A tattered limousine pulls curbside , one of those ivory ones you ’ d see charging The Strip in ’ 86 — Vince Neil or some other butt rocker acting the fool . It stands out like a lone whale in some toxic harbor . I light a smoke , pills turning the neon glow into a spectral haze . One of the girls ( Lexi ) sashays over to the piece , its rear window sliding down . She bends over , apple bottom bouncing to the beat seeping from inside . I realize my tape deck has stopped spinning ; I eject Wild in the Streets , flip it and re-cram to play . Soon as I look back , the whale is gone and so is Lexi . Mongo and some new girl named Faye share a short dog of Popov on the corner . The rest of the girls take cover in the shadows of an amber street light ; once out their purses , glass roses spark like sordid fireflies . The tape kicks in . I crack a tallboy . Another night lost amongst the gutters .