“You can’t turn a Hoe into a house wife.
Hoes don’t act right.
There’s Hoe on a mission and there’s Hoes on a crack pipe.
Hey Hoe, How you doin’ Where you been?
Prolly doing Hoe stuff Cuz there you Hoe again.”
- Ludacris Hoe
Time: 7:37 AM EST
Location: Intersection of North Ave. and Boulevard.
It’s long been my opinion that nothing good ever happens on Boulevard. That’s not to say that nothing entertaining ever happens on Boulevard, it just means you don’t want to be a part of it. Boulevard is really the last bastion of ghetto in the heavily gentrified Poncey-Highland/Old 4th Ward area of Atlanta. This creates an interesting mix of upper-middle class folks and urban outdoorsmen. I see women jogging by there every morning while homeless people sleep by gas pumps. Two or three days a week, I see a gentleman walking through this intersection with a baby doll in his hands. I’ve walked past him before and looked into his eyes. It’s like trying to read a business card through a bowl of Jell-o. You know there’s something in there, but I’ll be damned if you can figure out what it is.
This morning a peculiar thing occurred. As I pulled up to the intersection of North and Boulevard, I saw two women running across the crosswalk. They weren’t in full on sprint or anything, just hurrying to get out of the road. The second thing I noticed was that they were fairly scandalously dressed. Wait, strike that. Scandal doesn’t do justice to the garb these women had on. One was wearing what can best be described as a tube-top for a pre-teen as an entire outfit, something akin to stretching a coozie over a two-liter bottle, and the other was wearing what were quite possibly the tightest-fitting hot pants I have ever seen. To say that she had to shoehorn her water-catching ass into those things would not be an overstatement. They hustled on down the street and my light turned green so I continued my trek to work.
My mind is not the same well-oiled machine at 7:37 AM that it is at 10:12 AM. I’d only rolled out of bed seventeen minutes previously in my half hungover stupor. I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet. Therefore, it took a minute for it to even register in my head what these women were. They were practitioners of the world’s oldest career. Women of the night, if you will. “Where are they going?” I thought to myself. “Surely, turning a trick at this time of day is a tough row to hoe.” Then the fact that were two of them occurred to me. Hoe’s don’t travel in flocks. It ain’t a team sport. Curious.
Were they traveling home from a night of trickery? I suppose so. I chuckled to myself at the irony of a hooker doing the walk of shame. I’d never really thought about the ins and outs (pun intended) of a hooker’s work schedule. A new world opened in front of my eyes, all while sitting in traffic on the Connector. How do hooker’s get to work? Do they ride Marta, or does their pimp drive them? Although I’ve seen many in my day, I’ve never seen one en route. I guess if I were heading to my “corner,” I’d wear an Adidas jumpsuit over my slutwear. How do they even select a good area to work? Do they operate on the same principle as homeless folk, whoever gets there first gets to work it? What about lunch (or whatever you call the 3 AM meal)? Taco Bell is closed at that hour and I don’t think there’s a WaHo on Boulevard. Seriously, the logistics of prostitution are mind-bottling.
The next time you see a sluttress, give her a dollar or two and say “Hey, I feel your pain. The next taquito you get from Quiktrip is on me.” They say “pimpin ain’t easy,” but from where I’m sittin, Hoein ain’t either.
