TGI

by Jeff Glovsky

The shouts continue.

“Extra caramel macchiato!”.  “Grande, triple latte chai!”.  “A ‘skinny’ decaf Frap, light ice!”.

“…three ‘pumps’, with extra ‘room’ please?”

And nobody’s embarrassed!

All these selfish inhalations, spoiled preferences, demands.  How do they purge themselves?  Expel such waste?

The stupid, herd-like slobs!  All waiting docilely in line for “coffee”…filling up the popcorn store (…a ‘popcorn store’!), the yogurt shops…

“Can I just…taste…the peanut butter pecan fudge?”, rude tongue and hands out.

Friday afternoons through Monday.  Most nights through the week!  I watch them preen and prate, and sate themselves…

Thank God I date alone.

Advertisements

Authorities

by Jeff Glovsky

“Oh, so you like that TV?” he asks…squeezing so his bad chicken breath’s tight behind her.

She whirls to face the foul offender.  Sees he’s a cop, or a guard of some sort.  “Hi,” she feels compelled to say; then leave her window shopping…

Forced to scurry away down Broadway.

At another intersection, yet another interruption:  stops and plants himself mid-sidewalk, turns and mumbles to the pair of single legs strolling behind him.  Asks her, “What you said?”

…Apparently, he ‘doesn’t hear her’.  Doesn’t hear the silence…

“Oh, I thought…”, as she bumps into him.

You thought?  C’mon man!  Costumed bozo!  What she said, be “You at work now.  You can’t talk, or hit on me!  I might pass by this way a little later, at the end of your eight or ten hour ‘beat’, who knows…

“But lose that uniform!”

Smacked Down

by Jeff Glovsky

I went around in a woman’s coat one winter.  A leather number … Hourglass-shaped, fur collar and a hanging leather strap, or belt.  I didn’t care!  It kept me warm.  Plus, it was in decent shape.  It didn’t have holes in it … the buttons were all on and the zipper worked … Its owner, before me, used to say it fit her like a glove.

So I’m wearing this ridiculous wrap one winter – and a suede beret, which I found in a hardware store – and this diner guy intimates I’m a fruit.

“You’re a fruit,” he intimates.

No, admittedly, he was a bit more subtle.  Stares for a minute before taking my order; double-takes toward the counter girl, who’s smacking gum and chuckling to herself.  Looks back at me and wisecracks loudly, “He likes girls!”

The counter girl – lust, full-bodily – smacks bawdily, “Ha!  I don’t think so!”