Hooker on a rascal

I once worked with power rangers in Westwood California it was a fantastic time in my life full of promise and new experiences.  There was a lot of drinking as well.  In fact probably more drinking than promise but its the entertainment industry.  The company I worked for was a training ground for this industry that takes all comers and spits them out in larger numbers than it accepts.  This place was a wonderland of learning and partying.  After work drinks were a staple and expected.  I got out of several hot spots  simply due to the relationships I cultivated with executives while slamming highballs and playing wingman.  So after a usual weekending gathering I stumbled my way to my car to get nudging ass home.  Don't judge I was young and it was the 90's. As I drove back to my Hollywood apartment down the famed sunset blvd in my state I missed the glaring yellow cast of the "you're out of gas ya jackass" light.  As it will happen my car lurched and jerked to a stop.  I was stranded in one of the richest neighborhood in the country in one of the most famous streets on the planet.  I was screwed.  I evaluated the situation and broke into swrevy action by jumping out of my car and pushing it one very long block to a side street as there is no parking on Sunset in this neighborhood.  I ran through my mental Thomas guide to orientate myself and the nearest gas station.  Blocks and blocks away was the outcome deep into Hollywood further down in an area know as the strip.  You see filling stations are far too gouache for the flats of Beverly Hills.  So off I went walking off into the night in a 'hood so safe I actually posed the biggest threat to law enforcement.  I was in for a long drunk walk through some lovely mansions.  

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.