One of those nights

I sat down for a rest with a short little man who wasn’t sitting at the rack and read as extremely queer. He was wearing a very loud polyester shirt, which I used as my opening.
“that’s a colossal shirt you’re wearing.” I figured if he got either reference we were set.
“I found it in a free box,” he beamed in a thick Southern accent. “it is pure polyester and breathes like a bitch.”
“Looks like it!” i made a sympathetic face. “Where you from, sugar cookie?”
“Mississippi, and the south will rise again!”
Uh, okay. “you think?”
“I know! You don’t think so, I can tell, but I know.
Great. When I was 19 I would totally have engaged with this, I was that stripper, combative and righteous and totally willing to battle with customers about the stupid things they said. I don’t even know how I made money, although I did, enough to fund some very excessive habits; now I’m older and tireder and make a lot more, probably because I can make it through a whole shift without assaulting any customers. However much I may want to.
I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted, by my job, by life, by this tiny little racist man whom I’d been hoping would be a totally awesome homo. Could he possibly be fucking with me?
His voice cut through my stupor. “I think she likes girls.” I already knew what I was going to see but I opened my eyes anyway. Yep, there they were, enthusiastically performing bisexuality to a crowd of mixed interest. It seemed a little early for cunnilingus to me but what do I know?
“I don’t know if she likes girls any more than she’s actually getting off.”
He laughed. “I know that, I watch porn!”
I didn’t really have anything to say to that but I was saved from any reply by my friend, who had two guys interested in dances. I rose and escaped.

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