The Man With the Jack-in-the-Box Bag

by October 14, 2011 0 comments

slid it over the table top, greasy trail and all,
to the edge, next to my over-sized envelop
with his boss’ name on it. He reached – I covered the manilla 8×10
before saying, “It’s all here? Exactly
what I asked for?”
Cowboy hat tipped down, the words,
“Aren’t they always? Don’t you ever trust me?”
This time, the drop off location was more lively
than usual amidst the biker gang
bangers throwing packets,
open HOT secret sauce hand grenades
at the fry cooks beyond the counter.
Applause from the patrons
jeered the especially bad tasting Tacos.
“But this is the last one, amiga – no more left
in the desert or the safe,” he added before slipping his hand
to my inner thigh, rubbing me down as if we were on a date
at a drive in. Learned in the YWCA Defense Class, I bent his index
finger backwards
until he cried, “Uncle!” and I slipped my package
across the chipped table surface
into his lap.
“Never call me again, Bitch, or I’ll set the Doberman’s after you,”
he muttered, rubbing his middle digit
before using it on me
as he stumbled out of the joint.
Turned away, staring out the picture window
towards the parking lot where my old man told stories
of the road as if he were Kerouac himself,
I uncrumpled the easy-to-carry paper carry all
scooped the gel from the unmarked jar
that radiated like the Sun on a 100 degree day
in the Barrio, rubbed it across my sunburned face,
and closed my eyes…

editors note:

Much ado about sun block. There must be an easier way for a girl to protect herself. – mh

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