a whore would wear.
which is apt - because she was a whore...i think.
thing was, she was a San Pedro whore.
and i'd been told those uncivilized days of Pedro ended when Sailors moved to Diego.
nevertheless, she was a whore.
in my town.
wig; some retro-noir betty page thing.
red, red lipstick across her grill.
the dress...
pupils - dilated, red-veined, milky.
moreover - "Tina For-free-ah" ('s what the bartender called her) seemed like an interesting broad.
born in hawaii, fished w/Jacques Cousteau, odd jobs here/there,
eventually leading to a "dancing," gig on the mainland.
but something was wrong.
on that night - years ago - 6th st., near the ocean, tankers drifting, longies yelling.
this image of a woman, sat next to me and my pal.
naive little kids we were; never thought twice about her Adam's Apple.
or the 5 o'clock shadow.
- seen Bukowski's
ex-wife sporting a Fu-Manchu once.
so we shot the shit for a bit - she, "Tina For-free-ah" - nursed her brew.
we, christoff and johnboy - drank mucho - not tasting a thing.
ended up driving her home.
could see the Vincent Thomas Bridge off my starboard - lit blue.
"studio apartment," she said. opened the door and "Tina For-free-ah" stepped out - balancing awkward on heels.
several cars cruised by as she mulled about outside - adjusting her bra, cracking her neck, stretching the hamies, smoking a Camel Light.
last one before the sandman called.
bad habit picked up on the Calypso, she said.
so we drove off.
around the bridge and it's blue, blue lights.
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