By Paul McGuire © 2008
"You brought a hooker to your sister's graduation?"
"The short answer is yes. The long answer is far more complex."
"Humor me," she said as she rolled her eyes.
"I didn't pay the hooker to fuck me. I paid her to escort me to Columbia's graduation. It was a sort of my way of saying 'Fuck you!' to the old man, to the school, to everyone."
"I see. You were an angry young man rebelling against the system and the pillars of education which provided several family members special opportunities which they utilized to amassed a fortune which allowed you to have an extremely privileged upbringing. Collegiate. Taft. Cornell. Those weren't cheap schools. And that's how you pay respect to your elders? By bringing a disease-infested hooker to a graduation ceremony. Real classy."
"Class had nothing to do with it. And it's not like she was a fuckin' skeeved out junkie with track marks that I picked up on 11th Avenue. She was a high end call girl like the ones that Spitzer fucked. She cost me a couple of grand and I didn't even get a fuckin' hand job! So back off on that. Okay, yes, she fucked guys for money but she also read Chaucer. How many hookers do you know do that?"
"Have you read Chaucer?"
"Well, no. That's not the point. Just because you brought a semi-educated prostitute to a family gathering doesn't take away from the fact that she provided sexual favors for money."
"And you do it for free? That's horseshit. All women fuck for something. For love. For friendship. For validation. For self-esteem. For curiosity. For boredom. For better clothes. For nice meals. For trips to Europe. For long weekends in the Hamptons. For a big fancy wedding. For that swanky loft in Tribeca. For a house with a white picket fence at the end of a cul-du-sac. And if women don't fuck for material items or for the emotional security, then they're trying to get knocked up or maybe they're straight up nymphomaniacs."
"Although some women trade sex for emotional and financial security, the majority don't. And let's not forget that most hookers are diseased-infested drug addicts."
"Most hookers are, but the one I bought to Columbia did it for the money. Plus she enjoyed having sex, so why not get paid to do it? The best jobs in life are the ones you can get paid for doing something you love. My grandfather said that to me before he died in that weird hunting accident in Maine. This was the same guy who bought off two senators, a district attorney, and at least a dozen magazine and newspaper writers during the Union Carbide disaster in 1984. In your eyes and in society's eyes, it's perfectly okay that he profited from a horrible business that accounted for the brutal deaths of at least 3,000 people in India, not including how many other people died along the way. But it's not acceptable for me to bring a woman with dubious morals to an elitist function that I'd rather not attend? A hooker who reads Chaucer is a saint compared to the monsters that spawned me."
"How can you compare the two? And besides, if you were that upset with your family's blood money, there are far more productive ways to challenge their business philosophies. For example, you could have rejected it completely and made a name for yourself and stake out your own fortune."
"You have a valid point. I'm not going to bullshit you. I'm lazy. I'm a hypocrite. I like sushi. I love the opulent lifestyle. I like living where I live and the fact that I don't have to share a rat infested walk-up with six other hipsters in Brooklyn. Besides, I can't just lash out at the family. My cousin did that and they had her committed."
"A hooker? Come on, that's so.... so... trite."
"I thought it was fuckin' funny. Would you rather me dose everyone at the graduation dinner?"
"Well, at least that has some sort of subversive intent. A hooker is just filthy."
"Hmmmm... LSD is good, but hookers are bad?"
"I hate it when you put words into my mouth."
"Well, I hate it when you try to read into things that I have done and have fuckin' clue about the principles involved. Besides, the hooker was the least of my family's long list of problems. At least she was alive. There are several dead hooker stories tucked away into my family's vast closet of secrets and scandals. Those stories we dare not speak about are the ones that make Union Carbide look like a picnic in the Sheep Meadow."
"What dead hookers?"
"Come on. You know! Go across the street to the internet cafe and google 'Franklin Hotel dead hooker' and I promise that you'll find some interesting things."
"Whatever! Everyone knows that's just an urban legend. No one actually finds dead hookers in motel rooms anymore."
"That's what they want you to think. And it was in a hotel suite, not some dingy hot sheets motor inn near the airport. Anyway, my entire point was that at least I had the courtesy to keep my hooker alive, not like Uncle Teddy."
"Can we please stop talking about hookers?" she said in a hushed tone. "The couple sitting across from us are eavesdropping."
"You started the whole hooker talk. I'm totally hungover and just wanted to get a cup of coffee. Besides, that couple? They're German and have no idea what we're talking about. So you can chill out and stop being so paranoid."
"How do you know they are German?"
"Look at their eye glasses. German all the way. Plus they have been speaking German since they sat down fifteen minutes ago. You would know that if you actually spoke a language other than English."
"Wait a second, I speak fluent Spanish. Don't forget I served in the Peace Corps in Honduras."
"Ah, I forgot about your altruistic past when you saved a bunch of villagers by teaching them how to plug in a TV and get brainwashed by corporate thugs. So you speak Spanish. Big fuckin' deal. You don't read Chaucer which is a shame but I'm still trying to discover your deeply rooted disdain for hookers. Which is intriguingly odd because you have zero qualms about dosing the bourgeois with LSD. Yet, you seem to be oblivious that the Germans keep asking each other if they understand what we are talking about because we're speaking to fast for them to keep up."
"You speak German?"
"Ja! Spreche ich Deutsches. Ein prostituiertees von Berlin brachte mir bei, wie man die sprache spricht."
Paul McGuire is a writer originally from New York City. He currently splits his time between New York, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles.