I am in a very troubled relationship with my dealer…Jeff you see thinks he knows what I want better than I do…He tempts me with multi pack socks and discounted bras, rollerskates and scarves, he sells me picks and strings and assorted things that sometimes glow in the dark…especially when they shouldn’t, and only weakly if they should. Jeff is the new highway 61! If you have something you need to buy…or sell…possibly even your damn soul if you are one of the poor bastards that work for him, go to Jeff – he got ya.
Yes, Jeff thinks he knows me better than I know myself. Nothing is quite as it seems: I ordered a two pack of jockey bras, ok, so discounted, so you can’t actually be sure they are really Jockey. Mockey, maybe, but good enough, and the price is right. I order two bras, small size, one black one tan, the balcony vest type style, light padding so as not to display nips in teeshirts, no underwire. This is what I think I want. What do I get? Two bras…jockey packaging…very good…one shell pink…one white…racer back style in extra small. Returning them is a bind…bit like the bras. I take them out and look at them, there is plenty of stretch in there, but they are not what I want. I do not wear pink. I hate pink. But let’s face it, since most of the dykes are rocking fashionable big fat D, my chance of a date is about low to zero. Who is gonna see them. OK, Jeff, who thinks he belongs in my underwear drawer (well bag, since Im in a shelter and don’t have a drawer…but in my head I do…), Ill try them on. The other is an off white, nylon and scratchy, not soft and silky like the ones I actually fucking ordered and have been wearing for the last million years until they disintegrated. Well, on the plus side, I’m on trend, these bras squash the girls into oblivion. I stand more upright…can’t do much else in those strict racer backs a size too small. Well, I guess this is what I am wearing for the next hundred years, my ribcage and my boobs do not like you Jeff. Not at all, and to be frank I am not much keen either.
So ya know..I cant be fucked to go to Target, it is in the Mission area, and yeah yeah, I know I hardly live in Fairyland out here in the badlands of SF, but that part of Mission is more than a bit gritty, and well…there is a crackhead in the area, he lives outside Target, and last two times I was there he chased me. He shouted at me, “BITCH! FUCKING BITCH!! YOU WHORE! BITCH! FUCK YOU!” I declined politely, and hurried inside to the security guard hiding behind him and his overblown roid muscles. I’ve never been so glad for someone elses’ substance abuse problem. This guy was a behemoth! However, this is twice now, that this particular guy has decided to yell and chase in that weird dragging one leg crackhead kinda way. They are like fast zombies, without the brains. So yeah, I am not really driven to go to Target. There is no Walmart this side of the bridge and Oakland if both too far, and a bit grouchy nowadays, so….there is Jeff. So when I decide that actually, I really need some new underwear, and the boutique provocative place I go past sometimes wants a mortgage for a pair of panties that don’t actually have a crotch in them, bit chilly for me, dear, so there is only one option – yes….roll those Amazonian dice again.
I order Hanes, 6 pack. Nervously choosing cotton, blues and purples, in a size 4. I don’t think I can go wrong. I can’t. Jeff can. I get blacks and tans in a size 6, in this nasty silky material, that I would have loved the fucking bras to be in. Dear Jeff, I know dear, I am cute and everything and you might well prefer me in black knickers, but what I wanted what I really really wanted was cotton, size smaller so my drawers don’t fall down, in damn well blue and purple. I talk to Jeff. Well I talk to some nice boy and explain…these are not my amazonian underwear, sweetie. He doesn’t care. I can either keep ’em or dispose of ’em, here is your refund. I wish Jeff would take his underwear choices ..and stick em! Silky panties, scratchy bras, nothing in the right size or color. Bah!
Jeff tries to feed me artery clogging 4 percent fat yoghurt, instead of the 0 percent I ordered, socks which are advertised as padded but arrive thinner than a catwalk model on a starvation diet. He makes suggestions, ludicrous suggestions, he tries to sell me books. I wonder what he might decide there? If I order William S Burroughs Junkie, he would probably send me a self help tome detailing how I can kick any habit in 30 days.
I ask the Boy if he would like this cheap Thrasher hoodie I saw in the Amazon sale..”Ma…everybody knows that Amazon don’t sell REAL brands…well not all the time..it says Thrasher..but it probably not thrasher.” “It’s thirteen bucks, dood”, I reply. “Do they have it in a medium,” he asks excitedly. “Blue or black, darling?” I reply without a hint of laughter in my voice. It is no laughing matter. Jeff has got us all gripped by our desires for more more more faster faster faster, and it is suffocating, but what to do! I have the perfect song for Amazon to use as their theme tune. I always wondered who on earth would think it a good deal to swap rollerskates for entire kilo of weed? I bet Jeff would think it a great deal!