The Price of Free
28.Sep.2007, 03:44 pm
I often joke I dress like an expensive hooker: the airbrushed black eye shadow, the four-inch (at least) heels, a triple-tiered, peacock-print silk dress I slip on as other girls wear their fav T.
But it’s just jest–
At least the “expensive” part.
“Wooh, girl! Let me get yo autograph, in those movie star glasses!”
I smile and nod at the teenage boys caged in their rusting coupe; I’m a foreign emissary who barely understands the savage tongue the natives wag. I cross street corner to corner, head high, and walk into Jiffy Lube.
“I need an invoice number for this coupon you guys gave me months ago when I had my oil changed,” I tell the cashier. “The car wash across the street said I’d have to pay them with my first born otherwise.”
“Name?”
“Dukes, like Daisy Dukes.” He swivels the computer screen so I can see my name glowing green between rows of others. “Kristopher Dukes, that’s me. The dude name.” He scribbles a number onto my coupon. “Thank you so much,” I say.
“You’re welcome so much.”
“You just saved me twenty bucks,” I smile. “I can go Starbucksing now and buy half a soy latte.”
He laughs, he blinks, and I’m on my way, street walking, watching my car roll out of the washer across a small river of cars.
“Baby!” A man leers, leaning out his passenger-side window, making the kissy noise I preface my ass slaps for The Boy with.
I walk past more whistles and tiny horn taps, I wonder when the last time southwest Los Angeles saw more than an girly ankle, and I finally make it to the cashier of the car wash.
“Here’s your coupon.” I hand it over, FREE stamped bright red-light district ink. “It cost me a lot of harassment, getting you this.”
“Oh yeah?” The cashier smiles, his lips winking. “Well, a girl like you…”
“Here’s a twenty.” I take back the soiled coupon, smoothing it out so the paper looks more virgin. “Where’s my car?”
Free is just too motherf**king expensive.
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