A crack ho named Bunny sashayed her tired ass down Twelfth Street near Harrison. It had been a long and aggravating day. She’d already been nearly busted and had made only fifty bucks. Twenty-five was stuck in her ripped garter; the other had gone up her nose. It was one of those days a crack ho was better off staying in bed. Alone. No johns, no dealers, no…men. But men were Bunny’s life, or livelihood anyway. And even a crack ho has rent to pay. So…
"Yo, Gimpy, you lookin’ for some action?" asked Bunny, as she stared down at a one legged homeless man who had obviously seen better days himself.
"You jokin’, lady? I’m lookin’ for lunch. I’m looking for a shower. I’m lookin’ for a place to sleep tonight. Action ain’t high on my list right now," answered the man, very matter of factly. "Besides, you ain’t my type."
Bunny thought of a lot of things when she heard his last comment.
She thought about kicking the man hard with one of her cheap stilettos, but thought better of it since it was her last good pair. Actually, her only pair.
She thought about slapping him and telling him where to get off, but her Lee Press Ons were on their proverbial last legs as it was.
She even thought about simply ignoring him and keep on walking, but that wasn’t Bunny’s style. Yes, even crack hos have their own sense of style, especially Bunny.
Instead, she plopped her tired ass down next to the stranger and started to laugh. A rarity for her.
"You got a type, Gimpy?" she asked, lighting her last cigarette.
"Oh, I got a type, alright," said the man, also lighting his last cigarette.
(Truth be told, they were both better off not smoking. Had they had health insurance or the availability to adequate medical care, they’d both have found that they were already in the early stages of emphysema. But such is life.)
"And what type might that be?" she asked, deeply inhaling her Camel. "Well, first off, Honey, I dig women," grinned the man. "Oh child, first off, the name’s not Honey, it’s Bunny, and second off, Bunny is all woman," she retorted, exhaling in his face.
(Now, in her rattled brain, Bunny might have actually believed this lie, but Bunny was, in all actuality, Marvin. Again, with adequate medical care she could have been, well, a "she", but again, that fantasy had long since passed.)
"Bunny, huh?" smiled the man "Looks like you’re rabbit’s foot ain’t workin’ too well."
"Ain’t that the truth, Gimpy," she said.
"The names not Gimpy, it’s Steve," he said, extending a hand in greeting.
|
