he came rushing in, grossly rich
and short: a misplaced Puerto Rican
from New York making it big
in southern California’ sex industry.
he was THE OWNER of the sex store
we were working in and he was angry
and yelling that we weren’t
doing our jobs, that the $700
security monitor is a waste
of money because we never look
at it– because if we did, we
could see that someone was blocking
the fuckin parking lot’s driveway.
we found the driver, told him to
move the truck and on the way out
THE OWNER said to him “shit, man
– you must’ve been desperate to get
in hea.”
and the driver laughed and simply
said “yea, always” then walked out
to move his truck.
THE OWNER looked at us without saying
anything because we weren’t worth the
flexing of his vocal chords but eyes
can’t hide repulsion and we saw it
there glimmering and screaming:
‘YOUR LIFE IS SHIT; YOUR BRAIN IS
SHIT; YOU ARE SHIT AND IT AMAZES ME
THAT YOUR HEART CAN PUMP SHIT
THROUGHOUT YOUR BODY AND KEEP YOU
ALIVE.”
then he walked away into the dim
movie arcade to cash out the booths,
the janitor hurriedly mopping the cum
off the floor, scrubbing the graffiti
off the walls for $7.25/hr.
then the driver came back and went
back into his booth but came out
relatively soon and left,
just like that.
it was strange because normally– as
do most customers– he stops by the
bathroom to flush his cum-soaked
napkins and wash his hands.
the janitor went out to the lot to
check up on the cars, make sure they
were properly parked.
she came back, shaking her head and
giggling.
we asked what was so funny and she said
“there’s a BIG OL’ WET WAD of napkins on
THE OWNER’S BMW!”
slowly but surely, one BMW at a time,
the revolution was beginning.