To Target to pick up cleaning supplies. A quick dash through the aisles and then to check-out. Store is packed at 8:30am. Santa's there, not for the kiddies but for a group of little old ladies club having a latte party in the Starbucks/Pizza Hut food court, such as it is.
Order a double tall soy latte. Pathetic. This afternoon I'll do penance over in Windsor with a proper caffe coretto (the grappa corrects the coffee). Skim the New York Times. Notice an article about a quartet of hookers strangled and left to rot in a drainage ditch in Atlantic City. One of them was a housewife in Florida. On evidence, she got bored with suburban life, went to cooking school, fell in with the usual cast of dubious characters, started hitting the pipe and before she knew it, she was turning tricks by the ocean. Strangely enough, the Times article gives a hint of championing her decision to leave the suburbs and start living on the wild side.
Who isn't restless in this country? Who doesn't think of fleeing for the ocean and a midnight lifestyle? But can you keep it up? Can you stay alive?
Turn on the stereo in the car and the robot selects "For a Dancer" by Jackson Browne. I find myself tearing up for a hooker dead from living too free with no brakes.
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