there is a fat woman in tight fitting clothes br has a place called Little Angel's br she took me through it br the dimly lit dining room br no windows br sticky surfaced tables br heavy glass ashtrays br some half filled with the filth they attract br last night's remnants br of rejections from lust conversation br whose only goal is to get a piece br and when someone does br and believes they are lucky for it br the words become long forgotten br interest in the other person wanes br faster than the final minutes of an inmate on the row br br through a door with missing handle I followed to what she called the kitchen br cook gone home from the end of his shift br but the smell of the night's efforts remained br along with crumbs of dried up scraps br tucked away from the broom's easy reach br accoutrements ignored in lieu of an empty stomach br utensils hung in their places until the next cycle br wanting for a proper cleaning br br and then down a flight of bare wooden steps br no risers br just the roughness of ancient treads br dusty shelves jammed full with no concept of rotation br (a word not in the vocabulary of this room) br never heard a basement scream so loud for me to get out quick br br we settled back up at the bar br a homemade piece painted in high gloss dark oak shade br sat next to my friend Henry Chinaski br while Angel poured us some shots br and when she asked me br it was a strain to find compliments about the tour br I mentioned that everything about her setup made sense br except that I didn't understand the 'Little' part of the name br and she cracked me hard on the shoulder with a bottle of Jack br and Chinaski said it was a shame to see good whiskey wastedbr br Lee Crowellbr br