Drowning, Not Waving

Posted in: Eddie McNamara, Entertainment, Flash Fiction, In the Air Tonight, The Flash Fiction Offensive

When Phil Collins saw you, you were drowning. But he would not lend a hand.

Of course, he wasn’t from the Gutter. Here, we don’t lend a hand. Half the time we’re the ones who throw you in.

Drowning, Not Waving by Eddie McNamara

She ain’t waving, she’s drowning—but that’s none of my business, not yet.

I got my good eye fixed on the greaseball that just tossed that poor hooah into Sheepshead Bay like a used rubber that’ll wash up on Coney. They call him Musclelini. He hits the barbells almost as hard as the girls that work the Emmons Avenue stroll for him.

The kid’s got a nice racket: selling poon to the fisherman who dock their boats and bring home the catch of the day, and the clap to their wives. The anglers go for the skankiest prostis—the kind that won’t notice the stink of bluefish, fluke and porgies, ’cause that’s their natural perfume on a busy day.

I flick my Zippo and fire up a coffin nail. That’s the signal. Honey Harlowe (that ain’t her real name)—ten pounds of radioactive sex bomb in a dress made to hold five—does the drunk broad waltz right towards the ape in the dirty white tee.

Honey made the scene. He was on her like a starving mutt on a Luger’s steak.

Gravity opens my blade.

He’s putting the moves on, and she’s pretending to tangle with him. He tears her dress. I come up from behind and slice him like a roast beef at Brennan & Carr.

Into the bay, he goes. The fish eat Italian tonight.

Somebody’s save the day for that drowning piece of ass still flailing in the drink. I can’t let good meat go to waste. But that somebody ain’t gonna be me. The water’ll screw with the pomade in my hair and flatten it. Not the first impression the new boss wants to make.

Better if Honey jumps in and plays heroine. She’ll need to make nice with this skeeze in order to class her up for my operation. That kinda thing builds a bond. Besides, that mook ripped her dress half off. She’s not having any of it. I grab a handful of her bottle blonde hair, scoop her up under the knees and throw her in.

It’s a regular Esther Williams show in Sheepshead Bay tonight.

Eddie McNamara writes for Penthouse. He’s had stories in Thuglit, All Due Respect, Shotgun Honey, Stoned Crow Press, and others.