her dress was a skimpy piece of shit...

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.