When I was 11, I was a pimp for one day. If I could have blogged about it then, I would have. This memory somehow just resurfaced, so I’ll tell my story now.
It all started innocently enough with a prank phone call. It was a late summer afternoon and my friend Justice and I were hanging out. Yeah, his name was Justice, which is ironic because I never had so much injustice happen to me when I was with him: getting bit in the ass by his dog “Lugar,” getting almost sent to juvi for hopping a fence to “look for his cat,” almost having to be hospitalized for being trapped in the cab of his mom’s Chevy Luv with the windows up while she was smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds, getting pelted with his BB gun “don’t worry it’s not loaded.”
On this particular day in 1981, we were bored and looking for trouble. Too lazy to leave the house, we decided to pick up the phone to get our prank call on. I thought about the classic prank “you just won a trip to Hawaii,” but that was sooo 1979. I was thinking how people thought I was a woman 90% of the time when I answered the phone. Apparently Justice had the same problem too. Yeah, we’d be girls, ha ha! I know, comedic geniuses at age 11, right?
First call and I was up to bat. Ring, ring, a man with a gruff voice and some sort of Spanish or Middle Eastern accent picks up.
Me: Hi, howa doin’ today? (my girliest voice)
Man: Good, who’s this?
Me: My name’s Leila.We were bored today, so I just thought I’d call to see how you were.
Man: How’d you get my number?
Me: Oh, you know, we heard you were cool from someone and thought we’d check in.
Man: Oh nice. Yeah, I like your voice. How old are you?
Me: Uh… I’m 19.
Man: You sound like you look good. You cute?
Me: (Starting to panic) Yeah, sure. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Hey listen, you probably don’t want to talk to me anymore. I just wanted you to meet my friend. I think you’ll like her a lot. (Pass the phone to Justice.)
Justice: Hi there! I’m Ginger.
Man: Hi Ginger. So, you heard about me huh? How old are you?
Man: Don’t you think that’s a bit young?
Justice: No, I’m already in college and I’m pretty mature.
Man: College, wow. You must be smart. What do you look like?
Justice: I have red hair, I’m tall, I have a nice figure and a beauty mark on my cheek. (I’m guessing this dude didn’t watch Gilligan’s Island as much as Justice did.)
Man: Nice, okay. I like to meet you. Can you come down here?
Justice: Well, uh, not right now, I don’t have a car at the moment.
Man: Okay, I can come get you.
Justice: Um, just a minute. (Whispering to me with his hand over the receiver: What the hell!? What should I say? Me: I don’t know… no tell him to screw off. Justice: No, let’s tell him to come up here and we can pretend we’re Ginger’s brother’s and threaten to kick his ass! Me: What? No, wait…)
Justice: Yeah come up here. Meet me on the corner of Albion and Dupont.
Man: Okay, I be up there in 10 minutes. I drive a white Cadillac and have mustache.
Justice: Great, can’t wait!
“Dude what the hell! We can’t kick his ass!” I cried.
“It’s cool,” said Justice calmly, “we’ll get a couple of your old golf clubs and scare him away. He probably won’t even show up. He might have even been pranking us back.”
“You better be right, or I’m gonna kick your ass with a golf club.”
Regardless, we headed off to the corner wielding a four iron and a pitching wedge (I didn’t have any drivers). We were going to run up to his car with our clubs in the strike position and start screaming all sorts of expletives at him.
We waited, and waited some more. No creepy dude. My nerves started to calm down a little thinking he wasn’t going to show up, then purring down the street came this white Cadillac just as the guy described.
“Holy crap, he’s here,” muttered Justice. We both backed away from the corner and checked him out. He sure was a slimy looking bastard, all discoed out with coiffed hair and thick black mustache. He had one of those macho shirts on with the top 92 buttons undone and a gold chain that said “I like little girls.” He was driving a white late ‘70s Coupe deVille with red leather interior and a little Christmas tree smelly thing hanging from the rearview mirror. He was cruising at 5 mph. craning his neck every which way looking for sweet little Ginger.
“Look tough,” Justice told me, and I tried, but couldn’t muster up a convincing face. I looked to Justice to see how he was faring and he just backed up a little with a blank look on his face. I turned back to look at the Caddy and the creepy dude was staring right at us. I panicked and took a practice swing with my pitching wedge like it was totally natural to be golfing on a street corner. Justice followed my lead and there we were, two 11-year-old kids out for some fresh air just golfing in the street.
We waited for the dude to turn the corner and then I just gave Justice this look like “You stupid idiot.” “What,” he exclaimed, “You totally pussed out.” I just looked at him, shook my head, and said “Dude, take some golf lessons, your swing looks like shit.”