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.