Note: In order to move forward with our story, we must first take a few steps back and describe the hours leading up when I met Ivy. I apologize for the length but if it weren't for this series of event, I would not be the woman I am today. Don't worry, though. You will  have your lusty heroine in no time.  If this is your first visit, here is the link to the first part.

http://open.salon.com/blog/rosietherioter/2009/04/18/my_call_girl_romance_part_i

 My Call Girl Romance Part II

I'm not from Seattle, but that is where I landed.  I finished highschool in  a small town, and decided on a state college on a whim, thinking my high school sweetheart would go as well. But, as fate would have it,my new found freedom of graduating high school mingled with the summer breezes and I found myself taking the trip to college alone. The school was located in the middle of a wheat field where 12,000 horny students could do only a few things; drink or screw. And being a creature of wild ambition, I did them both to the best of my capacity. Unfortunately, sometimes I was swallowed up by both and before  mid-terms of my first semester, I had been a victim of a sexual assault. After that, school and the promise of a future lost it’s luster, and I had lost sight of my hopes and sank into a ghost of a scholar and a monster of a party-dweller. The full ride scholarship that I had worked so hard for slipped through my fingers and I left during finals of my second semester to live a more bohemian existence in the big city. Seattle.
I moved into a large basement apartment with a friend from high school on Capitol hill. It was a great place that was always thriving and found a job quickly. My roommate, however had a pre-existing condition. A 38 year old parasite of a boyfriend that never left her side and convinced her I was diseased and should not be permitted to share wine or meals for fear of infection (years later he would admitted to a psychiatric ward). The situation came to a head when I woke up in the middle of the night to the parasite standing over me, completely naked, beating off. I returned after work that day to find all of my belongings on the doorstep  and the notice that I had been kicked out. It was December 1st. I was now homeless on Capitol Hill. And the WTO convention had just started.

I told my now ex-roommate that I would be back to pick up my stuff the in the next few days and to please not throw it in the dumpster as she had threatened. She half-heartedly agreed and I took a sweatshirt, toothbrush and glass pipe and walked down the hill to Broadway. I knew I’d be alright. I had never been homeless before, so I took it as a life experience and went to meet my destiny.

The streets are always wet in two places; the movies and Seattle. I felt bigger than life, starring in my own movie. The hardships, the strength and determination and the relentlessness to endure. My eyes soaking in everything in a new light. I walked down Broadway and started to feel odd. There were more j-walkers than usual. Then I saw the crowd and the barricade. So many people gathered in the streets, chanting with convictions. People-sized turtles and salmon held signs and sang. Anarchists lobbed stones and water bottles over the crowd. Making my way to the front, I then realized what they were throwing at. Across the barricade, National Guardsmen in black suits with Plexiglas shields and face guards. Hundreds of them. Aggravated and nervous batons writhed in clenched fists. 
The Hippies were there knowing that their protests would help change the world. The National guard was there to keep the peace, or kick some ass; whichever came first. The Anarchists were there with black bandanas over their faces, hands full of stones, heads full with a deep desire to, “fuck some shit up good”.

I called a friend from a payphone and told him what he was missing and within15 minutes, Pineapple was at my side. He was an all too skinny hippy from Boston  with a plume of blonde dreads on the top of his head. We smoked pot on our days off together and he came to be my best friend.

We stood around watching the scene  and smoking rolled cigarettes, chanting and feeling the cause of the crowd when the first drums of war were heard. Hundreds of batons, in unison clapped together as they  met plexi shield. Again and again. A few protesters and bystanders started to move and evacuate to a side street, when the same staccato rhythm started to close in from the other side. And then another. It was an ambush. I turned to Pineapple. “What do we-”

Crack! Boom!

A fiery pain hit me between the shoulder blades at the same time a huge, brain numbing boom sounded.  I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. A large piece of metal exploded behind me. Concussion grenades. I tried to scream, but any breath to be had evacuated my lungs an instant before. The sound of gunshots rang out and Pineapple  grabbed his shoulder. I didn’t know what kind of bullet had gotten him, but he was in pain. Huge clouds of smoke erupted from canisters shot into the crowd. I had to breathe, my vision was blurring. I took a deep breathe once my diaphragm had allowed me and wanted to throw up. A can of tear gas at my feet spewed up.  People all around us were gagging, eyes  burning and running every which way. Amidst the sound of shots fired and grenades bursting, the clack of the batons was replaced by the beating of militant feet of the pavement. The batons now had other destinations.  The armor clad men started to rush the panic-stricken crowd aiming to crush every ambulatory limb in sight. Everyone started a mad dash up Broadway to safety.  In the rush of the crowd, Pineapple and I were separated. My Doc Martens felt heavy and my lungs, even heavier. I ran as fast as I could through the crowd. Weaving, once again was a very helpful ally. There were tenants in apartments above the crowd yelling, trying to tell everyone to go home. One had a very sick daughter and he was trying to get her to sleep. His pleas only fell on the cloud of commotion as hundreds of scared protesters ran from hundreds of armed men. A man standing under a street lamp started to scream, “Go home you fucking hippies! We don’t want you here! Leave us a-”

He never got to finish, as his skull had just been smashed by a baton. He fell under the streetlamp, bleeding. I knelt beside him and wrapped my sweatshirt around his head, trying to stop the bleeding. His eyes flickered. And went soft. He was unconscious. “It’s okay, I’m getting an ambulance.” I told him and rushed to the payphone next to street lamp and dialed 911.

Operator: 911, what’s your emergency?
Me: Hello, we need an ambulance, there is an unconscious man here, he’s been beaten over the head, we are on Broadway and-
Operator: I’m sorry, we are unable to help terrorists.

Click, the operator hung up.

What? I had been labeled as a terrorist, a word I had only heard in World War 2 and Russian spy movies. Is this what terrorism was? This was two years before terrorism had been made into common household use and it was foreign to me. Completely. In that same exact moment my faith in the credo “to protect and serve”, the pledge of allegiance and the national anthem had melted into one pathetic pile of bullshit. I lost a piece of faith in that moment.

A guard came up to me, with a can of mace. I yelled, “Help him!”
He said, “Get away!”
I was more angry and scared than I had ever been in my life. “ Help him! You did this to him!”
The shielded face growled, “Move the fuck away!” And before I could run, hosed my face with mace and sent a baton into my stomach.  I slinked away from him, gaining blind momentum down a street toward the reservoir. Never had so much pain been so unimportant.

Tears were streaming down my face. Tears of confusion and  mourning. The veneer of patriotism that I had held on to for so long peeled away with my innocence. I wanted to curl up and cry.  Wiping blood off of my hands, a man flung a microphone into my face. I flinched. Then I told him about the scene I had just witnessed.

“Darlin’!” I heard Pineapple yelling my name and  I stumbled in his direction.  He had  a black eye and was bleeding from his leg. He hugged me, crushing my sore ribs. “We gotta’ get atta’ heyuh.”
I agreed.
“ I know a place outaa the city. We’ll go see  Al and Kendra. They’ve got some great weed. We’ll forget all about this. Let’s go find my cah.”
The promise of sanctuary was soothing. The promise of good  people and weed sold me. Who ever they were, I know they’d be alright.