Sunday, November 14, 2010

The Book of Sarah

Baylah's place closes at two in the morning, so it's just us now. We're holding our meeting here. A few drunks see the light leaking out from between the window curtains and try to come in. But Edith, the Pow Wow Woman cracks open the door and slips them one of those little airline bottles. Then she sends them on their way. She's a good person. I'm pretty sure I have eleven or twelve thousand dollars in my purse and if I'm right a six carat, square cut emerald that looks pretty nice. I must remember to give it all to her before we leave. Oh, and Morticia too. She and her friends are real sweethearts. You should see how she blew out my hair. Just like what's her name from the CMA awards. I'm afraid to go to the hairdresser's. They touch you and get all intimate and all and tell you about their no-good, dead beat, baby daddy and they stink from cigarettes. Plus, a lot of them belive in all this magic crap. They think they're witches. I don't know, maybe a few of them are. That's what scares me. I don't like a bunch of living people all up inside my business. They might 'type' me and I can't deal with that. I am nervous enough as it is. Why am I talking this way? Sarah never talks this way? Well Tomas and I got here early. We've been sitting at a little table back in the corner for about three hours. Tonight was jazz night. And you know how it is. That kind of music just gets to you. But now it's just us, the vampires and Edith. Some of the elves are hear too, Albion and two of his girlfriends. Morticia and two of her BFF's. They look more 'living dead' than we do. Oh, and there's an adoreable little cherub flitting about with a dust rag cleaning up around all the ceiling light fixtures. Chubby little thing. I'm going to buy them some nice, little outfits at BabyGap, the cherubs I mean. I don't care how immune they are to the cold. Winter time is winter time. And a mostly naked little baby buzzing along over the El tracks just don't look right. Annie is apparently active again. The killings have started. A crazy hooker and an intern hooker up on Spring Garden Street. Two Gypsy fortune tellers on North Ninth Street. I suppose their powers of precognition were not what they were meant to be. Bob isn't here. He thinks he's going to be next. But Baylah tells him considering his past, they (our enemy) probably don't want to kill him. They want to recruit him. This makes him even worse. So he does what he always does when he's nervous. He runs to the casino. Tomas gave him twentyfive thousand in cash. And now he's in Atlantic City blowing it all in the high-roller video poker parlor at The Borgata. Bob can never remember what he does with his own stash. One time, last March, some cleaning woman at the cosmetic surgery center of Jefferson Hospital  found threehundred and twelve thousand dollars under the bed of a sixtyfour year old sun damaged bitch in for an ass lift. She told her family a leprechan gave it to her. Don't ask how it got there. But let's just say that the wrinkled hag's doctor, or the surviving partner, I should say, is doing a lot more charitable pro bono work these days. Sometimes when he wants to be, Bob can be all right. I'll let you know what we decide to do. But I have to switch my seat. My little cherub boyfriend is letting the dust fall right onto my new hairdo. Ooooh! Look at his little face. See? He knows he did wrong. How could anybody stay mad at a huggable little bundle like that?

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