As a teen I wore padded bras to balance my figure–chest of a flapper, waist and hips of a Gibson girl. Today I shun such deceptions, opting for the blatant postmodern solution, shoulder pads.
By the time Sandy turns around, the woman has disappeared into the ladies’ room.
“Yep!”
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Standing in the rain are two young white women, pretty, big-haired blonds with stiff rooster combs of bangs. They wear tight black dresses–mermaid dresses, the kind low-class girls wear to junior prom. They’re screaming and laughing at passing cars.
I’m not sure. Because they’re younger, with skirts a couple inches longer, I say, “Nah, just sluts.”
The bus comes. Sandy leaves. I have drunk too many cups of decaf. Before I catch a cab, I must follow the parade of hookers into the Golden Nugget’s ladies’ room. Sitting on the toilet, I hear snippets of conversation.
“Transvestites?”
