The middle-aged man I picked up at Vendetta is in a hyperactively verbose lather and likely on coke, though meth is a distinct possibility. He’s just finished regaling me with a barely intelligible, yet emotionally charged, tale of frustration that seems to involve having been stood up by a blind-date arranged for him through his father’s church. Anyway, the moral of his story had been “take me to motherfuckin’ Popeye’s!”
My fare has just finished ordering a bucket of chicken and a strawberry soda when something new catches his eye.
“Hey! Look at that bitch over there!”
“That chick at the bus stop?”
“That bitch is a ho! That bitch suck a dick real good, oooh, she’s a nasty ho.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s just waiting for the bus, man.”
“Oh, she’s a ho! Suck a dick for 20 dollars, damn. Hurry this shit up, I wanna get her before someone else does! Hurry, hurry, hurry…” and he continues on in an uninterrupted rapid-fire soliloquy about the woman at the bus stop, her suspected skills at fellatio, and the fleeting nature of time.
He makes great exclamations of delight when she’s still standing there as he gets his food. But just as we begin to pull out of the parking lot, the No. 6 bus swoops in to take her with it.
“Son of a bitch!” he shrieks, and I hear the soda upend in the backseat. “It’s just not my night!”
Mine either. I charge him 20 bucks for the clean-up.