a little reception

I’m looking at an add that has jumped across the screen with purple, yellow, and red cartooned people that says ”lose fat for idiots!” you can’t tell what the ad is for right away, especially since it has been removed from my site. What is life coming to? the annoying question bothers in an almost nagging teenaged tone. adolescence is not my gig.

 Today sitting in the java co. on south street, I found myself pulling down the lace in the black skirt I have been wearing for four and a 1/2(?) days. Long black coat drenched around me like rain with pockets pissing. holes jabbed at frayed edges and where were those jeans again?

Slouched into the booth seat with the curve of plastic that holds you in. 

Plain bagel and orange soda for $3.43 (including cream cheese)

The old man that has been staring for a few grimy minutes walks over in his leather chain jacket and silver chain buttons.

“Hi, have I met you before?” His hands are shaking due to the fact he could be 65.

I’m not sure. Probably not. I don’t get out much.

“Oh well, you looked real familiar and I’m a photographer so I thought I might have seen you. you know.”

no. not really.

‘yeah, well it was nice to meet you.’

“Yeah, I’m doing a model shoot. You know, something real artsy.” His hands wave around theatrically shaking still. “Can I sit down?”

oh jesus. no get away, with the propoganda.


“Well yeah, I’m doing this shoot, right?” He pauses. “I love bagels too. It’s with seven really pretty girls, oh by the way,” a sleezy smile. “you Are over 18 right?”

No. i’m actually fifteen. maybe fourteen. actually, I want to go home and ask mom right now.


The leather on his hands match his jacket. I can’t help, but wonder if this is how it always started.

“well, you know, I’m doing this shoot about seven girls who have exceptionally nice legs and its going to be all the way up, but you know, modest and really neat- like a magazine style. Of course we pay the models and any trade-for-portfolio pictures that you might want to you know, show other companies you have had experience.”

ok. well, i’m going to finish my bagel and i’ll get back to you on that.

‘do you have a number?”

The man scribbles down a ten digit telephone number onto a slip of paper. First three numbers are jotted with great hesitance for rememberance.

“Oh gosh, after the first car crash my hands were okay, but when the third one hit in ’99 I got the shakes.”

a smile.

“well, here, can you read it back to me?” The leather jacket passes me the slip scribbled as he holds his cell phone up to the paper.

Looking at the screen.

‘yup.  I got it.’

I scarfed down the remaining bagel and bolted. Out of annoyance perhaps. Or maybe the fact that just because I look self conscious and ‘not-from-around-here, are you?’ tips people off. Maybe because the slip of paper felt nice inside ripped expensive coats.


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