So, this Ukrainian hooker walks into my Starbucks… well, not my Starbucks… I’m not Magic Johnson. The Starbucks I started calling my office because, anymore, I have no willingness or ability to write at home. Saturday night was pretty quiet. I’m sitting in one of the fart and latte colored leather wingback chairs in the corner, drinking my coffee, and deciding between writing something deep and brooding… or just saying “fuck you” to the night and wasting an hour on Facebook till the barista who always tries to charge me full pop for refills kicks me out at 10.
And then, it happened.
She walks into my Starbucks.
Five-five in six-inch heels… black fishnets with a miniskirt, and some kind of faux fur jacket of indeterminate species… white-blond hair, and even whiter skin. Looking just like that Ukrainian girl on the late-night TV commercial for that pay-for-play, video chat service.
Don’t judge me.
Only this one wasn’t looking all “come fuck me, Ah-mey-ree-can Man” like the blond in the commercial. This one was looking like she had a dirty little secret, and no one to share it with. Sitting on the back of the wooden chair closest to the milk and napkins and powdered condiments, she spent a good two minutes pretending to read the newsstand apartment guide that she held upside-down in one hand. Another minute went by with the Ukrainian hooker looking in every direction but mine. I swore she had to be casing the joint.
And it happens.
Like a pro… well, a professional at something… she strikes. In a single motion, she’s reaching out her free hand, while her unread newsstand apartment guide opens wide in the other. Just like the “breaching sharks” they show every year on Shark Week. She strikes, and just like that, it’s gone. The lone, unguarded shaker of vanilla, ripped from the condiment stand full of other, more popular options. Gone!
And in four, maybe five strides, the Ukrainian hooker is lost in the night.
“Did you see what the fuck just happened?!!”
Denise, the other barista, was shouting at me and at no one, all at the same time. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“That fucking hooker just stole my vanilla!”
© 2013 Bill Friday