A millionaire and a prostitute, a dentist and a prostitute, a suicidal alcoholic and a prostitute.
The possibilities have shown to be endless.
Especially, if you have a prostitute.
Unfortunately this tale is not one of a whore with a heart of gold, but rather a couple overcoming adversity, and at times each other, to discover true love.
And a van.
For the last couple of days a couple residing in an early 90's Econoline outside my house had seemed to be like any other homeless couple in Venice, content, at peace with each other and their situation, and out of cigarettes. They appeared to get along, spending most of the day and night sipping 40's of malt liquor and relaxing in the array of blankets and clothes compiled in the back to make some sort of bed structure. Seems lumpy.
But last night, whatever had been building between these two, came to a boiling point when the side doors of the van flew open, and the female (she looks like a Vicki, so we'll go with that), jumps out, screaming something hard to understand, which is the norm in Venice, but even with the front row seat I had I could only make out something about getting a job and moving.
This seemed like a fair request of the man to whom I can assume she has given her heart and soul to. I have been in love, but to live in a van is real commitment, and I didn't doubt for a second that she was devoted to this man.
Oh, we should give him a name.
So Vicki is busting Chuck's balls about this and that, but it is clearly bad timing on her part.
Ladies, homeless or not, don't dig into your man when he is 120 ounces deep in Mickey's.
Chuck lunges from the van, anxious to defend his honor, but not with the agility and equilibrium that would have helped in making this a valiant effort.
Chuck fell down, hitting the pavement and staying there as if he were stuck to it.
Vicki, not one to walk away from opportunity, jumped over Chuck and quickly took shelter in the van, locking the doors and leaving Chuck to die on the sidewalk.
Chuck wasn't down for good though. Like any great champion, he rose to his feet and began banging on the side of the Econoline with vigor. Vicki, screaming obscenities through the thick glass, was obviously not going to let Chuck back in the house.
Chuck, eager to be a good listener, but unable to do so with the doors locked, did the natural thing and punched the window, sending shards of glass and Chuck flesh everywhere.
Vicki screamed, ran down the street, and while her man was bleeding to death in the gutter and lacking the basic medical knowledge to stay conscious, she called the cops.
I knew the cops had been called because they cruised up, six uniforms deep.
Six. Six LAPD officers to handle Chuck and Vicki.
But that's another rant.
Well, it seemed as if Chuck and Vicki would be separated, Chuck possibly going to the drunk tank for a night leaving Vicki to patch up the love nest and ponder some life choices with a night to herself.
But then something happened. It wasn't flashy, or taken from a Hollywood script.
Chuck was calling Vicki a cunt, Vicki was calling Chuck a cock sucker, and then a cop asked Chuck for his identification.
Chuck stopped in the middle of mouthing what seemed to be the word whore, shifted his attitude, and the same way Ward would ask June what's for dinner, Chuck said, "Baby, you got my wallet"? To which Vicki, not missing a beat, replied, "Yeah baby, here".
Vicki handed Chuck his wallet, and their eyes locked. It lasted a fraction of a second, but in that nano span of time, both realized that all this hoopla was for naught.
Well, I'm sure the inner dialogue was something more like, "I fuckin' love you a shit ton", but should I turn this into a movie, I'm trying to keep it PG-13.
Chuck went to hand his wallet to the cop, who I am convinced saw the same magical moment I did, because at this point he didn't feel any further investigation was needed. Chuck put away his wallet, cleaned up some glass, and assured the cops there would be no more disturbances.
The cops left, but not before giving one last piece of advice to Chuck as he worked away to clean up the glass, teetering to the side at times.
"Sir, the more you move, the more you are going to bleed".
I know the cop didn't mean it as a metaphor for love, but I'll take it that way.