She tells me her name is Gail. It’s a leather bash at
Chicky’s and I’m standing at the bar with my second beer and a
taco chip. She tells me her name is Gail, and then she says: “You
have such lovely hair.”
She’s very thin, tall, wasted looking, too much dark hair.
She says she runs a clothes boutique on Oak Street, but I don’t
know if I should believe her. Oak Street is swank, chi-chi, one
long block of phoniness, and maybe I should not believe her. But
why would anyone come to Chicky’s and tell a lie …