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So I Picked Up a Hooker this Morning.

No. It’s not what it sounds like, but it’s true. This story gets kind of heavy, but I think it should be relayed, nonetheless. I’m not sure exactly why, but I caught a glimpse of the shadow side of things, and I think it’s important to remember that certain things are going on all around us, right here and now, that aren’t so great. And there’s a dark side, a hell, that some people are surviving. And that compassion—and discretion—are both important.

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I was on the way over to our new place this morning to unload some boxes, and had stopped at McDonald’s to get a hot coffee and a breakfast sandwich to power up for our big day of moving.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw a rather tired looking woman crossing the street in the cold rain. She had no umbrella, and I felt bad for her, but figured she was probably just walking across the street to get to work. I thought no more of it, turned on my podcast, and pulled up to the red light, ready to settle in to a nice sandwich, some hot coffee and some anarchist audio.

knock knock knock

The woman was at my passenger side door, knocking on the window. Oh. I thought. This is weird. Japanese people almost never do things like this. Someone could be driving a car in Antarctica, and a stranded Japanese person would probably still never have the nerve to ask for a ride.

I assumed this lady was pretty desperate, and she said she needed to go just down the road into town. I moved a box from the passenger seat to the back and let her in. She made no mention of all the boxes and didn’t say “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” or anything like that. We drove off.

I immediately realized that she couldn’t speak English or Japanese very well at all (in fact, it would be no exaggeration to say she only knew a handful of words). I asked her where she was going. I told her I would drop her off where she said she had wanted to go, but then the story changed (or so it seemed to me). She told me wanted to go further down the road, and that she wanted to go as far possible—as far as I was going.

By this point I only understood that she couldn’t speak English or Japanese, was in some sort of trouble, and had some kind of issue with a child and breastfeeding. Yes, it got confusing fast. I look longingly at my breakfast sandwich sitting on the dash. My hot coffee I had wanted to sip in silence cooling down now like a slow clock. Oh well, Graham, this person needs some help. Just deal with it.

She told me something was a “secret” making the zipper gesture across her lips with her index finger. She kept saying “mama, mama,” and I came to understand that she was a prostitute here in Japan. It seems she had a child who needed to be nursed and/or that her breastmilk kept coming out, and this made her “clients” angry and abusive. Something like that, or so I guessed. Her eyes welled up with tears. I asked in Japanese if she was running away. She nodded. I wondered if she did have children, where they were and if they were okay.

We pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. I couldn’t go farther without ending up at my destination, which I, of course, I didn’t want her to know.

I asked if she needed help. If I could help her somehow. I asked if her kids were okay. When I suggested that maybe the police could help her in her situation (not something I necessarily believed 100%, but being that she could speak neither Japanese or English I didn’t know what to do) she said, emphatically:

“No, no, no. Police,” wagging her finger in rhythm with the next three words:

“Sex sex sex. Police. Sex sex sex.”

What the fuck. I was not really surprised by this knowing what I know about certain “connected cops,” higher up, and how corrupt police are/can be in general, but I was dumbfounded. What the fuck should I do for this lady? Are her kids okay? Wait a minute. What am I doing. Don’t try to be the mega saint, man. Remember, Graham, it’s not your responsibility.

My coffee’s getting colder. I can see now I won’t be able to enjoy it alone, in the comfort of my warm car, so I reluctantly take one begrudging sip, just so I don’t totally miss out on the heat.

I tried to get more info from my companion, but it became useless. She appeared now, due to newly emerging erratic behaviors, to be delving into fits of schizophrenia—or to be on drugs, or both—breaking away from our conversation multiple times to talk to people not present in the car, and making very disturbing faces. Her expressions were strange mixtures of pain, sadness, and wild, screwed-up rage. She would cringe with one eye closed, the other wild with a kind of hateful fear, and jerk her head back, shaking, as the veins in her neck became taut and pronounced. I wondered for a second if she would lash out violently. I wasn’t afraid of her, but of what she might try to do—or steal—especially while I was driving.

Intermittent verbal ejaculations accompanied this strange facial contortions.
“Stop! stop! stop! No. no.” Then suddenly, immediately calm and almost hopeful: “Okay.”

I wondered if she had some form of PTSD.

Finally, when I told her I could take her no further, was not interested in having sex (which she had hinted at after I gave her some money to help) and had to get going, she said “No, no, no” and told me she had a car in a nearby town. Coffee is getting cooler still. Sinuses acting up now and there’s a nasty taste in my mouth.

“Okay,” I said becoming at once both exasperated and resolute, “I’ll take you to your car.” We pulled out of the parking lot, and I checked my phone’s GPS to find the quickest route.

I had given her 50 dollars to help her out, and figured that and taking her to her car was the best I could do. As I pulled out my phone to use the GPS, she pointed at it and said “No, no, no” again. Her voice was becoming panicky. This continued and she repeated “No no no” whilst pointing at the phone two or three more times. Holy shit man. She’s really fucked up. Something’s not right here. Becoming frustrated, I eventually had to pull into another convenience store parking lot.

My voice was becoming louder and less polite now: Where do you want to go? I have to go. Lots of things to do.

“No no no. No no no.”

Can I take you into the city?

“Okay. City. Yes.”

As we began driving the other way, I decided to eat my breakfast sandwich. Drink the coffee. My selfish little time is not happening today. At least, not right now. Far from my new house, another half hour at least to add to the already extended journey with a car full of boxes, and my nameless passenger now is quiet with her face in her hands. I assess the situation.

Okay. So I think maybe this woman has told me she’s being abused, and that there are pimps all across the city, and that they all have territory. She knows mechanics here in the country who are somehow connected with all this. Cops don’t help. Just demand sex. She’s been around the world several times and has many children all over. She seems to be from Thailand. When I asked about her native tongue she said she has none. What the fuck. Is she being used by these underground (and above ground) “connected” scum as a trafficked prostitute? What about these kids of hers?

As all this shit is running through my mind, I look over. She’s got two different packs of cigarettes in her bag. One a pack of Winstons, and the other Marlboro menthols. She opens one of them revealing what appear to be normal cigarettes. I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I’m waiting to see what else she has. The next pack contains something I don’t recognize, but can see is definitely not a Winston cigarette. I decide my time trying to help is over. She’s gotta get the fuck out. Drug charges in Japan are serious and I don’t need that shit—whatever it is—in my car. Come to think of it, her behavior almost resembles someone on meth, at times, as far as I can guess, with the weird verbal ejaculations, the paranoia, and strange body movements.

I decide against driving all the way to the city, stop at the nearest train station, and tell her she needs to please get out, and I have to go. I explain that the train will take her into the city, where she can then take a train to her car. She’s told me already that she knows the city. She intimates she doesn’t know the station. I point to the 50 dollar bill lying on the dash, and then point to the train station, and back in the direction of the city saying:

“Money. Train. City. That way. It’s that way. I’m sorry.”

“No no no.”

“Yes. You have to get out. I’m sorry”

“Wait. ちょっと待って。Wait.”

“待ってない。No. I have to go. You have to get out. I have tried to help you. You must get out.”

“No. No. No. No. No.”

I yell.

“GET OUT!! NOW!!!!”

She gestures to her left breast suddenly, and then to her stomach and says “ouch, ouch” in Japanese. God damnit. Maybe I should have taken her to a hospital. I couldn’t think clearly, and didn’t know what this woman would do next. Here I am, an American, a foreigner in Japan, arguing with a hooker who’s likely packing some sort of contraband in her bag, in the parking lot of an obscure, out of the way, tiny train station in the country. Too much attention drawn here and I doubt the police are gonna believe this bearded American dude was was “just trying to help” this prostitute he’s screaming at in his car. Who knows. Either way, fuck this, I think. I gotta get out of this situation.

“You have to get out.”

She says “no no no.”

“This is my car. I am telling you to get out! I’ve tried to take you 3 different places! I have to go!”

“No no no”

“Get out!”

I tell her that l am not a big fan of police either, but I will if she won’t get out of my car. Then, I think twice. From what she said it sounds like they know her already and she won’t get much help from them anyway. She may even get hurt. I don’t know what to believe. Look, you don’t know this lady’s real story. Your involvement was just to help her by giving her a ride. You’ve helped. You don’t need to tangle yourself in the details of whatever mess she may or may not be in.

I open my door, and walk around to her side to demand she step out. Before I can reach her, though, she moves on her own volition, and opens the door, stepping out of the car. She gathers her things—a purse, some other object I can’t remember, and a plastic bag full of empty plastic bottles. She takes a discarded coffee can with a screw-on cap I had tossed onto the floor. What she needs that for, I have no idea. She closes her door. I roll up the window.

I almost lock my doors, but don’t, as I don’t think she’s a threat, and don’t want to insult her. I don’t make eye contact anymore. She’s left the 50 on the dash. She said: “no no no.” She does a seeming slight bow. I don’t look. I just drive away, the motor winding up as I gain speed. What just happened?

---

I don’t know what happened. Or where the hell that lady is. I kept thinking about her today. On and off. All day. Where is she? Is she okay? Should I have taken her to the police station? To the hospital? But I was just giving her a ride. What do I know?

She had told me that Japanese men were cruel and rough. Especially cruel to women compared to men in other countries. It wasn’t hard to believe, especially imagining the types of men she must deal with here. She had told me that she had a daughter somewhere, or...daughters? I’m not sure. And had to leave them behind because of fighting in the home with...someone. I’m left with all these ghosts of feelings. And not understanding anything clearly. As I drive around today, I keep half expecting to see her waking down the road. Like some sort of specter that intensely entered my life for a half hour on a random, snowy February day, and disappeared just as quickly. Somewhere in her eyes there was a really bright being, and awareness, though distorted now with pain and dulled by abuse. God knows what else. I could see it, though, when I looked at her.

Some people’s pain makes my perceived big “problems” in life seem like laughing matters. I think I did the right thing today, but I’m not sure. Maybe she was picked up at the station by cops. Maybe not.

Either way, I hope she’s okay, wherever she is.

What a weird first day, moving to a new place.

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~KafkA

!

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Graham Smith is a Voluntaryist activist, creator, and peaceful parent residing in Niigata City, Japan. Graham runs the "Voluntary Japan" online initiative with a presence here on Steem, as well as DTube and Twitter. (Hit me up so I can stop talking about myself in the third person!)