Old Mrs. Pirelli was yelling at me from her backyard, "Joy! Come down from there! Yer gonna break ya neck!"
"Only if I fall. How you doing Mrs. P.?"
"What?!" she hollared, squinting into the harsh sun, "What're ya doin' up on the roof?"
"Cleaning out the rain gutters."
"That's a man's job! Let yer bruthah do that!" she cried.
This was the woman whose Nativity scene had been blown up by my sister and her idiot headbanger friends. She hadn't spoken to Joy since. Now not only was she speaking to me, she seemed inordinantly concerned for my safety. She warbled hysterically, "No Joy, leave that for Teddy to do! You've gonna get hurt!"
"Hey, I can do any job he can! Haven't you heard?" Maybe the sun had gotten to my brain, or maybe I was just irritated at this old busy-body telling me what a girl could and couldn't do, but suddenly I was performing a jerky go-go dance and singing loudly, "The sisterrrrs are doin' it for themselves! Standin' on our own two feet, and ringin' our own bells!"
"For God's sake, STOP THAT!" she shrieked, alarmed at my dancing so close to the roof's edge. That crazy Joy Farranino was being crazy again...
PLAY . . NICE!
LAIKA PUPKINO ~ 2009
PART EIGHT: BALLET MECHANIQUE
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