She raised the paper cup from its holder almost as if by telekinesis, all the while dreaming of lemon meringue pie. Her friend looked at someone wearing a Whip ‘Em Out Wednesday T-shirt and gave him the finger. The drink still floated. Her friend belched and said sorry I hate those guys. Wait, you’re dreaming about pie again, aren’t you? Coffee girl drooled and passed out.
Watch What Gabriella Can Do
A mime juggled pieces of biscotti five at a time and crooned about Gabriella. “Watch What Gabriella Can Do!” Dogs watched, waiting for a cookie to fall. None of them were named Gabriella. She was the thirty-year-old divorcee holding a T-Bone onto her eye in the ladies room. Tommy had laughed when the mime punched his mother while still juggling, then cupping his left ear a la Hulk Hogan. Everyone applauded. “Are you going to do something?” Gabby said to her ex when she returned. His face was twitching. His toupee was crooked. He was wearing 3-D glasses. This was the guy who used to hit her. It was him. He was the guy who once punched her and played to an imaginary crowd like a professional wrestler. Tommy grabbed a stapler and handed it to his father. They stapled the hairpiece back in place. “So what now?” ex-hubby said. She would get the mime in the parking lot later. She did not come here to job to some painted-faced joke. The boys would probably have the acrobats kick her head in. They would point and laugh. She looked at them. Then ran, and kept running.
After the tenth rum and Coke she told him it wasn’t him, it was her. She was pretty sure it was him though, or maybe it was the Best Western. It was 110 degrees, a dry heat. In Tucson, they stayed at the Marriott. They skipped down West Starr Pass then spun around together until they vomited and fell onto the pavement. Now at Best Western, he was giving her a Dutch oven and shitting his pants in the process. She said she was sorry. He said he knew and gave her a Dirty Sanchez. She said she really was sorry. He told her to shut up and wipe her lip. She went to take a shower and he stole all her clothes and toiletries before heading back to Albuquerque. She was stranded, naked and stranded.
I strolled through the park, walking my dog. He sniffed a hydrant and I kicked him. It was over, under, around and through. God, he shits a lot. The bus stop reminded me of TV shows. Sesame Street mostly. A homeless man asked for money and I mocked him. Divorce was something new to me. Or, more accurately, being a widower. But we had just met and she was a prostitute. We’d walked about a mile over cracked sidewalks and more homeless. My dog barked at something. A siren rang. We ran. I killed the hooker. Did I mention that part?
Michael Frissore told ya that he likes to bite. Well, yeah, I guess it’s obvious, he also likes to write. All ya had to do was give Humpty a chance and now he’s gonna do his dance.