2. MYSTERY BLONDE ON OBT - February 2013 I first became curious about hookers because I had two dogs. Drive around Orlando or Miami, and ask at every motel “Do you have a room? I have two dogs.” The motel that finally takes your money, will be the hooker motel. They have tile floors, and don’t mind cleaning up. In the summer of 2010 I became disgusted with Miami. I lost my apartment because of a dishonest real estate agent. Every place I tried to rent, the agent was also dishonest. Plus, the whole city smelled like urine. And so I ended up going back and forth between Orlando and Miami. Sometimes I lived in Orlando and would stay at a motel in Miami. Other times I lived in Miami, and would stay at a motel in Orlando, always with my dogs. I noticed there were girls at these motels. Girls would ask to borrow my phone to make a call. Then they would ask if they could step into my room to make the call with a little privacy. Then they would ask if I wanted to let them hang out, and maybe lie down on my bed and rest for a minute. Later I would see them as I drove out of the parking lot. They would ask for a ride somewhere, even though I had seen them in a room with a guy with a car. Some of the girls were not really in high demand. They would be happy to meet any copilot, willing to go along for the ride. Others looked like cute college girls on vacation. The only way you knew they were hookers, is they were at this motel. And sometimes at a distance, you saw girls who looked maybe a little younger, like forest animals who only darted out for a moment and then went back into their hiding place. One time there was a beautiful pregnant college girl, who looked like she broke a pen and got ink on her face. She asked to hide in my room. Moments later a handsome young guy pulled up in a tricked-out Corvette, like he was the quarterback at the local high school. He said “That's my girlfriend. The kid she is pregnant with is mine. That black stuff on her face is from smoking meth. What the fuck is she doing talking to you?” I said she just asked to borrow my phone. He asked who is she staying with? I said just another college girl. “Not some niggers?” he asked. No. “A hooker?” No, just a college girl. I mean, the girl she is with doesn't look like a hooker. I only know she's a hooker because she is at this motel. That was the Orange Inn, on South Orange Blossom Trail in Orlando. Looking out into the parking lot, from the front window of my room, I began to play a game. Whenever new girls checked in, I would go to backpage.com and try to find their escort ad. It was surprisingly hard. Over many years, I only ever matched two or three girls I saw in person, to an ad on the Intemet. Around December 2012 and January of 2013, a new group started passing through the Orange Inn. It was a black guy in a red sedan with a temporary plate. He looked and acted like he had just come into some money, and splurged at the used car lot. The car poured steam from a bad head gasket in the winter air. For that reason, I think he eventually returned it, it was gone. I think it was like a Crown Victoria, and it was a bit of a pimp ride. He arrived from the north, like he could have been coming up Orange Blossom Trail from Apopka. Sometimes his entourage included a mysterious silent blonde girl, with long wavy hair. Once when I was a kid, I saw the Grateful Dead at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island. In the parking lot before the show, I saw the strangest thing. There was a frantic mob of people racing back and forth, in a tight group like a school of fish. Some would stop and break off the back like the tail of a comet. New people ran up from the side and joined the moving pack. Someone explained that in the center of this mob, was a person giving away a free ticket. Everyone who heard what was happening mobbed around him, shouting why they should be the one to get the free ticket. On a smaller scale, that is how it was when the black guy pulled into the Orange Inn with the mysterious blonde girl with the long thick hair. Other people would come out of their rooms, or across the parking lot, to interact. At the center of it was the blonde girl, rail thin, and never saying a word. It was like she was barely there. I have a thing for skinny blonde girls, so I tried to get a look at her face. But it seemed like every time our paths crossed, or I got close, she would turn the other way. I thought maybe she was avoiding me. Years later I figured out she was ashamed of her face. She was turning to show me her hair, because she thought it was her best feature. I-5