In this scene, I am a 35 year old waitress at a VFW lounge, serving Schlitz and cheap Whiskey Sours and all the old men think I’m young and cute and sassy, although I should tone down my potty mouth a little bit.  I got this job because my skirt is red with fake wood trim and an elk head mounted in the middle. I got this job because my waitress dresses are so tongue-in-cheek that I don’t mind being called Honey even if I’d rather be called Pepper. I got this job because I never should have tried to fill my conversational partner void by talking to 20 year old men with pictures of naked chicks on their cell phones. I fixated on her coochie to see how it compared to mine.  The problem with talking to 20 year old men is I find myself toning down my quasi-intellectual mouth and saying things like are those boobs real? My eyes water as the tiny black shards cut into my tongue.  The problem with my mouth is I can’t keep it shut and when I open it who knows what might gush out. Pubic hair tangling up octopus arms, instant cheesecake, heavy metal, sinuses, strands of outmoded golly gees. Sitting around and smoking cigarettes and talking about kinky sex must be some inappropriate attempt to flirt with the past self from which I am receding.  The young men sneeze when I walk by and there’s nothing inconspicuous about it.

 

The old timers are losing their senses of smell and think I’m wearing my special black orchid perfume.  It’s really vanilla extract spiked with a liberal shake of black pepper. The old fogeys and I are sitting around and smoking souvenir pipes and talking about our bowel movements.  Showing each other our cell phone pictures.  Commiserating about how everyone else is getting healthier while we’re getting sicker.   Are those things real, asks a wrinkly chap, regarding my facial piercings.  What’s your name again, Honey, asks another crony with jittery hands hovering above my ass, much to my inappropriate and slightly grossed-out glee.  I open my mouth and out comes Pepper.  Like the gangly, mean orphan in the musical, surrounded by melodic, erotic mini éclairs who smell like Lemon Pledge.  Pepper Shaker, I add, sashaying towards a toothless one with a precariously balanced Amaretto Sour.  I tone down my erratic stale cigarette mouth into a wry yet lemony-fresh smile.  An age-spotted one drools while commenting upon my spicy figure. The problem with my hands is when I get a little attention who knows what might happen next.  I find myself flashing my panties at a table of senior citizens who giggle and ask me where my girdle is.  I’m saying things like how about a lap dance gramps and first it was S&M Lite, but now it’s a full latex face mask. The elk head wags its tongue lasciviously.