Dear Prostitute In A Residential Area

Dear Residential Prostitute:

I saw you this morning, at about 7:15, as I crossed Hollywood Boulevard on Genesee. It was a beautiful morning, cool, crisp, with a surprisingly brisk wind. Out for an early-morning run on, ironically, city-wide garbage day, I was startled to see you.

You were picking your way daintily down the sad excuse for a shoulder on Nichols Canyon Rd., a surprisingly rural outpost just above the hustle and bustle of Hollywood Boulevard as it approaches Fairfax. You wore, well, not that much - especially given the time of day and ambient temperature in the low 50s. Your black vinyl and/or pleather hot pants and tank top ensemble, so far away from its usual milieu of velvet rope or street corner in a red light district, was as arresting for me as it was for the warrant you'd no doubt been issued at some point in your life for solicitation. It was difficult to discern whether or not you were a professional, but, on this weekday morning's walk of shame, you certainly looked the part. Walking anywhere in Los Angeles, even to a museum, or temple, is sad enough, but a walk of shame? A tragedy.

Frankly, Residential Skank, your presence jarred me as I quietly ventured into the Hollywood Hills; this neighborhood of shabbily elegant old homes does not often play host to streetwalkers wandering a mile or so from the proverbial corner of Hollywood and Vine. The stark light of day revealed your smeared eyeliner, your askew eyelashes; and though I no doubt didn't look so hot after three uphill miles, you looked like a disaster in the middle of happening. You shivered as you awkwardly hopped toward the intersection, easily more of your skin exposed than covered; the strangely dainty ermine boa wrapped around your neck doing little to warm you, the stiletto heels proving not the most arch-supporting choice of footwear for an early-morning stroll.

As we passed one another, we exchanged a knowing look - a look essentially saying "we both know what's going on here." Grasping only your sad, off-brand clutch, you hopped awkwardly on the poorly surfaced road, as there are no sidewalks in the hills, bound for, hopefully, a car, a full-length trench coat, and, perhaps, a new beginning.

On a lighter note, I wish I'd had my camera.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby