Talking With Hookers.
I was at the bar yesterday, St. Patrick’s day. Got there early, around eight to eat breakfast. I’m sitting there, the bar mostly empty, eating my food and enjoying a Guinness when an older woman, round forties, takes the stool two from mine. She reminds me of my friends’ mothers from back home, sweet and Irish and enjoying her beer. She hat a big green hat, a blouse and was clearly drunk. We started shooting the breeze, good bars to visit and where the parade was. Then I noticed she wore fish-net stockings, thought she was too drunk to properly dress. She wouldn’t stop talking to me. At first I was inclined, being polite to such Irish fare, but I asked her name and she replied ‘Moon. Moon Jettz, with two t’s and a z,’ she said. Moon Jettz gave me her e-mail address, said she lived in a house with a bunch of other girls, that they shot lots of movies all over the place and that I’d never know who would be in them. Then I realized I was having my first conversation with a hooker.