mr. kindsley's papers

the summer thunderstorm rolled over head like a boiled ham falling out of a tin kettle onto polished tile. not the cheap tile either mind you, the good stuff...italian bicotura. she had the good stuff all right, and she knew it. mr. kindsley tapped on the dashboard nervously, "this is it, the third one on the left with the yellow porch light"...i reached over and tipped the cabby a twenty and mumbled something incoherent in spanish, my god why didn't i learn spanish. the rain stung my face like a fat kid swinging a fistful of half cooked spaghetti noodles. the wind was picking up in slow groaning wooshes as mr. kindsley reached into his rain slicked coat and handed me the papers. his face looked tired and old in the moonlight. "this is as far as i go amigo" ...and who could blame him, this was no place for a one legged pogo stick salesman.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

Hey, one legged pogo stick salesmen deserve some respect too.

Neetee said...

I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about a one legged pogo stick salesman. Let's hope he works a pogo better than he fakes Spanish. "1...sorry. Let me start over. 1...no thank you. I'm allright. I can get up by myself."

Perfect Virgo said...

Boing, boing, boing! Just pogoing in for my cost efficient beer Superfly. Or I would but hell, you know...

LovelyBucket said...

Forget the one-legged pogo stick salesman... tell me more about the fat kid with half cooked spaghetti. For some reason, that speaks to me. Could be because my grandpa is Italian.