By on September 15, 2015

Delving into Jackson’s friendly black market

She walked into my office, her hips waving hello. The Patagonia T-shirt clung to her as if organic cotton hungered for warm flesh, for freedom from restraint, seeking only fire and heat.

Yeah, she was trouble.

They all are but only some dames are worth it. Or at least you think they are until you’re lying dead in the alley behind Sudachi Sushi, blood flowing down the street like spilled sake, green puss from what used to be you and your guts piling up like discarded wasabi.

“I need help,” she said.

I snorted. I’ve heard it before. A dame graduates from some state college and shows up in town hoping to land a second- home billionaire but the competition is stiff — Dartmouth girls with family money, girls from Brown with polo ponies and implants and Middlebury girls with … we all know about Middlebury girls. Before you know little Miss State College is hitting the latté shops in the late afternoon and dating snowboarders, all dignity surrendered. Suddenly she wants out. But it’s not so easy. Where are snowboarder boyfriends going to live if she leaves town? And where would she go? Ex-snowboarder chicks can hide their past from neighbors, but never themselves.

But Ms. Curvy Q surprised me.

“I’m into yoga,” she said. “I dance with light and love, experience an energetic exchange between giving and receiving, become present and find peace within myself.

“Here’s my thing. It cost money to go to yoga class, eat at Lotus and drink cold-pressed organic juice. Plus have you ever seen the prices of Lululemon yoga wear? To make ends meet I print counterfeit Bagel Bucks, the gift certificates you can buy for $1 to use at Pearl Street. I sell them on the street for $.65. I make a little on the side, the buyer gets a break on their latté and who does it hurt? A few baristas and bagel bakers, no one of importance.”

How did this babe not end up not in real estate I wonder?

“So what do you want from me, doll?” I asked.

The Bagel Shop has gotten wind that counterfeit bucks are circulating. They know they can’t go to the cops, after all, it’s a bagel shop, not a doughnut shop. So they got Sammy “Bad Bagel” Bonanno involved. I’ve seen what happens to girls he gets his claws into. Most of them end up strung out on sushi, supporting their habit by working as his string of life drawing models. Her eyes watered and I thought if those are real tears then she’s never panted during downward dog.

“I’ll pay you 20 bagel bucks to get Sammy Bagel to back off,” she said.

I thought of the lattés, of how bagels still warm from the oven with a schmear of sundried tomato cream cheese can make a man feel, like a belt of straight bourbon or the grip of a .38 handgun.

“Sammy owes me a favor,” I said. “Meanwhile how about we try the Adho-Agnista-Shag-Mbha pose?”

Well, she said blushing, “I do dance with light and love.” PJH

About Clyde Thornhill

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