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Me, I’d be terrible at it—too loud, too nosy, prob’ly askin’, “Whatcha need me for, sugar?” But dang, the cash? Temptin’. Some escorts pull in thouands—yep, typo, meant thousands—in a night! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, they called ‘em “taxi dancers”—you paid per dance, like an escort lite. History’s wild, y’all. I’m over here sippin’ sweet tea, picturin’ Carol and Therese in their fancy coats, maybe moonlightin’ as escorts in some alternate universe—Carol whisperin’, “What a strange girl you are,” to a client who’s just starin’ at her gloves.

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After that, I’m feeling kinda inspired. I head to the market on the other side of town. It’s buzzing with life. Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of homemade bread. I grab some cherries—best in the region, no joke. I’m munching on them, feeling like a local.

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