It's Hard Out There For A Pimp.

Friday night in my slice of paradise, the Spenard store. Despite my general distaste for going to work on a Friday night, I didn't complain much beyond some dark muttering to myself as I dragged myself off my cozy couch with my blanket and my TV shows on the internet. In a mere 8 hours I would be on my way home, exhausted, with sore feet and probably a sore back from the various tasks involved in running a liquor store, but it would be another adventure, almost certainly.

The first thing I am greeted with when I get to work is the breaking news that I have failed an in-house sting. I am diligent about carding my customers, to the point of annoying some of the regulars and older people. Apparently, the one time I was either too distracted or too busy to ask to see someone's ID, it's apparently a friggin spy reporting back to upper management. Awesome. So, now instead of working next Friday night on my normal shift, I have to sit through another class to re-certify for my TiPS certification. That's my punishment? To sit through a class where I already know all the answers? And on top of that, since the class takes all day, I officially don't have to work next Friday night?

Awesome. I have next Friday night off. I'm going to have a life for once next weekend, hooray!

So, I sign my form on the failure slip (which, by the way, also says I was very sweet, pleasant, helpful, and professional, so suck it) I clock in and get back to my normal duties. I'm on the busy cash register, as usual, and eyeing all the customers with a newfound suspicion, wondering which one of them ratted me out to the Fuzz. Friday night brings in most of the regulars - the Japanese businessman who comes in once a week for a fifth of Crown Royal ("You always smile, you are so pleasant. It really brightens the whole store, your smile."), the obnoxiously flirty guys who keep asking me when I'm going to go to the movies with them (the answer to that is never), a guy I actually went to elementary school with and his bottle of sparkling asti spumante, and the girl who works at the Bear Tooth who comes in every Friday night after her shift for a bottle of chilled chardonnay. My regulars, who know me and love me, and make my job easier by always having exact change or bailing me out by giving me their small bills when I'm running low. I love them all and all of them love me. Because the system works - the system called Reciprocity.

Five points to the first person who names the quote in that last paragraph. Musical and character and song for full marks.

But, as it's been said in song and rhyme, it's hard out there for a pimp. At least, that's what I assume, because last night I met my first pimp, who came in with two of his professional ladies. I knew what the relationship dynamic was the instant they walked in - instinct or intuition, I'm not sure, but I knew I was dealing with, er, business partners. The girls were dressed up in tight jeans and heels with too much makeup and too many pieces of bling, each with an air of a bruised and beaten housewife who is too proud to admit that she's unhappy. The man they were with displayed his diamonds on his chest as he brought a case of beer to my counter and allowed the girls to select a pint each of their choice. Their IDs were valid, and as I began ringing up the items, I mused to myself about how these girls fell into a life of prostitution. It is, of course, one of the world's oldest professions, and in some cultures is even a noble profession. In Anchorage, Alaska, however, the life is hard and usually painfully brief, as the culture of indifference ignores the dangers they face on the street - not only from clientele but from the pimps who are supposed to protect them. My musing was brought to a sudden and screeching halt when, as I handed over the receipt (can pimps write off liquor purchases for their professional ladies?), he looked me up and down appraisingly and opened his mouth.

"You know, you're a fine looking girl. How much they pay you to work here? You know what? It doesn't even matter. I can guarantee that you'll make more money if you come and work for me. You have a unique look about you. You can look Asian, you can look white. You're very versatile. You'd be a money maker for sure. What do you say?"

What DO you say in a situation like that besides "No flippin' way, buster!" or some variant thereof?

I wish I could remember exactly what I said. I hope it was more acidic and witty than "No flippin' way, buster!" but I'm afraid we'll never know, because evidently I have the attention span of a squirrel and can't remember trivial things like the punchline to my blog.

It may be hard out there for a pimp, but it's also hard to be a stand-up comedian working in a liquor store, who apparently can be a chameleon prostitute. Me love you long time.