Old Hooker

It is 2000 in August. There is a business networking event at the office collaborative that her company rents from. Her boss asks her to attend.

She dreaded the thought of mixing in the halls and kitchen area with business grads and inventors, and investors.

All the best minds in Boston, maybe in all of the states, maybe in the world. MIT, Harvard, Berkeley, USC / the pedigrees and ivy combos go on and on.

Some she already knows well and likes — but this is an open mixer, so a lot of unknowns will be on hand. She wouldn’t mind if a friend were with her — but no one was available, and she has to be mindful of what she drinks — so she can’t try and soften the edge.

Everyone there is a rich kid. Or rich adult. All wealthy and pedigreed and confident.

The clarity in their eyes, multiple languages on their lips. Vocabulary and society and money and tennis courts and golf clubs and charity functions and family African safaris and trips to Machu Picchu and the Galapagos and China and Japan.

She has lived in Key West for six months, hitched from Orlando to New Orleans, and, driven in a battered van through Mexico for around two months time, gone through England, Scotland and Wales for a month. And bummed around Alaska for two weeks.

That is the extent of her worldly travels. She is 29. She has an off-and-on older boyfriend, a dog, a cat, a car, a car payment, and two credit cards, and her wardrobe is almost enviable.

She does not want to deal with this business mixer event. She goes into the large communal kitchen. Smiles her way through the crowd. Talks with one of the operations girls that work for the co-office space. Talks with one of the more shadowy investors that keeps an office there.

Looking back as she writes this / she is going to have to look into him. Never could quite tell what he did — but he knew everyone. Nice guy (seemingly), very down to earth and charming. But as she types this — she thinks, hm?

She is always slow on the uptake. Seriously she knows she is not dumb — but her naive obliviousness is astounding at times. Though, in a way naivety can be a superpower.

She has no angles — people see that about her. She wants nothing from anyone. Her only requirements are humor and kindness from others.

One nice thing about getting older is that she feels great graciousness with people now. Especially when they are a bit younger. They get a kick on how she can swear like a sailor — she really is becoming a joyful old lady.

Anyways she is young in this reminisce, and she doesn’t want to be at this business event.

The office is set up, so a hallway does a complete round. She walks about, saying hello here or there. She sneaks back into her office after two loops.

A pretty well know tech journalist that she is friendly with — sees her in the window and comes in.

He is insanely smart and completely New York City pedigreed and has speaking engagements and a special position at MIT — and she thinks he enjoys her company a bit — cause she gives no fucks who he is.

It is that naivety as a superpower. He sees she has no angles. As of date, she hasn’t seen him personally in years, but they will correspond via email on rare occasions, and he always responds to her immediately.

They film flam a bit. He is actually being a bit cunty on this day, he is, after all, a huge intellectual ego of man. He snipes her about a mispronounced word.

She looks at him and asks if can swim without holding his nose.

Can you dive into the ocean without holding your nose? Can you? Come on — tell me the truth. When last were you barefoot on a beach swimming?

Do you know how to swim?

He says something snide and leaves.

But as said, they have stayed in touch over the years, and that was the only time she had to pinch him a bit. Otherwise, he is a charm.

So he leaves, and she feels a bit hurt by his snobbery — usually, he is gracious and sage with her.

Looking back, maybe he, too, was stressed to be at this event.

She sends an instant message to a friend complaining of the journalists being a snob and of her plight of being trapped at this business mixer.

Her friend encourages her to do a few more loops around the event.

She goes back out. The hallway has thinned out. She walks to the ladies' room to splash some water on her neck. Cool the anxiety.

As she is walking — 2 man-boys are headed towards her. They have khakis and loafer polo shirts in bright colors. They are a bit bloated looking in that frat boy sort of way. They are ultra silver spoons. She can smell it.

She is walking by them, and they are looking at her intently. They pass, and she hears one say — did you see that old hooker. She is stunned. She goes into the bathroom. Is her mascara amiss? Is she showing too much boob?
She thinks she looks okay. She doesn’t look slutty or slovenly. She has never felt comfortable with her looks, but she is sometimes passingly cute and funny.

But those man-boys have just called her an old hooker. She is seriously a bit devastated. Like feels as though her breath was knocked out of her.

She pats some cold water on her neck and then braves back into the hall.\ Says hello to a few people. How are you? What a nice event, blah blah blah.
Goes to the kitchen grabs another beer and a small plate with cheese and crackers, and goes back to her office.

She instant messages her friend. Tells her two yuppy boys have just called her an old hooker in the hall. Her friend calls. What is happening?

These little pig men just called me an old hooker when I passed them in the hall. And she retells it to her friend. Her friends starts hysterically laughing.

There is NO WAY in HELL that they called you an old hooker. Sounds to me like they were checking you out.

No — I am telling you — they gave me a once over and called me an old hooker!

Her friend is laughing again. They were checking you out.

You couldn’t look like a hooker even if you were a hooker. Do you understand that?

She starts to fill up. I am telling you, they called me an old hooker!!

Her friend is silent. She says, “I swear to you either they said something else entirely or maybe said — did you see that looker?”

No — they were being cruel. I can just tell. I will call you later. And she hangs up on her friend.

She drives home from Cambridge — listening to music. Seriously convinced that she has been called an old hooker. She is fresh-faced and modest and believes so little in herself. So completely distrusts the world around her.

Brave like a scrapper — but easily internally devastated. She believes that for years, they called her an old hooker.

She is out with a friend today for lunch, and she tells this story again. With her wry humor and salt. And they belly laugh over the preposterousness of her bad software. And praise be, she is funny as hell.

And even though intellectually she knows the probability of them having called her an old hooker is nill to none / there is 5% of her that still thinks it was possible.

And they laugh and laugh and laugh. Life is strange — but it is good to laugh.