HUNG HASHSLINGER (FUTAS)

Tried writing a period piece. Enjoy.

HUNG HASHSLINGER

Trixie’s feet hurt. She had pulled a double shift at the diner. Gracie was now pretty big with a growing baby and needed a day off her swollen ankles. Trixie didn’t mind helping out her friend. She really didn’t have anything else to do.

At twenty five, she was unmarried. And in 1955, that was saying A LOT! It wasn’t due to her looks. She was five feet eight, dark hair hanging down below her shoulders, the shiny strands framing strong facial features. She possessed her mother’s breasts, D cups that sat high on her broad chest. Her hips were slim, her ass, well, she thought it could be a little bit rounder. Shrugging, she knew that was all she was going to get out of her mix of family traits.

Thursday nights were usually slow and this one was no different. She had Hank at the counter finishing his lemon custard pie and coffee. This was his breakfast time for he worked at the newspaper’s printing plant. He’d be working all night to get the paper printed for tomorrow’s readers. Hank was a nice guy, probably fifty or so. Poor soul, he lost his wife to tuberculosis fifteen years ago. He was so devastated that he never remarried.

Trixie also noticed the ‘bottle blonde’ Dorothy sitting in the corner booth. She was what Gracie called a ‘hunter’, though another word would have sufficed just as well. Gussied up as best as she could on her meager wages from the cigar store down the block, she would sit all night looking for lonely men to spend some quality time with. Laughing inwardly, Trixie had to admit, though Dorothy wasn’t the prettiest girl in town, she sure was getting action. More action than Trixie EVER had. She admired and detested the made up tart.

It was a part of her self hatred that made her jealous of the harlot. Dorothy really was very nice, tipping when she could. Trixie fed her coffee most of the evening, sometimes to closing time if the customer count was low. Dorothy would stand and shrug, “Better luck next time.” She’d wish Trixie a good night and walk out, moving her meaty hips sexily, just in case.

Looking at the clock Trixie noticed it was nine thirty. The diner closed at ten. Another half hour of all the excitement and Trixie could go back to her $20 a week room. Luxury at its best. Wiping the counter the bell above the door jingled. A man carrying a racing form and a red headed woman on his arm, entered and sat down. Trixie frowned, knowing she’d be getting out a little later than usual now.

Grabbing two menus, she walked over to the couple and handed them out. “You want some coffee?”

The man grunted and the woman nodded, thanking Trixie. Behind the counter she lit the large griddle and dropped a dollop of butter on the heating metal surface. Grabbing two mugs, she filled them with steaming java from the large nickel plated urn on the rear shelf.

She