The current Minneapolis epicenter of prostitution, at least if you ask the neighbors, centers on the residential streets around Hiawatha Avenue and Lake Street East. The area is so active that an all-volunteer, amateur “John Patrol” has sprung up in order to keep an eye on things. The foot patrollers have been known to rat out a prostitute or two, and they reserve a special disdain for pimps, but their true raison d’être is intimidating the men who venture into their neighborhood to pick from the hookers. The rotating clan of about a half-dozen is mostly women, proud residents of the Corcoran neighborhood, and they will resort to just about any measure short of a direct confrontation: staring, copying down license plate numbers, stopping by to see the truck-drivers who often park along a nearby residential street, and especially dialing the police.
This is difficult work, so the John Patrol members like to make themselves useful in other ways, too. For example, they pick up litter as they go—fast-food wrappers, intravenous drug needles, used condoms.
One recent evening, on the hunt for johns, the patrollers passed several dilapidated rental properties with buckling mini-blinds drawn over foggy windows, beer bottles strewn across the front lawns. “There’s the brothel,” said Sarah, a founding member of the patrol, gesturing toward one such house. The group kept walking, and waved to the retired-age couple next door, who were enjoying a cookout on their back patio.
Conversation found that the patrollers had schooled themselves in the ways of the street, and even reveled in some of the details. A middle-aged white woman described how Sur-13, “a Laotian/Latin gang,” had tagged her house several times. Jeff, a white forty-something patroller, claimed to have seen a drug deal go down at the gas station we’d just passed. Mike, a lifelong Corcoran resident in his early thirties, also white, described the night a friend dropped him home after a Pearl Jam concert; several prostitutes banged on the windows of his car. Sarah, showing her savvy, claimed to be on a first-name basis with several hookers.
At various points, female residents of Corcoran have been mistaken for prostitutes. They were not flattered. For example, Sarah, an attractive thirty-something with a thin build, tattoos, and chestnut hair streaked with blonde and auburn, says she gets pestered by johns “all the time.” Kathy, a bottle-blonde forty-something who favors black eyeliner and, for the occasion of patrolling in eighty-five-degree heat, black athletic shorts and a matching tank top, said she had been honked at and waved to earlier that very day. This was by “an old guy in a green van, old enough to be my grandfather” who then circled the block to get a better look.
The johns are understandably confused because prostitutes these days don’t necessarily strut their stuff in hot pants and spiked heels. On various patrols, I saw all manner of looks. One evening, we strode past a wan, middle-aged white woman with cropped black hair whose dusty jeans and unadorned white T-shirt hung loosely from her bony frame. Sarah leaned in to say that the woman was definitely a prostitute. On a hot Sunday morning, while parking my car, I noticed a potbellied Asian woman strutting up the avenue in a denim skirt and gauzy floral tank top. Was she a hooker? The lack of a dress code meant that everyone was suspect. Later, when walking with the patrol, the Asian woman passed by once more and several patrollers confirmed that she was indeed a lady of the night.
Turning the corner onto Thirty-first Street, near South High, the John Patrol spotted a prostitute sitting on a retaining wall. She wore a white blouse, high heels, and fashionable cropped jeans—quite glamorous. From across the street, I discerned that she’d taken care to iron her blonde hair smooth. “That’s Carrie,” said Sarah, who went on to describe how much more beautiful Carrie had been before falling into drugs and prostitution. Another patroller dialed her cell phone. When the police arrived, moments later, Carrie rose to her feet and unceremoniously placed her hands on the hood of the squad car. Not having been caught in the act, she was released with a warning.
A moment later, Carrie came stomping up Longfellow Avenue, just ten paces behind us, and I got a better view of the leathered skin that had tarnished her looks. As Carrie stood knocking at the front door of a “bad house,” a big, dark van bearing two plump black men came rolling by at five miles per hour. The word “pimp” was uttered by a few speculative patrollers. But after nailing a parking spot, the driver of the van waved to and thanked the group for its efforts. He even offered to lend a hand at a later date, explaining that he thought the walking might help him and his wife lose weight. The balloon popped on a tense moment. Everyone exhaled. Two patrollers crossed out the van’s license plate number in their notebooks.