Amazing how long this ol' gal on the pay phone talks about how many cigarettes she's got. Whether or not she's coming over tonight all depends upon whether the person on the other end of the conversation has some for her. It's a deal. She's feeling out the situation and seeing what her company is worth to that other person. She's only got like 5 that a friend gave her, man, and she don't wanna' spend 5 bucks on a pack man.
People are amazing and diverse. I don't think less of this lady. I don't think there's a bad person out there, but that may be the sake talking. She's quite likable to me actually, not that we'd have a bunch to converse about. I like her; she's alive.
She's in low simple tennis shoes like short Chuck Taylors, not that they made those in Chuck's time. They're like the generic ones you can get for $15 at those cheap shoe stores in malls and the out-lots from a Target or Mervyn's. We're at a gas station down from the gallery where I'm staying and we're next to one of many Mexican markets on this street, Ventura Avenue. It's kinda' foggy. There's a picnic table beside the steel payphone but I think it's from the market, not the gas station.
Cigarette payphone lady wears straight black jean shorts, not sure if they're cut offs or not, a Tshirt, brown or grey and her short-ish hair is that color too–brown/grey. Basically, though 60ish, she talks and dresses like a 16 year old boy from a beach town like this one, saying the word 'man' a lot and buoyant in her speech. I like her. She's a straight shooter and when she walks away quickly toward her friend's house, I miss her already.
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