I,
Slave
1746 - 1963
By E. MH Ratterman
Copyright © 2016
E. MH Ratterman
Twenty-One
___________
Taxi, Anyone?
Elfrida Hall walked off the dance floor and departed her
locale of employ a few dimes richer than when she had walked in… quite a few
dimes richer. Feeling she had more money to burn than a big city crematorium
had corpses, and more time to kill than eternity, she walked leisurely past
Carnegie Hall and crossed Broadway. She danced her way slowly across West 42nd
Street to its far side, where she decided to go to her right. A block later,
and one left turn, found Frida walking along Eighth Avenue until she veered
onto Greenwich Avenue. A few more blocks and half a dozen right and left turns
found the dancer wondering where she was. She quickly discovered that her
dime-rich assets were of little help to her on this foggy city night.
New York City bred and Big Apple raised, this femme fatale
knew she could charm the strongest of kingly men as well as the wildest animals
of lower class males. She always managed to ‘have what it takes’ as they say.
Though she detested the ever-so-common nauseatingly American demeanor of her
feminine associates, she knew within herself that she shared some of those very
same world renown attributes; those socially acceptable hindrances that, at
times, make a woman so Plain American Jane in character.
Frida strolled along the damp street as gracefully as a
pheasant through the brush; the street’s bright lights erected high overhead
shone brightly, far above her perfume scented body. Not a taxi in sight, she
thought, damn! She pondered her words. Even an aristocratic gold hungry
drone must say ‘damn’ once in a while. When a passing dog peed on one of
her expensive leather shoes she kicked the little beast firmly, sending it
tumbling into the gutter below the street’s curb. Feeling a fleeting moment of
remorse, she said to the critter, “Sorry, but ….”
Peering into the misty distance, Frida saw what appeared to
be a neon business sign. Continuing along her ever-unfolding evening’s quest,
she managed to make out what the glowing words in the distance displayed,
‘BAR’. How original, she
thought.
Earlier that morning, she had paid a visit to her bank and
had a rather fanciful conversation with one of the tellers. She had always
prided herself with her figure, not the silhouetted one slightly camouflaged by
one of her many sheer nightgowns, but the selfsame one the teller had referred
to, ‘Oh, not your body, ma’am. This final line … here’, he had pointed
enviously, ‘the one displaying your account balance’. ‘Wealthy women have great
figures’ and ‘I like your figure, ma’am’. Her mind hashed upon the nervous bank
teller, over and over, like an undone piece of meat on a less than flaming
grill. He was rather cute,
she continued in her ponderings, and
quite witty.
Passing a dark colored car, she gazed momentarily into its
darkened interior. “A Chicago Piano,” she mumbled, before thinking, or, more common to the masses… a
Tommy Gun. Maybe that bar up ahead is not the best establishment of choice this
evening.
The fog, Frida’s misty gray lover of the night, caressed her
supple cheeks. She drew a long, silent breath of cool air, A girl’s got to live, and
pushed the bar’s door open carefully. Billows of cigar, pipe, and cigarette
smoke floated around the room like summer clouds high in the sky. She
recognized the crowd, those from the other side of the coin of wealth;
mobsters, politicians, import business owners, those who prefer the nightlife
over a hard day’s work; those who leave the mundane life of honesty the sole
responsibility of their subordinates.
Interesting, she thought, examining some of the
artwork adorning the olive green walls, a
fly on the wall with an icepick through it… an ear being hacked off of a brick
wall, and a singing canary with two vultures hovering behind it. She
understood the paintings’ artistic meanings.
“Say, babe,” came a happy voice, “ya like ‘em?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I, Slave: 1746-1963
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