7094. TOMBOY

TOMBOY

So I'm sitting here like a tomboy, drinking

Stella Artois. What the heck is going on?

'I've never drinked this stuff before' - that's

the way they say it, and I probably won't never

ever to do again.  The only reason I'm here is

because the waitress is hot and I know she's got

a thing for me. Belgian beer in a Belgian cafe.

What more to do and what more to say?

-

I lift my glass to the underclass  -  the distressed,

the poor and the weary. But's that's all I lift. For the

rest, they can go to Hell. I really don't care about them.

I'm filthy rich, and I'm wealthy, and I own a Carribean

isle, and I've got two Swiss bank accounts and an offshore

shelter for my money. Anything I want, I've got. Anything

you want. I'll give ya', honey.

-

Some slumball nearby is scratching his lottery tickets  -  jerk

can't even find a dime to do it with. I throw one his way and

he's grateful as hell. Now all he has to do is win  -  or please,

clean up the mess of all those shavings. He just plunked

thirty bucks down to buy six five-dollar tickets. He looked

so stupified I at first thought he'd wait for them to call to

say he won. At least he's scratching off with verve.

-

I call her over and  -  yeah  -  send him another beer.

It's the least I can do : I want to go home with her, and

send him a thousand bucks as consolation. I'm sitting

here like a tomboy, drinking; and I'm quite 

the real sensation too.