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Me? I’d be a lousy escort—green legs, no swagger. Ha! “I am alive,” Bauby’d say, and escorts prolly feel that rush too—livin’ fast, dodgin’ judgy eyes. Once met this gal, swore she escorted a ghost—some dead poet’s spirit! Spooky, right? Gave me chills, but I laughed—prolly just a drunk writer. Still, how cool’s that?

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Finally, I hop on the next bus. It’s packed, like sardines in a can. I’m squished between this dude who smells like he bathed in garlic and a lady with a baby that’s wailing like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. I’m just trying to zone out, but the baby’s got some serious pipes.