“Come on Li’l Bet, let’s go eat our chicken by the window,” said the tall woman. “Li’l Bet” picked up her tray of five pieces of bird, a double order of fries, three biscuits the size of saucers, and a triple cherry soda and followed the woman. I got my Two Piece “Po Nigga” Special. The Chicken n Biskit didn’t give a shit about political correctness. The Asians that ran the joint, sported grills over their teeth. Their grin was as menacing as a piranha’s. The restaurant was crammed with hungry souls smacking their lips around crispy brown thighs and breasts. I found myself squeezed between Betty and the big picture window crisscrossed with iron bars.
I looked up at the sky and it looked like Old Man God had hung his gray drawers out to drip dry. It rains very hard in Houston in the evenings. The good weather the Houston papers promised us snowbirds from Michigan, turned out to be one soggy lie. Job opportunity was another lie. In Michigan, I made twenty dollars an hour slapping decals on the big asses of SUVs. So far, the only thing that boomed in “Boomtown” was thunder. If I didn’t find work soon, I would be out of my hotel room and sleeping under the stars, the manager told me as he smashed a cock roach crawling across his desk. I asked him was that worse than sleeping in a bed with fleas? “If you don’t have my money by next Friday, the fleas are going to miss you,” he said.
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