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391 W. Water Street
The lumpy chartreuse tube-top and oversized orange stretch-slacks (coffee-stained) lurch forward stuffed with food stamp receipts and welfare checks.
“Jeremy!!” she screams as one flabby arm flails at my cab while the other jerks the squealing child from the fiberglass shopping-plaza ride-em horse. “JEREMY!” she screams again.
She hurls the child into the back seat followed by plastic bags crammed with sponge cake and who knows what else.
She opens the passenger door and crams herself into the front seat. I hit the meter and brace myself for the smell.
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