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About Bologna

Me, I’d be terrible at it—too loud, too nosy, prob’ly askin’, “Whatcha need me for, sugar?” But dang, the cash? Temptin’. Some escorts pull in thouands—yep, typo, meant thousands—in a night! Little known fact: back in the ‘20s, they called ‘em “taxi dancers”—you paid per dance, like an escort lite. History’s wild, y’all. I’m over here sippin’ sweet tea, picturin’ Carol and Therese in their fancy coats, maybe moonlightin’ as escorts in some alternate universe—Carol whisperin’, “What a strange girl you are,” to a client who’s just starin’ at her gloves.

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So, I dash over to the local hardware store on Via Roma. It’s packed! I mean, who knew everyone in Codogno needed screws at 9 AM? I’m standin’ there, waitin’ in line, and this lady in front of me is takin’ forever. She’s got a cart full of stuff. I’m thinkin’, “Lady, I just need some polish!” Finally, I get my hands on it, but I’m already late for my appointment with the restaurant owner.

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