I decided I would send four batches of 10 – one at 7, one at 9 (a.m.), one at 11, and one at midnight.
That would do it. A Jesuit priest back in high school taught me that 40 is a sacred number. I never understood how a stupid old number could be sacred, but for the past month, until yesterday, I assumed the old fat cigarette-smoking drunk Jebbie was right. To be optimistic. I think now that he was probably wrong.
I tried this one first for three weeks:
“I would like to talk with you about playing a bartender in a movie I am making.
“You would be perfect.
“It’s an easy, fun role.
“Two gangsters shoot you with their machine guns.
“All you have to do is die and splatter ketchup on your gorgeous face.
“Oh – the film is a comedy – toy guns …”
One response – from Abwana: 52, fat. In her photographs, she bent halfway over and pointed her rhino ass at the camera. “Ewe,” I thought. “Rhinoceros asses in thongs are not for me. And some men get off on that stuff. Then, I thought of old drunken cowboys in saloons in the Old West, the dirty-minded John Waynes. Real guys.
Being desperate, I wrote her back. I might be able to. I thought of an Italian film I saw in which a POW made love with a fatter-than-rhinoceros Nazi German commandant hoping she would let him out. He succeeded. It was a struggle, but he succeeded. El commandant had him executed by 12 SS machine-gunners the next day at dawn, however. Life, I conclude, is like that.
“Dear Bwana –
“How much do you charge? Are you a full service girl or a pinch-hitter? Also, do you accept credit “cards?
“$100 per half hour,” she wrote back. “I go all the way downtown. Cash, sweetheart, cash.”
I don’t have any cash. I am homeless, and my only hope is my computer on Wi-Fi in the Translucent Café down in an alley way down there somewhere. Hell, I don’t know where the hell I am half the time. People mumble: “Poor schizophrenic” when they walk away from me after I hit them up for dollar or two just outside Leed’s Liquor Store, where I get my juice.
“Maybe not,” I thought about Bwana. No, I am not yet ready for death”; so I tried this one last week:
“You are gorgeous, [Selma or Betty or Louise, or what-have-you].
“Would you like to meet for a cup of coffee?
“I was a halfback for Notre Dame.
That got one, by God’s grace, I think.
Nice-Nice. 27. Gorgeous Alabamian.
She described herself:
“I am from the Virgin Islands.
“I want to finish learning how to drive a manual.
My kinda dame.
We met in the Translucent.
She walked in in platform shoes. I thought of girls in compromised positions in platform shoes in the porno flicks I watch on my computer.
“Why do they wear platform shoes when being compromised?” I wonder.
She approached and screamed:
“You said you were 27, you asshole!”
I watched the back of her shoes as they clip-clopped off to infinity; then I typed into my Apple:
“Shit, momma, I am only 67.”
Then I went back to Leed’s.