Editor’s Note: Sensitive Subject Matter (Written circa 1995)

“Look, there’s Spike,” Jimmy pointed out to us.

“What is that girl doing? Is she on rollerblades? Oh my God,” Susie snickered in disbelief.

We were on our way to the Silver Cloud for afternoon drinks, and there she was heading up Lombard Street. It was the first time I’d seen her, platinum blond hair nearly to her waist, skin pasty white as glue, decked out in spandex shorts and a dinky sports bra.

She strode east from Octavia, arms swinging, legs gliding, carefree but with direction. She stopped before the next block, swinging her hips around to the iron gate of an apartment building, and disappeared inside.

“We just saw your girlfriend, Sammy,” Susie teased to the little Vietnamese man behind the bar at Silver Cloud.

“What you mean?” Sammy asked, pouring beer into a glass.

“Spike, your little honey.”

“No. No. She not my girlfriend. I only go out with her a few times,” Sammy laughed. “She too expensive.”

“Ugh, you better watch it Sammy,” said Susie, turning serious. “I know that really, you like that girl, but you better be careful. Who knows what diseases she has. I hope you’re using protection.”

Sammy looked embarrassed. “No, she nice girl.” And that was all we talked of Spike before turning our attention to our beers and speculating on that evening’s business.

It was about a month later I got to see Spike close up when I moved into her building. Kitty, a Vietnamese friend of Sammy’s was the apartment manager and had told me one night about a vacant studio upstairs from his unit. It was the break I needed to get away from Jimmy, Susie’s brother and the guy I shared an apartment with near Haight-Ashbury. I had started to get nervous with all his cocaine-snorting buddies around.

I was caught off guard by my first exchange with Spike. I was going up the steps; she was coming down, singing very loudly some song I didn’t recognize.

“Hi. Are you Spike?” I asked, immediately regretting I’d called her that. Maybe it wasn’t her real name. I never bothered to ask.

“Oh yes. It is I, the one-and-only Spike,” she said dramatically, flicking her fingers to toss her hair off her shoulders.

“Hi. I’m Jackie. Jimmy and Susie’s friend. Sammy just hired me down at the Silver Cloud.”

“Jimmy and Susie? You’ve got to be kidding, right? Oh, I bet they’re loads of fun,” she said, not even hiding the sarcasm.

“Um, they’re O.K.,” I said, shrinking beneath her scowl.

“Yeah … well, see you around,” she brushed me off, starting back down the steps and picking up the singing again. I went to my apartment and spent a half an hour wondering about her. Who was she? And where was she going with all that makeup on and long gypsy skirt?

I soon learned that Jimmy and Susie weren’t making up what Spike did as a profession. Her unit was adjacent to mine, one floor lower. From my kitchen I could see her bathroom window, and one day, when I was being nosy, I spied down to her place to see if I could see anything. Much to my surprise, her bathroom was aglow with red light. And I witnessed the light on numerous times thereafter when I looked down to see what she was up to.

I really didn’t care what the girl was into. Rather, I laughed to myself inside at the oddity of the experience of living next to a prostitute, if she should be called that. Maybe working girl is a better term.

I found myself feeling sorry for her. She was so young – she couldn’t have been more than 25, yet she was so pale and worn looking. And how could she be so bold? Did she know she was ridiculed by the Silver Cloud circle?

I decided I’d try to befriend her. I just walked downstairs and knocked on her door one day.

“Yes?” she answered, flinging the door open. Again, I became fixated on her over-the-top regalia: long, painted-on ribbed knit dress, red, with slits to the hips and layer upon layers of makeup.

“I was just heading to work,” I said, intimidated, partly disappointed that she’d even opened the door.

She asked me in. “I was wondering if you knew about the karaoke contest tonight. It’s one-hundred dollars for the winner. You should come and try,” I told her.

“No, I don’t think so,” she grimaced. I offered myself a seat on the corner of her bed. There was no other seating. It was weird seeing her studio, which was just like mine, but reversed. Hers faced Lombard Street, mine the back garage.

“I’ll be out tonight spreading around some naughtiness,” she went on.

Oh God, I thought, not asking her to elaborate. I prayed she wouldn’t start talking about the business. My mind raced, looking around the room, trying to find a focus, something to say.

“I like your light,” I blurted out, pointing to a lava lamp on the bedside table.

“Creates a nice mood, doesn’t it?” she said and just kept going about her business picking clothes up off the floor and folding them, not even really looking at me.

“Yeah. Well, I better get going to work now,” I said and hurried out of there.

I was so relieved walking to work. I decided I was scared of Spike. I wanted so badly to know her story, but I was too much of a coward to even talk to the girl.

A few days later I was heading upstairs to my place and saw the Indian clerk from the corner market trotting down the steps. I knew him well enough from my frequent visits to the store and was surprised to see him there. He was whistling, tucking in his shirt, and his face glistened with sweat. I was repulsed.

I don’t know what ever became of Spike. I can’t even remember if she lived in the building when I moved out. She came into the Silver Cloud a couple of times to see Sammy since the day I went to her studio. When she did, she always had to suffer the wrath of Jimmy and Susie – spewing insulting comments under their breath, ignoring her presence, and even one time I remember, Susie screaming in Spike’s face about her tired skin. The poor girl always took it, too. She never even flinched.