COLUMN: House of ill repute

From Mike Nadel's, "Give 'em Hell," Fall '96 From Mike Nadel's, "Give 'em Hell," Fall '96Who are the people in your neighborhood?From Mike Nadel's, "Give 'em Hell," Fall '96Who are the people in your neighborhood?A varied lot, here in University City. From Mike Nadel's, "Give 'em Hell," Fall '96Who are the people in your neighborhood?A varied lot, here in University City. I've grown tired on writing scathing columns about University administrators, so I thought that this week, I'd write a slice-of-life piece. There are, after all, many wondrous and beautiful things at the University that we see every day but take for granted. So I got some advice from a friend who writes fun stories. "It's easy," she said. "Just start on the street where you live." But the task was not so simple. There have already been columns about panhandlers and homeless people. The DP covered the Liquor Control Board raid of the Blarney Stone. Burglaries and armed robberies fill the paper daily. Then it hit me: The whorehouse! At the end of my block, just around the corner from the old Delta Tau Delta house, is a good old-fashioned brothel. To keep the lawyers happy, I should mention that I can't be absolutely certain that it is house of prostitution. I haven't actually patronized the place myself. But from what I've seen, I'm pretty sure. I've seen women in fur coats and black stockings coming in and out. I've seen men arriving and gaining admittance at all hours of the day and night. I like to stare at them as they wait outside, looking around nervously with their shifty eyes. Not everyone gets in. Apparently an appointment is required. I saw one man stand on the stoop and bang on the door for a full five minutes, but no one answered. Frantic, he ran across the street to the pay phone, and he called the house not once, but three times. Alas, his efforts came to nothing. Frustrated, he eventually hopped into his car and drove off, probably to a waiting wife and a very cold shower. This is no low-class whorehouse. Some of these apparent johns drive really nice sports cars. Once I saw a john get out of a long stretch limo, which waited for him outside while he indulged in the world's oldest form of consumerism. The chauffeur stood on the sidewalk, and I grinned at him, but he was stolid. A University Police officer told me that the police know about the whorehouse, but that it is the Philadelphia cops' problem. It doesn't seem like they care too much. Maybe one of the johns has a friend in City Hall. Or maybe one of the whores does. At first, I wondered how the prostitutes and their pimp could so openly flaunt the law. That was before I read the World Charter for Prostitutes Rights, which I found on the Internet. The 1985 document, a Magna Carta for whores, proudly declares that "Prostitutes should have the freedom to choose their place of work and residence. It is essential that prostitutes can provide their services under the conditions that are absolutely determined by themselves and no one else." Besides, prostitution may not be so bad. The Prostitutes' Education Network, also on the Internet, reports that 97 percent of call girls actually feel better about themselves once they began selling sex. I'm fond of observing activity in and around the Lolita love shack on my block. When I walk by at night and notice how many lights are on, I comment brightly, "It looks like it's a busy night at the whorehouse." My girlfriend always tells me to stop. She's afraid they'll hear me call them whores. But why would they care? I mean, they are whores. But relationships are built on compromise, so I retreated to the thesaurus in search of synonyms to make her feel more comfortable -- such as hooker, call girl, slut, streetwalker, harlot, hussy, fille de joie, lady of the night, trollup, tomato, trull, madam, floozy and wanton woman. Whatever you choose to call them, they are conducting business less than a minute's walk from Eisenlohr Hall, where University President Judith Rodin lives. I was going to ask the president for her reaction to the sex trade that goes on so close to her home, but I figured she'd just snap, "Get a life! There are more important issues than the whorehouse." She'd probably be right. The people who live on my block -- all undergraduates, except for the whores, of course -- seem more amused than bothered. "It's very convenient," said one neighbor. He was kidding. I hope. Another told me that the house of love makes for good conversation. "Nothing breaks the ice like the whorehouse," he said. When we graduate, most of us will live comfortably. We'll get high-paying jobs or study law or medicine. It may be difficult for us, therefore, to understand the plight of these women who have chosen to sell their bodies. Perhaps as Penn undergraduates, though, we can relate to the johns. They are paying an exorbitant amount of money for something they could get somewhere else for a whole lot less. So are we. Yet there must be something special about that whorehouse. It may be intangible, and to the rest of the world it might not matter that much. But something makes it all worthwhile. Something keeps them coming back to the Penn campus for more. In the end, the same is true for each of us. Touching, isn't it?