Pulled Pork

I work for a pig. No, I’m not a snitch and I’m not talkin’ bout police. I’m talkin’ bout a short, fireplug of a man who may or may not have been connected to the “New Orleans mob.” I play piano at his deck-side seafood grill every weekend. He acts like he owns the world. He treats me okay. I’ve been workin’ for him 13 out of the past 14 years. But, still, he’s a pig ruttin’ in a golden trough.

I hadn’t seen him in months till this afternoon when he walked through the entrance talkin’ to some Hair Band Guitarist who was very popular in the ’80’s. The Rock Star’s arms were covered in tats and his dyed black hair was made him look like a glitter Ronnie Woods.

He was drunk.

The woman staggerin’ beside him was very drunk.

She was a botox cartoon in a a see thru top.

I wasn’t aware her mesh halter left nothin’ to the imagination till she walked from the bar to the table in front of the stage. That’s when I also became aware of her platform stilettos, leopard skin bikini bottoms, ravaged face, tired and blood shot eyes that burned through her designer sunglasses. She sat in the chair next to the table, lit a cigarette, took a drag and stared at me. I bent my head and closed my eyes. I had already seen too much.

When I opened them again, Glitter Ron was sittin’ beside her. He was also starin’ at me. Then he turned toward his “date” and said somethin’. She replied. He stood and walked out. She turned her gaze from the stage and took a hit from her cig. She started mumbling to herself.

Then she stood and said, “Mother fucker.” She staggered from the table area. She stopped to get her bearings. She looked up into the sky then  stumbled down the board walk toward the yachts.

At 2:30pm, the manager told me, “It’s too hot. Call it a day.”

I was tearin’ down my gear when my pig boss walked up, shook my hand and said, “Always a pleasure to hear you play.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“How’d you like them titties?”

I didn’t answer.

He laughed and punched my arm and said, “Wouldn’t you want to have them for a while?”

“Doesn’t matter what I want,” I said. “All that matters is what I do.” I paused to put a power cord in my bag. “And what I’m gonna do is nothin’.”

He laughed again and said, “I hear ya man.”

Then he called out to the woman and cock-walked the boardwalk toward her.

I watched him and I wondered, “Is he goin’ to market or all the way home?”

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About joefingas

I am a songwriter, poet, blues singer, and a boogie woogie piano player. I have a grandson but I have no children of my own. All my women have wised up and left me. I was a bum, a wino, a drug/alcohol counselor, a prevention/intervention specialist and a pretender. I have no more time to pretend.
This entry was posted in 12 Step Meetings, Blues, Co-Dependency, Denial, eighties, Memoir, Money, Poetry, Relationships, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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