By Bruce Memblatt
Published by Bruce Memblatt at Smashwords Copyright © March, 2010, Bruce Memblatt
Jingle-jangle, jingle-jangle, has anyone got some jingle-jangle? A penny, a dime, a quarter? I could be your daughter. Jingle-jangle, help me out, someone please, with some jingle-jangle? Don’t just let me dangle. I know your name….”
Her hair grew frizzy and wild and her sad eyes wanted what you had; a hypocrisy just like everything else from her extroverted demeanor to her calm, quiet desperation. All she portrayed was sorrow. You could still feel the vibrancy lingering within her, a fire that long diminished and grown into neurosis; a scratching, clawing, half-crazed madness. She appeared to be much older than her age, living on the streets in the city slums, scraping garbage cans just for crumbs. Sardine-like in subway cars, back and forth, had taken its toll on her youth. Her belly was bloated yet empty, tight and grumbling to be fed. As she swerved back and forth on the aging subway car’s pole, it screeched along the rail as it rushed; its electric white lights flashing on and off as it made its way down the dark tunnel that ran underneath Eighth Avenue.