What can YOU say in six sentences?
Sara is always clean, if disheveled, and she circles the four corners at Railroad and Chelsea, slowly, from 9 to 5, panhandling and hustling with an aplomb that is as mystifying as it is compelling.
On one corner is Indira's, a coffee shop with outdoor seating, and I'm sitting out there enjoying a mocha, waiting for a game of dominoes, and here comes Sara, chugging under the burden of her mammoth breasts and belly, wearing navy blue sweatpants and a red novelty sweatshirt that reads, ''Can't Sink Me'' --and she's carrying some books.
''Where the hell did you get that shirt, Sara?'' I ask her and she says, ''Mona at Biatch Books gave it to me along with these,'' and she dumps a couple of Playboy magazines and a 'Winning at Blackjack' pamphlet onto my tabletop.
''I still look like that,'' she says, opening to a centerfold, ''but I'm bigger, now, so it's harder to tell.''
''3 bucks and it's all yours, baby,'' she offers and pushes the books towards me, confidently, ''but, if you ever get your shit together or learn to beat up on blackjack, don't forget who loved you all these years.''
We laugh and she smooches me on my bald head before she labors away across the street with 3 more dollars in her pocket and several hours left in the day.