The Wrong Jezebel

Remembering a July 3rd a longtime ago.

Most of the time, paying for one's pleasure was a crap shoot. Yeah, they say their sending over a nice slinky brunette, but instead you end up with a puffy blonde. Hey, you call someone at 2 a.m. and see if you get their best. It's the way of the world.

There were some exceptions. One was Jezebel. She kind of looked like Daphne from Frasier. So drawn to her was I that I became a steady customer despite her tendency to take things from my apartment upon leaving. Nothing of value mind you. A fare card here and there and once and a hairbrush (you learn early to leave nothing of real value out in the open). I almost convinced myself that she was setting me up for some crime since she now had hair and fingerprints.

My former shrink suggested that I should delicately confront her on this. He suggested saying, "I know you feel a compulsion to take something when you leave, so why don't we decide now what to take." I replied that I didn't think it was a good idea to suggest to someone working in this particular service industry that they were a thief and that while it is not a requirement, sometimes the folks in said industry are slightly off-balance and I wouldn't want to end up with a knife in my chest because I was worried about losing a paperweight.

It was a small price to pay. She never wanted a beverage and didn't partake in other substances either. Very professional girl.

Anyway, one July 3rd I'm doing my usual thing, getting incredibly loaded by myself There might have been a friend with me at the start of the night, I don't really remember. If there was, he was just someone to make me feel like I wasn't really alone when truth of the matter is that for the most part I loved getting fucked up myself. That is another one of those lines we cross when we go from getting wasted with friends to preferring to get wasted by ourselves.

When I rolled back home around 1 a.m. or so I called my place and asked for Jezebel. Sure, they said, she'd be right over. And about thirty minutes later the buzzer rang (is this a great country or what?). I opened the door and it wasn't my Jezebel. I wasn't naive enough to think that was her real name anyway, btw, I get the whole stage name thing. She might as well have called herself Johnny Bravo (`hey man, he fit the suit.')

Still, to me there was only one Jezebel and she wasn't it although she was quite fetching in her own right. She said that was the name they gave her for the evening when I explained I had been anticipating someone else.

Unlike the original, this one did enjoy a beer and other goodies and while it ended up being a thousand-dollar night that is still clear in my memories, at least nothing went missing from the apartment when she departed. And while I was to see the original Jezebel many more times after that night, Jezebel II never reappeared despite my efforts to find her again.

I don't tell this story because I miss all that shit. I don't tell it because of some gutter bravado or something. It's just something I was thinking about today.