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.
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.

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