I take Line 9
Quite a lot
I know all kinds of beggars
On Line 9 I know them all
Some of them I saw
Their kids grow up
I’ve never seen
A Jew beggar
Neither a Chinese
Whatever that means
I’m now seeing Pakies
Tag Archives: Fiction
So many fucking stories
Line 9, late
Going home, drunk, tired
As I board the train
There’s a guy laying on the floor
He’s not all there
He’s sucking his thumb
Looks like no pain though
Good for him
Balling not in Sofia, Bulgaria
What really startled me is that I didn’t hear them coming. And neither did the dog. Before I knew it, I had a Kalashnikov muzzle on my temple. I felt it, hard, before I heard. It was Bulgarian, I guess, but I knew what it meant: “Don’t move!” So I sat still.
It was a nice evening in the Balkans. Cold war wasn’t far but there was spring in the air. I was sitting in a city park and, until then, I was pretty happy with myself in Sofia.
Rose
Rose is from Texas.
That was my very first night in New Orleans. Big Easy indeed. I had just been mugged in Louis Armstrong Project, right by the French Quarter, by two young black kids – one tall, one short. The big one had me locked up high by the neck. I saw the short one coming with a big pipe in his hands. I kicked my feet; I was wearing tongs… So the short punk went whack, whack, whack, right on my face. I felt, and heard, the bones in my jaw cracking quite clearly. Then I went to black.
Mickey and Daisy, a lose-lose situation
I was in a sorry bar in Orlando, Florida, drinking beers, minding my business. I was pounding on the drinks because I knew there’s no tomorrow. Then this guy next to me felt he needed to talk. I didn’t care.
He soon told me he was working for Mickey or the NBA or whatever.
Stories 