The Night a Hooker Hijacked My Son

No, It's Not Paranoid to Lock Your Car Doors

The other night I rescued my son from a crack whore who jumped into his car at the gas station just after he paid for his gas.

He totally didn't know what to do. He was supposed to bring me back the credit card and the gas station's only five minutes away. When he'd been gone a half hour, I called him on his cell phone – and could hear what was clearly a young-ish female refusing to get out of his car and refusing to let him drop her off anywhere but some bad neighborhood where, no doubt, her pimp would have jumped in the car with a gun and robbed or killed him.

Luckily he wasn't very far away. I said, "Mike, you're in a very dangerous situation there. Just come back here."

So he told her he was going to take her to his "parents" house because they'd know what to do, and he didn't. He'd already told her his "dad" was a "cop." In fact, I am a single mom and I live alone.

I heard him ask her if she wanted him to take her to the police station. (When she'd unlocked his car door through the open window and jumped in the car, she'd been all frantic and said her boyfriend was after her and was going to hurt her. "C'mon baby," she berated my bewildered son. "We gotta go go go!"). No, she told him. She had no interest in being dropped off at the police station.

After I instructed him to come back to my place, I went outside to wait on the back steps to my apartment building, cell phone in hand. On two wheels, he came screeching into the parking lot next door. From inside his car, I could hear this hooker carrying on. I was in Mama Rambo mode. Charging across the parking lot behind my apartment building, I headed for his car. Mike leaped out, putting some distance between himself and whatever was about to happen.

As I got to within about a foot of the car, I could see that the window on her passenger side was still down. Cold and clipped, I ordered her to, "Get out of his car!" She didn't budge. "Ah'm sorry," she began, gesticulating wildly, "I took some f_ _ _ed up sh_ _ … ."

I cut her off.

"RIGHT NOW!!" I said, a threat implicit in my tone. The cell phone in my hand made it clear I could easily call 9-1-1.

The door swung open and she stepped out, in her stiletto heels, tiny tight skirt and great big hair.

She stopped, and acted lost. I pointed toward the corner. With zero sympathy, I said, "Turn right at that stop sign. Keep walking. You'll end up back at Chevron." She tottered away with one backward glance – but saw my crossed arms and kept on walking. And we didn't hear another peep – after all that noise she'd been making in the car with Mike!

Mike, meanwhile, was about as rattled as I've ever seen him. He told me, "Good job, mom. You were scary!" "Car doors," I said. "Lock them. Always."

Carol Bogart is a freelance writer. Read her columns at www.bloggernews.net and her articles at www.hubpages.com. Contact her at 3bogart@sbcglobal.net.