Baby Bird detox cash
The stars must be aligned and the universe must love me! I’ve never been paid so much to do so little.
Last Saturday afternoon I got a text from Baby Bird asking if I wanted to go to Barcelona with him that upcoming Wednesday. We discussed how much it would cost. Lots of logistics. My first reaction was to decline…I wasn’t sure I could deal with him for that amount of solid time. I’ve spent an hour and forty-five-minutes with him, at most. More importantly, do I have enough saliva? Also, my cat was set to have surgery that Wednesday. He said if my cat could wait a week and I could fly with him, he’d give me the higher number I quoted. He’d be working while we were there. I’d have time to myself. How could I say no? Monkey’s teeth could wait.
The plane ticket: He couldn’t buy it because he’s married—this worked in my favor because he thinks my name is Shannon and I’d like to keep it that way. He also couldn’t wire the money (paper trail). That presented a problem as we weren’t set to see each other before the flight and he was flying first class. He said he’d pay me back on top of my fee in cash. I couldn’t buy the tickets outright. I hook part-time; therefore I live pretty much dollar to dollar. I charged the international flight on a credit card and the domestic portion on my debit card—I had to run to the bank to deposit dough. Yes, I was taking a big risk, but he’s always been a man of his word; he’s never given me a reason not to trust him. I was more nervous I’d want to murder him on the trip! That said, I was excited for the story. Which was sure to be entertaining.
Then, the day after I booked the ticket, he text that he was sorry but had to cancel; he was back in detox. I’m sure you know this, but he was in rehab when we met. I’ve never seen the man drink (or even smell of booze). I freaked out. I cannot afford those tickets. He asked if we could talk rather than text. On this, you bet your ass! He was being super mushy, sentimental, and chatty. Apparently, someone had taken some Valium. Time being of the essence, I needed brass tacks. I don’t give a fuck about sentimentality with that much money on the line.
I hadn’t paid extra for a full refund ticket. He said he’d give me most of the cash he promised for the trip. His one ask: could I drive to the detox during visiting hours to pick it up? Fuck yes, was my answer. Sadly, I had done a bit of clothing shopping for the trip. I’d have to write that off. The man was in a hospital.
I eluded to the fact that I wasn’t getting my money back for the tickets. I wasn’t sure about that yet, but I was annoyed at the whole thing. I said I’d see him in a few days. Then I called United. Their refund policy runs for twenty-four-hours. I was two hours over. Thankfully, I spoke to an agent who was in a completely different time zone so I lied—he believed me. I got the full refund! I couldn’t believe it. Was I going to tell Baby Bird? Nope. He’s loaded and I deserve money for all that I do for him. I was a little bummed about the trip, but getting paid to do nothing always trumps.
[Day of]
I made it to Newport Beach in record time. The hospital was super upscale. Doctors go to special places to handle their addictions. There was spa music playing in the lobby! I found my way to the detox wing. Good thing I happened to know his full name. He’d given it to me early on—sort of a rare case when it comes to tricks. Let me rephrase, thank fuck I put his full name in my phone a year ago (not something I normally do…each guy is under his moniker). I told them my name was Shannon Hayes. I left my wallet in the car in case they asked for ID.
I made the rookie mistake of slipping that he’d text me as I signed in. They’re not supposed to have cell phones. Oops. I got a sticky name tag with Shannon on it. I was nervous. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure how this was going to work. Also, how did he get that much cash while locked up? I was praying he’d hand an envelope and we’d be done. No such luck.
They walked me through double doors with no instructions other than there was pizza. He came out of his room. He was out of it and wanted me to join him on the patio. I said sure. He ducked into his room for a second. I thought he was grabbing the cash, but wasn’t holding anything when he exited. Confusion spilling over me like a weird film. Was I really expected to sit amongst family members noshing on food? What would we talk about? We’ve always gone directly into the act of sex. What was there to say other than the glaring obvious that he was in a fucking detox!
Through his pill haze, he finally dropped that my money was in a safe in another part of the hospital and that we had to wait for a guard to bring it. I wasn’t thrilled, but what could I do? We chit chatted about who knows what. I counted the seconds and tried to appear pleasant. I even ate a piece of pizza to pass the time. It was stellar. Pricey detox pizza.
Visiting hour was nearly up with no cash and no word. He was irritatingly calm about it. A counselor came outside with a message that time was almost up and for all patients to gather in the something room for a meeting or movie (I can’t remember). He added that family members were welcome to join in a separate room for support group. Um, yeah, no thanks, I’ve been to rehab and a psych ward; I know all the bumper stickers. I’m a hooker. Where’s my motherfucking money?
Miraculously, a security guard as old as dirt rounded the corner searching for Dr. Baby Bird. The three of us went an office in the busy hallway. Baby Bird and I stood in the hallway, the guard dealing with us through the glass window. The cash was in an envelope signed and dated by BB. The money was loose and it was clear I was not getting the envelope. So much for this being on the downlow. He apparently told them it was for my cat. And while, yes, my cat needed work, it was nowhere near that amount of money.
Both guard and Baby Bird moved at the speed of slugs. Slug number one handed slug number two the cash. Slug two proceeds to count it out on the counter top. One fucking bill at a time! Nurses, counselors, inmates, et cetera’s walking by/milling about while I was stood there, mortified, watching the spectacle, trying not to look like a pro. Or a drug dealer. He came up a hundred short on his last pile and was about to start a recount. I stepped in. I’ve been counting cash most of my life—even before I was in the sex industry. I started counting the money like a real person. That could have tipped me off more than anything but I needed to get the fuck out of there. It was all there. Baby Bird graciously inquired about the envelope but I knew it was a no. I put the cash in my purse. We hugged as we started down the hallway for my escape. He surprised me by pulling me into his room to steal a kiss, but homegirl wasn’t playing. Baby Bird could easily pass as my grandfather. I’m not swapping spit with grandpa under those circumstances. Especially after I just got ten-large. I giggled and high-tailed it outta there. That was literally the exact opposite of how I wanted that to go. But hey, I drove home richer. Who am I to complain?
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