males of our species. I was a drug addicted prostitute but I wasn't blind, and he looked way better with his clothes on. It was easier to do dates with men I didn't know, than men I had gotten to know. The more you know someone, the more you are aware of them as a person, and my job wasn't to have sex with a "person". Oh and by the way, the whole "Pretty Woman" no kissing clause, is bunch of bullsh*t. I would prefer not to have to kiss, but if the price is right everything is negotiable.

The reason I am telling this story is because it still amusing some facet of my soul. Don't get me wrong I feel like a jerk because I am sort of making fun of him, and I did deplete his savings and took part in his descent into crack usage, but he had used before, so I am not totally evil. I didn't even WANT him to use, I just wanted him to get dope for me, but if I had to put up with his weird and pathetic self to get well, then I had to do what I had to do.

Some people are allright when they get high, others are so obviously under the influence that one can actually feel embarrassed for them. He used to get so paranoid. I remember one time he took me to score in the middle of the night, and there was a roadblock due to a car accident, and he actually thought that the cops had set up the entire thing to just to bust his ass. This paranoia is not out of the ordinary though, psychosis is a real side effect especially from coke. I too fell victim once in a while, but usually only if I had been awake for days. One time I was in my friend's room at a slimy hotel, and he went to score, and while he was gone I swore I could hear him through the vent in the floor taking to some guys and planning my murder. Even when he came back, I didn't believe him when he said I was nuts, and I took off. If I was outside I could at least run from these would be murderers. Norm was always paranoid, and the dope actually made him stupid-er than he already was in everyday life. He was a nice man, but a total easy mark for a girl like I me.

For example, we had scored a bunch of coke one night, and ended up going to sleep with some left un-smoked, and so the next day he gave me some for me to have and then hid the rest in his room for when he got home from work. He actually left me $20 too, so I could get my methadone (which I wasn't on, but he didn't know that- I had him believing this because I was having to make false promises that I would get off of heroin). When he hid his portion of dope I had every intention of respecting his wishes and just smoking my dope, and then taking off for downtown to get well. But of course, that isn't what happened. I did what dope I had, then about ten seconds after that, I had found his hiding spot and proceeded to blow through his as well. I just wanted a bit, but I smoked it all. I actually felt bad, and wanted to cover my tracks in case he found out. My plan was to put bunk dope in his hiding place (I actually used pieces of white hand soap) and was just going to go downtown, make money and buy more crack and be back before he got home from work. But, he had gotten off work early that day (probably because he knew he could get high once he got home). I wasn't overly worried about what would happened if he did discover my attempt at covering my tracks, he was sort of a wimp, and he needed me to score dope for him. It wasn't like he couldn't get too mad. I worry though, that I am making myself seem like a total b***h here, by taking his money, dissing him, etc. Realistically though, he would have been getting high with another female, if I wasn't there. Better me than her.

By the time I got myself back his place in Kits, he was already there. I was waiting for him to give me a hard time about doing his dope, but he said nothing. I had purposely took all the smoking utensils (pipes, etc.) with me when I left, in case he did return before me. But there he was, not letting on that he knew I was guilty, and he just says to me, "oh, we have that dope, do you want to smoke it", and I said sure....then I notice that there was a tiny piece of a broken pipe on the kitchen table. He must have fished it out of somewhere. In this glassware was a horrible, black, burnt toke sized nugget of the soap. He had tried to smoke it when he got home, but when it burned black the way it did, I guess he assumed that he was doing it incorrectly and just waited for me to get there. I used to give him shit all the time about burning the dope anyways, so I guess in his mind it made sense that he must have lit his pipe incorrectly. I mean, smoking crack IS a skill after all (laugh). I couldn't believe it though, he really had no idea that I had done the swapped his crack for hand soap. Wow. Come ON.

His dad actually died after some time (months), and I guess it snapped him out of the mind space he was in, and he moved in with his mom to take care of her, and so he could clear his head. I was fine with that, it was getting harder to get cash out of him anyways, plus eventually even I started to feel bad taking his money. I knew how broke he was, plus, it wasn't even like I was earning it, cause I never did dates with him when I saw him. I was just bleeding him financially.

I would see him once in a while though, he eventually moved back to Van from White Rock, and still wanted to get high once in a while, but I wasn't the only girl he would pick up.

One of the last times we did see each other, I had asked him about the other girls he spent time with and if they were weird or freaky, who were they, etc. He proceeded to tell me that the girl from his last bender had taken him to her place in a hotel and as soon as he was high he had taken his clothes off and asked her to do the same. He always did that. It's like they "assume" that we too, want to have sex as soon as we get high, when in reality, we would rather do anything but. So there he was, naked, high, waiting for this girl to tend to his "needs" when there was a loud banging on the door. He guessed that when the girl had gone to score she had set up a scam with the dope dealer. The dealer banged on the door, making threats thug style. She opens the door and then the dealer says that she is his woman and accuses Norm of molesting her. Norm, being the champ that he is when under the influence, was relieved of his clothing, dope and his wallet, and was made to fend for himself once he was evicted from the room...(naked).

This makes me feel kind of sorry for him, so much so that I had to use a fake name. It wasn't his fault that he was so ridiculous.

Maybe I was the villain in this story. Or maybe some people just weren't born to do drugs, it isn't in their DNA. (laugh)

Friday, November 13, 2009

In the Patricia Parking Lot with Peter

And yes, his name really is Peter and he used to drive a white cavalier. He wore glasses and lived in Burnaby.

It was a really rainy, gross night (most of my stories have this setting for some reason, but this is how I remember it). I had started out the evening dope sick, and had managed to score one date with a regular- was paid $30. It is hard to get a date when it is ugly outside, and every girl will be out trying to make money, and the guys know that they can negotiate cause everyone of us needs the money BAD.

I was pretty stoked I had that money. I was able get myself well, basically, and was also able to get some crack to keep me company while I worked. I wasn't one of those girls that would go make money, go buy dope, and go back to work when the dope ran out, the usual vicious cycle. I preferred to make money, go buy dope, THEN go back to work right away. It did make the whole "process" a little less offensive to my soul. The soul I still had somewhere deep inside of me.

Pretty much right after I had bought what I needed and had fixed the heroin,
a regular of mine pulls up to the curb before I even had a chance to do a hit of the up that I had. It was Peter, and I was STOKED. It is awesome when you could do back to back dates, especially when the streets were deserted.

I had known Peter for a while, he was young, he grew weed for money, and was a normal guy. I wouldn't say that we were friends...cause one friend usually doesn't pay the other friend to perform sexual favors. But we were familiar, I had been to his house. When we did hook up, we did the date first and then we would always hang out for a while, and go to Stanley Park or something. He would smoke his weed, and I would do my dope.

I got in his (lame) white cavalier and we drove about 10 feet and he pulled into the Patricia Hotel parking lot. He said he had to take a "leak" and then we would go. He got out and starts urinating against the wall that was right at the front of the car where we had parked in one of the stalls. I took the opportunity to load my pipe and light it up. After a minute or two, when he was walking back to the car, I took no notice of him walking past the door to the back of the car. A couple more minutes pass, and I glanced behind me to see what he was doing, and guess what? Apparently, cops, the fuzz, or "six" (as we called them downtown) had been driving by and saw what he was doing, and pulled in to check him out. I had turned around right when they were getting out of the car and began asking him questions.

I am thinking , "Please Peter, don't be an idiot..", and then I notice that they were doing sobriety tests on him, and he was failing miserably. I had no idea he was drunk. Not that it mattered to me, it wasn't like I was going to not go with him cause he was driving under the influence. Finally this male cop comes up to my door, whilst his female partner is cuffing for drunk driving, even though he wasn't technically driving at the time.

I never tried to make excuses for what I was doing, whenever I was questioned by the police, but I was pissed off cause my date was going to jail, with the money I could have made. I got out as the cop is asking me, is there anything in the car that is illegal. I say that I had no idea. I knew about Peter and his weed, so not wanting to get my ass in trouble, I told the cop that Peter smokes weed, and if there is any in the car, it isn't mine. He finds Peter's stash under the driver's seat. My cop goes over to him and is asking him about the weed, and I can actually hear Peter blaming it on ME! Can you believe it? What a prick.

Cop comes back over, and wants to know if my bag contains any drugs, needles etc. I said "hell yeah, there's needles in it". I had thrown crack loose into my bag when I saw the cops. I often did this, cause they would have no idea if it is just garbage or who knows what in the bag, they are looking for a container, or something more obvious. Even with their little blue latex gloves, they don't wanna be getting poked by a "rogue", uncapped needle. Most people are HIV positive down there.

He starts searching my bag, finds my pipe, smashes it and says, "If I find something in here, and you lied to me, I can take you to jail". I had no idea if he was serious or what, but I said yes, I did have dope and I got it out for him. He didn't even go through my whole bag, so I probably would have gotten away with NOT telling him. By this time, Peter's car was already on the tow hook and on the way to the impound lot, and he was in the back of the cop car. He was probably so pissed off that I walked away. Ha ha, of course, they no reason to detain me. (Unless giving a good ******* is a crime- laugh- that was a joke)

After he confiscated my dope he proceeds to say all sorts of sympathetic sh*t to me, about how I seem like such a nice girl, I am being so cooperative and how I didn't belong down there. He saw I only had a minor record, and told me that I needed to get out of downtown and the whole lifestyle. He gets out one of his business cards and writes on the back the number for an organization that specializes in helping sex trade workers get themselves together. He said, "tell the Tom sent you".

I cried. Cried for various reasons: because my dope was gone, which was a "burn". I got to do ONE "toke" and that was it, my dope was gone. I cried because it was as if I just did sexual favors for some guy for nothing, since I had nothing to show for my "effort" (DOUBLE BURN). I cried because this cop was so nice, and I really felt that he meant what he said. I knew he was right, I was way nicer and way less screwed up than most of the lifers down there. I can't even explain it, but I felt his sincerity in whatever was left of my soul. Enough so that I remember him, years later.

But I never called the number, so I never did get to tell them that Tom had sent me.

I have written 2 posts that involved some sort of interaction with police officers that were sort of cool. As cool as a police officer can be, anyways. This is not always the case (female cops were never nice from what I remember). I did a date with a cop once, and he was hot even, but he was super creepy. I could not wait to get away. He tried to pick me up again another time, and I said no. Maybe he wasn't a cop though, it isn't like I asked to see his badge.

Well, I did see his badge, in a sense.