It's Spy Wednesday, See?
So, I'm out side waiting for the lovely Terry to finish her Alto chores with the Cantate Domino Choir's Tenebrae services at St. John Cantius Catholic Church. This young skirt with doe eyes approaches me on the steps of the Church. A real Peach Cobbler. I ain't looking,see, but I ain't blind.
'Please, Mister, I need help.'
I thumbed the brim of my Optimo grey Stetson up above my thick greying eye brows to take in a full eye-gulp of this Pastry Doll with a red patterned cotton dress clinging to the quality flesh, muscles and bones beneath the rounded cup of her chin holding the reddest lips this side of a transvestite review at the Admiral Theatre.
'Don't we all?'
' Please all I need is a ride to my cousin's apartment on Ogden, my flip flops broke.'
'Where you from, Apple Tart, this is Chicago - The Big Wind - Weather from Alaska, Hawaii.'
'I'm new in town and Tom Skilling said that it would be unseasonably mild.'
'Skilling sold you, Peach Cobbler, like he did to the grand jury when his little brother looted Enron. I'm raising three kids already.'
' Please, Mister!'
I thought hell, it's Holy Week and Tenebrae is longer than a Studs Terkel Tribute on Channel 11.'
The weeping elf gave me the address and we Chevy Malibu's it down Ogden to Race Street.
'Out you go.'
'Please, come up with me? The vestibule has poor lighting.
Agatha Christie she ain't, but she'll do, as the Vestibule had worse lighting than my tired fifty-six year old eyes. The rusty rose paint covering the dry wall that stood in for lathing and plaster was as attractive as a fat bar-fly ex- Mount Carmel Cheerleader topped off with a few litres of warm Carlo Rossi Rose and perfumed by a pack and half of Pall Malls and half a dozen Slim Jims.
'Please, come up - it might not be safe.'
I volunteered for John McCain; nothing scares me anymore and up I went.
We got into the cousin's apartment which was a room and Murphy Bed -down and unmade. The cousin probably celebrated the end of Operation Desert Storm by making up the rack.
'Please hold me I am so alone!' The Gooey Confection with the pan of a fattened up Lara Flynn Boyle leeched onto me.
'Listen, Sister, I don't know your game but the whistle's been blown. Hit the showers.'
'Don't be cruel. You are so much older and nicer than the men who have made me do things . . .make robocalls for Mike Quigley. He's in Congress now'
' Where Quigley belongs - that or a midget basketball team. Sing it Sister, but you are the audience. I'm bouncing.'
'I can Make you happy.'
'I am Happy. See me grinnin'?'
She held up both arms to me. 'Take me or I'll just die! I'll do anything you say.'
'Look, Rhubarb Pie, this particular Hair-pin is stuck deep in another Babe's bonnet. The Real Deal. This schooner don't cruise, see? I'm chained to my Baby's Boardwalk and She's singing in Church and hugging my arm for keeps. Drop Dead.'
I only meant it metaphorically.
The Pretty Pop-Over snapped up off the deck; kicked her quality gams to One Eighty and flattened out in mid air and drooped like a three by five foot -three quarter inch cut of plywood and pancaked on the floor. Dust bunnies danced for what seemed an eternity.
The Fruit Strudel in cotton and busted flip-flops was as stiff as a poker, and more rigid than an Obama Press Conference.
She was deader than Pat Quinn's tax plans. I called the cops. Told them my story. They told me to blow. I Malibu'd back to St. John Cantius. Tenebrae was about a third done. I stood on the steps of the beautiful old Polish Church and listened to blend of angelic voices calling up the sins of this sad planet. Tenebrae - shadows.
That Fruit Pie could flop.
H/t Blather.com great photos!