June 15, 2000
La Jolla, California
I was met at the airport by a media escort named Patty, who is fïfty-two and could easily pass for a guy trying to pass himself off as a woman. The mannishness comes from her sloppy use of base makeup—that and her hair and, well, her posture. Patty smokes cigarettes, drinks, and rolled up the dope she found last year lying on the ground at a baseball stadium. She has eight cats and lives with a roommate who attracts snakes with the compost heap she keeps in the backyard. "There's a reason they make beits and wallets out of those things," she said. "They're tough as shit. You ever try to decapitate a rattler with a shovel?"
Patty sells real estate on the side and is constantly being sued over nothing. Last year a cliënt with a history of screwing people over caught her toe on a carpet nail and tried to collect $200,000. "Can you beat that!" she said.
Realtors can no longer advertise that a house is located within walking distance of a school—it's unfair to childless couples. Family room offends the singles, and master bedroom smacks of slavery. She's a great storyteller and I enjoyed hearing about the twenty years she spent tending bar, her two marriages, and her run-ins with people who won't allow her to smoke. What luck to have an escort who'll discuss her drug use. I'm enchanted. Patty goes to sixty baseball games per year.
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