It's true what they say: We learn a lot about ourselves while traveling. It makes me wonder if anyone can ever really learn anything by remaining in one place their entire lives, subconsciously protecting themselves from potentially uncomfortable realities. Or maybe those people are actually happier. Who the fuck knows?
In any case, I went all the way to Negril to discover that I'm the absolute worst person at distancing myself from prostitutes, save for maybe Ben Affleck. This crippling inability to issue the verbal b-slap belies my affinity for elitism (as well as my not-so-subtle desire to capably exude pimp-like qualities). I guess that I'm too nice. For this reason, I could never become a lawyer. Pimpin' ain't easy, and neither is law.
My education in prostitute psychology happened at an extravagant night spot called The Jungle, which is Negril's closest imitation to Las Vegas. The sign outside the entrance outlawed (among other things) pimps, prostitutes, gigolos, solicitors, hoodlums, drugs, weapons, skull caps, and bandanas. Despite being guilty of several infractions, I somehow managed to advance through all three security checkpoints. That's why they call me Sly.
Once inside, I was immediately accosted by a young Jamaican woman who was of virtue untrue. Perhaps something about my general attitude suggested that I was a player in the money-for-sex marketplace. Without any pleansantries, she grabbed my arm and coldly said "Buy me a drink." Privy to her nefarious intentions, I said "No thanks," which was admittedly an overly polite response. "Get the fuck away from me" probably would have worked better.
Like all ambitious go-getters, she refused to take 'no' for an answer. Since social graces were insufficient, I resorted to Plan B: economics. I had no Jamaican money except for $180 JMD in coins, which is the equivalent of about two American dollars. Of course, the bar would not accept coins, which makes perfect sense considering that coins are part of the currency. Alas, I did not have the means to buy this eager whore the drink she so assiduously craved. Certainly, she would understand. Problem solved.
Not quite. The prostitute still insisted that I buy her a drank (she must have taken me seriously when I told her my name was T-Pain). In fairness, I have to respect her impressive display of relentlessness. She would not be denied. She was like Tyler Hansbrough, except that she was short, black, and talented.
Her tenacity led me to Plan C: full-fledged lying. I claimed to be accompanied by my girlfriend, a classic beauty who would surely disapprove of my associating with unsavory streetwalkers. Unfazed, the prostitute shockingly demanded, "I want to meet her." Sure thing. Hey honey, allow me to introduce you to this vivacious skillful practitioner of the prostitutional arts. You two have so much in common!
By this time, I was perfectly aware of a strange social dynamic:
Problem - The prostitute wanted money.
Problem - I had no money.
Problem - The prostitute would not leave me alone until there was a satisfactory exchange of goods and services.
Problem - I did not want to be near the prostitute.
Solution - ?
In a last-ditch effort to resolve this confusing interpersonal situation, I offered her the $180 JMD in coins that the bar had previously turned down. Stated differently, I was paying a prostitute two American dollars to not have sex with me (reminiscent of the famous Charlie Sheen joke, "I pay them to leave.") Well done. She reluctantly took my pile of change and went on her way, without so much as a courtesy ZJ (if you have to ask, you can't afford it). In retrospect, this probably would have been enough reason to arrest me on solicitation charges.
The lesson: You get what you pay for.
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Earlier on the trip, I also learned that it's unwise to accidentally smoke cocaine (it's a wonderful experience if done purposefully). While enjoying a good-but-not-great reggae concert, a random Jamaican guy nodded at me, as if to say, "Do you like drugs?" I grinned and nodded back, as if to say, "I'm white and stupid." He politely offered me his blunt and -- despite every piece of advice I received prior to the trip -- I smoked it and passed it back to him. Like a gentleman.
Thirty seconds later, my new friend tapped me on the shoulder and started demanding money. Evidentally I had mistakenly believed him to be a Good Samaritan; he was actually an aggressive enterpriser. After some debate, he told me flatly, "That [blunt] had ganj, opium, cocaine. $50." Upon learning this interesting tidbit, I made some hilarious quip about not being able to read the nutritional facts on the tiny rolling paper.
Maybe my quip wasn't so hilarious - the angry drug-dealer (?) insinuated that if I didn't pay him, then he and his mercenaries would kill me. I felt this was an extreme counteroffer. With my livelihood hanging in the balance, we settled at an agreement that involved $20 U.S. and $1,000 JMD (about $31 U.S. altogether). Honestly, the guy should have held out for more money; I probably would have payed upwards of $65-70 to save my own life.
Shortly after our delightful transaction, I began to feel energetic, charismatic, and danceable (well, moreso). I might have requested that the reggae band perform "Summer of '69" (they might have declined). I may or may not have returned to my hotel room, completely rearranged the furniture, decided that the original arrangment was better, and restored the room to its original appearance. It's also possible that I did 100 push-ups as penalty for my poor decorating instincts. Use your imagination.
Like all geniuses, I rarely admit to being wrong; however, in hindsight, it was a mistake smoke marijuana laced with cocaine and opium.
The lesson: Cocaine is a hell of a drug.
One love.
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