Pink Parka



Pink Parka

The other morning I was on my way to work--it was 8:10 a.m. to be exact and the rain was coming down hard . . . even for Seattle. I walked briskly face down, sans umbrella; I was late. I knew this because the mothers were out with their children waiting for the school bus. I love the hip mommas of Capitol Hill--purple hair, dreads, piercings, flashing tats. I love the straight mommas, too! I saw the yellow bus in the distance, heading for the kids. The mothers gave their last kisses, straightening backpacks, handing off packed lunches, and then moved aside as the bus pulled up to the curb. I kept a steppin' as the bus pulled away with the kids. Just then, a little girl, no more than eight, came running down the sidewalk. She was wearing a bright pink puffy parka, the hood lined with white fluff. Her feet were flying, her arms waving at the bus.

"Stop, stop, please stop!" she screamed.

No one heard her except me.

I paused and looked back at the little girl. The other mommas were out of sight now. The little girl finally stopped, her hands on her hips staring down the bus which was fast becoming nothing but a yellow blob down the road. Her head hung down in defeat and she began to sob. My mind raced. There is something so absolutely paltry about running after a bus in the rain. I wanted to comfort her . . . but it was not my place. It seemed so unnatural to leave her there in that state, but that is exactly what I did. I turned around and kept walking, footsteps heavy.






Money Isn't Everything




Money Isn't Everything

A guy ducks into my booth and picks up the phone.

"Hey, you new here."

"Ah, no . . . I've worked here for over a year."

"Really, that's weird. I would've remembered you?"

"Yeah, well, I've been here . . . working every Monday and Thursday night for the past year."

"Hmmm... well, I've been coming here for a while. I've seen most of the girls here."

"Cool."

"What's your pussy like?"

"Nice . . . shaved, tight. Would you like a show?"

"Well . . . you see, I have this fetish."

"What kind of fetish, sweetie?"

"Well . . . have you had any kids?"

"Nope, no kids."

"You said your pussy's tight, right?" he says, his faced scrunched up in disappointment.

"Yeah . . . real tight, baby. I do yoga."

"Can you open it up at all?"

"What do you mean, spread?"

"I mean, can you stretch your hole open so I can look inside."

"Uh . . . "

"I like to bring in my flashlight (he produces flashlight) and have the girl open her pussy real far so I can get a good look. I usually go to ***** who's had kids, but she's not on tonight."

"Hmmm . . . you know, I don't think I'm gonna be able to help you out."

"Oooh darn . . . really. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, why don't you try the other girl."

"Well, it was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll get a regular stage show from you sometime."

"Sure, that would be nice."

"Well . . . I'm gonna visit your friend next door. Have a good night."

"Have fun, sweetie."

The customer leaves my booth.

I hear the booth door next to mine open and then close right away. The sound of her phone ringing can be heard through the wall.

The girl next door is new . . . never been in the business. She's only had two shows since working here and she looks pretty straight. I press my ear against the wall of the booth wondering if she'll do the show.

I hear them talking to each other, but I can't quite make out what they're saying. After a couple minutes of what sounds like serious negotiation, the whir of the bill acceptor can be heard, along with the sound of her curtain closing to the hallway.

Fuck, she's going to do the show, I thought to myself. Good for her, I thought.

We all have our limits . . . and for some reason, that was mine that night.









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