This is a story about a ridiculous incident that almost drove me straight into the arms of the closest mental institution.  It sounds so crazy, but honest to God it’s the truth. While I was living with Vera in Queens, NY a lot of strange and wonderful things happened. 

Vera was a sweet woman who almost made living in Queens bearable.  She was like a kindly, old grandmother who always seemed to be around whether I wanted her to or not.  I considered her to be my geriatric, senile guardian angel.  She didn’t work so she had a lot of time on her hands.  She seemed to supplement her income mostly from the exorbitant rent I paid for living in her living room and from babysitting every child over the age of fetus in the entire neighborhood.

One day, after living in Queens for about two months, I was laying around my bedroom watching Mighty Morphin Power Rangers Oprah when I heard a tentative knock on my door.  I opened it to find a young boy staring up at me expectantly.  I assumed he was one of the 47 children Vera babysit for on a daily basis and had simply gotten lost in the crowd.  He looked a lot like Will Smith, if Will Smith were a twelve year old rapist.  I immediately knew he was going to be trouble.  Instead of asking him what I really wanted to, “What the fuck do you want?” I went with the much smoother more appropriate, “What’s up dawg?”  I waited for him to say something, but he just stood there silently staring at me.  I had no idea what he wanted.  Should I invite him in for some milk in cookies? Or should I scream “Stranger danger!”, slam the door in his face and hide in the closet and pretend nobody was home? I wasn’t sure what protocal to follow in order to proceed with this interaction.

He continued to stare at me with the same intensity as Rosie O’Donnell if she were looking at an issue of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.  I started to feel a little self conscious.  I looked down and was saddened at the sight of my ensemble.  I had on a reindeer sweatshirt my mom made for me in the 5th grade that was covered in stains from a drunken Taco Bell binge from the night before and an old pair of high school gym shorts.  The gym shorts had seen better days and had shrunk from repeat washings and were now so small if I did a jumping jack my vagina was one clitoris’s length away from popping out and wishing this boy a good morning.  I felt vaguely like a pedophile and was nervous the cops would be knocking on my door later that evening and arresting me for indecent exposure.  I nonchalantly tried to stretch my sweatshirt over my hips in case my vagina felt up for a game of peek a boo.

“Can I help you?” I finally asked exasperated.

“I’ve been noticing you a lot lately,” he said matter of factly.

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or creeped out by this statement.  I decided to go with terrified.  I had never seen this boy before and was now convinced he didn’t belong in Vera’s babysitters club at all and was actually a midget drifter with an aging disease.

“Huh?” I asked as one hand unconsciously clutched my vagina protectively.

“You’re really pretty,” he continued.

“Why thank you!” I replied blushing.  No matter how creepy or strange a situation is I must always reply graciously when a person compliments me on my appearance.  I may have even curtsied.

“Ya know,” he said nervously. “My uncle would like a girl like you to work for him.”

I got excited for a minute.  I was currently interning and my main source of income was from collecting loose change left over at vending machines.  I secretly hoped this was my big break and his uncle was either Colin Powell or Jay-Z.

“What does your uncle do?”

“He has a lot of girls who work for him,” he said quietly.  “He sets up dates for them and they go out with lots of guys.”

I wasn’t positive, but it sounded awfully like his uncle was a pimp and was running a prostitution ring in queens.  I needed confirmation on this.

“You mean like a hooker?” I asked confused.

“Yeah,” he smiled.  “Something like that.”

Visions of shopping excursions on Rodeo Drive and polo matches in Beverly Hills quickly flashed before my eyes.  I could almost taste the prospect of driving a Lotus with Richard Gere down Wilshire Blvd. 

“You mean like a high class prostitute?” I asked.  “Wait! Nevermind I’m not interested!”  This was too weird for me.  I wasn’t aware things like this happened in real life.  My planned day of laying on the couch like a hibernating bear and watching cartoons was shattered by his inappropriateness.  I tried shutting the door, but he stopped me.

“Oh come on I was just sorta kidding!” he said giggling.  He paused and looked at me seriously.  “Can I have a kiss?”

Again, I was mildly flattered, but I really started to get worried.  Kissing him was about as likely to happen as my dad giving me a pap smear.  I wondered if it came down to it if could I take this kid in a fist fight.  In the one self defense class I took I learned the best way to fend of attackers was by inflicting a swift, hard kick to the testicles and than running off screaming to the nearest police station.  That wasn’t really an option because while I did want to prevent him from ever procreating I wasn’t sure the police would believe my story.

“Listen!” I said, shaking my finger at him like I was scolding a toddler rather than a future sexual deviant.  “I am a lady and you don’t talk to ladies that way!”  I slammed the door shut in his face, locked it and put a chair under the knob for good measure.  I grabbed my cell phone and ran to hide underneath my bed.  I called the first person I could think of.

Me:  Good news Mom!  I got a job offer!

Mom:  Oooh where?

Me:  In the sex slave industry of Queens! I start immediately!

My mom wanted to hop on the next plane to New York to save me, but I told her I was fine and it wasn’t a big deal.  Next I called Vera.

“Hey Vera!  Just curious, are any of the children you babysit registered sex offenders?”

“Huh?”

“One of them just told me his uncle was a pimp and he wanted me to be one of his hoes!” I spit out.  I couldn’t believe what I was even saying.  It sounded like the plot from a very special episode of Beverly Hills 90210.  I was positive Vera was going to think I was a lunatic.

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry Stephanie!  That must be Lionel.” she said somberly. “I had a feeling his uncle was involved in something like that.  I’ll be right over!”

I hung up the phone and contemplated my conversation with Vera.  She wasn’t surprised at all.  She was already aware of Lionel’s uncle’s dabble into prostitution. Was I living in a brothel?  Was her next rental property going to be my vagina? Also this kid’s name was Lionel? 

Vera arrived a few minutes later and suggested we both go over and talk to Lionel’s mom about what had happened.  I needed to tell Vera in no uncertain terms that that wasn’t going to happen.

“Vera,” I turned to her.  “That isn’t going to fucking happen.”  There was no way in hell I was going to confront this kid’s mom about him being a delinquent.  I would sooner offer to be his mentor in a Big Brothers and Sisters type program.  Maybe there we could push aside our differences and play Uno, Chutes and Ladders or spin the bottle together.

So instead, Vera decided to go over there by herself and gave that boy a verbal lashing usually reserved for Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown arguments.  She told me he denied everything at first until she told him she had a secret recording device set up in my bedroom and had the entire conversation on tape.  He started bawling and confessed to everything.  I’m not sure what happened to him, but I’m convinced he’s either following in his uncle’s footsteps or later that day his mom gave him up for adoption.

In the end I couldn’t get the idea out of my head that Vera actually had set up a secret recording device in my bedroom.  I was convinced late at night she would watch tapes of me eating Taco Bell and trolling Craigslist for missed connections.  I moved out a week later and have been hooker free ever since.