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Last summer, I picked up a prostitute off of Garnet Avenue. Before you draw any conclusions, I should explain that I did this unknowingly, and at the time I believed I was rescuing a fellow female in need. I was driving home from Happy Hour when I saw a blond woman run from the inside of the Silver Fox directly into the street. Normally, the sight of a person stumbling from the curb of the notorious dive is a fairly common sight. However, this patron appeared to be waving her hands about wildly in a panicked attempt to flag someone down. Anticipating a dramatic story filled with danger, or romance, or maybe just fickle friends, I pulled over and invited her to the passenger seat of my Corolla. I looked over to reply to her “thank you” and noticed she was quite a bit older than I thought she was (not that it mattered- I’m older than most people assume I am). I think I was expecting her to be a young, irresponsible 21-year-old girl who had ignorantly put herself in this vulnerable situation.
She was obviously very drunk, or very tired, or both. She was dressed in a black sleeveless shirt and black jeans, not very glamorous, but not shabbily dressed either. She said her name was Jennifer, and proceeded to ramble through a moderately coherent story of why she felt the need to flee the bar so quickly. Considering her hatred for the bar staff and her odd behavior, I concluded that she most likely had been asked to leave. She informed me that she was 32 (she looked closer to 42), single, unemployed, and apparently had nowhere to stay for the night. I immediately regretted asking her what she did for money, not because I was uncomfortable with her answer, but because I knew my concern and curiosity would override my common sense. The first time I asked her why she had turned to prostitution, she replied “none of your damn business”. Determined to get an answer, I asked her a second time in a sweeter and more pleading tone, and she delivered a quick, summarized story of her life.
Jennifer came from a “normal” middle-class family, and enjoyed an average, somewhat happy childhood. When she was in her early twenties, Jennifer worked for the then-popular apparel company “No Fear”. One day, one of her supervisors asked her if she wanted to spend the weekend on a yacht with a sports celebrity. I assume she was instantly considered a groupie or part of the live entertainment (the image I had in my mind was sort of like a music video with an entourage of gorgeous women wearing tiny bikinis and sailor hats striking sexy poses while sipping champagne). She was introduced to a lifestyle of constant partying and easy money, and, as she put it, “that was it” (snapping her fingers in the air as she spoke those fateful words). I understood it to mean that was the end of Jennifer the Person, and the creation of Jennifer the Commodity. She sat quietly for a minute thinking, remembering her life, possibly considering the fact that the sports celebrities she had entertained were still famous and still rich, and she was here in my car, broke and homeless. She mumbled for another few minutes (calling me “momo” the entire time), got on her cell phone to call “Mike” (who eventually hung up on her), then told me to drop her off at the motel down the street (where she accused me of stealing money from her). I would say this was a jarring glimpse into the seedy underbelly of Pacific Beach, but that would be like designating an area of Tijuana as the “ghetto part” of Tijuana.
After I left her at the motel, I drove home and began thinking about my own life. I also thought about the lives of all the girls I knew who had become so consumed by their own wild lifestyles that they had almost become someone else entirely. I thought about the hundreds of girls piling into the bars at the other end of Garnet who still had a lifetime of decisions to make and goals to accomplish. I wondered if my life would have taken a path similar to Jennifer’s had I made a few choices differently; had I not pushed myself to finish college, had I not broken up with my drug-dealing ex-boyfriend, or taken the advice of my exotic dancer friends 10 years ago. I remembered my 21-year old party girl life. I had no concept of getting older, or what my life would be like when I turned 32, nor do most young women, and apparently neither did Jennifer.
Earlier that night I complained to my co-workers how my life was a bitter disappointment. I hated my tiny apartment, my salary as a graphic designer, I was angry that my cheap little 2009 Toyota had already been tainted with several battle scars, and I lamented the apparent uselessness of my Bachelor’s Degree. I never would have thought that by the end of the night, I would realize I was lucky to have all of those things. I decided it was time for me to stop wallowing in self-pity, and start figuring out how I can continue to make the right choices and make my life better. I guess sometimes the only way to gain hope is to meet someone who is without hope.
Last summer, I picked up a prostitute off of Garnet Avenue. Before you draw any conclusions, I should explain that I did this unknowingly, and at the time I believed I was rescuing a fellow female in need. I was driving home from Happy Hour when I saw a blond woman run from the inside of the Silver Fox directly into the street. Normally, the sight of a person stumbling from the curb of the notorious dive is a fairly common sight. However, this patron appeared to be waving her hands about wildly in a panicked attempt to flag someone down. Anticipating a dramatic story filled with danger, or romance, or maybe just fickle friends, I pulled over and invited her to the passenger seat of my Corolla. I looked over to reply to her “thank you” and noticed she was quite a bit older than I thought she was (not that it mattered- I’m older than most people assume I am). I think I was expecting her to be a young, irresponsible 21-year-old girl who had ignorantly put herself in this vulnerable situation.
She was obviously very drunk, or very tired, or both. She was dressed in a black sleeveless shirt and black jeans, not very glamorous, but not shabbily dressed either. She said her name was Jennifer, and proceeded to ramble through a moderately coherent story of why she felt the need to flee the bar so quickly. Considering her hatred for the bar staff and her odd behavior, I concluded that she most likely had been asked to leave. She informed me that she was 32 (she looked closer to 42), single, unemployed, and apparently had nowhere to stay for the night. I immediately regretted asking her what she did for money, not because I was uncomfortable with her answer, but because I knew my concern and curiosity would override my common sense. The first time I asked her why she had turned to prostitution, she replied “none of your damn business”. Determined to get an answer, I asked her a second time in a sweeter and more pleading tone, and she delivered a quick, summarized story of her life.
Jennifer came from a “normal” middle-class family, and enjoyed an average, somewhat happy childhood. When she was in her early twenties, Jennifer worked for the then-popular apparel company “No Fear”. One day, one of her supervisors asked her if she wanted to spend the weekend on a yacht with a sports celebrity. I assume she was instantly considered a groupie or part of the live entertainment (the image I had in my mind was sort of like a music video with an entourage of gorgeous women wearing tiny bikinis and sailor hats striking sexy poses while sipping champagne). She was introduced to a lifestyle of constant partying and easy money, and, as she put it, “that was it” (snapping her fingers in the air as she spoke those fateful words). I understood it to mean that was the end of Jennifer the Person, and the creation of Jennifer the Commodity. She sat quietly for a minute thinking, remembering her life, possibly considering the fact that the sports celebrities she had entertained were still famous and still rich, and she was here in my car, broke and homeless. She mumbled for another few minutes (calling me “momo” the entire time), got on her cell phone to call “Mike” (who eventually hung up on her), then told me to drop her off at the motel down the street (where she accused me of stealing money from her). I would say this was a jarring glimpse into the seedy underbelly of Pacific Beach, but that would be like designating an area of Tijuana as the “ghetto part” of Tijuana.
After I left her at the motel, I drove home and began thinking about my own life. I also thought about the lives of all the girls I knew who had become so consumed by their own wild lifestyles that they had almost become someone else entirely. I thought about the hundreds of girls piling into the bars at the other end of Garnet who still had a lifetime of decisions to make and goals to accomplish. I wondered if my life would have taken a path similar to Jennifer’s had I made a few choices differently; had I not pushed myself to finish college, had I not broken up with my drug-dealing ex-boyfriend, or taken the advice of my exotic dancer friends 10 years ago. I remembered my 21-year old party girl life. I had no concept of getting older, or what my life would be like when I turned 32, nor do most young women, and apparently neither did Jennifer.
Earlier that night I complained to my co-workers how my life was a bitter disappointment. I hated my tiny apartment, my salary as a graphic designer, I was angry that my cheap little 2009 Toyota had already been tainted with several battle scars, and I lamented the apparent uselessness of my Bachelor’s Degree. I never would have thought that by the end of the night, I would realize I was lucky to have all of those things. I decided it was time for me to stop wallowing in self-pity, and start figuring out how I can continue to make the right choices and make my life better. I guess sometimes the only way to gain hope is to meet someone who is without hope.