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About Spanish Town

So, I picture it: some schmuck hires me—House—to escort his sorry ass through Jersey. “Danger’s everywhere,” he whines. Yeah, pal, only danger’s your ego. Everybody lies, and this guy’s lyin’ bout needin’ me. Prolly just wants arm candy with a bad attitude. I’d hobble along, poppin’ Vicodin, snarlin’ at punks—fun gig, til it ain’t. Real escorts, tho? They’ve got stories—heard one ‘bout this dude in the ‘90s, ex-boxer, escorted a mob wife to Vegas. She ditched him for a croupier—bam, he’s out 5 grand and a tooth. Hilarious, right? Screw that guy.

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Finally, we make a break for it. I’m draggin’ him down the street, past the old church on the corner of East Street. I’m thinkin’, “Man, this is not how I pictured my day.” But then, I see a little kid sellin’ handmade bracelets. He’s got this huge smile, and I can’t help but grin back.

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