“….you just gotta poke ‘em, just so…”

The driver butts in by way of a sudden swivel on the bar stool. He must be drunk, because he misestimates the force with which he’s pushed off the bar. His hand is met with the flab from some an unknown part of the man’s arm. That is enough to stop his tale of debauchery, or whatever it is, at a single phrase: “em’ flaps.” The driver either ignores or does not notice his alarmed look. Before the man can get out a “you aright buddy?”, the driver starts in.

“Sorry ta interrupt ya, but wha’s the deal wi’the drinks here?”

The fat man’s look turns into one of cheer. He has been waiting for such an opportunity to explain this, his favorite hideaway of easy virtue, since this newcomer, the driver, sat down.

“It’s free, bub. All of it. Ya can even help yr’self ta the hotplate over there f’ya want any.”

The diver glances down the bar, past his enormous neighbor, past the girls, each perched daughter-like on the knee of a crisply suited man. Against the back wall is a table, atop of which spits a black-iron skillet. A blue butane flame reaches up from beneath and licks its sides as well as the metal support propping it up.

The driver then turns to the plate of indecipherable glop, bubbling over on his neighbor’s plate.

“Free?” The driver is surprised they are even able to give the muddy goop away.

“Yeah,” more excited. “As long as you’re grabbin yr’self a girl at the end. Say! Which one you interested in? Sandy’s a real hoot but I’ve always liked Virginia…”

It’s funny: as regressed as these girls-for-hire may seem –sitting on men’s laps and cooing- it’s actually the driver’s overgrown-child of a neighbor that reminds him the most of a little girl.