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It was a typical Monday morning on Secor street:
sun baked ladies with fake tans hanging their armpits out of cars,
hungry looking children with celebrity hairstyles waiting for a
school bus that was always late, store owners trying to clear last
night's lingering smells of unknown origin from their doorways,
and a 240lb German frau standing out front of her husband's
business in a flimsy purple nightgown, with one hand scratching
her crotch, the other one smoking a big fat cigar.
Bertha Schlang waved hello to a famous
semi-retired glass eater who just happened by in his brand new
Chevy. He waved back at her, offering a smile without teeth and
badly lacerated gums as she blew carcinogenic circles into the
air. The sky looked pink today, same color as her nail polish. No
really, he used to be a good looking man.
"Honeybunny, ver is my orange tie? You know
the one with der stripes that go across like that and then down in
der middle and then der is a kind of swirly bit like a —"
The voice trailed off into mumbling. Helmut was
awake.
She sighed, stubbed out the cigar quite
unceremoniously on the bottom of her flat bare foot, and marched
up the stairs to the apartment.
Helmut was standing in front of the bedroom
mirror, completely naked except for his shoes and a small brown
briefcase dangling from his left hand. "So darling, do you
vink I should go with der orange tie or a different tie?"
She smiled. Her husband was such a klutz
sometimes. "Helmut dear, don't you think you have forgotten
something?"
Twenty minutes later he was downstairs opening
the store, still wearing nothing on his little hairy body but his
shoes, an orange tie, and one black sock.
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