(In 1976 I had made the move from Tucson to Phoenix to work with the Arizona Commission on the Arts as a writer in residence. I had gotten a job funded through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act {CETA} that paid me to work on my craft, the only criteria being that I had to use some of my work week working with the community. I did poetry readings, workshops, held classes in a variety of locations, and developed a children’s program of storytelling and performance. For the children’s performance, I created a costumed character, The Miraculous Mr. Smith and his fantastic friend, Frank Frank, the honest fish. Cleaning out my studio recently, I found my costume and with it a plethora of emotions, from the sublime to the nauseating.)
I was heading home, driving west on Camelback from a meeting at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts to set up a series of readings and workshops, when I stopped to pick up a woman hitchhiking. She was carrying a big purse and plopped down in the seat of my ’64 Chevy Impala. I merged into traffic and she started a conversation.
“Hi,” she greeted me. “What do you?”
“I’m a writer!” I exclaimed proudly. “What do you do?”
“I’m a hooker,” she said. “Want a blow job for 20 bucks?”
I fought to keep the car on the road.
“I’ll do you good for $20.”
“What about disease?” I countered, always the health conscious individual.
“Don’t worry,” she said, fishing around in her purse. “See,” she said, holding up a big bottle of Listerine. “Nothing to worry about.”
I continued driving.
“$15,” she offered. “I’ll do you good for $15.”
“How much to fuck?” I asked, curious.
“Oh, I don’t fuck,” she said. “My husband doesn’t want me to.”
“Oh,” I thought to myself. A woman with principles.
“$10. I’ll do you good for 10.”
I figured I had nothing to lose, so I asked her the question that was always on a man’s mind in such a situation.
“Spit or swallow?” I asked.
“Spit,” she spat the word out. “What you do think I am, crazy?”
At this point I withheld comment.
“Turn left at 32nd,” she said. “There is a church up there. We can use the parking lot. I’ll do you good for $5.”
After I made the turn, I pulled off the shoulder onto the dirt. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really not interested. Sorry.”
As she got out of the car, she started screaming at me. “You asshole! You ASSHOLE! I just wasted 30 blocks.” She started beating on the top of my car with her fists and then with her huge bag.
I pulled away quickly, inadvertently spraying gravel and dirt on the angry, Listerine-swilling hooker with the big purse. In my rear-view mirror, I could see her throwing rocks at me, but I gunned it and didn’t look back.
Now, I could tell a children’s story, but I wasn’t very good with the performance thing, especially when I branched out into a full white-faced, red-wigged, red-nosed and -lipped clown with a bag of magic tricks that always went wrong. I had just left the worst performance of my short-lived career. I thought it would be funny if I had some kids from the audience tie me up to a chair with the clothesline I had in my bag. I wouldn’t be able to get out. Funny as hell, or so I thought. Well, they tied me up all right, and the curtain came down with me struggling to get out, but my wig flew off and the make-up on my face smeared all over the place when I tipped over, and an adult had to find a pair of scissors to cut me out. Embarrassing and, in the end, not my best moment.
As I was heading south on 19th Ave, my wig askew, my make-up ruined, the sleeve of my costume ripped where some kid tried to yank me up after I fell over, who did I happen to see hitchhiking by the side of the road, but the angry, Listerine-swilling hooker with the big bag?
I pulled over. She jumped in. She looked at me. I leered at her, the way only a clown can leer. I merged into traffic.
“I’m a clown,” I offered by way of introduction. “What do you do?”
“I’m a waitress,” she stammered.
I knew better.
We stopped at a red light. “Hey,” I asked. “You ever make it with a clown?” I smiled lasciviously though my smeared red lips.
She hopped out of my car, and for the second time in a month, slammed my door. She ran toward a Circle K.
“Hey!” I screamed at her. “I’ll do you good for 20 bucks!” I screamed louder. “Hell,” I screamed, “I’LL DO YOU GOOD FOR 5 BUCKS!”
She disappeared into the store.
I felt pretty good about myself. A little revenge for the beating my car took. I turned to my left and in the window of the car stopped at the light next to me, I saw the horrified face of a little girl. I tried to wave, that funny clown wave that clowns always do, but she covered her face with her hands. When the light changed, I floored it through the intersection.
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