Expresso 3: Return of the Ugly Faggot

“Hey, do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” she asked in a voice like a Bill Clinton impersonator.
“I don’t have any cigarettes,” I answered, which is a lot more than a lot of people out here give a bum… a response. I always give a response. I feel like it’s basically important to human nature to at the very least acknowledge the person is there and has just spoken to you.
“You don’t have a cigarette,” she confirmed as I walked by and toward the café door. “You’re a faggot… and ugly.” That’s what I get for quitting smoking. It’s transformed me into an ugly faggot, which is rough, I hardly stand a chance with those West Hollywood studs out walking their toy poodles and Yorkies.
Now I’m in the café and I order a triple espresso. The barista, she’s a new one, asks, “Small, medium or large?”
“A triple espresso,” I reorder, not understanding the question. She picks out the large cup, and I say, “I think it’s best to put it in the smallest cup size.” She doesn’t understand. I don’t think she knows what an espresso is, but that’s okay, I didn’t either until what ever year it was Racy D’lene’s opened up, and back then I was older than the new barista is today so all things considered, she’s on a sharper learning curve than I was. It’s all figured out, and I get my drink. “Expresso 3” is neatly written on the side of the paper cup. She’ll figure it out eventually. I’m not so crazy I’d correct a busy worker’s spelling.
I exit the café, heading out to a table on the patio. Right in front of me, there’s another guy on his way out. The homeless woman is still standing out front. “Hey, do you have a cigarette I can borrow? I’m asking you, not your faggot friend. He’s a faggot,” she said, obviously big on tautologies. That ugly faggot is an ugly faggot. She really wanted to drive it home.
Two days ago she was passing by the same café ranting about Robert Plant being a faggot, and how much she doesn’t care about that faggot Robert Plant and why does everyone think she should care about that faggot.
When the guy responded that he did not have a cigarette, she embarked on a new strategy, “I’m not going away until I get five dollars. Ma’am, you have a lot of money. Can I get a dollar? Don’t be so stingy with your money. Everyone here is so stingy.”
“Hey!” the guy whose faggot friend I was perceived as said, “Go someplace else!”
“Okay sir,” she said and scooted right off.
“Heh, I didn’t think that would work,” the guy said, and peace returned to the street, amen.

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