(Escort names have been changed to protect their anonymity. Opinions below are mine and do not necessarily reflect those of the leaders who run our team. In other words, if you have an issue with something I've written, talk to me. Absolutely feel free to share. Links to previous entries in this series: Start here with Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. Day 4. Day 5. Day 6. Day 7. Day 8. Days 9/10/11. Day 12. Day 13. Day 14. Days 15/16. Day 17. Days 18/19/20. Days 21/22/23. Days 24-31. Day 32. Day 33. Days 34-35. Days 36-39. Days 40-42. Days 43-45. Days 46-48. Days 49-52.)
(Yes, it's been a while. Not for lack of shifts - there's been plenty of those - but rather time. Well over a year between posts isn't great, but in my defense for most of that I was working two jobs - and, for a fun month or so, three jobs to the tune of 65-75 hours a week - and if you mix in another dog adoption - that's three now, if you're keeping count - hopefully it's possible to understand how my ability to get in front of a keyboard for this might have been limited. Bad time for it too, given the wholesale assaults being made by fascists and cultists, but I'll try to do better. As always, thank you for reading and please feel free - nay, encouraged - to share this if you wish. If you know someone who needs help with this issue and isn't sure what can be done please don't hesitate to reach out to me - we have ways to help.)
(Day 56)
"You know, Christopher Yolo, you'd be better off being home keeping an eye on your wife. She's . . ."
Parker is still talking but I've already walked away, depriving him from delivering whatever zinger he's got loaded up. I'm not sure if he's getting my name wrong on purpose to be, uhm, witty, or if he's incapable of reading it off the myriad of court notices that have been swooshing back and forth for the past year or so. Either way he seems irritated that I won't engage or, two hours into the shift, have not spoken a single word to any of them aside from telling Scrubs to get the fuck out of the buffer zone. Scrubs came in to tell me, for some reason, that there is a bag across the street. While we're always on the lookout for potential clinic bombers, I doubt a McDonalds bag 75 feet away is anything more than what it appears to be (spoiler: it does indeed turn out to be someone's discarded meal).
This is my first shift in our Post-Roe world and so far, because New Jersey is a state that cares about the reproductive rights of women, it's been pretty much the usual. The clinic is extraordinarily busy, as one might expect, with a hefty number of out-of-state plates making drop-offs. I've got a full escorting team plus a rookie, who is enduring her trial by fire with wide eyes and a ferocious attitude. When she asks me how long I've been doing this I'm shocked to realize I'm closing in on six and a half years of being told that Satan is my daddy. Time flies when you're shielding patients from religious zealots.
Speaking of zealots, one nice development is that Mr. Preacherman was permitted by the Feds to leave the country to cram his religious beliefs down peoples' throats in other parts of the world, so he and his increasingly violent tendencies are not currently our problem. He's still facing state hate crime charges, but if they decided to drop them in exchange for him never setting foot on US soil again I would sign off on that trade in under a second. And in other legal news, some eighteen months after filing we finally have resolution with regard to the spaghetti bowl of complaints and counter-complaints, albeit a bittersweet one. In essence we all agreed to drop all complaints in order to make everything go away, which is frustrating since pretty much everything they accused us of was malarky they created out of thin air in response to learning we'd filed against them. Having to tell the judge that yes, we wanted to drop the complaints didn't sit well with any of us, but for a number of reasons it was what we needed to do (not the least of which was ending this prolonged nightmare for the attorney kind enough to represent us pro bono). Besides, His Honor didn't offer relocating the protesters to Minot, North Dakota, so our options were limited.
"Maybe you should be home watching your own kids, instead helping someone else kill theirs!"
Parker and his crew love spinning passive-aggressive comments like this, straddling the line between attempted insult and vague threat. Having Stepson tell us over and over that we're 'deserving of death' certainly feels like the latter, and considering the massive amounts of misogyny and homophobia that swirl within him can't be easily dismissed. Hopefully he won't be our problem for much longer, as he's a co-defendant with Mr. Preacherman in the aforementioned hate crime trial. For people purportedly spreading the love of Jesus, they sure do manage to summon up a large amount of bile.
"That's right, Christopher Yolo, your wife is a wicked woman instead of a proper bride of Christ!"
Damn straight.
* * *
(Day 64)
"What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here. I don't understand why you're here."
It's not often you can ruin a miserable person's day just by showing up, so I do my best to savor the ones I get.
Due to a request, our escorting group has expanded to cover another clinic in a nearby town. I'm ringing in the first Saturday of the year with Lena, the two of us feeling out the new situation. The town we're in has stricter noise ordinances than Englewood and right across the narrow street from us are townhouses, so at least we won't be subjected to three hours of amplifiers at 90dbs. In addition, the protesters can only have two of them on the sidewalk in front of the clinic at once. This, combined with the noise rules, ensures we'll never have to deal with the Englewood crew and their inflated egos here.
The nonplussed person stammering at our arrival is white (of course), male (of course), and older (not of course, but there's definitely a preponderance of elderly folk involved in this nonsense). He lets us know how he feels about us intruding on his stomping ground by immediately bumping into Lena as we escort the first patient in, allowing her to let him know what 'zero tolerance' is. He remains absolutely agog that we're both here and willing to defy his wishes, and it starts to dawn on me just how incredibly upset he is by our presence. When the a car pulls up in front of the clinic's front door he's visibly irked that we're now in his way, although that doesn't deter him from being judgmental.
"Miss, you've already made one mistake, please don't make another."
Despite knowing I'm not supposed to interact with the protesters I'm not about to let that one slip by, but the patient waves a dismissive hand in his direction and raises an eyebrow to us before addressing him.
"Don't you have anything better to do, old man?"
"Miss, my wife and I would love to adopt your baby, please let us."
Now she straight-up laughs as she exits the car, walking to the clinic with us on her flanks.
"Are you serious? You're like what, eighty? Ninety? You gonna share diapers with the kid? Hire a nanny to push both of you in a stroller?" She gives us a wink as she passes through the door. Old Dude stands a few steps behind us, looking like a kid who just got his favorite balloon popped.
If the idea of this at least seventy-year-old dude and his wife being put in charge of a newborn sounds both dangerous and ridiculous, it's only because it is. It's also a lie, as without a doubt the child would be given to a family they approve of, one that would never, ever be deemed suitable parents by the agencies that are in place to safeguard against just such child trafficking. Does that sound like a harsh term to use? Maybe, but that's what it is.
The protesters like to brag about how a few months ago they talked 'a witch and a prostitute/pornographer' out of an abortion and into having the child instead, and how they gave it to a 'Christian' family. With a minimum of digging one can discover that this 'Christian' family used the child's adoption as a springboard to launch a GoFundMe to raise funds not for the kid, but instead for the 'intensive therapy' needed for their 14-year-old daughter, also an adoptee. They also claim that they 'had' to adopt the new child because he was related to their daughter . . . which makes my BS detector sound multiple alarms. Given the levels of religious zealotry drenching the mother's Facebook posts makes me hope beyond hope the attempt wasn't to fund some under-the-radar gay conversion therapy, which is illegal in New Jersey (and should be everywhere). In any case, sidestepping proper channels to give away a child isn't great, especially when one of the agents involved is Mr. Preacherman, a person who likes beating his children so much he invented a holiday for it. As much as that sounds like something I've made it, it is not. He calls it 'Spanksgiving' and thinks it's wonderful.
These are the people who condemn us.
After we deliver her inside our new friend tries to engage us in conversation, becoming visibly frustrated as we ignore him. He wanders across the street to where a gaggle of protesters are standing, a group that varies in size as the morning lopes along. There's a sizable amount of glaring, head-shaking, and pointing in our direction, as the brood appears to be distressed that we interlopers are intruding on their holy labors. One by one they drift away until Lena and I find ourselves with only a single protester standing over by a dumpster, fiddling with her tracts while looking somewhat bored. Not long after that she gives up as well, and when a patient shows up we're able to enjoy the sublime experience of merely pointing at the unhindered access to the clinic's front door. Strangers in a strange land indeed.
* * *
(Day 59)
"You see, Christopher, I'm busy praying for your soul because I want you to see the light, to turn from your wicked path and accept the embrace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will be your savior if you'll allow him to be so, and through his love-"
Scrubs has been following me around and issuing forth this never-ending babble for at least five minutes now. What have I done to deserve this?
Well, that's an easy one to answer. After managing to extract a patient from a car being swarmed by Runner Lite and her fellow harpies, I peeled back once I realized that Scrubs had stuck around to harangue the driver. Scrubs - he doesn't wear the top anymore but while I'd be within my rights to refer to him as Beardy McBeardface due to the snow-white abomination jutting from beneath his jaw, I'm set in my ways - has being increasingly more erratic and unstable as each week goes by. As many of the screamers of old have stopped showing up, Scrubs has gotten to realize his dream of being able to spew hatred and misogyny on the mike each and every week. Lacking either talent, charisma, or presence, he makes up for it by being as repulsive as possible. Keep those feet on the ground but keep reaching for the stars, Scrubs.
During my previous shift one of our clinic observers - folks we brought in to film and record the shenanigans of the protesters so we can be free to concentrate on the patients - had wandered into the buffer zone and, in the midst of one of Scrubs' thundering rages, had the temerity to more or less yawn in his face. To say that Scrub lost his shit would be an understatement - he went from whatever thread of inanity he'd been orating about and shifted to screaming about this woman's impending doom and damnation. Not sure what set her off - his tomato-red face, the veins bulging in his neck, or the ridiculous rhetoric he was targeting her with - but she lost it and started laughing.
Hello, Defcon Five.
Scrubs has zero respect for women, often demonstrated by the way he treats his wife, Runner Lite, as if she were a possession rather than a partner. When one dares to mock him in any manner it's like a match being touched to the fuse of a stick of dynamite. His anger kicks into overdrive as he forgets everyone else out here exists in order to zero in on his new arch-nemesis, and if you think this is something we have used to our advantage you're not wrong. As he spluttered and blustered at the still-laughing observer we eased a patient in without him noticing. It's nice when they make it easier for us.
"But you have to want to fight the wickedness within you, Christopher, you have to stop filling the world with your fake news and instead follow the path blazed by the Gospels, in order to -"
"Scrubs, are you this angry because you've never satisfied your wife before? Not even once?" I give him a pitying smile as he stumbles over his words for a second. "Is that why you get so jealous when another guy talks to her? Afraid that she's reach for something you can't give her?
I gotta give him credit, as aside from the one skip he's still rambling along. His brow is furrowed, though, and perhaps even more importantly he's so locked in on me he hasn't noticed the Camry that's slipped in behind him and delivered a patient. At the last moment he snaps his head up to see my fellow pink-vested escorts shepherding her inside, beyond his reach. With a snarl he turns back to the driver he'd been harassing before, only to see they escaped while he was distracted. I'm the last resort, but as he starts up again I've got my back turned to him, starting up a conversation with my partner Emmy. There's a few seconds of half-hearted bile before he storms away, allowing Emmy and I to crack up together and high-five. Over my shoulder I see him taking his post up by the edge of the buffer zone, Runner Lite dutifully bringing him a slim red water bottle. A match made in Heaven, indeed.
* * *
(Day 67)
"My biggest surprise became my best friend."
Good. Go hang out with your best friend and let everyone else have the same thing you did - a choice.
To borrow from Mel Brooks and Zero Mostel - 'They come here, they all come here. How do they find me?' I'm back on the two-person shift at Clinic #2, hoping for another fairly easy morning but instead having to deal with folks like this one. Apropos of nothing she's started talking to Emmy and me as if we'd asked her to, which we most assuredly did not. The day has started off the right way, with the old guy from my previous shift doing a drive-by and, after spotting us, not returning as of yet. There's another collection of protesters across the street, but aside from brandishing signs in our direction and muttering their Hail Marys loudly enough for us to hear, they're not an issue at this point.
"I'm a chaplain. Did you know that? Would you like one of my cards? Can we talk about how wrong what you're doing is?"
I'm still sometimes taken aback at the entitlement we encounter on the sidewalk, of these people who think it's perfectly fine to take their particular flavor of myth and try to ram it down your throat as if it's their right to do so. Her claim to be a chaplain doesn't impress me much, as the whole religious-person-in-a-non-religious setting always seemed weird and untenable. She tries to engage us for a while, drifting away as Emmy and I start chatting about weed. When patients show up the chaplain proves easy enough to box out, and we've certainly had to deal with worse protesters before.
One of whom shows up a few minutes later, of course. Luis, he of screaming at brick walls and blowing a shofar, makes an appearance. The guy who went bonkers on a Department of Health worker who tried to hand out free masks during the height of COVID? The guy who once asked a fellow escort if she was a virgin? The guy who was so threatening and menacing that my wife filed a harassment charge against him?
Yeah, that guy.
We watch with distaste as he hangs signs drenched with misinformation on his pickup, preparing ourselves for his unbalanced rants. Back before he got entangled in a seemingly endless series of court dates to address the complain from my wife, he was considered someone who was borderline dangerous, an unstable personality promising an explosion that was more a matter of when as opposed to if. On the surface it felt like the results from my wife's efforts were minimal at best - a thirty day ban from the clinic - but aside from the mask incident Luis hasn't been the same. He returned quieter, less strident, less committed. He'd disappear for months at a time, not that we missed him. His reappearance here isn't welcome, and serves as confirmation that the protesters are irritated enough at our presence here to try to turn up the heat, so to speak. Calling in the reserves, bringing back some of the old fireballers. Hellfire and damnation! Old Testament God, the one more interested in killing and revenge than redemption.
Luis doesn't seem up to it. When he comes over to chat with the two protesters in front of the clinic we're quick to let him know the rules. Based on past events I expect either scorn or anger, but instead he blinks a few times before shuffling back across the street and talking with the crew assembled there, including one guy who shows up late and attaches a camera to a telephone pole. As best as we can tell he's livestreaming himself standing across the street from the clinic, and we make sure we interpose ourselves between his filming angle and the patients we're bringing in. The chaplain has been getting visibly more frustrated as she can neither engage us nor get her pamphlets to our charges, and with a shake of her head she gets into her car and departs, leaving our souls unsaved. Luis takes the opportunity to assume her spot but he's a shell of himself, reading Bible verses in our general direction instead of his antics of days bygone. He makes token entreaties at patients, quietly withdrawing when they ignore his offerings. Before long he's denuded his truck and headed off, not even saying goodbye. Other shifts here have had problems that involved summoning the police, but over the three Saturdays I've spent here so far that hasn't been a necessity.
The group across the street slowly dissipates until Emmy and I are the only ones standing out here. As if on cue, the clinic owner sticks her head out to let us know that all the patients for the day are safely ensconced inside, and we're free to go. With a shrug we bump fists and head off to enjoy the rest of the weekend, leaving the non-descript building behind us.
For now.
