The Callgirl and The Cop…

[We’d talked, essetially, about a blog that would sell the self as a product. I can only imagine the scrape marks on the barrel bottom when this story of mine is come across by anyone.

The self as a product?

Then, it has to be asked; how was this product conceived?]

I am a believer in time being a fairly unimportant contrivance that merely allows me to get to work on time and prevents my girlfriend from being mad at me if I show up to dinner at a random time expecting her to meet me there.

Time is useful, yes. But in the sense only that it that we can remember anniversaries, be punctual, follow morning rituals etc. In a much larger, more relevant, sense– time doesn’t exist. Days do not begin or end anymore than a tree was called a tree before we named it. And the earth has circled the sun far longer than we’ve had measurement tools.

So, then, where do I start?

60 years ago when the ideas that I plan to write about were just a bullet in the crotch of a cop in the “ABA club” on 6th Street that hasn’t been spoken of in decades?

Or how everything that led to this point is the 24 year long night terror that produced a high functioning adult with eccentric ways of therapeutically helping others?

Or is it really that nothing before or after this point is any of my damned business?

If I began at the absolute vestige of all of this it would be the evening of February 24th, 1957.

If I start here, a bullet is shot from a snub-nosed .38 revolver. Allan Carnahan is smiling at his mistress and she’s thinking of everything that wouldn’t make a man smile anywhere. Especially not in the empty gun holster of a narcotics division police officer. Shirley Cavanaugh with her smile, her hair, her short stature, her 4 children forgotten, her trigger finger curled in a gesture towards a man she’d actually fallen for.

Shirley and Allan- The Callgirl and The Cop.

Born into the, “stallion understanding of everything by the single click reliability,” that Allan would never have children now that his penis lay in multiple red chunks on the bar room floor.

This was Shirley’s last call. What the paper’s dubbed, “The Carnahan Affair.”

20111229-134251.jpg Pittsburgh Post-Gazette – May 29, 1957.
Oh grandma, you were so beautiful.

Shirley was a prostitute. One of the best. In the whorearchical ladder she dominated the top rungs. And when Pittsburgh had a, “Vice Squad,” they weren’t too up to date on human ethics.

And when Carnahan took the bullet to his crotch- Pittsburgh didn’t have a vice squad anymore.

What you could call a “Whorearchy” divides prostitutes into various classes the same way any other social group would. You’d have “slavegirls,” comparable to a burger flipper at McDonald’s, you have the “working class strumpet” or “streetwalker,” comparable to laborers and plumbers, higher still you’d have the exclusive “parlor house prostitutes” and “courtesans” which would be comparable roughly to professors and doctors.

My mother’s mother Shirley, she never walked the streets.

The exclusive ones, these parlor house courtesans, these were the women who’d get passed around corporations, bachelor parties for the Pittsburgh Vice Squad.

This is how Shirley became famous, she is why the Pittsburgh Vice Squad no longer had a Hooker Removal Division.

Now pretend that in this reality – contraception simply does not exist. Shirley Cavanaugh went Hansel and Greteling her life with children.

From what I know there were 2 alley way abortions, 2 barroom bathroom miscarriages, Uncle Forest, my mother and her brother Uncle Jim and my Aunt Judy. A handful of needles in a bed of hay that Shirley slept on when her career ended by landing her in jail.

Even Call-Girls get the blues.

In every press photo Shirley wouldn’t have been caught dead without a perfect updo for long hair and pristine makeup poised across a glimmering cantaloupe seed smile.

Miscarriages wipe the smile right off your face, and abortions just put the hurt worse on the inside.

Forest died at about the age of 5 or 8 from some sickness. Aunt Judy was – where ever. Uncle Jim and my mother, twins, maybe, split at birth.

Who really wants kids anyway?

Shirley Cavanaugh… The Patron Saint of all the Trick-Babies alive today.

When a business deal between a John and a Callgirl has quality control problems… That’s a trick-baby

And children can make problems on a profession like Shirley’s.

And those children- well, nothing normal will they ever be from birth forth. So you toss them in a crib in an abandoned house and forget about them. The 2nd youngest lay for a day dehydrating in a soiled crib until the neighbor heard her cries and called the police.

The 2nd youngest of the four was Ruth, my mother.

Where all of this began.

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