La Puta de TriBeCa

Greetings my loyal Krumquats, Krumpet players, Krumbelinas, Krumpilstiltskins. (Feel free to refer to yourselves as any/all of the above monikers. Or none….dick.).

 I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written an anecdote-type post. Unfortunately, my life has been rather uneventful.

Until now.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present The Tale of the TriBeCa Prostitute.

It was Friday evening. With law school finals freshly behind us, my lady friend Jaclyn and I treated ourselves to a pretentious meal at one of TriBeCa’s nouveau eateries.  (Y’know the type. The restaurant that revamps poor people cuisine so foodies think it’s chic.;“ Ooh Melinda, can you pass the agave-glazed Cup of Noodles?).  After dinner, we made our way through the cobblestone street towards Broadway in hopes of hailing a taxi.

Yet these plans were for naught.

Before I could raise my hand to signal a fleeing cab, a flash of red darted across my periphery. Something caught my eye. Or rather someone.

 

She stumbled down the steps of Nobu, as if she had a few too many, been forcefully ejected, or a delicious swirl of both. She wore a puffy faux-furred parka, gold hoop earrings, and two balloon-sized breasts that sat high inside her snug fire-engine dress. Clearly m’lady was a class act, but I paid it little mind. Until she clomped her heels in our direction. 

“Ex-excu me…b-b-b-ut…can you p-p-please hhhelp?...taxi?”

Jaclyn’s hard stare softened at the sound of the woman’s meek tone. 

“I…n-not f-from h-h-here”

Like any normal New Yorker, I began to ease away from this crazy bitch. Unfortunately, I have a compassionate girlfriend.

“Okay, we can help. Where are you from?”

Goddamnit, Jaclyn.

“F-F-Frisby.”

I did a mental Google to determine if there was some foreign land called Frisby that had a primary export of slutty chongas.

“Oh, okay, Frisby. Where is that?” Jaclyn cooed.

“D-d-da B-B-Bronx”

Ahhh. So she’s from here. But, not from here.

“Okay, Sweetie, we’ll get you home.” Jaclyn turned to me.

Before I could voice my disapproval, the woman’s eyes welled up with tears.

“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!”

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Pedestrians began to stare. So much for my desire to be a bad Samaritan.

I turned and whispered to Jaclyn:

“I don’t know…how do you say ‘WTF’ in Spanish??”

Jaclyn realized who her boyfriend was and decided to take the reigns.

“Miss? Miss, what happened?”           

I couldn’t help but notice the tattoo running up her leg into her lady parts. That, and the copious amounts of glitter puffing up in my direction as she wept.

“H-He took e-e-everything…”

My thoughts were confirmed. She was a ho. For sho.

The woman stopped sobbing. She raised her head, revealing a fiery face that seemed to match the color of her skintight polyester. Her eyes bared the intensity of some terrifying Scarface/Hulk Hogan hybrid.

“I’M GOING TO KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKA!!!!!” She bellowed behind gritted teeth.

Jaclyn jolted back. Hey, If there was a tiny Spanish woman who was capable of making me shit my pants, she was a runner-up at least.

 “Who is he? What did he do?” Jaclyn pleaded.

“I AM GOING TO GET A GUN AND CHUTE THAT MOTHAFUCKA IN DE FACE!!!”  Tears and rage began to spill onto the sidewalk. More people stopped walking.

I redirected my energies to hailing her that taxi. Thankfully, a Punjabi pal swung by and scooped her up. She thanked us, and resumed sobbing as the yellow chariot began to escort her back to the BX.

 

 There were so many questions.

1.     Who was “He”?
 2. And if “He” was a client? What kind of assbackwards trick takes a hooker to Nobu?
 3.  And if you can afford Nobu, why would you need to “take everything” from her?? Clearly, his priorities were askew.

4.       Furthermore, if you can afford Nobu, why would you have solicited services from the Lady in Red? You can’t do a little better buddy? I’m not saying go all Client Number 9, but come on! She was rocking Baby Phat! In Nobu, goddamnit!!

3.     If "He" did "take everything" How could she afford to take a cab up to the Bronx? They charge like a 5 bucks a block! And to Frisby, no less! (Wherever/whatever the fuck is). It’s not like she could carjack him. She said she’s going to get a gun. She ain’t packin’! Poor Punjab.

4.     Is it possible she was boning a sushi chef? Me so horny, indeed.

 We theorized for hours. Whatever became of the Frisky Frisby-ite is unknown. But neither Jaclyn nor I will ever forget La Puta de TriBeCa. 

End.