Sunday, February 27, 2011

The Limo Driver

by James Jarvis

Sometimes I sit at my gas station night window
looking out at Crenshaw Boulevard,

thinking about all the pussy I'm not getting.

The limo driver pulls her black stretch limo

up to pump number five,

pumps gas

and walks toward my window

to sign the credit slip.

She's an ugly little thing.

Her momma cooked with too much lard.

Her skin is as bad as a moldy banana,

and she walks like a man

in her chauffeur's uniform,

and her sassy accent is straight from Queens--

she's got that tough, big city girl posture--

but her body is thin enough,

petite enough,

to make me go for it,

the whole package:

an ugly girl with a nice enough body

and a half-assed steady job.

I give her the look,

a facial expression I've used on so many women,

half carnivore, half smitten kitten

with a dash of

'I think I knew you in a previous life'

thrown in to cinch the deal.

I call it my look of

surprised recognition.

It works.

I've caught the limo driver's eyes in my high beams,

she stands there . . .


She has already signed the credit slip

and taken her receipt,

but she just stands there

caught by my look of

surprised recognition.

I've got her.

She asks what time I get off

and I resist the honesty of telling her

'not too long after I get you under me, honey.'

She asks what I'll be doing in a few days for Halloween

as she tries to walk away back to her limo,

but can't.

She's walking a narrow figure eight

in front of my night window,

in front of my penetrating gaze,

trying to walk away,

but turning back towards me,

circling left, circling right,

a narrow figure eight,


thinking up new smalltalk to add,

thinking up new questions to ask,

parading her body back and forth across my gaze

like a pedigreed bitch

in front of the judges' stand

at a dog show.

I've got her.

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