Sunday evenings are the worst, the weekend is overrrr... La Scala is on play and replay and then againnnn. Little known here, here in Margate, Giusy Ferreri has the kind of voice a guy wants to hear at that moment, when there is a god. Oh yeah, that certain inflection, her burning occhi scuri, ehhhh.... Sicilians!
Finding himself here, still a little drunk, right next to a freakish beachfront elephant people make a big deal about. Tin and wood, the outlandish structure is a tourist attraction. Tourist, the word, always reminds him of diarrhea. Once Buford Peel got the shits so bad from a trip into Mexico that he blacked out in the aisle of return Flight 50 American - from dehydration. To this day he remembers some piano legged lady in aisle 6 saying he had turista. Funny how odd her legs looked with his nose an inch away from her right foot.
Oh, between lives, Buford wished things were better for him, but who doesn't? Mid life ennui is a hobgoblin. Nobody would sign up for the routine if the consequences were evident. No matter how much a guy thinks he knows, he is destined to repeat the mistakes and end result just like all of the skinners before him. Call it the way of the world, call it fate, call it bullshit. You call it!
Judy P's midwestern accent was cute once, not Sicilian inflected in a drawn out oh sort of way. Yet, that was then. Time is the ultimate saltpeter and 22 years is about enough in and out to render a carrot flaccid and numb. Now those oh's, her oh's, are askew chalk on a blackboard, not that anyone nowadays knows what a blackboard is and what chalk can do to the blood.
Getting on to 7:40, the light was fading, but the pachyderm's red carpet coat shone as bright as a heated woman's choch. Heh, yes indeed, if there had been enough light in the wee hours he might have seen hers, whatever her name. Shore pick-ups often go nameless or mis-named - to protect the innocents. The kids and the cuckolds need their anonymity. Certo!
Time was moving on, time to return to sobriety and ho-hum. But the ho-hum makes the thrill of the pick up all the more addicting, like the chocolate ice cream off of her belly. It ran into the cavity of her flatness, her button... he pushed it up into her thick hair, the salty heady her. The sweet of the chocolate still hung on his tongue. The feel of her softness, her natural self. Without recourse, he jerked the Toyota onto Atlantic Avenue. Bye Lucy...
With his egress from the beach, the insipid air of the mainland displaced the sea air, his life. In reality a guy's life is a long series of nothings, no accounts, with only a few uplifts. Sadly age dictates that those respites become fewer and fewer. On he moved back to oh, light after light, stop after stop. Seems as if a lot of other schmos were headed back to shirts and ties, when he spotted a sign - airport. Ever see a possession?
Buford turned right and he pulled into long term parking. Maybe he knew he wouldn't be back. Atlantic City has a rube airport and he was lucky to catch a last flight to Fort Lauderdale. There he will take a room, wait till the morning and take half of his and oh's savings and send them to a new solo account at Scotia Bank. Then the train to Miami, where he will jump to Rome and then a few days later, maybe by Thursday or Friday, Palermo. Sicily. Then... oh! No!