“She’s a nice girl.” Bobby said.
“No, . . . really, . . . she’s a nice girl.”
Absolutely no one looked up from their newspapers, or down from the ballgame on television.
A Saturday afternoon at the Bar.
Business as usual.
The alcoholic's section of The Christian Science Reading Room.
“So which one is this?”, I asked Bobby, not taking my eyes off of Page Six, something about Britney Spears...
“Nina.” Bobby sighed.
“Which one is Nina?” . . . Cindy Adams, gossip, more about Bernie Madof...
“From over at the Cozy Spa.” he said.
Bobby prattled on about his latest sexual conquest.
“She was wearing these little red panties with matching bra, you know. She let me eat her out. She loves me.”
“She’s a whore, Bob. She works in a massage parlor giving hand jobs at sixty bucks a pop.” . . . Liz Smith, sanitized gossip, a truly frightening photograph of Chelsea Clinton...
“But, she’s a nice girl.”
This was a familiar conversation. Last week it was Wendy. She was a nice girl too. Before that, it was Amy, and before that, Mona, I was beginning to have trouble keeping track.
I took a sip of whiskey.
“But what about Wendy?” . . . The Post’s Op-Ed page, some opinions...
“Oh, fuck Wendy.” he said.
“Didn’t you do that already?” . . . "The Mayor's", latest draconian plan on sex shops...
“Yeah, but that was months ago.” Bobby said.
“What about last weekend. Didn’t you go up to Chambers Street?” . . . More Op-Ed pieces, Staten Island wants to secede, again...
“No, I went up to Canal Street.”
“Now which one was this?” . . . school’s chancellor caught in threesome...
“Wendy.”
Now I looked up.
“Wait a minute, I thought that the last time you saw Wendy was months ago, but now you tell me you saw her last weekend??”
“Yeah, the Canal street Wendy.”
“Hold on. You mean to tell me that there are two Wendys?”
“Yeah.”
I took a long pull at my whiskey. This was getting complicated. I would definitely have to start writing this down.
This was an actual conversation.
And people wonder why I hang around in bars.......
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