SoulManX
The Inspector!
- Joined
- Oct 20, 2004
- Messages
- 11,028
- Reaction score
- 1
- Points
- 58
She was the madam of skid row, a working girl whose brothel consisted of several Porta-Potties at the corner of Sixth and San Julian.
The johns came to the johns, and Madam TJ reeled them in with a fetching smile and slinky strut, all of it playing out a block from the LAPD's Central Division. There was no more jaw-dropping snapshot of skid row as a rock-bottom depository, a place that existed on its own terms, outside the law and the collective consciousness.
When I met TJ in the fall of 2005, she had a shocker for me. She didn't just work in a Porta-Potty.
She lived in one.
Look, she showed me one night -- here were her clothes, her fine hats, her personal effects. Home sweet home.
The column caused no small amount of shame and discomfort at City Hall, and the Porta-Potties, which also served as drug dens, were trucked away. Every time I saw or heard from LAPD Officer Deon Joseph, I asked if he ever bumped into TJ, which stood for "Thick and Juicy." He said he'd seen her once or twice and tried getting her into some housing, but he'd lost track of her.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got an excited e-mail from Joseph.
"Hey Steve. Guess who I ran into. TJ. Correction. Mrs. Carole Speaks. She looked fantastic, and has been clean for 1 1/2 years . . . I'm so proud of her."
When I called, TJ said she'd be happy to meet, but wanted me to know that TJ no longer exists. She was Carole Lynn Speaks, a church-going believer, and she was engaged but not yet married.
Speaks was waiting for me in front of her house in Compton, and she was wearing a smile to light all of Carson and points south as she leaped to her feet to greet me. Inside her spotless, nicely furnished living room, she could barely contain herself as she showed off the sofa, entertainment center and other chic furnishings.
This is who she always was, she told me. Skid row was a wrong turn followed by a tumble down a dark hole.
"I'm not of that," she said of what she now calls the skid row "dating" game. "I was a corporate executive assistant for years. I typed 101 words a minute."
Then why did she end up dating?
To pay for the medication, she said. Crack cocaine to be specific, which she used to dull bad memories of being beaten as a child and later by a lover. Connecticut was home, but she moved to Ohio to start over and fell in love with a man and followed him to Los Angeles. This guy didn't beat her, but he broke her, nonetheless, walking out without so much as a goodbye.
http://digg.com/d1oqce
The johns came to the johns, and Madam TJ reeled them in with a fetching smile and slinky strut, all of it playing out a block from the LAPD's Central Division. There was no more jaw-dropping snapshot of skid row as a rock-bottom depository, a place that existed on its own terms, outside the law and the collective consciousness.
When I met TJ in the fall of 2005, she had a shocker for me. She didn't just work in a Porta-Potty.
She lived in one.
Look, she showed me one night -- here were her clothes, her fine hats, her personal effects. Home sweet home.
The column caused no small amount of shame and discomfort at City Hall, and the Porta-Potties, which also served as drug dens, were trucked away. Every time I saw or heard from LAPD Officer Deon Joseph, I asked if he ever bumped into TJ, which stood for "Thick and Juicy." He said he'd seen her once or twice and tried getting her into some housing, but he'd lost track of her.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got an excited e-mail from Joseph.
"Hey Steve. Guess who I ran into. TJ. Correction. Mrs. Carole Speaks. She looked fantastic, and has been clean for 1 1/2 years . . . I'm so proud of her."
When I called, TJ said she'd be happy to meet, but wanted me to know that TJ no longer exists. She was Carole Lynn Speaks, a church-going believer, and she was engaged but not yet married.
Speaks was waiting for me in front of her house in Compton, and she was wearing a smile to light all of Carson and points south as she leaped to her feet to greet me. Inside her spotless, nicely furnished living room, she could barely contain herself as she showed off the sofa, entertainment center and other chic furnishings.
This is who she always was, she told me. Skid row was a wrong turn followed by a tumble down a dark hole.
"I'm not of that," she said of what she now calls the skid row "dating" game. "I was a corporate executive assistant for years. I typed 101 words a minute."
Then why did she end up dating?
To pay for the medication, she said. Crack cocaine to be specific, which she used to dull bad memories of being beaten as a child and later by a lover. Connecticut was home, but she moved to Ohio to start over and fell in love with a man and followed him to Los Angeles. This guy didn't beat her, but he broke her, nonetheless, walking out without so much as a goodbye.
http://digg.com/d1oqce
....Not bad, dude. I like it.
