The other night, I was on my way home with some friends when my guy friend and I decided to run into a gas station. In the hood. When we walked in, the toothless cashier glanced up at us, determined that the odds of us robbing her were significantly low, and returned to reading US Weekly.
As my friend and I walked to the cash register, a somewhat sketchy-looking guy approached Alex and said, "Yo bro, lemme holla atcha a minute."
Alex looked at me. I encouraged him to see what the guy wanted. I can only assume he wanted to discuss Alex's opinion on the sudden increase in the Market Volatility index. I waited while Alex talked to him, looked at me, shook his head, and replied, "Nah man, any other night, but not tonight."
Alex grabbed my arm and we left. When we got back to the car, Alex burst out laughing.
"Let me guess. He offered you drugs?" I asked.
"Someone offered to sell you drugs?" piped up Crystal.
"One better. He asked me how much coke and molly in exchange for Zoe." He burst into laughter.
"Who's Molly?" asked Ryan.
I ignored him. "He wanted to exchange me for drugs? He thought you were my pimp????"
Alex was in hysterics laughing, but managed to nod.
I was shocked. "Seriously? He thought you were my pimp?"
"Apparently so. And he thought I wanted to party."
"What's molly?" asked Crystal.
Ryan had already googled it. "It's a drug. Like some sort of ecstasy or bath salt thing."
At this point, I was confused. I tried to deduct what could have possibly led this individual to look at Alex and I and assume that we were a pimp and his ho looking to snort chemicals. I was wearing an Old Navy sundress. Alex, who bears a far closer resemblance to Tag Romney than Lil Wayne, was wearing khakis and and an Abercrombie button-down. We were one strand of pearls and an American flag away from hosting our own Young Republicans meeting right there next to the Slim Jims. Recreational bath salt users is probably not in the first thing (or the tenth) that would come to most peoples' minds.
"Wait, so you said any other night? Like you thought about it?" I asked, still bewildered.
"Uh, yeah, I mean, as your pimp, it's what I was supposed to say."
"Oh, I forgot, you're from the mean streets of London, Ontario, my bad. Please tell me your gang colors were khaki and hunter green."
"Don't backtalk me. My pimp hand is strong," he said, still smiling as he composed his celebratory tweet. #pimpinainteasy
I thought about it. I was still morbidly curious about my value as a lady of the evening. I was sort of mad that Alex didn't try to place a price on me. Despite all I've learned about the pimp game from rap music and Law and Order: SVU reruns, I still had so many unanswered questions.
"Did he want to rent me by the hour or was it more of a slave trade sort of deal?"
"I don't know," Alex replied, still laughing. "Maybe just until the sun came up. Once he saw you in the light of day, he'd return you to me for sure."
I smacked him. "How much coke and molly were we talking?"
He rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask."
"How much does coke and molly even go for on the street?" I asked.
"Let me google it," chimed in Ryan.
"It might be dependent upon market conditions. Local supply and demand," I helpfully added.
"Shut up woman. Less talking, more working. I need a new Rolex."
I ignored him. "I need to know my economic value in street drugs. It's important in order for me to validate my self-worth." I paused. "Why can't I be a high-class hooker? Like politicians and stuff?"
"Because your idea of foreplay would be discussing Obama's foreign policy plan." He paused. "On second thought, maybe the bath salts wouldn't be such a bad deal after all."
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