Friday, September 20, 2002
Please note this is from the Archives. Fat Girl has moved on from Fat Girl Corner.

1) Specialize.

Remember, anyone can do a hand job, but it takes that certain something to do it in a pirate costume.

I used to know a woman who weighed maybe 95 pounds and looked about twelve; she worked Richards Street, before it was all organized crime, and she worked it dressed as Charlie Chaplin. She was very busy, right up until the day they killed her.

An editor I used to write for passed Richards every day on his way to work. One chilly Christmas season he passed a hooker wearing the tiniest of red microminis with a red bikini top and red bolero jacket, open in the front, even if it was trimmed with white fur. She had over-the-knee black satin boots and a Santa hat as well. This was too much, even for Canadian resolve, he just couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t lower his eyes and pretend not to see her.

The wall came down.

“Aren’t you freezing?” he asked.
“Oh no,” she replied gaily. “I’m never out here very long. ‘Scuse me.” And with that she got into yet another car.

There is a corner near my house, by the old Golden Buddha Monastery, that is the Fat Girl Corner. Sometimes it is Pregnant Girl Corner, because the easiest way for a junkie to get fat is to get pregnant, as they do not generally eat. But sometimes Pregant Girl and her friend, Pregnant Other Girl, are not there and it’s just Fat Girl or Fat Woman Who Is Too Old To Be Doing This, Really. But all the chubby chasers know where to go for what they’re looking for. Which brings us to:

2) Consistency.

Consistency is so important in branding. I’m not saying you need a logo, but if you work the corner of Hastings and Princess I don’t want to see you on Powell and Jackson, it’s just wrong. Your clients need to know where to find you and you can’t run a business like that from a laptop at Starbucks (they’d throw you out).

3) It’s a People Business, People!

I was on my way home from a business meeting in Gastown recently when I came across a Honduran hooker helping a wizened old drunk stand up. He really needed the help; I helped her. As we were struggling with the limp scareraven another hooker came up. Lean and tall, about seventeen with red, punky hair and ornamental piercings, her arms and legs were swinging that wide arc that tells you she’s flying on an invisible plane, and the sidewalk was going back and forth under her feet. She joined in the effort, grabbing the poor old fellow by the collar of his black suit with maybe a bit of his neck, too, and hoisting for all she was worth, about twenty-five bucks on a Friday night.

We got him upright, and I started to fasten his arms around the lamppost. The Honduran took one look at the newcomer and sidled away, as I should have. The new girl started screaming at me.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Well, I…”

“I mean what the FUCK are you doing? I mean, look at you, girl! Look at you!”

I guess she didn’t care for my preppy Esprit separates.

“Get out of here! I mean, look at you!”

By that point the old man had gotten his arms wrapped securely around the lamppost and was going nowhere, so I let go and walked away.

“Hey, you can’t just leave me with him! Where are you going?”

“You need to work on your people skills, honey,” I said, over my shoulder.

Remember, it’s a People Business.