Warning: Adult situations, language
Ever known a sex fiend? I don’t know how else to describe my buddy Johnson, whose name I have changed considering he, against all odds, ain’t dead yet. They say the average male thinks about sex every seven seconds. What you never learn is how many seconds that thought lasts. For Johnson, the answer was eight. Even on our thousand-mile fishing trip to Manitoba, Johnson’s urges followed us. We—Johnson, I, and a third guy named Shriver—were compelled one night to leave our campsite in the woods for the urban wilds of Winnipeg so that Johnson might be placated and shut up.
I should make clear we were just old enough to buy alcohol. We drove a pick-up truck with a camper on the bed, and from this combination Johnson called to a city cab driver to point us in the direction of the women. The cabby offered to lead us to the appropriate neighborhood, whereupon we tailed him toward the skyscrapers. Several working girls populated the street that the kindly driver brought us to, two of which were hanging on our doors before we even stopped. One was blonde, the other an Indian, or maybe she would rather have been called a Native Manitoban, but this was before political correctness and I didn’t ask. The blonde was much prettier, but Johnson said he had never had an Indian girl. All I could say was that I’d once been with a Chinese girl, and that I was ready again an hour later. The ladies pointed us to an alley where, they suggested, it would be relatively safe to park our vehicle. They came after us on foot, and Johnson urgently announced his pick and disappeared with her into the camper. Shriver and I, along with the dismissed blonde and a few of her friends, the chosen girl’s brother among them, hung around in front of our truck, exchanging pleasantries by the glow of a security light. (The brother made an interesting comment: “I take care of my sister, man.” And a bang-up job he was doing.) Even with whores and sibling pimps, it’s “where you from?” and so forth. It wasn’t long, however, before someone said, “Oh shit, the cops, eh?”
I was thinking quickly that night. I grabbed a folding map from the front seat of the truck and had it spread out on the hood before either of the two cops got out of their vehicle. Of course they asked for ID, and wanted to know what we were doing back there in that alley. Well, hell, that was obvious, wasn’t it? We were lost fisherman trying to find our place on the map. With our new friends.
I think those cops honestly thought for a moment we might be lost. Why would anyone drive a thousand miles from the States to buy a Canadian hooker? Naw…they didn’t buy it for a second. At any rate, we checked out from the police perspective. Nothing illegal would be going on now. Shriver and I found our position on the map and thanked everyone for their help. But as I folded the map and the cops were a few steps into a return to their cruiser, it happened. The camper began to sway in a sickening rhythm. Back and forth. Bam, bam, bam.
Couldn’t he hear the cops’ voices? Well, we were busted. Shriver knew it, I knew it, the pimp knew it, and the gaggle knew it. Or so said all of their eyes as everyone sort of froze on that warm, Indian summer night. The cops ambled back toward us while the slap of the camper shell against the truck-bed accelerated. The shock absorbers squeaked out a crescendo and heralded a finale. The maestro was lost in a world of raw, Native Manitoban bliss, unconcerned with the goings on outside that camper door. The cops regarded us for a moment with half-grins. “Next time you get lost in this city,” one of them said, “be a little more discreet about it, eh?”