Read Online Baby Geisha by Trinie Dalton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Trinie Dalton
Tags: General Fiction
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stuff, and slipped into camp to rummage through the disgusting pile of canvas that was once our tent. Hopefully Beets was still alive.
He was, but he was limply slouched in the tent mess, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I walked by without talking to him and leafed through our supplies, scattered in a fifty-foot radius. I found my wallet and searched it for a hairpin to hold my sandy bangs back. I grabbed my bag, feeling around for pins at the bottom. I got a warning pinch. Throwing the bag, that scorpion flew out, happy to have camped in its newfound tent, more stable than ours, happy to have weathered the storm. Lucky thing , I thought. I watched the scorpion curl its chive-stinger up to
sting, as would my acerbic tongue should anyone speak to me. Go ahead, Zane, try to feed me drugs one more time. I hitchhiked home and never saw Zane again.
THE PERVERTED HOBO
Slidey was as slimy with green algae as ever. Bob, the husky, wished it were blue-green algae, the kind he once slurped off the rocky shores of an Alaskan glacial lake. Blue-green algae reminded him of wet rocks: slippery but spiritually clean. Nevertheless, Bob decided that Slidey was a sweet waterfall slide. Huskies arenât known to dwell on the past. This afternoon, Bob wasnât going to ruin it by getting wistful. He reared his head and gave a mighty howl.
Slidey was naturally worn-down granite. Bob loved hiking up to Slidey because he could frolic off-leash and there were no biting flies. He liked the blueberries and salmon that came in the Alaskan blue-green algae package, but again, for today heâd have to settle for a less pristine landscape. Mainland dogs donât get to travel to Alaska on a daily basis, Bob realized. He was lucky heâd been born and raised in Alaska before being shipped down to the desert, and that heâd had the opportunity to sire a sled-teamâs worth of pups that now rule the Iditarod. Heâd heard about the sled race domination through the Husky Howl grapevine.
Bob met Slidey six years ago thanks to Bobâs owner, Eugene Slidey, brother of the graffiti artist, Dougie Slidey, who had spent his teenage years tagging this stretch of creek back in the Sharpie Days. Slidey, smooth granite boulders + stream = waterfall, was named by Dougie who had written in wonky all-caps at the top of it, S.L.I.D.E.Y. The word was slanted down to the left, as if Dougie had passed out and slid down Slidey as he left
his mark. The whole place, as a result, had a blasé slurred-speech feel.
Sometimes, interlopers slung ladiesâ panties on the branches lining Slideyâs shore. Eugene didnât know if this implied that the mystery panty-slingers had conquered ladies there or if men had been wearing the ladiesâ underwear because some guys think theyâre more comfortable than tightey whiteys. He suspected men were at the bottom of it, as he couldnât picture women littering this scenic river. Granted, Eugene didnât have experience with women or their undergarments. Slidey verged on being washed up from the female lingerie situation.
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The pink-orange sun hung low over Slidey as sunset commenced. Its white-yellow rays backlit the cottonwoods, while bees hummed soothingly in the tree canopy. This golden hour is so ruff ruff , Bob thought, meaning copasetic, panting as he trotted along the Slidey Trail behind Eugene, who had an aromatic sage bundle burning in one hand and a jug of water in the other. Eugene never went far without sage.
During their gentle upstream meandering, Bob noticed that, as usual, Eugene began to puff that mysterious, smelly white tube that meant his master probably forgot dog treats. It would be astounding , Bob sighed resentfully, if Eugene would think to bring me some chicken strips on occasion . Bob liked to dip these strips in the stream to let the poultry rehydrate. Dusk made Bob want to lick everything, chicken or not, including the speckled boulders they hopped.
He was, but he was limply slouched in the tent mess, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I walked by without talking to him and leafed through our supplies, scattered in a fifty-foot radius. I found my wallet and searched it for a hairpin to hold my sandy bangs back. I grabbed my bag, feeling around for pins at the bottom. I got a warning pinch. Throwing the bag, that scorpion flew out, happy to have camped in its newfound tent, more stable than ours, happy to have weathered the storm. Lucky thing , I thought. I watched the scorpion curl its chive-stinger up to
sting, as would my acerbic tongue should anyone speak to me. Go ahead, Zane, try to feed me drugs one more time. I hitchhiked home and never saw Zane again.
THE PERVERTED HOBO
Slidey was as slimy with green algae as ever. Bob, the husky, wished it were blue-green algae, the kind he once slurped off the rocky shores of an Alaskan glacial lake. Blue-green algae reminded him of wet rocks: slippery but spiritually clean. Nevertheless, Bob decided that Slidey was a sweet waterfall slide. Huskies arenât known to dwell on the past. This afternoon, Bob wasnât going to ruin it by getting wistful. He reared his head and gave a mighty howl.
Slidey was naturally worn-down granite. Bob loved hiking up to Slidey because he could frolic off-leash and there were no biting flies. He liked the blueberries and salmon that came in the Alaskan blue-green algae package, but again, for today heâd have to settle for a less pristine landscape. Mainland dogs donât get to travel to Alaska on a daily basis, Bob realized. He was lucky heâd been born and raised in Alaska before being shipped down to the desert, and that heâd had the opportunity to sire a sled-teamâs worth of pups that now rule the Iditarod. Heâd heard about the sled race domination through the Husky Howl grapevine.
Bob met Slidey six years ago thanks to Bobâs owner, Eugene Slidey, brother of the graffiti artist, Dougie Slidey, who had spent his teenage years tagging this stretch of creek back in the Sharpie Days. Slidey, smooth granite boulders + stream = waterfall, was named by Dougie who had written in wonky all-caps at the top of it, S.L.I.D.E.Y. The word was slanted down to the left, as if Dougie had passed out and slid down Slidey as he left
his mark. The whole place, as a result, had a blasé slurred-speech feel.
Sometimes, interlopers slung ladiesâ panties on the branches lining Slideyâs shore. Eugene didnât know if this implied that the mystery panty-slingers had conquered ladies there or if men had been wearing the ladiesâ underwear because some guys think theyâre more comfortable than tightey whiteys. He suspected men were at the bottom of it, as he couldnât picture women littering this scenic river. Granted, Eugene didnât have experience with women or their undergarments. Slidey verged on being washed up from the female lingerie situation.
Â
The pink-orange sun hung low over Slidey as sunset commenced. Its white-yellow rays backlit the cottonwoods, while bees hummed soothingly in the tree canopy. This golden hour is so ruff ruff , Bob thought, meaning copasetic, panting as he trotted along the Slidey Trail behind Eugene, who had an aromatic sage bundle burning in one hand and a jug of water in the other. Eugene never went far without sage.
During their gentle upstream meandering, Bob noticed that, as usual, Eugene began to puff that mysterious, smelly white tube that meant his master probably forgot dog treats. It would be astounding , Bob sighed resentfully, if Eugene would think to bring me some chicken strips on occasion . Bob liked to dip these strips in the stream to let the poultry rehydrate. Dusk made Bob want to lick everything, chicken or not, including the speckled boulders they hopped.
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