I walk for miles until the manicured lawns and personal trainers gave way to club lights aging hair bands members strutting the spandex. I was getting close to my goal, gas that precious precious liquid.
So after my long ass hike through the land of the rich and famous I came to a gas station where I begged the attendant to let me use their gas can to carry back to my deserted vehicle. He would not have it. After several minutes of heated negotiating in broken English, to this day I cannot recall exactly how I wrested the disputed can from his clutches. I just know I had the can and needed to fill it.
Filling a gas can in public is a deflating experience. You're there filling a small ridiculous red can with no car in sight, everyone knows you fucked up and ran out of gas. It's a rookie move and everyone knows it. Now as I'm standing there filling I hear a low hum come up behind me. I hear a pleasant if not annoyingly sexy voice say,"run out gas huh?" I turn to see a creature one does not expect to see in nature, a hooker on a rascal motorized chair. Yeah, I respond looking ashamed and confused. "What the hell is she doing on a rascal" was racing through my mind but I explain my sad tale of a journey home interrupted. As I tell the tale I attempt to process what exactly I'm seeing. In front of me is a mid twenties white girl who's name escapes me after so many years. I do remember she hailed from Champaign IL and was working her way up to San Francisco because,"it's better up there." She never explained her claim. Her body didn't look like it required the aid of a rascal motorized chair; a solid caring father figure sure, but not a rascal. She had fair skin and wore appropriate whore clothing, overly tight and tacky. I did notice she had a rather large set of fake boobs, a tax right off I assume. She was essentially a hooker on a rascal.
After our small talk she asked if I needed a ride to my stranded car. Of course the only answer in my state to this was yes. I hopped on her little rascal and we took of at such a comically slow pace Tim Conway would have been jealous. There I was all 6 foot 3 200lbs. of me gas can on my knees facing backwards on the back of a rascal drivin' by a hooker trucking down Sunset Blvd.
On our trek she was cordial and accommodating by asking if I would like a sexual act involving her mouth and my joint. I graciously declined as the ride was quite enough I thought. There was really only one question running through my mind as the bright lights and sounds of the Sunset Strip rushed by us. Her conversation was lost in the din of my thoughts, what does she do with her rascal during the trick? Tricks trunk maybe, bike chain to a street sign I don't know. Either way we reached the end of our adventure when the border of of Beverly Hills were the sidewalk ramps ended. The curbs it seemed were designed specifically to thwart slightly handicapped rascal bound hookers. No ramps no tramps.
She explained this is the end of my ride. Unless I wanted another type of ride. I understood her heavy handed innuendo and once again declined. However seeing how I kept her from making money for the duration of our trek I spotted her a few bucks, you know for the electricity. I felt it was the right thing to do.
I walked the rest of the way due to a blatant disregard for title 24 by the Beverly Hills DOT. After a long crooked walk I made it back to my car, emptied the embarrassing can. Knowing I had a great story to tell of the fantastic trip down Sunset Boulevard in the back of a hookers rascal.