2 March 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 1

Double Lanes

by PAUL CORMAN ROBERTS

Near the old Jefferson Airplane mansion, in back of a cab on the right side, drunk on more than wine, I'm looking over at the sedan next to us. The passenger is the stellar blonde replica of a porn star/exotic dancer of some repute. I vow for once in my life to not look away, to hold a gaze for once, should it come around, and it does, oh yes, it does because this is one damn long traffic light.

It's one thing for her to look over at the cab but quite another for her to catch my eye and stare as long and well as she does; I suspect it's something she's done most of her life. Her husband/pimp/agent/self-appointed guardian of the moment is expostulating about something with great effort behind the wheel. Now I'm the other man he doesn't know about.

Not for long though… when his prize trollop isn't responsive enough he notices just where her attention really is and now he's staring at the woman and I staring at each other. I can barely stand it… every instinct in me is screaming, "Look away! Look away!" I refuse though. I swear I'm going to hold this moment for the very fact that I can.

And she smiles, warm, really warm for just a moment. Her driver of the moment appears to bark something and a snarl crosses her features as she looks away from the cab and engages her new dialogue.

The light turns green. The sedan accelerates rapidly away from the intersection, but it's obvious he's headed for another red light. I burst out in laughter and tell my driver, "Right up here on the corner, please."