You wouldn’t see that on the streets of Cleveland, I thought, daring to peek to my right. One lane over, at Sunset and LaBrea, a bikini‑clad woman was eating a taco as she sat on top of a chestnut quarter horse. Salsa dribbled down her chest. Fifty bucks on the left breast.
Work was stale and meaningless—again. I was stranded—again—at the intersection of Thinking and Doing. I needed a drastic change—again. Who better than Pepper to provide it? Pepper Mint, an ex‑stripper/part-time phone sex operator turned country music queen, had a 54-inch bustline, a heart as big and warm as L.A.’s San Fernando Valley, and a smile as sweet as the two put together. Unlikely soul mates, we’d met at a Free Clinic benefit and clicked. I loved Pepper’s honesty and the way she bucked society. I envied her extensive vocabulary of four-letter words. I secretly admired the tattoo on her chest that spelled “Marty Forever.
What a shame the groom’s name was Michael.