When I lived in France, there was a transvestite prostitute that worked the corner we could see from Michelle's balcony. Many nights we sat on the balcony with a bottle of wine and watched him work. He waved to us once. At the time I thought it was pretty funny. Today I am amazed at how much business he got.

This transvestite was no ordinary transvestite. He didn't have a plethora of outfits to suit his moods. It appeared that he had one get-up, just one, which led me to believe that it was, in fact, his work uniform. Short black miniskirt, black fishnets, sequined tube top and, depending on the weather, a jacket. Big brownish-black wig. TONS of face paint. I'm talking he made Tammy Faye Bakker look like a natural beauty.

The routine was always the same. Stand on the corner, smoke five million cigarettes, wait for a john. When propositioned, he had two M.O.s One was to stand back and assess the situation carefully before approaching the car with his long lanky legs and spiked heels. The second method was to approach rapidly and flirtatiously; I am guessing these were his regular johns.

The trick was always the same. Drive less than a block to the parking lot behind the market. Leave the headlights on. Turn the trick, get paid, go back to the corner. Smoke more cigarettes and look up at the balcony where we sat.

I wondered what he was thinking as we watched him for hours waiting for his next customer. I wondered why he came to the same corner every night without fail. I wondered how much money he made and what brand of cigarettes he smoked. I wondered if he had a day job and why he turned tricks at night.

I watched him on that corner in France thirteen years ago. I wonder where he is today.