Photo by Jeff Hartman

Photo by Jeff Hartman

Not that kind of social worker

By Brooke Hartman

There we sat, Jeff and I, in a hotel casino lobby as we took a break from exploring and people-watching in Las Vegas. The lounge around us was empty except for the server.  A woman walked up, sat down in a chair next to us and ordered a drink.

Moments later, she got up and left promptly without finishing her drink, paying her bill or saying anything to the server.

Jeff and I looked at each other perplexed as security came up and said a few words to the server. When security left, we asked the server what had just happened.

“Oh,” he said. “She was a social worker. They’re not welcome in this hotel.”

My eyes grew wide in alarm as I turned to Jeff then back to the server. “I’m a social worker!” I said.

The server looked at me, laughed, and said, “Not that kind of social worker…”

Evidently, in Vegas, Ladies of the Evening are sometimes referred to as social workers.

(I went home and furiously scratched out all my business cards.)