The Highs of Lowlives

“Get out of my store you dumb punk!” I shouted at some clearly underage kid trying to buy was he couldn’t.
He shouted something abusive, I wasn’t listening, and left disappointed.
Liquor store owners didn’t usually hire women for this time of night, but I knew how to use a gun and my boss reminded me how lucky I was to get hired every time I saw him. Believe it or not there were not many good jobs in LA at the time. You either sold drugs, booze, music or yourself. I stopped selling drugs a while back, I was trying desperately to find other chicks to give the Runaways a run for their money, and selling myself was gonna be my very last option. So here I was. Sat behind a counter, writing lyrics to pass the time, and drinking from a hip flask of vodka.

DING

“Hey slut,” Eva, my partner in crime waltzed through the door and over to the counter.
Stunning as always, her hair was massive, blonde on top and black beneath. She was skinny as fuck, that whore. Ready for anything, that night she wore her black thigh-highs, a leather skirt, some random custom shirt and her fuck-off attitude. The attitude was why we were friends and the boots were why I loved her.

“Dude I’m fuckin’ bored!” I moaned.

“How’s the lyrics coming?” she asked lighting a cigarette.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, “I got nothin’,” I nodded to the pile of balled up pages by my feet.

“Not to worry. I got one nailed today, got a riff too,” Eva smiled triumphantly.
Her success was our success in the end.

“Cool,” I was still un-amused and couldn’t muster any honest positive feedback at the time.

“Well I’m goin’ for some cigarettes and I’ll meet you in the Rainbow later, ok?”

“Ok,” I acknowledged but she was already through the door and into the street by then, “bitch.”

My shift was still another two hours.

I got the beat to Sister Morphine in my head and like usual, ended up dancing around like a basket case.

DING

I stopped immediately. A kid had entered; he looked around nervously then set his stare on me.

“Yeah?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Shut up bitch and get all the money…and give it to me,” he demanded, his face dripping sweat or grease, I wasn’t sure which.

“Excuse me?” I was confused as to what the fuck he thought he was doing.

“You heard me bitch!” he pulled out some small type of gun and pointed it at me.

“Get that fuckin’ thing outta my face you little shit,” I ordered, monotone bordering anger and jumped over the counter at him.

He lost nerve and bolted but I grabbed him by his shirt collar and slammed him to the ground in front of the store, landing on top of him. Luckily for me a patrol car was cruising by at the time so I waved them over.

“Don’t fuck with me, kid,” I yelled unnecessarily.

“I don’t wanna go to jail. Please! I’m sorry!” he started to cry.
I had no sympathy and handed him to the cops.

With all that nonsense going on, I hadn’t noticed the bell over the door ring until it did a second time as I turned to go back inside and some band geeks came strolling out, bottles in hand.

“Where the fuck are you going with that?” I questioned.

“Money’s on the counter.”

I shot a look and that wasn’t so.
“Get back in there now.” I demanded to the men towering above me.

“Come on, honey, we’re cool,” the blonde tried to sweet talk me. I knew damn well who they were but I was not in the mood to let them fuck with me, never was.

“Get the fuck back in there!” I glared.

“What the fuck are you gonna do?” he laughed.

Instinctively I threw my fist into his face.