A thick fog hung over the pavement, suspended in the headlights of 18-wheelers. Parked back to back on a two-way side street, the trucks formed bumpers for the dozen girls that rolled up and down the street. They were young--early twenties for the most part; and half weren't wearing any pants. Traveling in groups for protection, they joked with truckers as they stumbled from the "top" to the "bottom," their elongated shadows draped over the pavement; words slipped through the crackle of the CB; high heels clicked over the hum of idling trucks. Every now and then, a black impala would drive by, but no arrests were made. "The cops don't care," said Errol, an amiable truck driver, "they know these girls by name." A drunk hooker in a tank-top and lace panties hopped onto the side of our cab and offered to demonstrate her tornado-tongue.
With nothing but a back light in the sleeper illuminating her graceful contour, Missy told us about her two children and showed us the bullet-wound on her leg. "We're just people," she said, "trying to make ends meet. I have six pimps: electricity, gas, cable, internet, phone, and rent."
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