Late this afternoon, my legs needed a stretch, so I went out and walked around the neighborhood and looked for things to take pictures of.

It was windy and cold, and the streets downtown were uncommonly empty. I walked over to Alvarado station, and then crossed Central to take a few pictures of progress on the new structure at Central and First. I walked on west on Copper to Second Street and walked down the quiet street towards the Plaza.

About halfway between Copper and Tijeras, I hear a girl’s voice from a car passing by me in the other direction: “Can you take our pictures?” The car has slowed and a young woman is looking at me. Partially confused by the question, I find myself mumbling a “Yes”, and then the car, an older beater Beamer, pulls over across the street to park. Out climb three youngish black girls, each dressed for the heat of a Savannah summer- except we are in a chilly, windy New Mexico. They move into a cluster to pose on the sidewalk.

Oh- they want me to take a picture of them with MY camera. Ahhh.

I suggest there is a giant chair on the Plaza they might like to use as a prop. They agree, and ask where the Plaza is. I point. And they pile back in the car and head north, not knowing where they are going. Asked if I wanted a ride, I demurred.

They park at the OTHER side of the Plaza. I walk to meet them, and two of the three pile out, one removing a thin sweater to reveal her arms to the cold. I recommend she keeps the sweater on for a moment.

The other is in a tight dress. We leave the third in the car, and the girls are giddy, and one asks me if I like to party. And, if I am married. No? Why not? The other one marches ahead, having spotted the chair. Do you know any call girls? Do I have a girlfriend.

By this time, it is clicking in my brain. I ask them where they are from (Shreveport, LA). I ask them how they like Albuquerque (Fine- we’ve been here a little while). I ask them if they’ve ever been downtown (I have, the inquiring one says).

I wonder if a pimp is around.

I think these kids are call girls. And they are also young women.

I humor them, and at the chair, they both want to sit, want to pose. They each sit and move and pose. Then they want a few together, so I take them. They are laughing and want to see the pictures. I look at them and I am freezing. They are happy.

They ask me if I have a phone to put their email address in. I ask if I could get an email address written on paper.

We begin to walk back to the car.

“Can you make us look good? You know, like with all of those glamour effects things they do for the movies?” “Yeah, can you do that- make us look good?” No, I am sorry- I am not really talented at that sort of thing. But you guys took good pictures. You’ll be happy with them.

“You don’t like to party at all?”, the inquisitive one restarts. “Not really.” “Oh, I guess that’s good, sir.”

I get an email address from the talkative one.

I feel glad when we are done but also anxious, and I am a little sad for them because they are light and too young for what I am pretty they do for a living (her email address is winnerbread945@somedomain.com).

The two models disappear into the beat up whitish BMW coupe with the Beemer symbol missing off of the back, and it speeds away north, and I have pictures to send to them later.

But right now, it’s cold, and I need to get back to the office.