With head bowed, my intention was to make a hasty retreat without actually making eye contact with anyone. If I could just get to my car without bringing attention to myself, I could make it home without being spotted in my oldest, formally known as white, sweatpants. I may also have been wearing a scrunchie to keep the stray, unwashed strands of frizzy hair out of my mascara-free eyes. Okay, I was, and it was red.
Yet, Murphy’s Law dictates that without fail, the moment you run out for a quick errand without any makeup on while wearing 15 year old cotton, will be the exact moment you run into someone you know, or Leonard DiCaprio. In other words, I should have known better than to stop for a pack of smokes, but I didn’t. There’s just no way of bringing sexy back when you haven’t showered in two days and you’re wearing attire even the Goodwill wouldn’t accept.
He reached the door before I did. He wasn’t Leonardo DeCaprio but he may as well have been. As he opened the door for me I instantly considered if it was too late to run and hide behind the stand promoting increased female arousal and male stamina. Would it have been any less mortifying had I made a mad dash to the erectile dysfunction aisle then to face the cutie while looking like Aileen Wournos? I’m guessing so, so on I went, cursing my decision not to just go home and bum a cigarette off my roommate when he wasn’t looking.
I was almost there. Six more steps and I would be safely inside my vehicle, never to step foot at that gas station again for fear that I might be recognized as the women in Homeless Couture.
“How are you?”
Shit. No such luck.
“I was at the light and saw you so I turned around to come say hi. You are very pretty. Could I get your number?”
Since when had the DMV begun issuing licenses to people with severe visual impairments?
Hurriedly, I thanked Mr. Cutie and parted with my digits. The longer we stood there making idle chit chat, the greater the odds of him noticing the whitehead on my chin and realizing the error of his ways.
He called, we talked, and we made plans to meet for lunch the next day. There was great satisfaction in knowing the next time I saw him I couldn’t possibly look any worse than I had at the gas station.
“So tell me a little more about yourself. What do you do for work?”
“I sell medical marijuana.”
Great. “So you’re a drug dealer.”
“No. I sell medical marijuana. I have a dispensary in -”
“You sell pot. That explains why you brought me to a Chinese buffet.”
This was going well. And may have explained, in part, why he had approached me in a gas station parking lot; he was high.
While I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of starting a relationship with a man who sold weed for a living, I could make due knowing he actually held a job that was legal – depending on whose interpretation you followed, be it State or Federal.
A few nights later we met again for dinner. The little druggie was starting to grow on me and aside from the whole selling pot thing, I was enjoying his company. If the time ever came to introduce him to my family, I could always say he was a pharmaceutical rep like my cousin’s husband.
For date #3 we decided to spend a quiet evening back at his place. He had his own condo and lived alone. By all appearances, the legal-ish distribution of marijuana had proven very lucrative for him. If he was as knowledgeable about the female form as he was about the logistics of drug dealing, I was in for a real treat.
“Why does your phone keep blowing up? Is there a sudden influx of people with insomnia and back pain this evening?”
“No, it’s my other business.”
“Other business? And what business might that be where your attention is needed at 11:30 on a Saturday night? I’m guessing it’s not a beauty supply.”
Shifting uncomfortably, “I also have an escort business.”
“You’re a pimp, too?!?”
“I’m not a pimp.”
“If they’re fucking and you’re taking half, you’re a pimp.”
Then it dawned on me:
“YOU’RE RECRUITING ME!”
“I’m not recruiting you. Although, if you wanted to make a little extra money…”
Just because Mr. Cutie wasn’t wearing a purple fedora and driving a white Cadillac didn’t make him any less of a pimp. He just had better game.
That’s when it hit me. I really had looked that bad that night at the gas station. He probably thought I was homeless and taking a little break from my corner on Santa Monica Blvd. And despite his generous offer, I decided not to “make a little extra money.” That’s what AVON is for.