Driving down Hollywood Blvd. at 2 a.m. after a shift, the signs for all the trendy clubs stuffed onto ten city blocks are flickering as the scant crowds of people who have been partying on a Wednesday night stumble out the doors into the streets. Girls in short black dresses trip over themselves and teeter on their heels (amateurs!) while classic douchebags with striped button-downs and spiky hair catch them, probably trying to cop a feel and hoping that their drunken chivalry will result in some 'tang.
The windows are rolled up so all I can do is watch the spectacle unfold like a silent movie as B. sits next to me in the passenger seat, animatedly unloading a rant.
"Sometimes I just get so mad at them I want to spit right in their faces. I mean, I can feel the spit forming right at the tip of my tongue." She'd had some asshole customers who talked down to her; not that unusual, but always offensive and irritating.
"I just want to tell them, hey, I'm not stupider than you. I just have a shittier job!"
Monday, August 18, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment