A hooker asks, “What’s that shit you’re listening to?” She spends most nights on the corner in front of the store because apparently no one told her this was the quiet end of town. She’s the kind of hooker you’d tell a bad joke about but she’s already funnier than the joke could ever be, in fuzzy pink leg warmers she hasn’t taken off since they were fashionable, worn over white tights I accidentally read her life story through and wish I hadn’t. She breathes like whoever taught her to siphon gas from a car forgot to mention not swallowing.
“John Coltrane.”
“And what are you, reading? What is that?” she snarls, leaning toward me over the counter.
I hold up the cover. “Essential Haiku. It’s three different poets and...”
“Fuckin’ book people,” she spits back before I can say anything about Basho’s economy or Issa’s wit, about stripping away extraneous detail and distraction to reach only what is essential, about the clarity and depth of a moment seen in stark relief, and all the other things I read earlier in the book’s introduction. Then she turns on an LA Geared heel and leaves with a pack of GPC cigarettes (the cheapest we sell) and a dollar scratch ticket, pausing on the way out to see how she measures up against the tape on the door.