Thirty-Seven on The Train

Pimp My Lent/Day 24

The Prompt:

From pimptress Ellen Vincent Zimmerman, a photo by her husband Steve.

The Product:

A monologue

Setting: a subway/metro car.

The SECRETARY enters. She wears a nice suit/skirt with tennis shoes, and carries a purse, lunch bag, shoe bag. She stops. There’s a man directly in front of her. She glances down, then up at his face, and says to him…


For the year. Thirty-seven.

White, black, brown, tan, freckled, speckled, diseased, pierced, tattooed, filthy, deformed, big, medium, small, limp, hard, half-mast, shriveled, curved, angled, bent like a faucet –

(bends forefinger into a “faucet”)

Thirty-seven. For the year. On this very train. To work, from work. Mornings and evenings. An average, so far, of about one and half roughly every two weeks. I don’t count the guy who showed me his knuckle through his fly. I guess there was a story there, but, well, whatever.

Thirty-seven. So you will excuse me if I do not gasp. Or cry out. Go “Oh!” Or even raise an eyebrow. I have, to use a cliché, seen one – seem ‘em all.  Oh. Here’s my stop.

Well, um, thanks for the viewing.  You can feel secure that you are really just average. Which isn’t a bad thing.

(turns to leave, turns back)

Then again, it does lack…remarkability.

(glances down, smiles sympathetically, looks past the man and his penis, and exits)


About Vicki Caroline Cheatwood

Writerly. Rebooting. Evolving. Searching for great chicken salad.
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