A Dip into the
Big Easy
by Bill Tope
"One look and
you're hooked!" cried
the barker, standing outside a strip
club on Bourbon Street. He raised
a wooden cane, twirled it flamboyantly
and shouted, "Pretty girls, whiskey,
lap dances, step right in!"
Willy Tubs stood outside the club and
stared through the open door, longing
to see a pretty girl, drink whiskey, and
enjoy a lap dance, but without paying
the $20 cover charge.
Willy had hitchhiked from Boston, 1,300
miles from New Orleans, and had had
some expenses on his trip. Besides,
he
was just naturally frugal.
A prostitute walked up to Tubs and said,
"Got a light, handsome?" as she
placed
an extra long cigarette between her lips.
Willy blinked in surprise. He'd
never
been accosted by a hooker before.
Instinctively he laid his hand over his
wallet. "I don't smoke," he
said regretfully.
"That's alright," she said.
"I've been
meaning to cut back." She
tossed the
cigarette into the street. He took
in her
bright red lipstick and rouged cheeks.
"You're a..." began Willy.
"A working
girl," she finished his sentence.
"That's
right." She took note of his
backpack
and his jeans, dusty from the long
journey. "What are you?" she
asked,
"a stock broker?".
"A poet." Willy stood a little
taller. She
raised a brow. "Let's hear
some poetry,
then," she suggested. Willy
straightened
his shoulders. "I'm a poet,
and I know it;
hope I don't blow it!"* He
grinned. The
hooker clapped her hands, smiled, duly
impressed by Willy's cleverness.
"That's very good," she said.
"I'll tell you
what: I've never done a poet before."
Again Willy blinked. "What's
your name?
I'm Sandy." He told her his
name. "C'mon,
it's on the house," and taking his
arm she
led Willy down the darkened street.
Willy
was eagerly rubbing his hands together.
After about ten minutes, Willy Tubs
emerged from the alley, positively
beaming. He passed the strip club
without a glance, content that he had
achieved his goal while saving money
to boot. He walked away, whistling.
A few moments later the lady of the
evening walked back into the light of
the strip club, a wad of bills clutched
in
her hands. She dropped the now-empty
wallet into the street, put an extra long
cigarette between her lips.
Flicking her
lighter, she murmured, "Willy was
randy
and I was handy; so he got fleeced by a
dipper named Sandy." She
smiled.
"I'm a bit of a poet myself/"
*Willy stole this verse from Bob Dylan |
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