He played the bongos on a beer stained mattress…in his underwear and one grey Ked. the smell of coffee floated on the reefer smoke and Ingrid, exotic, ripe, round and pointed, big eyed and wild, mostly sleepy…carried mugs, barefoot and carefull. Someone had dropped a wine bottle…missed some broken glass. Good thing those bottles were green. The tiny record player …”Sea Breeze…works good, kid…” Arnie said in the pawn shop. “twenty bucks…and I’ll give ya…five of these records” . Two of Miles Davis…both scratched…a nice Muddy Waters and a good Nina Simone. The bongos went bop-bip bop bop bipbip bop and stopped while Nina wailed on her man through the tiny, tinny, speaker. He stopped and took a mug reaching for faded jeans. What was this life people talked about, he wondered? A cold sun rayed through the dirty windows and striped the dull, grey, floor boards…worn by the tracks of a million cockroaches marching off to war. Out side there was nothing happening…at this hour…there never was. Car doors slammed, taxis honked their way past delivery trucks, drivers shouting rebop and Italian curses…fuck you and fuck you and laughing. Nothing happening.
“And…?” Ingrid asked. Part of a conversation started earlier…maybe yesterday.
“What…? He stalled, while sorting through the gibberish and discussion debris to find the tail of that thread…”oh…yeah…and then we make it on down to the park…nice day…check it out. We need some weed…Yes?”
“Mmuffftt” she said pulling a big black sweater over her head…he sighed watching those gorgeous tits disappear. “O.K. I need to hit the bank first…you got any bread?”
“About a yard…cool”
A siren howled somewhere and the taste of sour wine burred his tongue…the coffee was hot though and it would burn off the fuzz and the taste of too many Camels. Ingrid yawned and stretched and he grabbed her and they laughed and rolled on the old mattress. Life was good…but it was time to go.
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