She always liked the strong silent types. He’d been sitting at a corner table, just out of the limelight, for forty-five minutes. He was indifferent. She’d tried several times to catch his eye but he seemed to be oblivious to his surroundings. She asked the bartender to send him over a drink, and she adjusted her neckline for optimum exposure of cleavage- she cant wait to give him her million dollar smile- she‘s been told that her beautiful, white teeth are definitely the closer. She’d gotten plenty of cash at the ATM out front, and tonight she was committed to landing a winner.
The bartender delivers the drink himself, exchanging words with the tall dark stranger and motioning towards where she sits at the bar with a casual wave of his hand. The man glances over at her and smiles, all beautiful white teeth and a strong jaw line reminiscent of Hollywood during better times, before “androgynous good looks” became a standard compliment.
The evening moved along- she never liked eighties hair bands, but if it meant getting his GQ good looks into the sack she’ll put up with Tears for Fears and Duran Duran- even Wham!. They alternate between drinking, dancing and playing pool until she loses her patience with Blinded Me With Science by Thomas Dolby and makes her move. She grabs his cock through his polyester slacks and leans forward, whispering in his ear, “Take me home you hard, handsome fucker- I want this inside of me.”
They left through the back door- there was a camera on the ATM out front. He never had to slip her anything at all- besides being dark and handsome, he was tall- he easily overpowered her.
She probably never would have guessed that she’d find herself in the trunk of a 90’s vintage luxury sedan, wrapped in a plastic drop-cloth with duct tape around her neck and a plastic bag over her head. As if the spare tire left any room for her at all, a girl hates the smell of grease and motor oil.
Walking back to his apartment he felt nothing at all- just another day. The twinks were out on the street-corners, doing a healthy business. After passing a dozen or so, he couldn’t resist the best yet. They exchange pleasantries and politeness, then they get down to business, negotiate and lock in on a number. He takes a crisp clean hundred from her Burberry wallet and hands it to the fresh clean lad with taut skin, tight abs, a tan and straight teeth. The boy gave him a million dollar smile and a wink- he knew he had him from the moment he laid eyes on him.
A Poem: Titled “Grocery List”:
Grocery List:
Hair Gel
Vodka
Seven-up
Chardonnay
Deodorant
If there’s anything left:
Something for dinner
Frozen Burritos
Toilet paper
Toothpaste
His name is Dourehmi Fazholatidou. Miscast in the theater of life, he plays the part of an Algerian nightclub singer while secretly hatching half-assed plans to decimate the Western world for Allah. Time and time again he attempts to contact his cell, oblivious to the idea that they reside only in his medulla oblongata. Keeping up appearances he plays the part, and he does quite well in the speakeasies of New York City. In doing so, he regularly breaks many of the precepts of the sixth pillar of Islam. He does so with a modicum of regret- only enough to appease his sensibilities as he gets blown by a teenage blonde boy in a cab heading from Greenwich Village uptown towards Times Square.
Working in Chinatown, I park up on Punchbowl and walk thirty minutes through downtown rather than pay two bucks an hour to park on streets my tax dollars already pay for. Beyond that, the cops in Chinatown are Nazi assholes and on foot I’m way more mobile and when I watch what’s going on I can avoid contact with them completely.
So after work today I put on my sunglasses and my headphones and turned up Crass and took my walk through Chinatown and downtown, heading up the hill across the freeway to my car. On the way I saw a girl I used to know- a friend of a friend who once dated another friend of mine. We met a few times but otherwise weren’t close or anything, but we used to recognize each other and say hello. Today she looked absolutely radiant in a yellow flowered sun dress and black retro spike heels. She had sunglasses on- like white framed Wayfarers- and her long blonde hair shined in the sun. She was truly beautiful- a brilliant contrast to the surrounding city- and I enjoyed walking a few blocks with her until we went our different directions. As I walked off I looked back to see if she was still there, and she glanced over the hundred feet or so and looked back at me. Odd, that- I just don’t run in those circles anymore- I moved out of town to the East side because the closeness of the city was making me crazy. I kind of wish I had crossed the street and said hi, but you know how it is when you met someone a few times and then don’t see them for a while- it’s like you don’t really know each other or anything- the exchange is just a politeness, because you’re sharing a friend. If I see her again maybe I’ll say hello. Maybe she will. One can never tell.
Walking up Alakea across the freeway I look ahead at the School Street intersection and see this poor fucker hobbling along. It is apparent that one or more of his lower extremities have been seriously fucked up in the recent past. He practically has to grab onto his left leg and lift it to take a step, and he makes scant progress as he crosses the street. He’s pretty run down- maybe my age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger- it’s hard to tell these days- there are drugs out now that make you age thirty years in three months. I manage to walk about 50 yards in the time it takes him to hobble across a crosswalk. A line of cars wait for him to cross, and for once there isn’t an asshole who lays on the horn- everyone just sits in their cars watching this poor guy and thanking whatever god they believe in for one thing or another. The guy has jeans on and scuffed, dirty running shoes. He looks like he might have been in decent shape at some point a long time ago. Today his flesh hangs from him, sagging, pale, sick- I figure he’s not fat from alcohol because his diet doesn‘t include much more than that. He has no shirt- which immediately reminds me of walking home on city streets with a Mohawk, plaid Bermuda shorts and combat boots on a Sunday morning at sixteen severely hung over without any shirt. His chest hair is turning gray along with the ample hair on his head.. He could use a haircut- his hair is not what I’d call a mane, but it’s getting there- and long strands stick to his forehead in clumps, sweat drips off of him as if he just sprinted a four-forty. We stand there side by side, toes on the curb, and I allow him the courtesy of not saying anything at all. He allows me the same- we barely even glance at each other- sinking ships, passing in the night. BMWs and SUVs whip by us from the left-turn lane, and I see they cant help but look at him, and in each and every one I see that look in their eyes- pity. Pity- if it were a commodity we’d all be rich and they’d all be standing on a corner with their toes on the curb. I look at that pity in their eyes and wonder why when I looked at him all I saw was the future…
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