Saturday, December 17, 2016


There was once a storm, right
through here, blew down everything
in its way. That lady, right there,
the one behind the counter cooking
the eggs for that guy's egg sandwich,
I found her sixteen miles away. This
grimy, old Easton bookstore, I can't
believe it even re-opened. Man, what
a pile of shit. When I did find her,
by the way (name, Alice) she was
as frightened as a kitten, and would
not speak a word. I threw her in my
truck and drove her back. Now she's
in this rotten hole again : the kitchen
where she sells coffee and eggs and
things, has no vent fan. Everything
here smells like grease. It's disgusting.
The kids come down the hill from
Layfayette, sitting around drinking
poor coffee from heavy mugs, thinking
like they're in Chelsea or something in
the middle of New York City. But,
this outpost of shame shouldn't even
have a name. The only thing hip here
is the artificial one in that old guy's
body. He limps still, but thinks it's 
cool. There's a Hotel Easton or the
Easton Hotel, or something, over
by the bus station at the center of 
town. It's funny, in this down and 
out town I used to sit there and 
watch, weekends mostly, early
morning Saturdays. The motel
whores from Tonnelle Ave., and
New York City, they'd come home,
back here, for their two days rest  - 
you could always tell, and they 
weren't shy anyway. 'Hi, Pal,'
they'd say, 'Whew, that was rough.
Girl's gotta' make a living, you 
know. My kids have to eat too.'
They'd sit a few minutes, have a
Coke or something, just staring out.
Then they'd either get a taxi or some
car would come pick them up. I 
always wondered if the guys
behind the wheels were their
husbands here. 'Oh, honey, what
a week I had. I did three mauler
guys too, for 180 a pop. No shit,
some sports team or something.'
God, I love the world.

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