• Brian D. Hinson

Hookers and Jokes

“Can you put on some country?” asked the guy in the backseat I just picked up from the strip club.

I laughed.

“You think it’s funny I like country music because I’m Asian?”

“I honestly thought you were kidding me,” I replied as I switched radio stations.

“So, where are the hookers at?”

“Looking for someone on the street?”


“We can hit east Central.” And so we made our way south and started cruising. It was after two in the morning, and the only people walking at that time are either in short skirts and high heels or hoodies with the hoods up.

My passenger spotted someone he wanted to approach. “Slow down. That one.”

I drew up to the curb beside a tall woman with long, wavy hair and a skirt that covered about two thirds of her butt. He rolls down the window.  “Hey,” he says, she stops and turns. “What’s another name for vagina?”

She approaches the car. “What?”

“The box a penis comes in.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Go! Go! Go!”

I pull away, leaving a sex worker back there looking confused under the streetlight. “Did you just tell her a joke?”

“Sorta. Okay. Look at these.” In his hand are some Scrabble letters.

“You’re not planning on throwing those at someone, are you?”

“No, no, no. Just watch this.” He points. “That one.” This girl was short, a little thicker than the last one.

I stop, he tosses the letters onto the sidewalk in front of her and she stops, startled.

“Tell me what the word on the street is!” He pauses for a response as she looks down. After a beat he hits me in the shoulder and says, “Go!”

I hear a “Fuck you!” as we roll away.

We repeated this a few more times. Each time he told a joke and then we rolled away. He definitely got some sort of thrill out of it. The last time he really messed up the joke and he got another finger, and that must have taken the fun out of it for the night. He had me drive him back to his house.

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