A PICTURE SPEAKS A THOUSAND WORDS

Jazz Baby Prowls the Night

My sizzling brushes. Popping those skins.

Time for the Wolf to Howl, Photo by Author

Let me set you straight on one thing. Those two meatheads behind me, they got nothing to do with me. Judging from the cargo shorts, I’m guessing tourists from Ohio. I’m a lone wolf. After I get in my footie PJs, Chump and Herbie head for bed. That's what I call them. They never told me their names; just that mama and papa bull crap.

Chump is a real fatso and sleeps with that CPAP mask that sounds like a buffalo blowing snot and Herbie wears headphones that play some Tibet guy whining. Man two Kodiak bears could break down the apartment door, knock over the refrigerator, eat all the bologna, then have sex in the living room and they would never hear a peep.

Soon as they are asleep, I grab my bike and head down to the lobby. We live in one of those high-rise luxury apartments see. The doorman and I have an understanding. Sometimes I slip him a sawbuck. Sometimes I promise to get him some righteous weed. Tonight I just say I’ll pick up a livermush sandwich and fries.

Then I am off to claim the mean streets I call home. The first stop is Cleo’s Cigar Bar. I slur my adverbs and got a mush mouth so I just hold up two fingers. Cleo knows that means her Cohiba 1966 Edición…