Take Me For A Ride
Fred Schwartz

 

"Hey, Mister! Take me for a ride?” Well, why not? This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that question, and she’s not the first pretty woman who’s asked for a ride in my neat little car. Or been given one. So, why not? It isn’t yet late, not time for me to get home for supper; only a few of the downtown streetlights have winked on so far, and most of the businesses are still open. The sky is still bright blue, and the air is pleasant, clear and warm. So, why not?

“What’d you say?” Sometimes I play a little hard to get, or at least a little hard of hearing. That’s not unreasonable for a man over fifty, and it gives folks a chance to reconsider whatever it was they just said. It’s funny, but most people seem to change their mind--or, at least, they change their words--before they ‘repeat’ themselves.

“I said, how about taking me for a ride in your little car?” See, I told you so! “Sure, why not? I’m not in any hurry, I can at least drive you around the block.” Panting slightly, hurrying a bit, the gal managed to get herself installed in the close-to-the-ground bucket seat of my new flivver. Actually, she didn’t have near the trouble that some folks have, climbing in; that short skirt didn’t interfere much at all! The spiky high heels didn’t help any, but she made it in, anyway. It takes practice, or natural agility, to get into my little hot rod; it doesn’t have any real doors, just a low-cut place in each side panel. I usually just tell people, “Feet first or seat first, don’t make no difference to me how you get in, but please do get all of you in; I’m fixin’ to drive!”

“Any particular place you want to go, or did you just want to take a little ride with me? Oh, I know, it ain’t the pleasure of my company that’s on your mind! This little car is just some sort of a girl magnet.” “Oh, Mister, I’d go around the world with you! Where’d you get this great little thing?”

“Now, that’s one question I can answer. I got this great little car just about the same way I’ve gotten nearly everything special which really pleases me, except for my wife; I built the thing myself. Dreamed up just what I wanted, drew up some plans, calculated all of the important stuff, and went to work. You’re looking at, and sitting in, what I consider the culmination of my engineering career; I hope you enjoy the ride. Hang on!”

As I gave the sassy little engine a bit of extra gas, just enough to razz the exhaust, to chirp the right rear tire a little and to throw the girl back into her seat slightly--and to get us out of the way of a slow-moving city bus--I hollered to her, “Buckle up; it’s the law!” She just laughed at me, and replied, “Now, that’s a new request! Most guys want me to un-fasten something whenever they take me for a ride!” With all due respect, I honestly didn’t know just what she was talking about, there. I slowed down, and turned right at the next corner.

“Now, Fella, it’s about time you told me where we’re going, and what you have in mind. How about it?” Huh? “Why, you’re the one who asked me for a ride. I suppose a quick trip around the block, or maybe to the other end of the business district, or anywhere else reasonable that you want to go or need to get to. Like I said, I ain’t in any particular hurry right now.”

“Oh, you’re one of those guys who just wanta talk for a while, is that it?” Huh? “Lady, you asked me for a ride. You’re not the first person, female or otherwise, who’s asked me for a ride in this classy little sports car, and I don’t suppose you’ll be the last one, either. You started it, you asked me to take you for a ride, and I was gentleman enough, and friendly enough, and evidently fool enough, to try to accommodate you. If you want to talk in riddles, I guess that’s okay, but why don’t you just relax and enjoy the ride? Most folks are happy enough with that, and are satisfied just to zip around with me for a few minutes, and feel the wind in their hair, and so on. You know, there’s not another car just like this one in the whole world, let alone in our fair city!”

After a minute or so, my passenger shook her head, and muttered, “I’m not believin’ this! Fifty thousand men in this town, and I pick up some gearhead who hasn’t got a clue!” Then, louder, “Mister, this may come as a surprise to you, but I had in mind something a little bit more than just a ride around the block in your weird little car. See, I’m a working girl, and time is money. And at the moment, I’m spending time but I’m not makin’ any money!”

Okay, so she’s unemployed. “What kind of work you looking for? Maybe I can help you find something.” “Yeah, right. Fella, are you really that dumb? I’m an ‘escort,’ a party girl, a streetwalker, a pro. I make my money by helping men like you--well, most of them aren’t quite like you--by helping some men get their kicks. I don’t make anything just riding around town looking at the tall buildings and pretty lights!” Oh, I see.

“Is that so? You know, you’re the first one I’ve ever met, as far as I know. I’ve always heard ... well, you know! I guess I’m sort of curious. How much do you usually make, for ... well, you know!” She got sort of animated, then, downright friendly like. “Oh, now, that depends upon just what kind of action you have in mind. Nothing’s cheap these days, gasoline or groceries, rent or recreation. But I do try to be reasonable! What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I was just thinking. I remember hearing a preacher once say that, whenever a girl sells herself, like you do, I guess, he said that she invariably strikes an awfully poor bargain. Jesus Christ died for sinners, which we all are, and I understand that His death was the greatest price ever paid for anything, God dying for us, just so we could have our sins forgiven, and have eternal life. So Jesus paid an awfully great price for your eternal soul, but you’re willing to sell it for ... well, for however much you can get, huh?”

The gal suddenly shifted around toward me, and just as suddenly something shiny flashed in her right hand. “Pull over to the curb, Mister. I’m a cop, and you’re under arrest for cruising and for picking up a prostitute!” Well, I’ll be! But she ain’t the only one who can move fast when she wants to, or think fast, either. I cut a quick right turn onto the freeway ramp, and in four seconds we were running 65--which is altogether fast enough to put tears in your eyes, if you aren’t prepared for it. My car doesn’t have a roof, remember, and not much of a windshield, either.

“Hey, Sweetheart, you can’t have it both ways. Either you’re a whore, or you’re a cop. ‘Course, there’s some that says if you’re a cop in this town, you’re probably some kinda whore, too. But I usually try to give anyone the benefit of the doubt until I’ve had time to figure them out for myself. Now, how’s about you just hand me that little badge thingy, and let me look it over kinda carefully? Maybe you’re a bona fide cop, and maybe you ain’t. You’ve sure got a funny way of introducing yourself, if you really are one of the city’s ‘men in blue!’ Come on, give it here!”

The badge did, indeed, look to be authentic. But in this day and age, who can tell? I know for a fact that, if I got hold of a real city police badge for only an hour or two, I could turn out as many convincing replicas as I wanted to in pretty short order. So I just tossed it over her head, out beside the road. And we were still running 65 or 70, wind in the hair, tears in her eyes, and so forth. “Hey, you can’t do that!” Sorry, Lady, but I just did. “Now, you got a gun, too, streetwalker cop lady? Come to think of it, the way you’re dressed, I guess you don’t have much of any place to hide a gun, do you? Not if it’s much bigger than that badge you used to have!”

“No, I don’t have a gun! But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re under arrest. And now the charges include resisting arrest, kidnapping, destroying city property, and carrying a passenger who isn’t wearing a seatbelt! If there was any law against excessive stupidity, I’d hang that one on you, too.”

“Well, Lady, I wouldn’t get too righteous about excessive stupidity right now, if I was you. And on that point about the seatbelt, you oughta be grateful that you didn’t get around to fastening it. Watch this.” I pressed a little red button on the complex fighter-plane-joystick gearshift knob of my personally designed and handcrafted little sports car. “Now, you see that red light glowing right in front of you? That little light shows that the ejection seat is armed--the ejection seat in which you are sitting. Now, watch!” I released the little red button, and the red LED began to flash at one second intervals.

“The ejection seat is on a twenty second timer; when that light flashes its twentieth time, you are gone! I’d kinda hate to see that happen, because ... well, the ejection seat is sort of crude, compared to the rest of the car. The mechanism is just four ordinary 12-gauge Magnum shotgun shells full of buckshot pointing upwards, one near each corner of your seat. I’ve never really tested the thing, for obvious reasons, but I’m afraid it may blow the bottom out of my car, same as it’ll blow you out of the car. I suppose you’re more worried about your own bottom than about my little car’s floorboard, so, quick, now, grab those handgrips there with both hands--feel the switches inside them, like triggers? As long as you hold both of those switches, the timer is stopped. See, the light quit blinking. But it’s still red, so the seat’s still armed. There oughta be about ten seconds left, in case you should feel like letting go, to jump out or something ... .” She sighed just a bit, I suppose in relief, but who can ever tell about a woman, especially about a woman’s sighs? I know that I sighed, too, for several reasons of my own.

“Now, little one, I don’t want you to think that I’m a mean or hateful or vindictive old man. But I do want you to listen close to what I have to say, and I want you to think it over carefully. I have tried all of my life--well, all of it since I finally saw the True Light thirty-some years ago--I have tried to be an honest man. And honesty may be the hardest thing to achieve that any man has ever attempted. Trying to be honest can keep a person awfully busy. It’s even harder than merely building a reputation for being honest!

“I read a lot, and I think a lot. I’ve read a lot lately about the so-called ‘stings’ which our local police chief has been running. And I do believe that a ‘sting’ is one of the most dishonest government activities that has ever been thought up, and that’s really saying something. Talk about ‘self-righteous!’ You go around trying to talk someone else into agreeing to do something wrong, and then you arrest them for what they were apparently willing to go along with, although they never did do anything at all. That’s as crooked as any scheme which any real crook has ever tried to operate. Oh, I know, you all claim that the guys you catch have done the real thing often enough, but, still ... it just isn’t right!

“Now, I’m sorry for you. You’re a nice looking woman, and you look like a nice woman, too; there is a difference, you know! Maybe there’s a chance for you; maybe you haven’t been a cop--maybe you haven’t played the whore--long enough for it to mess you up completely. A while ago you asked me to take you for a ride, and I’ve done exactly that. You didn’t get exactly what you expected in the deal, and I got quite a bit more than I had in mind; maybe that sort of evens things out, huh? Tell you what I’m gonna do ...

“I’m gonna pull over up there at the next exit, and let you out; I’ll take care of the ejection seat, don’t worry about that, so’s I don’t blow the bottom out of my car. You just get out, and walk quickly down the ramp, and get yourself another ride--a simple, honorable ride, okay?--back into town. And, for your own sake, try to forget about the last few minutes, officially, anyway; no report, no complaint, no records and paperwork for either of us to worry about on this. For your own sake, though, try not to forget it at all, personally. There’s gotta be some better way for you to spend your life!

“But don’t try to get my license number, or anything like that. And don’t try to describe my little car to some other cop, and cause me any trouble that way. Because, you see, it’s all on tape, ever since the first time you hollered at me back downtown. The tape recorder is just another little gimmick which I built into this pretty little hot rod, and it runs whenever the car is running. So everything you said to me, and everything I said to you, is on tape and will be preserved for posterity. And for court, if you really want to force the issue. Do you really think that anything I said would cause me any trouble, or even any embarrassment, in court or anywhere else? I don’t think so! I won’t even get in trouble with my wife, as long as I’m not late for supper.

“Now, I think you’re probably as smart as you are pretty. I wouldn’t want one of my daughters doing what you’re doing, whether you’re a cop or a streetwalker or maybe both. I don’t intend to cause you any trouble, unless you go and cause me more trouble than you’ve already done. You get out now, you walk down that ramp without looking back, and let’s hope that if we ever meet again, it’ll be a more pleasant occasion. Remember, I’ve got the tape, in case you decide to get nasty. And I’ll make copies of it, too, and store them here and there, several places, for safety’s sake.

“And if you should ever want to take a nice friendly ride with me, just enjoy the wind in your face and so on, laugh and relax for a little bit like any other nice girl might do, I’ll be glad to oblige you. Just don’t ever figure on taking me for a ride again! Goodbye, now, little one; have a nice evening. I’m sorry that you’ve been so disappointed, but maybe you’ve learned as much as I have today!”

 

 

Copyright © 2001 Fred Schwartz
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"