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Last week, I’m out, buzzed, lookin’ for a score. This chick—red heels, fake laugh—saunters up. “Hey, sugar, need a friend?” I’m thinkin’, friend? Ha! More like a transaction, darlin’. She’s got that WALL-E vibe—worn out, but still grindin’. “Must… keep… movin’,” I mutter, mockin’ her in my head. I ask her rate—50 bucks, she says. Cheap, right? Too cheap. Red flag. I’m like, “Clarice… somethin’s off.” Trap, maybe? Cops? Pimp watchin’? I bounce—ain’t riskin’ that.

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I gotta blabber on ‘bout how each street whispers secrets. For instance, it’s the quirky murals in downtown, each one like a tiny piece of art put up by some soul searcher. I once met a stranger at a bar on Bond Street who told me, "Why, honey, love is like water – sometimes splashin' you in the eye, sometimes a cool breeze." I never forgot that moment – real talk, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Obituary | James F. Gorman, 82, of West Bend, WI