Three whores in a Volkswagen.
Doing a hundred down Mexican blacktop.
Kilometers, not miles.
Did I say three?
I meant two.
Unless you consider me the third.
Some people would vouch for that.
Anyway, who wants to stop for taquitos?
Nobody’s hungry.
Everybody’s hungover.
Even the sun’s hungover.
Dead and burning in the sky.
My tan is a straight line across the
crook of my elbow hanging out the
driver’s side window in the
windstream of desert air and bugs.
And that’s as far as my tan goes.
The rest of me is driven-snow white.
Not paying for the whores.
Just doing them a favor.
Giving them a ride.
Not that kind of ride.
They’re going to a wedding.
Another whore is getting wed.
What color will the dress be?
Can I crash the reception?
I don’t have anywhere in particular to be.
Doing a hundred down Mexican blacktop.
And how do you even know what
kind of person you are until all the
possibilities are thrown right in your
face, when the apple dangles down?
Rearview mirror.
These whores are just ladies.
You can’t even really call them whores.
They’re talking politics.
Everyone is corrupt.
No one does a goddamn thing for anyone else.
Not unless there’s something to be gained.
Like a washing machine.
Can you imagine that?
Hitchhiking whores talking politics?
Fanning themselves with crushed Pepsi cups?
Ask yourself this:
Out of all the words you’ve ever heard,
which one would these whores call you
easily as you call them whores –
stranger? fool? satyr? samaritan?
