Freak Wharf, pt. 5

In more than one way, this was no isolated incident. I have had a taste or two of Fortuna's back hand. To wit: I've been drafted, maimed (overseas and in the ring), lost three toes to hypothermia, been divorced four times, and lost all my possessions to apartment fires on two separate occasions. I have also been robbed twice before and during one of those robberies had my wrists duct taped while a hooded speed freak waved a .38 special at my right eye for about a minute and a half.

So last's weeks robbery was still fairly lightweight in comparison to other shit and indignities I've survived. But it does stand out, as the first time anyone ever reached across and lifted anything right from under my nose, least of all my radio, the winged aorta of the Torpedo. But as the Lord said "If you spend enough hours on this boardwalk, you’ll see everything the human cirkus has to offer."

Right now, for example, I’m staring at a tiny little accordion-wielding chippie with an okay rack, body, and – get this – not just one, but two heads. One of them is withered and knocked out. There’s drool on the chin. Not pretty. But the other head is something else. The face betters a young Annette Funicello, terrific brown eyes, with waves of long black hair. Goddess Time.

“What’ll you have, Sweets?” Without a word, she just points to a spot somewhere on the row of cigarettes behind me. I track her finger.

“Newports? Filtered?”

She keeps nodding and holds up two fingers. The smaller, withered head stirs and winces a little, like it’s wrestling with a two-headed nightmare. I slide two packs of Newps across the counter.

She passes me a ten and smiles a 5-star smile. By the time her ten is in my till, she’s trailing impossible music and slapping one of the packs, the Stay-Fresh seal tumbling down the boardwalk towards West 12th Street.