So I’m sitting in a Del Taco in L.A. at about 7 o’clock on a Saturday night, having finished my meal, grading midterms. I’m alone in the restaurant. An obviously homeless guy in a cowboy hat walks past me to the restrooms. He looked at me so I said “Hello.” He said “Hi” and that was that. I thought.
He went to the restroom and then when he came out he started mumbling something about “fifty bucks.” I assumed this was related to some internal craziness and ignored him. He vanished around the corner. Later, when I went to refill my soda, he was there again, and addressed me, “Hi, Sweetie.” “Hello,” I said, nonplussed. I don’t normally chat with the crazy, but it never hurts to be polite, either. He went towards the exit door, singing “I’m just a gigolo,” and I went back to the midterms.
After a few minutes, he reappeared (we’re still alone in the restaurant, out of sight of the staff) and sat down across the aisle from me. “Hi, Sailor. You want a date?” (He didn’t actually say “Hi, Sailor”: I can’t remember his words, but they were equally stereotypical.) Apparently, the little gigolo ballad was a love song directed at me. Who knew? “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have any cash.” This was true, but it’s also code for “My partner and I have an agreement not to pay for sex with homeless drug addicts.” He then reiterated his offer of services with graphic examples, as well as crack. I said no, he left, end of story.
Weird. Oddly not threatening: he seemed like a really nice guy, and I had a laptop with me he could have grabbed if he’d just been trying to steal. I don’t think I look like the sort who picks up gay prostitutes in Del Taco, but then who does? (Also, $50 for gay sex? That seems high to me, but then, I’ve never paid for sex so what do I know.) I assume he was just desperate for drug money, since he mentioned crack, and took a chance.
