a novel by Aaron Sheppard
Most nights they would line up leftovers outside the window of my second story apartment. It was always an exciting time to watch pimps scurry in and out of bushes during wee hours of the morning. The street light always shown orange just west of my apartment at 1234 Massachusetts Ave, NE. I delighted working on my own projects at night, simultaneously firing up a colortini with Tom Snyder out of one eye and spying on my nightcrawlers out the other. After the sun went down, yet before the MPD came by to round up doxies, I would attempt to imagine who each of the lady’s Johns were – politician and party affiliation – rolling up in cookie-cutter sleek black cars to whisk each of my lovelies away. I never saw any approached on foot; I only ever witnessed the image of a bent over lady in tight leather skirt tossing side to side, as if moving to her own chewing gum pendulum until she agreed to take a ride. I’d watch such flesh commodities shuttled back and forth – some fated to periodically wrangle with whirring red and blue amidst the tick-tock rising of morning light.
-excerpt from BOOTLESS GRIPS