1:26 a.m.

1:26 a.m.

 Ackie Blick, being 64 and having not been laid in 12 years and thinking that he might, at the least, be a latent homosexual, if not a full-blown fag, and then recalling that actually there was one exception (the 22-year-old whore he bought  for $120 two years ago—Linda—with whom he performed admirably although quickly), and then realizing, while  eating raw sunflower seeds and cherries and writing a poem which he had been working on for six weeks while thinking  himself to be in the same league as Walt Whitman, T. S. Eliot and Delmore Schwartz, that this being Thursday July 16 2013 at 4 in the morning, he would see her again (the good-looking brunette-with-a-high-pitched-voice-waitress-at-the-Tastee-Diner-girl who wore her red starched uniform shirt and white apron well and without embarrassment and had small breasts, a junior-to-be studying graphic arts at a community college somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains and fated to make stupid logos for stupid businesses)  in 16 hours, if he arrived and took his seat, the last one at the far end of the diner counter, at 8:30 that evening as he had planned when he left the diner one week ago when he saw her last.  “I can’t go up there and look for her seven nights a week,” he said.  “They might think I am a real weirdo–creep.  She is only 19, but then again that is legal and marriageable age.”

It being 8:30, and Ackie, having swallowed five pills—1,000 milligrams of Vitamin C  each—for  courage, now walking to his chair, thinking that he must not look to see  where she was for if he did the  hundreds of 16-year-old girls with purple hair and Cleopatra make-up on their eyes sitting there with their depressed 16-year-old  boy dates with tattoos of masculine things on their biceps and chests, would say: “The old man is a perv”  and taking his seat, he pulled out his computer, returning to his poem and  still dissatisfied  with the first word of the thing—peristalsis—he waited saying “peristalsis” to himself until 1:26 when she popped up before him, a Lolita on the other side of the counter, where she began filling sugar bowls with packs of sugar ,and after a minute or two she looked up and said, “Hi,” and Ackie, thinking that maybe she was a stupid uneducated American bimbo, wondered if she were a virgin and  recalled  the time in the front seat of his daddy’s car back in ’69 out in the dark under trees and a bastard hollow moon near a patch of daisies when his 16-year-old date, Priscilla, unzipped her prom dress and, naked, strapped her thighs across his lap, and he said, “Hi,” and she said, “I went looking for a bathing suit today, but couldn’t find one.  They were all sold out,”   and he said nervously, “Well, it is July,” and she said, “So what?”

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