Jamochans Only Smile At Night

Walking down the streets of Fort Lauderdale, I come across an old country bar, in the middle of an overcrowded city block. The sign reads “The Stardust”. It had doors like some sort of space western; with the push of the yellow panels, a low glow encompassed everything it could devour. A man with glass eyes stood behind a polished mahogany bar table. He wore a name tag which said boldly, SONNY MILLER. In Millers’ Light there sat you middle aged black man; taking a seat next to him, I ask if he is Jamaican?

He replies,
No Sir, I was born in Jamaica, but I harvested coffee in their Blue Mountains; So I’m a Jamochan.

I laugh my ass off.

He ask,
How would you like a joke and a smoke?

Please sir because I’m dying for anything, says I

Puff, puff, toke, toke; he goes on to tell me a joke about a women in a tube top and heels on a street corner, and on the other side there is a woman with a potatoes sack on as a blouse. The Jamochan than asked me who out of the two were hookers.

I couldn’t rightly tell ya sir,
Slurring thru my teeth.

He says,
The one with Idaho across her chest

I laughed my ass of

The Sunrises went down until the sun came up. My feet wade through the hard wood floor to the door. Outside there stood a lovely little woman, the pretties sixty inches I had ever seen. She was dragging on a cigarette of the light variety, and looking so discontent.

I ask,
What wrong?

She sighs,
I don’t rightly feel like staying, but going seems like such a hassle.

A saintly tone overcomes my larynx and reply,
Why don’t you hop on piggy-back and we will huff and we will puff until those directions go are way, and we will pull and we will thug until the those roads change the ways.

She says,
Maybe just maybe.
I say,
Baby please Baby.

And she says,
Okay.