Here’s a weird story that happened to me, it’s about a call girl... I think. This is a long story, so I’ll probably lose most of you along the way. But I’m still kind of blown away by what happened, over 25 years ago. This is the first time I’ve written it down.
I was living in the East Village in a cheap studio walk-up, top floor. Tiny, actually, but it had nice views and an awesome skylight.
I did a lot of drugs back then, and was feeling lousy and hungover one night. The sky had opened up like a monsoon, which fit my mood, so I put on a raincoat and rubbers, went for a walk.
I was on my way home through Thompkins Sq Park when I see a young woman just standing there and staring at some statue, she’s soaking wet, and I say in passing, How’s it going?
I don’t exactly expect a response, so I’m walking on when I hear, ‘I’ve been better’.
I come up beside her and we chat. I’m kind of incredulous because she’s talking to me, a total stranger, and she’s actually gorgeous: tall and slim, beautiful dark eyebrows and large brown eyes, a full sensuous mouth, perfect porcelain skin. But soaked through like a wet cat in the rain.
She’s not real talkative but I gather she’s some kind of photographer. She gave up a stint in another country to marry some dude... from her silence I’m guessing that he ditched her.
This is all totally surreal, so I decide to go for it, and ask her if she’d like to come up to my place which is around the corner, to get dry.
Long story not quite as long, when we tramped up to my 6th floor palace I start up a fire in the small wood stove next to the kitchen table - no landlord would allow that nowadays - and ask her if she’d like to dry her clothes.
Without saying a word, she starts taking her stuff off and hanging it around the room, on chairs, whatever. She strips down to... nothing. I’m in awe - her body is slim and perfectly toned, her skin smooth and shining, her breasts small and perky, she’s sporting a dark trimmed little bush.
We spend the next few hours in each other’s arms. It was incredible. No talking, just physical, almost psychic connection. My reality was confused, like entwined with a dream, and I’m happier than I’ve been in months, maybe years, and we both drift off to sleep in my small bed. I awake a few times with her next to me, sometimes her arm is around me, her breathing on my shoulder. I can see the sky has cleared now through the skylight, the moonlight shows her shape under the sheets. She’s got some perfume on that’s not strong, but noticeable, that I’ve never smelled before. I fall asleep surrounded by the scent.
Sometime in the early morning I wake up - is it dawn? The girl is dressed, leaning over me, her lips touching mine.
‘My love, I gotta go. Do you have a few Benjamins for me?’
I’m awake now, groggy and confused. Wait, she’s a whore? Huh? Fuck!
I reach for my pants, feeling completely disillusioned and angry because I thought the connection had been real. I stuff all the cash I have into her hand and tell her to close the door quietly on the way out.
I try to get back to sleep, but in 2 minutes I’m wide awake - I already want to see her again, but I didn’t even get her name! That weird perfume is still on the sheets and pillow.
I throw on my pants, a shirt, flip flops and take the six flights in a dash. I’m sure I’ll catch her at the end of the block.
I never saw her again.
I searched far and wide, never missed a rainy walk through the park. I scanned Craigslist ads, took out my own ads under Missed Connections, I described her to locals at neighborhood bars. I even called some photo agencies, news organizations, making excuses for why I was trying to find her...
It took me at least a year to forgive myself for letting this angel leave my life, prostitute or destitute, whatever she was, never found a trace of any information about her.
If you’re still reading, here’s where it gets really surreal. Cut to 10 years later. I’m hanging out with an artist friend one night. He’d done a lot of traveling over the years, including in war zones. We were doing the whiskey and cigar thing, and I asked him what the most prized possession from his travels was.
He thought about it, then rummaged around in an old chest (which was also his coffee table. I don’t know why I remembered that.)
He pulled out a khafiya, an Arab headscarf for women decorated with stitched birds and animals.
What is it? I asked. As I handled it, I was suddenly struck dumb. Was it my imagination? I thought I recognized that scent, like a hint of a perfume in the fabric.
Is something wrong? he asked. It belonged to a friend, someone he met in Baghdad, an American photographer.
He said ‘I never learned much about her, she was very private.’
Do you know where she is now?, I asked.
‘Sorry. She died in a car bombing in 2007 during the civil war when the Sunnis and Shias were killing each other. I always wished I could have gotten to know her better. No one knew who she was. Something about her... I’ve never forgotten that girl.’
Even now, writing about it, I really don’t know what to think about it all. Like I said, I did a lot of drugs back then. Did I hallucinate some of that stuff? Was I making connections that weren’t really there?
I guess I’ll take those questions to my grave.
If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. Feels good to write it all down.