Hookers! Hookers! Hookers!

March 1st, 2010

I was in Greenville for approximately a month. I had managed to make it the first 30 years of my life never having gone there. I hope to never have to go there again. (Hell with Clemson! Go Cocks!) My first week there involved “training”, which was little more than filling out paperwork that I’d already filled out prior to my arrival. What little more there was mostly had to do with prostitutes. I had done an online certification on human trafficking, which required my printing out the certificate, signing it, scanning it, and then emailing it to the company. We had to do that one at least one more time, plus I think there were more. The surveys were titled “Awareness of Human Trafficking” or some such, but what they really meant was “Don’t Use Hookers!”

When I got to my first unit in the army I was amazed to meet people who not only had frequented brothels, but were proud of the fact. Contractors apparently come from the same stock, but, since they make inordinately more money, they use inordinately more hookers. Thus, the company attempted to put a face on those many prostitutes by presenting them as victims of international crime, dubbed “human trafficking.” I’d have to say the company failed spectacularly.

Though Fluor threw money all over the place, even going so far as to book me a $950 plane ticket from Charleston to Greenville (which I cancelled for being ridiculously wasteful), they paired us up in rooms in the Crowne Plaza Hotel. My first roommate hesitantly mentioned his use of prostitutes. My second roommate had no qualms whatsoever. He trumpeted hookers as a necessity of the modern age. Once, while drinking, he informed me that he’d heard a rumor that the cleaning ladies were “pros”, so he took it upon himself to call the front desk and ask the manager if he could get some action. He was notified that rumor was incorrect. The day that I left Greenville (the three weeks after the week of filling out paperwork mostly involved me playing video games in a classroom to clock in my required 40 hours), the roommate tried to bargain with me.

Him: “Sir (He really liked the idea of me being a captain), you gotta promise me something.”

Me: (knowing where this was going) “Um. We’ll see.”

Him: “Sir, you gotta promise me you’ll get a hooker in Dubai!”

Me: “No. I’m not promising that.”

Him: “But Sir! Why not? They’re hot.”

Me: “Not my thing.”

Him: “You’re not gonna get laid for four months. You’re gonna go crazy. Trust me.”

Me: “I guess I’ll have to make do.”

Perhaps I should mention that directly before that exchange, when I walked into the room, he was webchatting with a prostitute. I say she was a prostitute and not an internet “model” because they were chatting about her fees for sex.

At any rate, I put all thought of sex workers out of my mind when I got to the airport. I was seriously dreading the 12 ½ hour flight from Washington DC to Dubai. I had visions of cramped seats and screaming children; my luck wasn’t doing too well since I’d managed to lose my cell phone on the connector flight from Greenville to DC. I was thrilled to discover, however, that I got a seat in front of the bulkhead with plenty of legroom and there was not a child in our section of the plane. God be praised.

We were only going to be in Dubai for 12 hours, and we had significantly less time than that after the time it took to wait for our luggage and get through customs. Finally, we got to the hotel. The company put us in a swanky $300 a night hotel. It even had a separate face washer, though it was a bit unusual that was right next to the toilet. Still, it did the job. Those Arabs are strange.

Anyway, while we were checking in, up above us, on the mezzanine level, were prostitutes motioning for us to come up and say hello. A porter walked by me and thrust a piece of paper in my hand. It read:

Sketch Bar: One free beer or spirit of choice!

Then it had a perforated tear off portion where we were to put our name and room number for accounting purposes. Sometimes there are times in your life where you get to announce “Hey, I’m an idiot!” This was one of them. I wasn’t going to do it. First of all, “Sketch Bar”? Yes, the name was drawn in wavy pencil to conjure up images of artistry, but the last thing anyone with any intelligence is gonna do is go to a foreign country, hang out with hookers and take a free drink at a sketchy bar. “One free beer or spirit of choice! Free roofie and wallet removal!” Probably not gonna happen in a $300 a night hotel, but still, there’s no way I’m doing that.

Six hours after I finally got checked into my room, I was back in the shuttle back to the airport. I mentioned the Sketch Bar and the prostitutes to the kind, regal-looking grandfather sitting next to me. He told me the better prostitutes were actually around the corner and down two blocks. I now have no faith in humanity.

P.S. Yes, I know what a bidet is. Calm down.

P.P.S. It just so happens I like to use the bidet to wash my face.