Picture if you will a barfly. Now, take that barfly and move her three days ahead, same yellow, opaque blouse and leathery skirt with multiple runs in undersized stockings, same blonde hair (sorta), same makeup, no sleep. Move the right side of her dress down about 1". Hair (cheap wig) ruffled with enough space open for a small spider and web (web optional). Black purse with biker, motorcycle gear chain as strap (grease optional).
Now place this person facing the wall at the convenient (?) Wells Fargo in-store bank. Place an ATM in front of her. Place an average overweight trucker, probably named Billy, with a red baseball cap, plaid shirt and levis that could probably double as an historical monument. Billy looks very agitated and is constantly darting his eyes in the direction of Madame Barfly and his own ATM machine. Meanwhile, our star this week is frantically punching buttons, making that female harrumph move of frustration, and shaking her head constantly.
I arrive and take my spot at the end of the line waiting for these two wunderkind to unlock the secrets of their own accounts so that the rest of us no-lifers can get a shot at cracking the code. Apparently, when you've got nothing to do in life, life slows down. This was going to be my only scheduled activity for the whole day, well besides breathing. After a few minutes of observing Madame Barfly and her cellmate Billy frantically pounding the keypads, shaking their heads, and pounding some more, I was becoming frustrated as well. The rest of the people in line were desperately checking their purses and pockets to see, if by sheer luck, they have brought a persuasive tool to help these clowns finish. You know, knives, guns, bazookas, box cutter, ugly pictures of Phyllis Dillar - or for that matter, ANY pictures of Phyllis Dillar.
At one point, I grew so impatient, that I said something under my breath, hoping they wouldn't hear, but just to relieve some of my anxiety. I said, "She looks like she got up on the wrong side of the planet today."
The lady in line in front of me whirled her head around faster than Arnie in The Terminator, and gave me that stare that only condemned prisoners ever receive. "She's a he," she said.
After about two minutes, I was finally able to lift my jaw off of the floor, and put it back in its natural position. And that's a good thing, because he (she? it? - fair and balanced, you decide) turned around and started walking past us making sure that he, she, shemale, cousin itt, whatever, didn't notice me.
Of course, then my jaw dropped again. And I had to repeat the whole process one more time. Ahhhhhhhh, will wonders never cease??? I think I can honestly reply, "Not a chance," as far as that Ralph's is concerned.
Keep tuning in, a new story guaranteed at least once a week.
a word about the author: I am a sixth generation Californian. That means that back in the 60s and 70s and beyond, my father was a hippy. He even spent his last twenty years at a commune. I happen to be from Northern California and they hate anything and everything to do with Southern California and especially Los Angeles and superespecially Hollywood. As far as the people who live in Los Angeles and Hollywood, are concerned they don't even know that Northern California exists (or much of the rest of the world for that matter).
Like the rest of us outside of Lalaland, we constantly hear about the "strange" people in L.A. Well, I'm here to tell you that those stories are true and they are even mild in comparison to reality. Madame Barfly wasn't the first real whack job I've seen here since I moved at the beginning of the year. I just know there'll be more, a lot more.
