Back in the 90s, I worked at an office here in Lansing where a group of coworkers, all men, were primarily focused on three things:
- Second breakfast
- Meter maids
- Sex workers
We worked on the eighth floor and had a view of Kalamazoo Avenue. Around nine o’clock each morning, this group of guys would gather at the windows to enjoy the glorious panorama stretching from the pawn shops along the eastern edge of Kalamazoo, to the bridge over Grand River right below us, and over to the southern part of the downtown area where the sex workers plied their trade.
The standing joke was to look for a body floating in the river (seems like that particular tragedy happens once a year) but conversation always quickly turned to where they’d go for their second breakfast after they moved their cars.
All of these guys were too cheap to pay for monthly parking on one of the surface lots. Instead, they parked on the side streets running south from Kalamazoo. Street parking was only good for two hours, so they played a game of cat and mouse with the meter maids who would arrive in their mini-vehicles with flashing yellow light on the roof. When a meter maid came by, they’d mark the tires with chalk and start the clock. This gave the guys a timeframe to eat and shift their cars around.
The meter maids had a pattern which had by then been memorized by the guys at the window. They would have to move their cars, at most, once each in the morning and once in the afternoon. I thought it was ridiculous, but I was a contractor and my parking was paid for, so what did I know about it?
After lunch, they’d take turns standing watch. It was also after lunch when the sex workers would take up positions along the bridge. When one was spotted, it’d be called out, and often others would join the guy standing watch.
If a sex-client was a cheap bastard, like someone who wouldn’t pay for monthly parking, and was scrambling along Kalamazoo Avenue to go move their car, they might be the sort who could only afford a quick sex act under the bridge along the river’s shore.
More affluent clients, such as those driving along Kalamazoo Avenue, might be induced to pay for a room at the motel at the intersection of Kalamazoo and Capitol.
I stayed at that motel once, but not with a sex worker. I’d been assigned to babysit a malfunctioning mainframe computer, and needed a place to stay. This was before I moved to Lansing, and my cheap-ass boss would only shell out $50 for the cheap-ass motel. Not knowing any better, I took it.
A few years later, I did end up with a sex worker in my car. I had parked along Washington Avenue to work at a different office building for the afternoon (running out to the car twice to feed the meter). When I left for the day, a woman asked for help, claiming that her car wouldn’t start.
I offered to check it out but, no, she was certain it needed to get towed. Right then she just needed a ride to a place and was going to meet someone else. Not knowing any better, I gave her a ride.
Her pitch wasn’t like what you see in movies or TV, except Wendy the crack addict on Breaking Bad. Maybe not that bad, but I was immediately uncomfortable.
I was terrified of girls until I reached adulthood, at which point I became incredibly nervous around women.
So when the woman in the car asked for money and offered to do things in exchange, I pretty much shut down. That worked well because, once she realized I was useless to her, she picked out a party store on Malcom X Drive and asked to be let out.
Have a nice day, said I.
Nowadays, all that stuff is handled by the internet. You can recharge your parking meter with an app. You can order in breakfast with an app. When your car breaks down, you use an app to summon help.
And, I’m told, you can find a sex worker with an app.
I guess it’s for the better that sex workers aren’t putting themselves at risk out on the streets. I’ve seen enough Dateline episodes to know it’s mostly a terrible way to make a buck.
One thing I definitely miss from back then was second breakfast. I only joined them a couple of times, but eggs, toast and hash browns at ten in the morning hits pretty hard.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’m steadily writing the next book. Maybe not as steadily as I hoped, but steady nonetheless. I’ve also been working on a book about productive creativity—meant for writers and artists—to share when I host a series of workshops in July.
Maybe You’d Like
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Next Picayune
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. I’ll be back in two weeks with more fun stuff.
All the best,
Mickey
P.S. By the way, was it fun to read my sex worker story?
P.P.S. Order my book!