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About Bari

Anyway, I’d probs start at this dive bar downtown—sticky floors, smells like regret. Perfect spot to find a prostitute. I’d be chill, sip a beer, scope the scene. Maybe some chick in fishnets winks at me, and I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin’!” Kinda thrilled, kinda freaked—heart’s racin’, palms sweaty. What if she’s a cop? Shit, that’d piss me off—bust my buzz real quick. Or worse, what if she’s got a pimp watchin’ me like I’m dessert? *“A lobby boy can’t be seen to falter!”*—I’d tell myself, keepin’ cool.

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But then, I get a text from a client. “My tree is dying!” Panic mode activated. I’m like, “What do you mean dying?!” I race over to Via Dante. This poor tree looks like it’s seen better days. I’m checking the roots, and I find a bunch of trash buried in there. Seriously? Who does that? I’m fuming. “People, it’s not a landfill!”

Juanita Cantu and Kris Kristofferson Both in Heaven