Rainy Day in Brooklyn by Joe Moler

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Rainy Day in Brooklyn

Damn, how the rain is falling this fifth day of June, pouring all over Brooklyn.
I sat the entire morning in a pizzeria, drinking coffee. I didn't feel like going home, and there was no work to be had. Something put a snag in this American machine and all those who are clambering onto the band wagon, trying to force their way into the luxury car of the Hollywood Express, are falling back into the ditches by the roadside. All that's visible from the pizzeria is the thick fog engulfing Manhattan, mixed in with the rain and the cold air. I'm ordering another coffee, just to keep warm, and looking across at the other side of East River. Two large boats are dragging along through the fog, passing underneath Brooklyn Bridge. A woman with curlers in her hair buys two pizzas, opens her umbrella and disappears into the rain. Perhaps some lazy fellow is waiting for her, can of beer in hand, waiting after a large meal to bust a load into her so hard that her curlers will fall off all over the floor. And perhaps not, maybe nothing like that will happen to her, although I watch with excitement her round hard ass as she disappears. It would be a pity for such a nice ass to go to waste, with no one to give it some attention. And maybe there's a whole gang of small kids waiting for her – that, on the other hand, is no fun...
The lad who makes the pizzas decided to have lunch around twelve, at noon exactly, and there he is, warming up his lasagna. An elderly Irishman in green pants enters, folding his umbrella.
Wonder what's happening with that beautiful, round ass with the curlers.
Fuck it, why am I having such thoughts in this damned rain???
I opened up the paper that someone left on a table in the pizzeria. Politicians, journalists, each smarter than the other, their cheap stories for the people are starting to look like raining crap. Go ahead, tell me something, you big heads, without taking a crap on someone else, write something in a friendly way on this damned, cold, rainy day, something with a little warmth and understanding.
And the lady with the curlers really had an ass an a half, I swear by my aunt, Julijana Protić. I vouch that no one knows her. I had to invent her, this aunt. Everyone I used to swear by has long disappeared.
The stocks are falling on the exchange again. Fucking business. In fact, I don't remember ever meeting a happy businessman, and where could I meet one when they don't even know that the pubs and pizzerias I go to exist.
The rain and the fog joined forces and made a curtain along the river.
A boat squealed from the fog every now and then, just to announce its presence and to scatter the frightened pigeons that live under the great bridges spanning East River.
I write out a greeting to all of you on that newspaper: "Greetings from your friend with the red underwear, fuck the stiff shirt collars, we're not English, among us underwear is the thing, hey, lets not kid ourselves!"
And the rain is still falling and falling...